Border

by Noa Higgins

There is a gathering of people in the court room. Our group of 14 lines two benches in the back of the large room. This is the place where justice is supposed to be served, where the judge hands out sentences to those who have broken the law in order to uphold the standards that we have put in place to protect our society. But here before us, we see officers passing out headsets for translating to the individuals sitting in the chairs. Each one is shackled by foot and those around their hands are connected to a clanking chain hugging their mid-drifts as they shuffle through their motions. And while the building presents itself as a professional place of justice, the situation before us pleads the opposite. The individuals calmly and quietly sitting in the chairs are not criminals with the goal of harm. They are individuals with faces of compliance, there to filter through the system that we have created for them, without truly understanding their sentencing. They are the people who were found, attacked, and arrested by border patrol in the desert, two days ago at the same time and place that we were walking through the trails. What is it that the system does not see here? Not only the system in general, but what does border patrol, and all of the individuals who play a direct or indirect role in condemning these individuals not see here?

What is it? If everyone else in the court room were to be given brown skin, Spanish as their first language, and a story about how they barely escaped violence, persecution, starvation, injustice etc. in their home country, imagine how different things would be. Imagine if the defendants each were able to explain their situation, telling the judge about their last meal at home before they grabbed their backpack and left. Each defendant explaining how he kissed his brother, mother, wife, son one last time before promising he would turn himself in if necessary so that they would not be left wondering where his body was. Or, in what was the case of many pleading asylum in the courtroom today, telling the judge how when they heard that final death threat from that group back home, they knew they had to get out as quickly as possible.

Because it is sometimes impossible to make others empathize, why have we created a system where there is no room for sympathy? Operation streamline doesn’t even give individuals their basic right to a full trial; they are herded like cattle through the doors, up and out of the chairs, to the microphones to say “si, si, si, culpable”, and back out the doors. Fifteen people standing in a row at a time, and one group right after the other for more than an hour, five days a week. The only thing most of these individuals are guilty of is searching for a better future for their kids, more working hours even in the worst of the jobs, safety, and refuge. It is sickening to think about how different things would be if the people sitting in the chairs in front of the judge were white and English-speaking. It is difficult to say what it is that those in favor of the system could possibly see, but it is clear the dehumanization that happens within these courts. Justice is in no way being served here.  

Finding the words to express what we recently witnessed is incredibly difficult. But the faces of the individuals looking back at those who are their to watch their “hearing” is something I believe none of us will ever forget. While sitting on the court benches as well as now, I find myself feeling helpless, only knowing to pray fiercely for protection for the brave people who had hope and justice cruelly ripped away from them.  

by Alexus Garcia

Extinguish

I struggle to picture myself in society after this experience

I feel stuck

Bound by theoretical shackles that could have very easily been my reality

Do you admit that you crossed the border illegally?

Immigration is divisive

Often classified: not for the dinner table

I exist in a world where my peers support the death of those who do not look like them

Are you pleading guilty voluntarily?

There is no economical benefit worth the inhumanity that is the United States Immigration System

I do not wear this flag with pride

I do not tolerate any individual that supports past or present policy

Do you understand the rights that you are giving up?

Hearing my name called in that court room

Garcia

Garcia

Garcia

How do you plead?

Culpable

A powerful reminder that everything we have as individuals is sheer luck

Due to my family

Who have sacrificed so that I could Flourish

It is a blessing that I was born in this country

Free from political corruption & poverty

By some random power

I was gifted safety & a life with loved ones

Protection under a government I am ashamed to call mine

Tucson

Nogales

A day of mixed emotions

Guilt

Anger

Vergüenza

Fortune

Still learning how to re-enter this world containing a fire I didn’t know existed

By Aidan Hall & David Vargas Puga

Our first view of Nogales, Senora set a tone that would stick with us for the rest of our excursion. The U.S-Mexico border cuts straight through this community, and measures have been taken to ensure that loved ones stranded on opposite sides cannot even hold hands across this line. The level of militarization of this border resembles that of places like the “demilitarized zone” that divides North and South Korea, who have technically been at war with each other for the past 65 years, but unlike these two nations, the U.S and Mexico ostensibly have a symbiotic
and friendly relationship.

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The war comparison unfortunately starts to make more sense when discussing the fate of José Antonio, the 16 year old Mexican boy shot 10 times in the back and killed by a U.S Border Patrol officer on the Mexican side of the border in 2012. The involved officer alleged that he felt threatened by the rocks Antonio was throwing at him, though despite the immense level of U.S surveillance of the area in question, no video footage was ever provided that could verify this claim. Other murders have occurred in the past few years following this exact pattern, and no Border Patrol officer has yet faced justice for their crimes. To be effective at achieving the goal of “American security,” the border wall needs protection: razor wire, security cameras, and guards with guns who have the willingness to use them at the slightest provocation. In Nogales, Sonora, the border is not just a wall or a barrier, but a threat, a loaded gun aimed at every Mexican citizen in sight, and the U.S doesn’t want to see any sudden movements.

On the other side of the border, and the other side of this issue, is the desperation faced by people like Daniel (name changed in respect for his privacy). As he tells it, he was forced to leave southern Mexico, from his home in Michoacán after the passage of NAFTA in 1994, which devastated the Mexican agricultural economy. Mexican farmers could not compete with the heavily subsidized American agricultural products flowing across the border after the establishment of continent-wide “free trade,” and as a result many thousands of workers were forced to seek employment elsewhere. Many of these migrants, like Daniel, decided to set their
sights on the United States. Unfortunately, U.S officials seem to have foreseen this situation, or at the very least, were ready to respond to it. The U.S Border Patrol introduced a new strategic plan in 1994, which attempted to reroute migrant traffic from the safe ports of entry in cities like Nogales to the more harsh and uninhabited desert regions of the border. The militarization and securitization of safe ports of entry would be accelerated sharply, and the border would be left less fortified elsewhere in order to bring this about. This plan of “Prevention Through Deterrence” had the express goal of endangering the lives of migrants coming from Mexico and
in doing so discourage them from making the journey, and for this reason, Daniel promised himself that though he yearned for the opportunity that the U.S had to offer, he would never attempt to cross anywhere but a safe port of entry.

Of course, as everyone knows, many migrants still do attempt this desert border crossing, and this speaks to the stark absence of economic opportunity throughout the country. As we learned, though there is much work to be done in Nogales, working at the various American-owned factories there, the workers are compensated very little for their labor. For
example, in order to have the money needed to purchase a single pound of pork, a factory laborer earning the minimum wage of 19 pesos per hour would need to spend more than nine hours doing brutal factory work. An American in Portland, Oregon would spend less than 30 minutes working to earn enough to purchase this pork at their local supermarket. The standard minimum for the workweek of a Nogales factory worker is roughly 48 hours, and the pay from this work schedule leaves few able to afford the basic necessities of life, forcing them to take on more and more shifts. We, as privileged college students, on the immersion trip, were delighted by how low the prices were at the supermarket we visited, but for the average resident of Nogales such a trip is an excruciating exercise in budgeting. Many ordinary people work upwards of 60 hours per week, and still must worry about whether they have enough to make it to the next pay day.
This kind of life of constant, back-breaking labor and economic anxiety seems rightfully horrifying to us American students, but for many of those trying to get by in Mexico, this state of affairs represents the standard “middle class” experience.

Fear and desperation were the most prominent themes of the day, and I don’t think that any of us on this trip will ever be able to forget it.