Sarah's February Newsletter - Mexico

Reflections from the border…

“I was hungry and you fed me, thirsty and you gave me a drink; I was a stranger and you received me in your homes, naked and you clothed me; I was sick and you took care of me, in prison and you visited me. The righteous will then answer him, ‘When, Lord, did we ever see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you a drink? When did we ever see you a stranger and welcome you in our homes, or naked and clothe you? When did we ever see you sick or in prison, and visit you?’ The King will reply, ‘I tell you, whenever you did this for one of the least important of these followers of mine,
you did it for me.” (Matthew 25:35-40)

“Las paredes vueltas a lado son puentes.” (Walls turned on their sides are bridges.)
(A spray-painted message on the wall that’s been built between Nogales, MX and Nogales, AZ)

This month, I had the privilege of joining the other volunteers and our country coordinator on a trip north to the United States/Mexico border. Challenging, distressing, eye-opening, sobering, overwhelming, and moving, this experience expanded my understanding, deepened my empathy and intensified my concern. Perhaps the most poignant of the entire week was the opportunity to visit with Mexicans who were within hours of crossing the Sonora desert into the U.S. We met them in Altar, Mexico, the last community through which many migrants pass and make their final preparations before heading into the looming desert. Seeing about 1200 migrants pass through its streets every day during high season, Altar’s zocalo is filled with migrants and coyotes (guides) waiting to begin the journey, rusty pick-ups and minivans that provide transportation to and from the edge of the desert, bold signs that remind migrants of necessary precautions amidst the desert’s fatal hazards, and shops that sell all the essentials: backpacks, boots, caps, jackets, and water bottles. We were invited to visit with those hanging around this central plaza, and I pass on these conversations and observations to you, hoping that it will shed light on a reality that sinks much deeper than that which we see on the evening news.

I first met three men whose blank faces, crouching postures, and unwillingness to share much information revealed deep apprehension and fear. It was their very first time attempting to cross the border, and they were trying do so without the help of a coyote—nearly impossible. I met two young women, younger than I, who have left husbands and children behind in order to find work in a maquiladora (a U.S.-owned factory in Mexico). And then I met Marguerito, a man who has crossed the border two times in the last ten years in order to keep his family fed and alive. Marguerito’s first stint as a field laborer in North Carolina was cut unexpectedly short when he received word that his mom was very ill and expected to die in the coming months. Marguerito fled back to Mexico and was able to be with his mother for the few weeks that preceded her death. He described his mother’s passing as “losing the rock of the family,” as his father was a severe alcoholic and had long been unable or unwilling to support the family. The responsibility of protecting and feeding seven younger siblings was now left to Marguerito. Though he tried to find work in his own country, none could provide enough money to cover the most basic necessities of food, water, and clothing. With seemingly no other option, Marguerito left his loved ones behind to make the treacherous journey again to the other side, not knowing where he was headed, if he would find work, or how long he would be gone. He spoke for more than an hour about the perils of the desert, the various jobs he’s held in fields and factories, his relationships—some favorable, others appalling—with supervisors and neighbors, the range of living and working conditions, the pride he carries in knowing he’s lifted his family up, the shame he carries in knowing he’s breaking the law. Now for the third time, Marguerito sits in the center plaza of Altar, Mexico, awaiting the arrival of his comrades and coyote. Clothed in thick, dark apparel and hefty boots, Marguerito carries with him one backpack, a jacket, 2 gallons of water, bread, and fruit. Though some would call him an old hat at this, it’s clear that Marguerito still fears the deadly desert and hates the estrangement from his family. “My family needs me to go,” Marguerito explained, “but I sure hope I’m not gone for long.”

Such are the stories of so many of our Mexican brothers and sisters. Forced to leave behind their family and homeland because of an economic and labor system that does not account for their health and survival, Mexicans head north. Their stories evidence a grim determination, a resolve that keeps them battling through every pain, thirst, patrol, law and wall in order to achieve a steady wage and send money home to their families. When asked where he finds the courage to enter the desert and search for work in the U.S., one immigrant told us, “You’ll understand when you have kids.”

Our trip to the U.S./Mexico border opened my eyes to the complex reality of immigration. It’s no longer an issue that just occupies newsletter headlines, but a reality that affects the lives of almost every Mexican I have met this year. Often I find conversation about such complex, global issues to be so dehumanizing and desensitizing, as I forget how these policies and systems devastate the lives of real human beings. And then I step into the community of Altar and see a plaza filled with poor, petrified Mexicans. I listen to Marguerito’s story and witness the distress in his eyes. I visit a hospedaje (hostel) where migrants try to rest before taking off early in the morning. Resembling bunkhouses from concentration camps, these hostels cram 15 or more people onto beds made of nothing more than long planks of wood and a thin slab of carpet. I spend an hour walking in the Sonoran desert, realizing the constant danger of piercing cacti and intense parchedness. Migrating Mexicans cross these lands in the darkest hours of the night, aided only by the whispers of their guide and the light of the moon. I walk along the wall that our government is building, and witness the way it devastates the environment and so starkly demarcates us from them. I observe crosses and memorials covered with names of loved ones who have died during the journey. Many are marked desconocido (unknown), referring to those whose bodies were too disfigured for anyone to recognize. And I talk to my neighbors, friends, and co-workers, having yet to meet a Mexican who doesn’t have a sibling, child, or parent living and working on the other side of the border. No longer can I speak about immigration without calling to mind these impacting faces and places.

Immigration is an issue that requires significant attention—on the part of both Mexico and the United States—and I share these experiences and realizations as a way to challenge our ignorance and mobilize our concern as people of faith. We must ask the questions, “What is causing so many Mexicans to migrate north? Why are they leaving behind families and pushing themselves through life-threatening circumstances to get to our country? Is it really about wanting to go or having to go?”

I was hesitant to dedicate this newsletter to an issue that has our country deeply divided, yet I can’t resist the call to be a voice for the voiceless. These are stories that need to be told and situations that need to be understood. As witnesses to the life and love of Jesus Christ, I believe we must look critically at the systems that perpetuate such injustice, recognize our relationship with and dependence on our Mexican neighbors, and be fervent advocates for welcoming the stranger among us. The Bible is committed to the neighbor, the other, the alien; we profess faith in a God who loves, welcomes, and liberates all people; we aim to follow Jesus, who gave his very life to welcoming the other, helping the poor, dining with the outcast, living in the margins, breaking down barriers. Called to love of neighbor and solidarity with the oppressed, our faith moves us to develop critical voice and vision in relation to these issues and practice a love that is radical and borderless.

After living with and learning from the Mexican people this year, I’m beginning to debunk some of the myths our media and government so carefully construct. We hear too often that Mexicans want to come to our country, that they are stealing our jobs, halting our economy, not paying taxes, taking advantage of our services, hampering public school systems, committing crimes, and, beyond all else, breaking the law. Not any of these statements are completely untrue, but all of them require a deeper look.

We simply don’t see the way in which our very livelihood depends on the presence of migrants in our country. We wouldn’t have lettuce, tomatoes, or oranges on the table, our highways would not be well-maintained, hotel rooms wouldn’t be clean, and prices of food and clothing would skyrocket. One immigrant at the hostel asked us, “Why don’t you want us in your country? Don’t you see that we do the work none of you want to do for way less money?” It’s true.

We also aren’t told the way in which U.S. policies undermine the survival of Mexicans, and therefore encourage migration to our country. Many here point to NAFTA, the agreement signed between Canada, United States, and Mexico in 1994 that has allowed for the removal of most tariffs on labor, services, and products. While Mexico’s wealthy minority has benefited from this system of free trade, it has had devastating effects on the marginalized majority. The most noticeable and horrendous ramification for me is the loss of Mexico’s most central product: corn. Prior to the signing of NAFTA, Mexico was nearly self-sufficient in its production of corn, importing only two percent. Now, about one-fourth of corn consumed in Mexico is imported from the U.S., as our government subsidies allow it to be sold for a cheaper price than Mexico can produce its own corn. Not only does this shake the country economically, but it also rejects the heart of Mexican culture and indigenous spirituality. Corn is at the center of who they are, the work they do, and the beliefs they hold. During our trip we heard one man declare, “When Mexicans can no longer afford tortillas, we know we have a problem.” The broken system is uprooting Mexicans from their traditional, provisional, well-loved mode of living and forcing them to flee from rural pueblos to cities, maquilas, or the United States in search of work.

And, yes, immigration to our country without papers is illegal, but in a democratic country, do we not have power within the law? Do we take responsibility for understanding the human impact of our laws and economy? Do we not need to know these effects in order to guide possible enforcements and amendments? Should we not find a way to document and legalize the migrants on whom our very economy and survival depend? A Sojourners article helped me gain understanding on this argument, as author Alexia Salvatierra recounts the passage in Mark 2, when Jesus and his disciples are called out for breaking the Sabbath—a “grave breach of Jewish law.” Jesus responds, “The Sabbath was made for humankind, and not humankind for the Sabbath.” Salvatierra believes the same is true with the law: “It is made for humankind, not humankind for the law.” Just as Jesus violates a law when he sees it getting in the way of human life and justice, so must we look critically at the laws we’ve created and the systems they serve. “When laws fail to justly serve the most basic human needs (as with eating or healing on the Sabbath), they are flawed and incomplete” (Sojourners Magazine, September/October 2007).

We get the impression that increased border patrol and surveillance is curbing undocumented migration to the U.S., but that’s far from true. Since our government’s addition of more than 11,000 border agents and construction of more than 80 miles of fencing, there has been no drop in the number of Mexicans crossing—only a change in where they are crossing and an increase in deaths. Our militarized border fails to stem the flow of immigrants, while driving them into the most remote and dangerous stretches of desert that have killed more than 3,000 people in the last seven years. I recognize and support our country’s right to control its borders, but not at the cost of human life and dignity.

The issue of immigration brings to light a living story of people, families, relationships, and countries broken by an unjust system. I’ll be the first to acknowledge that it is dense, difficult, and overwhelming. But my hope and prayer is that it is a story that can be framed by the ancient, stirring imperative of Leviticus: “When an alien resides with you in your land, you shall not oppress the alien. The alien who resides with you shall be to you as the citizen among you; you shall love the alien as yourself, for you were once aliens in the land of Egypt” (Leviticus 19:33-34).

I think that’s enough for this month! If you made it this far, I thank you for your concern and greatly affirm your stamina! I can’t say enough how grateful I am for the support you continue to offer in my learning and growing this year.

With deep love and gratitude,
Sarah