I will tell you something about stories,
[he said]
They aren't just entertainment.
Don't be fooled.
They are all we have, you see,
all we have to fight off illness and death.
You don't have anything
if you don't have the stories.
-Leslie Marmon Silko, Ceremony
Photo courtesty of the Arizona Daily Star
I have now put somewhere between 200-225 miles on my feet walking through the Sonoran desert over the course of 3 weeks over the past three years. Some people that I walked with had accumulated up to 750 miles on their feet. And so I wondered: How many more miles will *my* feet have to walk? How many miles will it take before something changes? Before there is hope? Before people stop dying searching for the basic rights to life? I don't have the answers to the questions, but I speculate that my feet will be walking many more miles to come.
For the third year in a row, I embarked on a 75-mile walk from Sasabe, Mexico to Tucson, Arizona with 49 people from all over the US. We all walk with a common purpose: to remember those who have died crossing the border, and those who continue to cross; to bear witness to the suffering and inhumanity that is occurring at our Southern border. But for each of us, the question of why we walk is also a personal one, answered differently by each of us. At night, each of us has to do a security shift for a couple hours, keeping watch in case border patrol or migrants come into camp. The first night from 11pm-1am I sat with Judith. She is my age, from Colorado, and I've never had as much fun doing a security shift. I listened to her stories: of her mother who crossed, undocumented. Of her friend, Jeannette, who was put into a detention center with high risk of being deported. Though this was my third year walking, the reality of migrants crossing and the hardships they face is still very far removed from me. In a sense, because I don't see it directly, it is still unreal to me. Yet here I was, listening to Judith's stories, and this is her reality. This is why she walks.
And why do I walk? I asked myself this question a lot this year. Mile 5, mile 17, mile 36, definitely by mile 60, "Why do I keep doing this? Why do I keep coming back???" But I can't NOT come back. I have to believe very firmly that every life has value and deserves dignity. That no person should have to risk their lives to provide for their families or simply be with those they love. I suppose the border issues are complex. I suppose. But really, to me, it's quite simple. Our tightened border policies that were implemented in the early 90's provided more security in the urban spaces so that less traffic would pass through there. They had hoped that the danger and threat of death of natural barriers (desert) would be a deterrent for those crossing. That those who tried crossing and perished would warn others not to cross. Death was a factor in our border policy. A high percentage of migrant deaths occurs due to heat and dehydration. Migrants mostly cross in groups, and something as simple as a few blisters could cause someone to be left behind. The desert is a dangerous place to be left alone with little water. Unfortunately, desperation to be able to provide for one's family or to be reunited with one's family takes precedence over the possibility of death, so while the warning is clear, many continue to cross, and many continue to die. You will hear that the number of people crossing has decreased significantly. That is true. However, the number of deaths occurring has remained steady. This means that there is a greater chance of perishing while crossing. So why do I walk? Because in all of the talk on immigration reform, not once have I heard any mention of the number of deaths that is occurring in OUR country. Thousands of deaths in the past 20 years. If a few hundred people were dying each year in my little county in Michigan, we would certainly know about it. The country would know about it. But not until I began walking myself and was intentional in learning about it, did I hear of the deaths at our border. So I walk because each story is important. I walk because most of you who will read this do not know what is going on. Most people in the north don't know. So I feel it's my duty to let people know. It's my part.
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| Baboquivari, the old mountain peak friend that guides us and many others crossing |
For those who don't know, to get a better idea, we walk 10-16 miles per day. The first half of the week we walk through a wildlife refuge, and the rest along a highway. We walk with only what we need on our backs. Support vehicles carry all of our luggage and everything else we need. We stop every 1.5 miles for water, and every 3 miles for rest and food. We start early in the morning to avoid high heat and reach our campsite by noon and spend the rest of the day under shade, resting, napping, visiting with people, or playing Uno with 7-year old Itzel, the youngest to ever walk with us. Groups bring us lunch and dinner and we eat quite extravagantly. The only time you'll walk 75 miles and *not* shed a pound! While we in no way seek to understand the experience of the migrant who makes this trek or simulate it, it is inevitable that at some point we will experience something that will remind us or make us think about what the migrant experiences. Tuesday is our second longest day at 14 miles. During our breaks, I make a priority list. It usually goes something like: food, bathroom (meaning a hopefully semi-private tree), drink, footcare, sunscreen. Being last on the priority list, I forgot to put sunscreen on that day, but didn't worry too much about it as most of my body was covered. The sun only saw a little of my forearms and hands and face, yet that was enough. By dinnertime, I felt really ill. Nauseous. I found a spot with shade and breeze, but if I had to go in the sun, I suddenly felt *really* ill and panicky. I could deal with feeling ill, as I was humbled by others taking such good care of me. What I could not deal with so well was the realization that if I had been a migrant, if it had been me that had been born in a country to the south who needed for some reason to come north, whether to find work to feed my family or because I missed my family so much, I would not make it. We carry with us a cross with a name, age, and year of death on it of someone who had attempted crossing the desert, and we symbolically finish their journey for them. If I had been a migrant, feeling so ill, I would have been left behind. Maybe border patrol would have found me and sent me back to who knows where (people deported aren't necessarily sent back to their countries), or maybe someone from a humanitarian aid organization would have found me and given me water and medical care, but maybe, very possibly, I would have died. There were numerous times during the week when the heat felt unbearable to me, and I got anxious and panicky to the point of tears to find a cooler spot free from the fierce sun. On the last day, at 109 degrees, I managed to find a sliver of shade by one of the vehicles. I huddled myself together to fit into that spot of shade. And so many times, I imagined myself feeling that way in the desert apart from our group. Desperately seeking shade. Water. Respite from the sun and heat. Clawing my way along the desert floor with it's vast array of cacti to make the way more difficult. Would I find shade? Would I just lay there and let every bit of moisture be taken from me, my body frying in the sun? Would my name have been on one of those crosses: Jamie Archer, 30, 2012-2013? Or maybe I would not have been found for a while. My remains would have been found, but nothing to identify me. Then it would be Desconocida on the cross: Unknown Female. And what if my body were so ravaged by the animals and elements that I would become Desconocido/a: Uknown Male OR Female: gender could not even be identified. These are the crosses we carry. The lives and spirits we carry with us. Each had hopes to make it to a better life. I have finished the journeys for three people: Rusbel Cano Lopez the first year, then Desconocida, and then this year it was Rene Lopez, 32, died 2008-2009. I thought about him a lot that week. I still think about him a lot.
Our last morning, we have a ceremony on top of a ledge, from where you can look out over the 70 miles we had just walked. Where many have died, and where many will continue trying to make it through. We say goodbye. If I could say I have a "favorite part" of the week, this ceremony would be it. But this year I felt it deeper than I ever had before. I wept as I looked out over the land. I wondered about Rene Lopez. When was the moment that his body had to give up? Who was out there now, struggling to survive? Whose cross will I carry next year? How many more miles will I walk and how many more crosses will we carry?
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| We lay the crosses at a tree at Kennedy Park, our finishing point, symbolizing the journey they never got to finish |
It continues to become more real today. I am staying in Tucson for the summer, where I can learn as much as possible about immigration and migrant issues. I need it to become more real for me so that it can become more real for you. Last week I signed a petition and made calls to get Jeannette released from the detention center. I don't know what you imagine an undocumented person to be, but Jeannette is well-liked and respected in her community and is mother to three young US citizens. To be deported would be to rip apart a family and get rid of a valuable community member. These are the people affected. I had never made calls before, and almost didn't. A woman I talked to said she would "note it down." I had little hope it made any good. But by that evening, enough calls had been made and Jeannette was free to go home to her children. At the organization I am volunteering at for the summer, a woman called in about her son. He crossed a week ago but was left behind by his group. His group had made it, but she hadn't heard from her son. He is 15. This is real.
