Just how do we become the change we seek?

“We will not comply! We will not comply!” filled the air in downtown Phoenix on Thursday, July 29th – the day that Arizona’s harshly anti-immigrant bill SB 1070 went into effect. I was co-leading a BorderLinks delegation of faith leaders from across the U.S. who came to be in solidarity against SB 1070. We watched as small groups of people were arrested in an effort to take a public stand against the law. A few hundred people took over one city block downtown to raise their voices in protest; police in full riot gear worked their way into the middle of the crowd and gradually separated them until all protestors were pushed back onto the sidewalks. On one side of the police unit was a crowd of people yelling, “Cops and the Klan go hand in hand!” while on the other side a line of Unitarians spanned the crosswalk sporting their yellow “Standing on the Side of Love” t-shirts. The tension in the air was as tangible as the humidity.

Back in Tucson that afternoon, we joined with a crowd of people who had taken over the intersection between the State Building and the Federal Courthouse. I recognized many faces in the crowd, for this is a community that has mobilized frequently in recent months in response to the constant public attacks on immigrants. In March we organized in response to an ICE raid that shut down the Southside, where many immigrant families live. In May over 7,000 people hit the streets of Tucson for a May Day March in support of just immigration policies. We’ve seen youth leading the actions in protest of SB 1070 and HB 2281 (which bans ethnic studies programs in public schools). The voices of Arizona communities are rising in incredibly powerful ways against the strong tide of racist fears and nativism that have become the public face of Arizona.

Several young adults held signs proclaiming, “Undocumented and Unafraid”, and my stomach churned when I saw them. They may not be afraid, but I am. What if they really are undocumented and they get arrested? Will they be deported, or can they fight for their cases in court? What abuses will they suffer in the process? Do they know anyone in Mexico, and do they even speak Spanish? If they want to return to the U.S., will they cross the deadly Sonoran desert to reunite with their families? It hurts me to even imagine being forcibly separated from my family, and I know people in Tucson who live in daily fear of that happening to them. God of justice and love, we are lost in the wilderness! What have we become, that we ignore hundreds of deaths in the desert every year while our media plays on popular fears about immigrants? What have we become, that we would dehumanize people in the name of upholding bad laws? That we ignore our own complicity in the drug trade, migration, global economics, and the separation of families?

The interaction between protestors and police was relatively calmer in Tucson than in Phoenix, but it was clear in both cities that not everyone agrees on tactics or messaging. While some see the police as enemies, others see them as potential allies. Some want to talk about racism, others want to avoid that word altogether. There is no single, clear path for reaching the transformation we seek. I’ve been struggling with this question a lot recently: Should we push for smaller goals that may seem more practical and attainable, or is that compromising too much? Should we hold out for our ideals, or is that so unrealistic that it prevents any change from happening at all? Let me give you a concrete example: there’s been much debate about the border wall and border security. Some pro-immigrant groups attempt to build alliances by saying “Of course we all want to secure the border. We can all agree that we don’t want open borders.” For border communities, border security has come to mean militarization, destruction of fragile ecosystems, alienation of communities from each other, and human deaths in the desert. The border is much more nuanced than simply “open” or “closed”, and the phrase “border security” doesn’t fully communicate what happens down here on la frontera. Another example: should we be talking about NAFTA (North American Free Trade Agreement) reform on a national level, or focusing only on reforming our immigration policies? I believe that large-scale immigration will continue as long as we fail to address how international agreements and business practices destabilize local economies and force people to leave their home communities. But some would say that talking about NAFTA reform is too big and controversial, and won’t ultimately get us anywhere.

Conflicts over how to push forward and what to push for have already been dividing our movements for immigrant justice, and part of me fears that we’ll never get it together enough to get something done. The other part of me is humbled by the multiplicity of people who are passionately working to transform the U.S.’s policies, public messages, and social assumptions about immigration. I live in this tension between differing approaches to the task before us, and here on the border we both struggle with and celebrate each other’s perspectives. I place my hope in a people who can come to recognize where our shared values meet, who continue being passionate without denying the humanity of others, who see the ripple effects of decisions we make today. I place my hope in a God who is in the midst of all this muck and chaos and beauty that we’re living in. Gracias a Dios que la lucha sigue!

Margi Ault-Duell works as a Program Organizer for BorderLinks in Tucson, AZ. Her work focuses on educating people from across the nation about the U.S.-Mexico border, the causes and effects of immigration, and the ways that power, privilege, and oppression weave throughout our lives. She's a United Methodist young adult and recent graduate from Drew Theologial School.

Kneeling in Altar

So rock me mama like a wagon wheel

Rock me mama anyway you feel
Hey mama rock me
Rock me mama like the wind and the rain
Rock me mama like a south-bound train
Hey mama rock me
-"Wagon Wheel," Bob Dylan; Old Crow Medicine Show

The border, la frontera, is death. Again and again when I was in Nogales I heard this expressed by people who call the border home, people whose existence is this increasingly militarized space. Again and again, I saw white crosses, x's that marked the spot, signifying the death in the desert along that line drawn in pencil by men far, far away.

There is a dusty fear here. As a member of the OnFire Borderlinks delegation in October 2009, we traveled from Tucson to Nogales to Altar and back. These memories hit me this week as I sat in front of a computer working at Faith in Public Life when I came across this article by Elliot Spagat from the Associated Press:

Mexican drug cartel killings near Nogales increase

ALTAR, Sonora- Very few residents dare to drive on one of the roads out of this watering hole for migrants, fearing they will be stopped at gunpoint. They worry they will be told to turn around after their gas tanks are drained or, worse, be kidnapped or killed.

A shootout that left 21 people dead and six wounded on the road last week is the most gruesome sign that a relatively tranquil pocket of northern Mexico quickly is turning into a hotbed of drug-fueled violence on Arizona's doorstep...

Nogales, the main city in the region, which shares a border with the Arizona city of the same name, has had 131 murders so far this year, nearly surpassing 135 for all of 2009, according to a tally by the newspaper Diario de Sonora. That includes two heads found Thursday stuffed side-by-side between the bars of a cemetery fence.

The carnage still pales compared with other Mexican border cities, most notably Juarez, which lies across from El Paso, which had 2,600 murders last year. But the increase shows that some small cattle-grazing towns near Nogales are in the grip of drug traffickers who terrorize residents...

"If no one puts a stop to this, these will become ghost towns," said Jose Martin Mayoral, editor of Diario del Desierto, the newspaper in Caborca....

That phrase ghost towns echoes in my mind as I sit here, so far from this fear on the border yet still so affected by it. When I sat down to write this post, I thought about what it was like to sit in a van in Altar looking out into the desert at the road people took to get to the U.S.A. without documents. We couldn't get out of the van because the entrance to the road was patrolled by gangs. I wanted to write about NAFTA and the failed war on drugs, corruption and USAmerican citizens' own complicity with the violence that is migrating over this border in the way people are forced into drug and human trafficking. I wanted to compare the low levels of violent crime in USAmerican Border cities with the fact that Ciudad Juarez, just over the border from El Paso, Texas, is one of the most violent cities in the world.

Yet as I read this Associated Press article and think about what Altar and Nogales meant to me and why I am so saddened to read about the violence on the border, the image that keeps coming into my head is that of José, an eighteen year old who looked so much younger who came to the migrant shelter in Altar the night we were there. He was alone. I didn't get much of his story and don't know if any one of us did, but what I remember about José was the quiet way he sang along to the music as my friend David played guitar in the courtyard to the shelter. We sang song after song as the sun set and the coolness of the desert at night set in around us.

The sacred to me was in the movement of José's lips as we sang "Wagon Wheel" until the haunting beauty of the song dissipated in the darkness and we entered the shelter to eat.

As I continue to sit in front of a computer, I meditate on the movement of God in that moment and I just wish I could give it to you, the way the night air felt against my skin, the sound of Susanna's voice as she led us all in the song, the weight of it all. Would it change you, would it make you ask more questions, make you stop and think when you read about the increased violence of border cities on the Mexican side of the border?

"Wagon Wheel" is a song about traveling south, about getting to Raleigh to be with a lover, where if he died in Raleigh, he says "at least I will die free." I don't know if José ever made it north, but if he did, he only had a few months before SB1070 reminded the rest of us how undocumented people living in this country are not free, continuing to live in prisons of fear from a different violence. José reminds me why we need comprehensive immigration reform so badly, why I pray he is neither living in the border cities in Mexico nor in Arizona but that he has a chance to live free of that fear. That we all have the chance to live free of that fear.



***

All the pictures are from the OnFire Borderlinks delegation in October 2009. Check out the posts about our trip from David, me, Mallory, Lindsey, and Jen.

On parking lots, offices, shelters and vineyards

It’s a cold and rainy November morning. I’m up as usual at 6:30 a.m., out the door shortly after 8:00. Overnight, a wintry chill has moved in. Though I’m dressed warmly, my un-gloved hands are numb before I’m halfway to the Metro station. I can’t very well get to my pockets as I manage an umbrella in one hand and my lunch in the other—leftovers from last night’s dinner. On this near-icy day I’ll be able to enjoy a warm midday meal of spaghetti and meatballs—comfort food, in the psychological sense. Physically, I’ll be plenty comfortable at my desk in a heated office, sitting in a cushioned swivel chair with lumbar support. Comfort food for what discomfort?

At the same moment that I’m becoming conscious of my numbing fingertips, my eyes fall upon three figures in the distance. Two, like me, are huddled under umbrellas. The one in the center has his hands in the pocket of a hooded gray jacket and is shuffling back and forth in front of the Home Depot sign. Like me, these men are halfway to work; unlike me, they don’t know where they’re going, if anywhere. Their job “security” involves waiting in a parking lot, hoping that someone will need a hand with a home improvement project they’re tackling this Veterans’ Day.

As I continue on my way to the Metro, the parable of the laborers in the vineyard comes to mind for the hundredth time since moving to this Washington, D.C. neighborhood. How I long to be able to come home on a day like today and play the role of the compassionate owner—rewarding a full day’s wages to all of those seeking work. My head tells me that such charity is unsustainable, that what needs to be addressed and dismantled are the systems of injustice that allow this 2,000-year-old parable to have contemporary relevance. It is for that very reason that I’ve been so vocal in promoting immigration reform, health care reform, and an end to wage theft. But in this moment my righteous anger falls to the wayside. My heart breaks as I sense what can only be a small fraction of their vulnerability, a feeling that echoes an experience I had two weeks earlier in a completely different world.

2,500 miles from my northeast D.C. home lies the once-sleepy town of Altar, Mexico. The mass migration occurring over the past twenty-five years has brought a whirl of activity to the area. People from throughout Central America are passing through; some are on their first journey to the United States, but for many, the trek through the desert has become all too commonplace. During our visit* to Altar, I spent the night at a small migrant shelter run by a Catholic congregation. For no cost, sojourners can get a warm supper, a place to sleep and bathe, a change of clothes if need be, and a warm breakfast for up to three nights, though extensions are granted under extenuating circumstances.

Those seeking refuge at CCAMYN (Centre Comunitario de Atención al Migrante y Necesitado, or the Attention Center for Migrants and those in Need), however, are rarely first-time travelers. Most have already been deported from the United States—some multiple times over—and know about the shelter only because it’s not their first time traveling through the region. Migrants on their first journey are more likely to seek assistance from coyotes, guides who will see them at least part of the way to the border, but who are also likely to exploit, rob, or even physically harm the migrants—who often spend nearly all, if not everything, they have on the journey. In many cases, migrants cannot afford to pay the full price of a coyote, and must agree to pay off the debt for years to come, once they’ve crossed the border.

During dinner at CCAMYN, I found myself sitting next to Juan. He couldn’t have been that much older than I am, but the thousands of miles separating our birthplaces have taken their toll. I’ve spent the past five years on the move—mostly traveling to, from and within Europe—accessing countless destinations with the click of a mouse. Juan has spent the better part of the last ten years trying repeatedly to reach my place of departure. Temporary success has been his at least a dozen times, but that night he was on the road again. He has family in the States now, and they’re there “legally.” But he cannot risk seeing his own nieces out of fear that his sister might be charged with “harboring.” His hope is to cross and lay low for a few months; maybe then he can figure out a way to spend Christmas with the only family he has.

Juan was the first to push back from the large table where about thirty of us had eaten. The inches between us became miles again, as he embarked—under the cover of darkness—on a journey I’d have no trouble making in broad daylight two days later. Neither would I have any trouble boarding a plane to fly me back across the country to our nation’s capital.

Weeks have passed since I spent a night on CCAMYN’s tile floor. Back in the office, I heat up my leftovers and recline in my chair, watching the rain. I wonder where Juan is, whether the laborers have landed a job today, when the policymakers in the buildings outside my window will respond to the widespread, highly-organized advocacy efforts surrounding immigration reform. I wonder if members of my own family, congregation, and circle of friends will be ready to hear the stories of my trip to the border without writing me off for being “partisan,” or naïve to the “complexities” surrounding the situation. But what is so complicated about the desire of parents to feed their children, of young adults to seek a better life for themselves, of people of faith to advocate for those on the margins and in the shadows?

I put down my empty dish and sink answerless into my chair. It’s not as if these questions haven’t entered into the debate before, so what is to be done? I remember the feeling that rose in my chest as I observed the day laborers that morning: the horrific heartbreak, the longing for an outpouring of compassion, the urgency for justice to be realized on earth. But a glance at my inbox tells me that I’m not the only one experiencing this urgency. Articles, reports, action alerts, prayer requests, invitations to conference calls and prayer vigils—a whole movement is at my fingertips. I push back my plate, sit up, roll in my chair, and reach for the mouse, returning to the vineyard where new laborers are always welcome.

*In late October I traveled with a 10-member OnFire team to the US-Mexico border. We participated in a 3-day border justice immersion experience through the popular education organization BorderLinks. OnFire is a network of young adults within the Methodist Federation for Social Action, a national grassroots organization that promotes social justice in and beyond the United Methodist Church.

Join us this October on the US-Mexico border

Greetings OnFire members! I’m writing today to inform you of an exciting opportunity to travel to the US-Mexico border for a short immersion trip from October 28-31st. We will be working with BorderLinks for an educational and interactive experience at the border: learning, sharing and serving to bring about positive social transformation in the areas of migration and immigration.

We will meet in Phoenix and drive to the BorderLinks facility in Tuscon, AZ, on Wednesday, October 28th. BorderLinks will prepare an itinerary for us that will include activities such as visiting and serving at aid stations, hearing from persons working to document human rights abuses, visiting with immigrants and their families, learning about labor practices in factories along the border, advocacy training in migrant rights.

The cost of the programming including lodging and food is $200, plus the cost of travel to and from Phoenix. [OnFire will provide transportation from Phoenix to Tuscon, where BorderLinks is located.] This includes a $100 scholarship from the Methodist Federation for Social Action. We will gladly help interested young people with fund raising ideas.

We would like to have a committed group of 10-13 people attend this event. The trip is open to any and all young adults who are interested in connecting their faith to issues of immigration and border justice. If you’re interested, please contact Jennifer Mihok at jennifer.mihok@gmail.com for more information and registration materials.

Here’s a bit more information about BorderLinks:



BorderLinks is an international leader in experiential education that raises awareness and inspires action around global political economics. BorderLinks grew out of the Sanctuary Movement in the 1980’s when faith communities, universities, and other organizations rallied to advocate on behalf of thousands of refugees fleeing persecution in Central America. Today, BorderLinks’ educational programs focus on issues of immigration, community formation, development, and social justice in the borderlands between Mexico, the U.S and beyond. As a bi-national organization, BorderLinks brings people together to build bridges of solidarity across North and Latin American borders and promote intercultural understanding and respect. For more information, visit www.borderlinks.org.