This morning we get to the border crossing around 5:30 and there are at least 15 people laying parallel in dark bundles on the ground sleeping under blankets left the night before by the humanitarian volunteers.
We drive up slowly & turn around so the side of the pickup truck is parallel to the area where the people are sleeping. The back of the truck faces the area where we will jump out & build a fire.
It is quite cold & I regret not bringing warm clothes out here with me.
The people slowly wake up & then rush over to the fire, the men arriving first, and then the womyn and children. All of the sudden a group of small, skinny guys materialize at the far corner of the wall.
Everyone's teeth are chattering, even those in long pants, ‘winter’ jackets & hats.
All the children are coughing & snuffling.
We start to put out water & then the containers of peanut butter with jam, & just jam, mayonnaise & sugar.
All three of the volunteers, including myself, have travel mugs of coffee. I quickly put mine away, realizing the people here need something hot to drink.
We start making sandwiches and putting out the granola bars, bananas, and oranges. Again, it is the men who reach in first, but orderly, and expressing thanks to us as they take a piece of fruit of half a sandwich.
The womyn finally step up, feeding their children first, of course. Soon everyone has had something to eat – at least everyone who has already arrived but there’s definitely not enough but no one complains and even asks for more.
The hope & terror on their faces, so deeply grateful for agua, a banana, and a piece of bread with a schmear of peanut butter and jam on it, makes me struggle to not weep. Again, the two fluent Spanish speakers are finding out what countries people are from and how long they’ve been traveling to get here.
They don’t give the same speech as Fernie did yesterday to the entire group, but seem to be talking with small groups at a time.
Of course the dominant question is “when will the police get here?” And who knows. There are enough cameras and I’m sure other surveillance equipment around so border patrol knows exactly who is here, how long they’ve been here, and probably has detailed photos of all, including us.
People are freezing. It is much colder than yesterday. Gorge finds an extra small blanket for one of the snuffling babies and his brother takes off his jacket and gives it to a man from Ecuador who is very cold.
I have nothing to give but a flimsy long-sleeved shirt so I busy myself encouraging especially the shyest of the children and their mothers to have something to eat.
The fire is now enormous as dawn breaks but the wind has picked up. Everything – probably including all our lungs – is coated with a thin layer of dust. Some people are able to leave the fire’s warmth and huddle together on the ground. The children find odd objects scattered over the sandy surface and make up games. No screens for them.
Folks have to walk a bank one side of the canal ‘river’ maybe 1000 feet or more, cross on the bridge over canal and then duck under the last gate, and walk an additional 1000 feet to where we are all gathered waiting.
Suddenly I see that two womyn left Mexico, come around wall and were running down the embankment toward the bridge where they can cross over. Both womyn are carrying a child each on their backs with bags held in front, and another child is carrying a stuffed animal and backpack. I try to catch up with them, to tell them they can walk, but they are racing for their lives.
I finally meet up with them after they’ve crossed the bridge and are heading towards us. They tell me they are from Ecuador and that it has taken them 45 days to get this far.
Finally a small van appears. I would not have known that it was even coming except everyone, again orderly and quietly, got up, gathered their things and walked purposely over to where the van pulled through the ‘wall’ and onto the area where we were waiting.
One line of single womyn with children is made, each mother interrogated, told to remove all shoe laces and handed a clear maybe 8” by 10” plastic bag and told to empty their pockets, take off any belts and put whatever they want to bring with them into this bag. Everything else needs to be put into the garbage and left behind. They can’t bring water unless they put in the bag and no food can be in their pockets either.
After a good 45 minutes or so of standing in a line and being talked at, the small group of maybe 12 get into the van and he drives away.
The other people turn slowly, still with faces of hope and terror, and return to the food and water bench. The volunteer brothers have brought out more veggie sticks and chocolate granola bars. Everyone replenishes and then wander off to separate spaces, cell phones stuck to their ears, passing on information to waiting families and friends, I’m sure.
Two womyn have moved to in front of the truck and are quietly holding each other, tears streaming down their faces, gulping for air. I don’t know if they think they won’t get picked up today or why they are weeping so hard. I try to tell them I’m sorry, another van is coming, not to worry. Both of them try hard to smile at me through their tears instead of telling me to fuck off.
More people are trickling through the border and this time I’m ready to tell them not to run, it’s okay to walk. I don’t know if the fuckin coyote who has dropped them off has told them to run or their anxiety is propelling them forward.
Two men loaded down with duffle bags and a womon, trailing behind and running every few feet to catch up with the men, is carrying what looks like a large soft zippered pocketbook and another large bag. I want to weep for them. I can’t imagine what I would grab if I had to leave home suddenly – or even planned – and spend maybe months on the road guarding my treasures while struggling to keep up. And I can’t be the one to tell these people that they will have to leave it all in the garbage.
After another 3 hours of waiting, once again the silent, orderly gathering begins, maybe a little faster this time, and in what seems like a few seconds, everyone – maybe 50 people are left – has left their scattered positions and met in a semi-circle in the middle.
I’m horrified to see once again only one small van has showed up. In spite of this, several people break ranks to come over, look each of the three volunteers soberly in the eye, extend their hands and express their deep thanks.
I try to keep my welcome face on but how can I not weep? We have done so little to merit such heart-felt appreciation. Then I’m thinking you all are not going to be chosen to go. I’m torn between trying to warn them and just crossing fingers and saying “buena suerte”.
This time there’s a womon officer. She lines people up in short rows. I can’t hear what she’s saying but it seems to take hours. Then she chooses a handful of refugees, takes their photos, gives them a clear plastic bag and instructions. They stand along side the van.
Other folks melt back again, go under the canopies and take down all the blankets we had prematurely shook out, folded and hung over the railing ready for the night visitors.
I can’t look anyone in the eye and it seems like they can’t look either. Fortunately after about 20 minutes, everyone responded to some kind of hidden signal, get up and gather in front of the van again. Off in the distance, I see a very big bus coming toward us, a bus that could have come first thing and picked up everyone hours ago.
Once again, we pick up blankets, shake them out, fold them, and hang them over the rails, hoping these strong winds won’t carry them off before nightfall.
We also pick up any garbage that has escaped in the winds. If detritus happens to slip through the narrow gaps in the wall onto the farmers’ fields, they complain loudly and have the ear of those in power, causing even more trouble and hardship for refugees.
Everyone gets on the bus so we can now leave. We actually head to another crossing – the one at the edge of Cocopah Nation territory where in December hundreds of refugees crossed. Now I am told hardly anyone crosses there. We spend probably 30 minutes walking up and down, picking up discarded shoe laces, water bottles, and more detritus from a handful of people’s lives.
Then we’re ready to return home but on the way, there is one more stop to make: the guys get out the truck and start loading the dry branches of downed trees and bushes for tomorrow’s fire.
Why is there so much fuckin barbed wire here, except to make some manufacturer ceo rich - and maybe to trap human beings if it's dark and they can't see how to go...
The bridge over the canal and the gate people have to crawl under to get to the right side of the canal to meet border patrol.
Finafuckinly a vehicle big enough to transport everyone to refugee prison to be processed.
This the bag where all a refugee's possession not on her body have to go. What would you choose to put in here?
The other crossing at the Cocopah Nation land - where in December there was a wall of fuckin truck containers stacked two high a little farther down the road.
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