“María… Agustín… Daniel… José.”
“¡Presente!” we called out in unison, our voices rising against the noise of traffic along the Pan-American Highway. Walking in a single-line formation, the Healing Our Borders vigil continued slowly and deliberately toward the port of entry in Douglas, Arizona and Agua Prieta, Sonora as the names of countless deceased migrants were said aloud. Behind us, a string of white, wooden crosses were placed against the sidewalk, marking those who had died crossing the desert.
A two-block silent witness to the human aspect of the border.
Then my turn. Facing the street, I held out a white cross over my head and yelled out the name etched in black marker, “No identificada/Not identified.” A moment of pause to honor the presence of this woman who died while crossing the desert in order to reach El Norte.
While time stood still, my mind almost couldn’t bear the weight of what had just been said. No identificada. Unnamed woman. She is like so many others without a name, without a face. Someone’s daughter, sister, friend. A stranger. Forgotten. But we remember.
“¡Presente!” the vigil responded, simultaneously bringing me into that present moment where the realities of hope lost and hope found are so tenderly held.
During that Tuesday evening vigil, it became abundantly clear to me that the border tells a human story. Tragically, this story is also filled with the silenced voices like that of No identificada. And all humans deserve a name. All humans have a story.
Particularly on the border we remember that the power people and their stories contain can bring dignity, wholeness, and mercy to an incredibly complex situation.
This is some of what we saw, heard, and felt along our border journey:
- Resting in a dry riverbed, three women remain silent among a group of 15 or 20 migrants who wait to cross at night. They come from all parts of Mexico and from here it’s a slow and winding trek toward the wall in order to remain undetected by surveillance. Once they reach the wall, an even more daunting, long and tiring walk through the mountains awaits them - a dangerous situation for anyone but especially for women.
- No hay otra opcion/There is no other option, a migrant from the Mexican state of Hidalgo says. Another: I miss my city. Where I come from it’s beautiful…No hay empleo/There are no jobs.
- Jairo says he misses San Pedro Sula, the industrial capital of Honduras where he was raised. A ruining economy pushes him to the edge, jumping on freight trains that pass through Guatemala and into Mexico’s southern border. This way, there are no checkpoints. When they encounter Mexican authorities, migrants jump off, hide and wait for the next train to pass. There is serious risk involved with this kind of northbound travel: many fall or are pushed from the trains and die; multiple injuries like losing an arm or a leg, or possibly both; assaults. Still, Jairo presses on, having crossed 5 times since he was 15. This is the first time he brought his brother on that same journey into the United States. He is 16 years-old.
- No pudé/I couldn’t. (Jesús, from the Mexican state of Chihuahua.)
- I thought I made it… he came out of nowhere. Then I got spooked and started running which is why we got caught,Eduardo says lacing his shoes. Eduardo was 10 years-old when he crossed with his mother and sisters. In perfect English, a now twenty-something man asks why we choose to live in Mexico for a year. Do you like it? Curious because México is not his home. Dreams of becoming a doctor were always out of reach since he didn’t have papers. After a short stint in roofing ended with an immigration raid, Eduardo was deported on December 30, 2009, separating him from his family. Desperately eager to reunite, this was his 6th time attempting to cross in just over a month. Will you try to cross again? I ask. I don’t know, he says. I have to.
- A small black dot moved along the grey U.S. Border Patrol video surveillance screen. Another figure walked away in the opposite direction, then hopped the wall, and got into his car. That was her guide, a border agent explained. You can see how he just left her there. We watched on as the figure crawled, inch by inch, through the desert brush. Minutes after the dispatch call was sent out, we watched the woman’s arrest unfold. Energy swelled in that room. Border agents were boosted by a job well done. Inside, my head was trying to grasp whether what was done was necessary, Maybe this is one less death in a desert? But my heart moaned, This is someone’s life. Her aspirations, dreams and reality. Where does the hope go?
Wrapped up in the silence space where these stories reside, I struggle to reflect on how far removed these realities are from my own - yet they so powerfully resonate with who I am. More than anything, the reminder that someone’s life now bears the name No identificada/not identified gets my interior, deeply held thoughts and beliefs rolling and reeling.
God call us by name. God makes us whole.
We left the border and returned to Cuernavaca. Except the border is not just there. With the faces and stories of those we met sinking into my conscience, I recognize that it’s in our governmental policies, in our communities, our churches, and in our conversations.
As I explore within my own heart how to act in response, to find boldness in seeking out justice and reconciliation for those affected by the dividing walls between us, I invite you to dialogue with me. There are no easy solutions that respond to these challenges – and certainly this one-week immersion experience makes me no expert. However, I intend to learn more. And to listen so that so that the burden of all the conflict, pain, loss, and separation can break my heart, and remind me of the hope that always exists.
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