Crossing with the Virgin: Stories from the Migrant Trail

Story Thirteen

Story Thirteen I t was mid-January when we arrived very early at the Mariposa port of entry on the border. We zipped our jackets snug for warmth, and I wrapped my wool scarf tightly, hoping to stop my teeth from chattering. Two other Samaritans and I had driven the sixty-five miles from Tucson to bring supplies and to assist the local volunteer workers there. The men were preparing hot soup, and a large urn of hot coffee sat on the table in front of the tent. Migrants who have been expelled from the U.S. side of the border by Border Patrol trek down the path alongside the cyclone fence. When they reach the end of the walkway they are in Mexico. Home? Not really. Most are from farther south and have to decide whether to try again to cross or give up and return to their local communities. No More Deaths has established and runs an aid station right at the border, on the Mexican side. The Commission for Protection of Migrants, established by the Mexican state of Sonora, helps in overseeing the daily function of the aid station, and volunteers from Green Valley Samaritans and Tucson Samaritans come down to volunteer as well. That morning the three of us joined the three young Mexican men who staffed the tent to attend to the needs of the ejected border crossers . That is, as best they could with the limited supplies they have. We were bringing food and cups for drinks and soup. I had brought medical supplies and planned to use my own rather than deplete the bandage materials that are kept there for use. Already a busload of fifty migrants had passed through. Some did not stop at the tent, but most wanted the hot liquids to warm their cold bodies and souls. Most of the busloads of people were “voluntary returnees,” migrants who signed papers that they were voluntarily going back, and thus avoiding incarceration, court, and formal deportation. This option 70 stories from the migrant trail is only available to Mexican migrants—those from other countries do not have this choice. Many of the Central and South American migrants carry false Mexican identification papers. They hope that if they are apprehended here in the Arizona desert, they will not be sent back to their home country, but will be taken to the Mexican border, released, and they can then turn around and try again to cross. After being apprehended by the Border Patrol, migrants are held in custody twelve to eighteen hours, often without food or water during this time. It is not unusual for them to be detained much longer, even up to four days. Unless a serious medical condition is apparent, no medical attention is administered, and frequently they tell us that their medications have been taken away and not returned. Occasionally at the aid station a serious medical situation necessitates sending a returnee to the hospital; but the most frequent ailment, in addition to dehydration, is blisters. Sometimes people deny any problem even though removal of shoes and socks reveals blisters on the balls of the foot and between toes, and other times we can see them limping as they walk toward us. It is not unusual to see one or two fellow travelers holding a person’s arm, assisting him or her, because blisters on the bottom of the foot can be like a severe burn. One of the top requests at the tent was for shoelaces. We’d see groups of people approaching our station with tennis shoes open, walking in a sort of shuffling gate to keep their shoes from falling off. The Border Patrol always confiscated the shoelaces and belts, and most of the time they were not returned. Lorenzo’s feet were in that middle range, blistered but not enough to cause him to limp.The day had warmed up as the clouds disappeared, and flies swarmed around the piled-up garbage twenty feet away across the street. Lorenzo sat in front of the tent in the sun soaking one foot, while I cleaned and bandaged the other. We talked about his family. It was good practice for my Spanish comprehension. Because he had worked in the United States for the past three years, we were able to communicate, even though he spoke only a few words of English. He had been working in the lumber industry in California, but had gone home to his pueblo...