...because tracking me by blog seems much more sensible than getting a gps inserted under the skin.

Monday, June 20, 2011

Walking the Migrant Trail...



Two weeks ago from the time I write this, I walked into Kennedy Park in Tucson, Arizona after a week-long (and I do mean long) trek through the Sonoran desert from Sásabe, Mexico. We were greeted by a crowd of cheers, smiles, and claps; it was a bit overwhelming as they welcomed us and as I looked at their faces and realized they were a part of the faces for whom I was walking; though such a trek wasn't yet personal to me, it was for these people.

Ernest Hemingway said to never write about a place until you're away from it, because that gives you perspective. I suppose I could use that as an excuse as to why I've waited so long to share my experience. But really, I have been hesitating to write because there is so much to write about and I know I won't do the experience justice. A part of me wants to just throw the writings of my fellow walkers your way, and perhaps I will do that too. But I also know that I have a responsibility to share my own personal experience facing the border issues, and my perspective will be different from any other walkers' experience. And I hesitate because as much as I can talk about the issue itself, the walk was also a profoundly personal experience. I can only hope that such a mixture of tragedy, comedy, and drama will flow well and not create a completely broken story.

It was only when beginning the walk that I understood how it worked. 75 miles? Do you walk all day? Do you carry your things? How do you get water? Where do you sleep? Where do you do your BUSINESS? I will lay out the logistics of the walk for you so that as I talk about the experience, you aren't distracted by how such an event could possibly function.

Organized by the Coalición de Derechos Humanos and sponsored by a diverse array of organizations and churches, just short of 70 of us began walking from Sásabe (5 miles from the border on the Mexican side) on Monday, May 31st and continued walking as we crossed the border, the Buenos Aires National Wildlife Refuge, long stretches of hot pavement, and a border checkpoint, arriving in Tucson 75 miles and 6 days later. Our days starting by rising at 5am to a wonderful latin mix of music (which still plays in my head and causes my shoulders to move to the music even now as i write this). We would line up and start walking by 6, and when I say line up, I am speaking literally. For safety reasons, we would line up 2 by 2 while walking through the refuge and single file when on the road. Walking between 10-16 miles each day, there would be stops every couple of miles to get water, food, and rest. All our bags were packed and driven from campsite to campsite for us, and vehicles met us at each stop providing as much water as needed. The vehicles were also on call so that if anyone needed to stop walking for any reason, they could ride the next leg of the walk or however long needed. Only a handful of people actually walked the whole distance. We would usually get to our destination for the day by noon where a group would bring lunch for us. Most of us would pass the afternoon laying under set-up tarps for shade until another group brought us dinner. By 8 we would be winding down for bed on the ground under the stars or in a tent, exhausted, to begin again early the next morning.

That's the easy part to write.

Walking the migrant trail is about more than seeing if you can make it 75 miles through the desert. And it's not about sharing in the experience of a migrant who crosses.

We had it easy.

Our vision statement best describes why we walk:
The precarious reality of our borderlands calls us to walk. We are a spiritually diverse, multi-cultural group who walk together on a journey of peace to remember people, friends, and family who have died, others who have crossed, and people who continue to come. We bear witness tot he tragedy of death and of the inhumanity in our midst. Lastly, we walk as a community, in defiance of the borders that attempt to divide us committed to working together for the human dignity of all peoples.

To be completely honest, the reasons I decided to walk had little to do with the migrants, but ultimately, they will become a primary reason for doing it again. Coming from across the country and knowing little of the issues, migrants and the border brought to mind such ideas and phrases as evil drug cartels, "they're stealing our jobs!" (which, honestly, would you apply for the jobs that they are taking? I didn't think so.), and "ILLEGAL!" Do you think about the 17-year-old girl so desperate for a different life that she makes a dangerous trek while very pregnant? Of the young man whose only choice to provide for his family is to go where the resources are, legal or not? Of the boy whose remains found in the desert placed him at not even a year of age? I didn't. Do you think of the near 100 who have already died this year? I do.

Truth be told, I still know little of the facts behind the border fence. But I do know that migrants are still crossing who feel that life's circumstances have forced them to attempt the journey for a better life, and many don't make it. Even having made the walk myself, I can in no way even imagine that I know or have experienced the plight of a migrant. I think perhaps the only thing in common is the mere fact of walking. We had abundant supply of food and water; they have what they can carry, such as water bottles painted black so the sun doesn't reflect off of them, revealing their presence to the border patrol. I think one of the biggest differences that struck me is that while walking, we had nothing to fear. They have everything to fear: fear of sickness, being left behind, of what's to come, of those you are traveling with. I'm pretty sure our biggest fear (or perhaps just mine) was who would see my bare bottom as I did my business in the sparse desert land.


One of the ways in which we were able to really connect as much as possible with the migrants was by carrying a cross, symbolizing the life of someone who had attempted to cross, but did not make it. One cross bore the name of a 4-year-old girl. I carried the cross of Rusbel Cano Lopez. 28 years old: my age, and originally labeled as doe #92 when his remains were found 30 June 2005. Fortunately, his remains were eventually able to be identified. In 2005, I was doing something that would, in a sense, better my life as well. I spent an extravagant semester living my dream in France, with various safety nets should I fail. Not to mention, *excellent* health care (being in France...but I won't go there). In 2005, it is very likely that Rusbel was making the arduous journey across the Sonoran desert, fighting for his life at one point, eventually losing it. While I undeservedly lived and found a great new life, Rusbel undeservedly lost his. He was a human, after all. If nothing else, a human being. So I carried his cross, and finished the journey that he didn't get to.

Here's the thing. If I had been a migrant, I probably would not have made it either. It's hard to say who of us would have been able to find the strength to finish, but many of us walking would not have made it. Many of the migrants travel in groups. In fact, as we left Sásabe, a group of boys cheered us on. I thought they were just showing support of what we were doing. A few days later I heard someone ask, "Do you know what they were doing?" and it clicked. Those were the faces of the migrants. Young boys, probably in the preteen range, all wearing dark clothes with a backpack slung over the shoulder. They weren't walking for an experience, adventure, or to raise awareness. They were walking for their lives. If something happens to one of them that doesn't allow for them to keep up with the group, they are left behind, which often results in death. For a migrant, something as simple as a blister could be one's death. If our feet were too blistered to walk for a bit, we could ride. If we had any slight symptoms of dehydration, we were made to ride and rest. We would have been left behind.

Thursday morning, we began walking at 4am to avoid doing as much of our 16 miles in the heat of the day as possible. This is when I thought of Rusbel most. From migrants' stories that I have read, many travel at night to avoid easy detection by border patrol. With our flashlights, we carefully made our way through pure dark. Again, with flashlights, and on a trail. I can't imagine the difficulty of crossing the desert in the dark, with its various prickly plants and wildlife... But I will tell you, it was a beautiful sunrise and view of Baboquivari, a mountain which served as a marker for us nearly the whole of the walk. And with sunrise and Baboquivari I will leave you for now: the walk has left marks so deep and varied that I can only process so much at one time...


Saturday, June 11, 2011

Why the liminal life?

I suppose my first post should be an answer to your presumed question, "What the hell is the liminal life?"

Liminality is a word I learned during my graduate school classes, thus one I most associate with theory snobs. Though I resist anything theory these days, there really isn't a better word that describes my life. Coming from the latin word for "a threshold," liminality signifies an in-between place, a passage of time. It is also often associated with rites of passage and identity: a place in which former aspects of identity are dissolved and one moves toward new perspectives. It is a border place, where things are unclear, confusing, and in transition. Liminal space...my life...I don't really think there is a difference between the two.

Thus, the liminal life.

Please come again, when I will begin to share to the best of my ability my experience on the migrant trail, a 75-mile trek through the desert by foot. No joke.