Back in the U.S. (s.r.) by Harmony Pringle

Deplaning into the Georgia airport gave me a sense of familiarity, but also one of dread. I turned on my cell phone after 4 weeks of disuse and nervously anticipated the calls to come. “How was Mexico? What did you learn?”
During the wrap-up session at the end of the travel seminar, we role-played how to talk with people about our trip. We confronted our teachers in the forms of an apathetic friend, a sympathetic relative, a staunchly capitalist economics professor. After all, what good was our new knowledge, or our deeper analysis, if we couldn’t share it with people back home?
I’ve had varying luck with these encounters this break. When people casually ask, “Hey, how was your trip?” it’s easy to get worked up, to spew out a bitter history of “development” policies – IFI’s, SAP’s, FTA’s. I left various friends looking shell-shocked and overwhelmed by acronyms. I may have brought the stories to Ohio, to California, but I hadn’t brought them home.
After all, communication isn’t about talking at people, but talking with people, opening ourselves up to learn from their experiences, just as we hope they’ll learn from ours. The Zapatistas represent this type of true communication with the caracol, the snail. The words come from your heart, and spiral outward. English draws the same metaphors – “speaking from the heart,” and taking things that others say “to heart.” Imagining the stories we heard in Mexico and Guatemala physically connected to me, helps remind me that they are connected to me, and to all of us. When we share these stories, remembering that connection, we help the other person find their part in it.
At the San Diego airport, waiting to check-in for my flight back to Tucson, the woman in line next to me asked what I was studying. I answered, "border policy, immigration issues," but didn't launch into a seven-minute spiel. I waited for her to ask questions. I wanted to respond to her particular doubts about borders walls and national security. I wanted to talk with her.

Farewell travel seminar (Leif Johnson)

Now, after almost exactly a month of near-constant travelling, we´ve reached the end of the travel seminar. A month ago, we flew into Guatemala, and most of us were immediately shocked by the climate, the culture, and the fact that we were very definitely not in the United States anymore. Now, most of us are headed back, and everyone is going their separate ways for a week or so. Some are headed back to their schools for a reverse on the normal spring break trip, others are going back to Tucson, I am staying in Mexico, and someone else is going back to Guatemala. Regardless, we are all going with very different ideas in our heads than when we came. Speaking for myself, there is also a drive to do serious work when we return to Tucson in a little more than a week. Our last days in Oaxaca have been aimed largely at that goal, and we have had long and useful discussions about what we are taking away from this trip and what we want to do with that knowledge. Through the past weeks we have seen a lot of impacts of US policy that have driven people off of their land and towards the border, met those very migrants and felt the need that propels them forward, and worried as we learned more and more about how difficult their path is. But, even more than that, we´ve seen people who are working to change that system, and been asked to carry on their work in the United States, either as portavoces (voice-carriers) or by doing our own work in our own places our own ways. I think we all have very different ideas of what that means, but I think that´s something that a lot of us are ready to figure out, both over the next month and over a much longer time. From here, we´ll see where we go.

Oventik (Mary Hewey)

On March 7th we took a trip to Oventik, the Zapatista community, or Caracol. In Spanish caracol means snail or the pattern seen on a snail’s shell. In the Mayan culture, the caracol represents truth and words spoken from the heart.
We arrived in the late morning. We parked outside the gates and waited until a woman came forward, wearing the Zapatista’s infamous pasamontañas (balaclava). Earlier Julio Cesar, our driver and group-appointed guru, told us: Nos cubrimos para descubrir (We cover ourselves to be discovered). He told us that the Zapatistas used these masks as a way to draw attention to the indigenous people. And it really does draw you in. I felt almost a bit nervous as we waited for the woman to tell us whether we could enter or not. We had to hand in our passports so that they could be sure we weren’t working for the government. It was almost like in the airport, where you often feel nervous during the security check even though you aren’t carrying anything illegal onto the plane. Luckily, after a few minutes we were allowed in.
First, we met with the Junta de Buen Gobierno, the group of community leaders in Oventik. All members of the Caracol must participate in the Junta at some point so they members of the Junta are constantly rotating. As a group we wrote down a list of about ten questions, and then handed them in to the Junta so they could discuss them as a group before speaking with us. After about fifteen minutes, we were allowed to enter into the building where the Junta was meeting. All members of the Junta were wearing pasamontañas or a red bandana wrapped around their face and it was about 50/50 men and women. During our meeting, the members of Oventik`s Junta provided us with answers to our many questions, but I don’t think there is anyway to fit it all into one blog entry. So, I’ll outline some of the main topics which we discussed.
First off, we all wanted to know what it really meant to be a Zapatista. We were told about the main ideals of Zapatismo, autonomy and resistance, and their goal to create another world, namely the caracoles. The Zapatistas speak with, not for, the indigenous people, the campesinos, and the pueblo. They also emphasized the fact that the Caracol is a substance-free community. Also, members cannot have any connection to narcotics or human trafficking. The Caracol is a place where everyone works together as a unit in order to sustain their way of life.
Migration was, of course, another main topic of discussion with the Junta. Migration is not permitted in Oventik. The Junta told us that while short trips (a few days or a week) outside of the Caracol are acceptable, anything beyond that is deeply frowned upon. They told us that once a Zapatista is away from his or her community for so long, he loses the principles of Zapatismo and takes up new ones, which often go against those found in the community. Members who leave could bring back dangerous behaviors, like the consumption of alcohol or drugs, as well as dangerous values, like consumerism or capitalism. They lose la semilla, the seed and origin, of their identity.
In one of our final questions, we asked what they would like us to do, how we could support their work in the Caracol. They told us that we should be a portavoz (spokesperson) for Zapatismo. So I hope in some little way we are doing just that right now by sharing this blog with, well, whoever reads this!
After our meeting with the Junta, we had lunch and then toured the community. We saw the weaving cooperatives, the school, and the free hospital. All the buildings were covered with murals. Some had paintings of Che Guevara or Emilio Zapata, some had paintings of Zapatistas, and others just had designs or Mayan symbols. They were all brightly colored and truly beautiful.
At the end of our visit, Julio Cesar provided us with yet another beautiful quote, which I believe has stayed in the back of all our minds. So, I think it’s best to end with that very quote:

Quisieron enterrarnos, pero se les olvido que somos semillas
They wanted to bury us, but they forgot that we are seeds.

Acteal (Jess Himelfarb)

Yesterday we visited Acteal, a significant site to those fighting for indigenous rights. Tensions between the Mexican government and groups such as the Zapatistas and Las Abejas (bees) had been growing for several years. The Zapatistas and Las Abejas recognized their common struggle for peace, justice, and dignity for indigenous communities, although Las Abejas are a faith-based organization that reject the use of arms. On December 22, 1997, paramilitary forces (trained in the United States) surrounded a small church in Acteal where many people, mostly women and children, were praying. They opened fire, killing 45 people in a massacre that lasted several hours. The two truckloads of policemen nearby did nothing to stop the attack. In the van ride to Acteal, I attempted to prepare myself mentally for what I assumed would be a very sad and difficult visit. I was surprised to see, upon our arrival, a long line of men, women, and children smiling and marching proudly towards the church. We came on a particularly special day--El Dia de Las Mujeres--and there was a special march and mass in honor of the women. Most of us got out of the van to march. People were carrying flowers and banners saying "Vive Las Abejas." It was a much more festive scene than I was expecting. We went down several steps to an outdoor platform where the mass was just beginning. Many people were dressed in their traditional garb--the men in white gowns and hats with colorful ribbons and the women in woven skirts and ribbons in their braided hair. The mass took several hours and was conducted in Tsotsil and Spanish. It was a beautiful ceremony with singing and music and speeches.

Acteal 2009

After lunch we met with the Mesa Directiva of Las Abejas to talk with them about the organization. They told us their history, the make up of the organization, their view of immigration, and their goals of today. Then they led us to the church where the massacre occurred and to the memorial of those who died. Being in these places made me feel sad until the man who was explaining the significance of the memorial said that he is not sad because he knows that those who died are together in the house of God. I think that Las Abejas view the massacre as a terrible event but that instead of dwelling on the hurt of those deaths, they see the massacre as a seed--a moment of growth and strength. This makes me think of something our wonderful driver, Julio Cesar, said: "Quisieron enterarnos, pero se los olvido que somos semillas" (They tried to bury us but forgot that we are seeds). In response to the attacks, Las Abejas declare: "It is time to harvest, time to construct!"

The students in Guatemala

San Caralampio (Mary Jeanne Harwood)

Students from 2009 in San Caralampio

San Caralampio is a small farming town in Mexican state of Chiapas, which shares a border with Guatemala. There, we were welcomed so warmly to the houses of three farming families. I was overwhelmed with their graciousness and hospitality, cooking us wonderful meals (and yummy elotes), giving us the tour of their farm lands, taking us swimming, and sharing all their thoughts and frustrations and joys. I was struck by the parents' love of their tradition, and as Sam called it, a quite confidence in their family and land. They all seem so aware of how economic politics has played out, and the implications for their land, people, and migration, which was both devastating and inspiring. They have been heavily impacted by NAFTA, and other economic regulation from the US and Mexico. The now have to sell their products mostly in Guatemala, still operate on government owned land, and are steadily in the Monsanto seed cycle. All these have robbed them of their independence and control of their own products and land. Even though we always struggle with the feeling of immediate helplessness and guilt, here in San Caralampio, I felt that listening to their stories, giving them to space to share their thoughts, was so important. This passage Berit shared with us, from Rilke's plea in "Letters to a young poet" resonated with me, "have patience with everything unresolved in your heart... don't search for the answers, which could not be given to you now, because you would not love them, and the point is to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer."

Before we left, we extended warm thanks and hugs from both sides. We all left feeling a part of this community. From all our travels, I felt the strongest sense of solidarity with this community, a sense of responsibility, and a desire to return again. As Riley pointed out in one of our group discussions, over and over we heard one of the fathers say "caminando juntos", we walk together.

Tapachula, Chiapas (Berit Engstrom)

Casa Belen Casa Belen is a migrant shelter just outside of Tapachula, a city just north of the Guatemala\Mexico border. It is part of a larger network of shelters throughout Mexico, Latin America, and the world. Padre Flor, the resident priest , has been working there for 12 years. We had the chance to meet with him a number of times, as well as eat and talk with many of the migratns who were staying there.

When asked what we could do on a human level in the United States to work towards justice for migrants, Padre Flor paused, closed his eyes for a moment and then responded. ´´ A smile, the extension of a hand can be given by everyone. Listening to someone´s story --immediately communicates to them that you are interested---bridging gaps and breaking walls.´´

This happened here at the shelter yesterday in a most unusual circumstance. One of the migrants approached Mary, and pointing towards me, asked what my name was. She responded ´´Ana,´´ which is what I have been going by during our travels. Hearing that, he turned to me, and asked if I had been to NIcaragua. I responded that yes, I had been to NIcaragua many years ago. Then he looked at me, and asked if I remembered him, Denis, from El Tule. El Tule was the small community( of a couple hundred people) in the highlands of NIcaragua where I had lived and volunteered for 6 weeks building stoves with Amigos de Las Americas 5 summers ago. The hours that followed left me with a mixture of disbelief and awe. Questions filled my mind, and I wondered how the path of one human life can be so drastically different so unbalanced, compared to another. He shared his story of trying to cross into the United States, of losing his wife to another man while working in Costa Rica , and of the uncertainty his future held. I thought of my own life during this past five years, and of all the varied and wonderful experiences I have had , the new people I have meet, and the new ideas I have been lucky enough to be exposed to.

Despite the hugely different life experiences that Denis and I have had, I tried to keep Padre Flor´s words in mind. Perhaps what I could give---a smile, the extension of a hand, and an open heart and mind were enough. At the very least, they were a beginning , a beginning of an exchange and understanding that will hoefully grow and become an exchange and understanding on a much larger level.

Buen Pastor

A shelter for migrants who have been injured and lost limbs from traveling on the train. Also, a place others who need medical attention can come without having to pay.

After getting a formal tour of the place, and hearing the opinions held by the two men who worked there full time, we had the chance to talk with some of the men who were staying at the shelter.

One of the elderly men who was there recovering from surgery, and not because of an accident on the train. When I introduced myself, he slipped in his false teeth and began to sing. After that we had began and exchange of songs. He would sing, and then some of us would chose a song, and sing something back for him. It was that way for a number songs---a reminder of the simple joys that can sustain our minds, when our bodies fail us.

Santa Anita

Santa Anita was one of the most interesting and welcoming communities we have visited, in my opinion. The community is largely made up of ex-guerrillas of the URNG who decided, after the war, to create an autonomous community. Santa Anita survives economically by selling organic coffee and bananas on land that they work themselves. The community bought the land, although they are still trying to pay off the loan, and has built schools and a health center. All of the buildings are painted with colorful murals that they use to teach the youth the history of Guatemala, the URNG, and the importance of the land.

We walked through the coffee and banana plantation to a lovely waterfall and enjoyed relaxing and cooling off. It was so nice to see the beautiful environment and to recognize how important the land is to this community.

In the evening we had the opportunity to speak with a community member named Marconi. Marconi is an ex-guerrilla who fought in the mountains for four years. He spent another eleven years helping to organize during the 36 year war. I asked him about his experience in the mountains, to which he replied that it was very, very difficult. He said it rained constantly and they were always soaked, tired, and hungry. The most difficult part, to him, was to see a compañero fall at his side. But, he said they knew it was war and they were mentally prepared because they were fighting for something they believe so strongly in.

Throughout our talk with Marconi, what moved me most was Marconi´s demeanor. For him to have fought so hard and suffered so much and still be sitting here and speaking to us with such a a gentle and kind spirit is just amazing. He still holds hope that one day he will own his land and be free of the debt and that his children will not have to struggle like he did.

From Xela, With Love (Sam Behrens)

Foreword: The students are now in Guatemala beginning their month-long travel seminar. This is the first of many blog entries that will inform us of their experiences abroad!

In an attempt to be energetic and take advantage of a crisp Xela
morning, last night I set the alarm on my phone for 7:30am. However, when the time came, and the alarm sounded, I realized just how ambitious I had been the night before. To quote one of my favorite songs, I slid out of my bed like a baby out of a nurses hands onto hard floor of day at around 8:30. I was still recovering from our long but beautiful van ride from Guate the night before. After a pleasantly warm shower, I ate breakfast and headed over to the DESGUA/Café
Conciencia office for our two morning meetings. The meetings went quite well, and we all did our best to absorb the vast amounts of knowledge that were being thrown down. I´m not going to go into what we talked about in the meetings, I feel like any attempt to relay that information to you would result in a watered down version that would do it no justice. Instead I´m going to tell you about what I did with my afternoon. Although the other BSPers went on a hike to the Voha (volcanic steam rooms), I went to visit some friends. Four years ago I spent a month in Xela at a language school, and I lived with a wonderful family. So to day I took a taxi from the Parque Central to their house, and dropped in for a visit. Although the abuelos were not in Xela today, I still got to catch up with the boys (Fernando and Ricardo), and their parents. Fernando met me at the door, wide eyed and grinning from ear to ear. I asked him if he remembered me, and he replied ¨Claro, y el pato Lucas?¨ referring to my brother Luke, who also lived there with me. I spent the better part of 2hrs at the house, catching up, drinking watermelon juice, and helping with math homework. At the end of our chat we took some fotos
hugged and I left. I was struck by the great hospitality that I received there. I was greeted with a smile, watermelon juice, and quite frankly love. They took in a person from a far away land, who was out of his element, and made him feel as though he was home.
So I write you today, from xela, with love.

Final Words from the Sonoran Desert (Harmony Pringle)

Before I came to Tucson, I imagined the desert as desolate, deserted, true to its name. But one look at the Sonoran desert changed that picture, filling it in with bits of green and splashes of red over the monochrome, tan sands.

The Center for Sonoran Desert Studies bounds this desert at 100,000 square miles, stretching from Sonora to Baja California, and from California to Arizona. It even reaches some of the islands in the Gulf of California, and is home to more than 2,000 species of plants.

We were first introduced to the desert the night we arrived in Tucson. After an awkward half day of smiling introductions and extended silences, we all piled into the van (for the first time) and drove to A mountain to watch the sunset. From our rocky perch, the valley poured down below us in a velvety skirt. Everywhere were buttons of green – giant, knobbed saguaros; skinny ocotillos and palo verde trees. The last rays of our first Tucson sun lit up a new vision of the desert.

It was the first sight, but it wouldn’t be the last. We saw another side to the desert on the bumpy ride up the dirt (mud) road from Altar to Sasabé. And the desert trees hung with backpacks and nylon jackets near a highway rest stop on the road to Tucson, stark reminders of the people for whom the desert is sea that must be forded.

On our last day in Tucson before we fly down to Guatemala City, Rachel and I hike out to Bear Canyon. Its rapid waters flow down from the Catalinas, Tucson’s northern mountains, and are red and yellow with minerals. We sit on the rocky banks, bounded by scraggly trees and cactus, and watch the water. I can’t believe that this, too, is part of the desert.

More than that, I can’t believe the “Keep Out” sign that is attached to a crooked tree by the water. Rachel is equally appalled – how could someone own this? The Sonoran desert is something shared. Arizona shares it with California, Mexico shares it with the U.S. So many people since we’ve come here have shared it with us.

But in many ways, the Sonoran desert has become more of a barrier than a tie between peoples. Through Operation Gatekeeper, the U.S. government pushed people into it, to push them out. Merriam-Webster cites the origin of the noun “desert” as the opposite of the Latin verb serere, to join together. De-serere – desert – means to abandon, to divide.

After five weeks of travel, we’ll come back to a new desert with new minds. With all this rain we’ve been having, there’s hope for blooming ocotillos, and maybe some blossoming new definitions to go with them.

Altar (Leif Johnson)

Foreword: Last weekend, the students visited Altar, Sonora in Mexico. This trip is significant as Altar is a very important staging point on the migrant trail. Migrants from throughout Mexico and Central America come to Altar to connect with a coyote, purchase supplies and prepare for their journey north. Among other things, this excursion included a night at a migrant shelter, one of many places where students had the chance to talk with migrants. The following entry is about Leif's interactions

There are stories of people who have their green cards and are applying for citizenship, but are "accidentally" deported. Even though they're in the final stages of the citizenship process, their application is voided, because to leave the US is to abandon your attempt at citizenship - even when you are driven over the border in a prison bus, illegally.

I've heard some of these stories first-hand. In the past two days, when I was in Nogales and Altar, Mexico, I have talked with a man who was a legal permanent resident, having lived in Los Angeles for 25 years - since he was two - who was deported after being convicted of a crime, serving jail time, and being stripped of his legal status. He seemed excited to meet someone else who spoke English. I talked to an older man, with impeccable gray hair, who told me that he had no other option but to cross the border. His family in Mexico had all passed on, he said, and his life was in Phoenix now, where he had lived for many years, until he was stopped in the street by police, asked to show his papers, and deported when he couldn't comply. He said he never took risks, never drove, never went to other states, all to avoid being detected. It turned out that the fatal risk for him was living in Maricopa County. This is also the story of Jaime who is seriously contemplating the permanent dissolution of his family - cut in half by the US-Mexico border and over a hundred miles of desert that he isn't sure he'll be able to cross.

I've also learned a new term: Economic refugee. The concept that someone can be fleeing the impossible economic situation of their country, rather than revolution or an oppressive dictator, is a powerful one for me. We met a brother and sister in Altar who had been traveling for a month just to get that far. They had paid almost nothing for their passage, hopping trains across the border and through Mexico, where they sometimes had to jump off of speeding trains to avoid immigration officers. They related the stories that I have heard from several groups of Guatemalans, of having seen people killed trying to get onto or off of trains. They said that they stayed in church shelters when they could, and slept in the streets when they couldn't. Now that they got to Altar, they are excited to see that there is only a hundred miles of desert separating them from a job that pays more than two dollars a day, and the money that they need to pay for medical operations for their children in Guatemala City. One child is a US citizen. For these people, as it is for the vast majority, migration is not a choice. Moving to the United States is not a decision taken because of a desire for US culture or the services offered in the US. Migration is a last resort, the ultimate sacrifice of separation for the sake of one's family. The best-case scenario, they say, is that they stay in the US for three years, until they amass the money they need for the operations.

I have heard from people that we need to close the border so that people will come through legally, "like they should." If they could, they would. Nobody in their right mind will risk a hundred-mile death march, without a guide, simply to avoid "doing it the right way." But the people that I have met are doing just that, and they are the strongest and most sane people I have ever met. They simply have no other choice. I'm sorry to end this on that note - it seems really negative. However, I'd like to challenge people to think of that as a positive. Here in the US, my family and friends and I are mostly white citizens who are insulated from these things, and we don't have to think about them very much. We don't often have the chance to make such supreme sacrifices for our families, and I know that I don't know what I would do if I was in that situation. For that reason, I don't feel sorry for the people who are coming. I will fight for a world in which they don't have to make that choice, and I will work to make sure that when they do they will stand as good a chance as possible to make it, but it will be because I am in awe of their strength, not because of their need for charity.

Why Tucson? Stories from the Border (Leif Johnson)

Tucson probably doesn't seem like the most interesting place for someone to "study abroad," especially anyone who has lived here (or, for that matter, anywhere in the southwest.) After all, it's the US. It has Safeways, Albertsons, and Wal-Mart. Signs are in English. There are ticky-tacky housing developments, although they are often in the style of southwestern architecture, rather than the more traditionally "european" stylings that yankee northerners like myself are used to. I had some conversations with my parents before coming that were decidedly ambiguous about where I was going. After all, if I have a semester to travel wherever I want, why wouldn't I go somewhere really different? Bolivia? China?

The thing that I'm really starting to appreciate, however, is the extent to which the Tucson we are living in is not like the Tucson that is advertised in the airport, or the Tucson some of you might have experience with. The Tucson I'm in is a lot of different things - it's the destination point for thousands of migrants walking across the desert, a racially divided city with a significant Border Patrol presence, and the site of some of the most serious resistance to bad border policy in the US. These different versions of Tucson are revealed because, as part of this program, we have been dropped into the thick of things, so to speak. My central point here is not a comfortable house filled with people who are the same color as me. It's a comfortable house filled with people who, because of their color and background, are living a different kind of life than me. My universe in Tucson includes the US-Mexico border, something that I think a lot of people here don't think about that much. Finally, I've been dropped into work at No More Deaths/No Más Muertes, one of the main organizations working on humanitarian aid and human rights at the border.

With No More Deaths, for example, I have been exposed to a concentration of caring people at meetings, and have gone out with them to several of the most heavily travelled migrant trails in the desert on water runs, dropping gallon jugs of water in the desert. For people who haven't been here, this might seem somewhat incongruous. Here, though, it's perfectly serious and sensible. Walking from Sasabe, on the border, to Tucson, the closest real US city, people have to walk more than 4 days through the desert. It is more or less physically impossible to carry enough water for this journey. Lots of people die on the way - there have been more than 400 deaths along the border per year, which only counts the bodies that are discovered. The desert is pretty vast, and nobody is at all willing to calculate how many deaths there might have been in total.

When I go home to my family, Marta (my mom here) usually asks me what I've been learning, with the tacit understanding that its been heavy stuff. She has her own stories, and while I'm not going to relay them here out of respect for her, they are also heavy. There is one anecdote that I want to share, though. It comes from Jorge, my host father, who works at a door factory that is closing at the end of this month. He believes that our current economic crisis is caused, at least in part, by the mass deportations of undocumented immigrants of the past few years. As Marta says, it's like a snowball effect - as you chip away at the bottom of the workforce, the rest of the system comes crashing down on it. Both of my parents have a distinct sense of the racism inherent in border enforcement policy, which extends way beyond the border itself. These are stories like the time that Jorge's workmate severed his finger on a saw, and when they were driving him to the hospital right next to our house, they saw two border patrol "dog-catcher" vans in the entrance, and had to drive all the way to Phoenix to get to a hospital that wouldn't offer a swift deportation along with medical care. Or the stories of how Joe Arpaio, the Maricopa County Sheriff in Phoenix, has made it the duty of local police officers to check for papers, in an all-out campaign that targets more or less all Hispanics. For example, officers will wait two blocks from elementary schools, wait for parents to drop their kids off at school, and then ask the parents for papers. There have been more than one account of kids waiting at school into the night when their parents didn't come to pick them up. Where were they? On a bus to the Mexico side of the border. Then there are the stories of people who don't have papers but marry US citizens. Upon consulting a lawyer, the best advice they are offered is to "wait for an immigration reform bill, because if you try to regularize your status now, you'll spend four to five years in Mexico, separated from your husband."

All of these are things that my family has witnessed first hand, or heard about through the network of family communications. Marta says that people are so afraid of Joe Arpaio that they'll listen for him on the radio, hear that he's at such and such grocery store, and call all their friends, telling them to stay away. She says that even though she is a citizen, she's very afraid. And why wouldn't she be? After all, she tells me stories about the Hispanic Republican state senator jailed for a day when a cop asked him for his papers and he couldn't produce them, or the mayor of Pomona, California, who was deported to Mexico before he managed to get his situation figured out. If that can happen to politicians, the people most likely to know their legal rights and eloquently defend them, imagine what could happen to people who don't have the same strings to pull on.

Operation Streamline (Rachel Neuschatz)

OPERATION STREAMLINE (Rachel Neuschatz)

Last Tuesday we went to the Federal Courthouse in Tucson to see Operation Streamline: special proceedings that bring federal criminal charges against anyone who has crossed into the U.S. without legal permission. A holdover from the Bush Administration's supposed "zero tolerance" border enforcement , Operation Streamline is hoping to get 70 people in court each week day (there were 62 the day we went), out of the 300-400 that cross through the Tucson Sector at this time of year (that number grows to 1000 in the summer; and this is keeping in mind that migration has slacked off significantly in the last few years). The prosecutor (we spoke to him after the proceedings) told us that their goal is 100 arrests and 100 people in court every day, but that that would never happen--the system was past capacity as is, with juvenile detention centers letting more and more people on parole to free up cells for the migrants serving their Streamline sentences, and public defenders meeting with clients in locked courtrooms because there are more defendants than holding cells.

There were, in fact, so many defendants that they had to use the jury box to seat them all. When we came in (the proceedings are public; we were told that there are often immigrant-rights activists there, but today there was only us) they were seated already. The two US marshals watching over them were aided by three Border Patrol agents, another sign of the system being stretched thin: we were told (again by the prosecutor) that more and more marshals were being kept from their normal duties of following up on domestic abuse and outstanding warrants in order to serve in Streamline proceedings, and even that wasn't enough; the three green-uniformed Border Patrol were there also watching over the defendants (if anyone can explain to us how this is legal, please do).

As simultaneous translation headsets were passed out (everyone but two spoke Spanish), we heard and then saw that the migrants wore handcuffs, shackled to a chain around their waists, requiring that their headsets be put on by the marshals/Border Patrol. As groups of 5 were called up to the microphones in front of the judge, we became aware that the migrants were also shackled at the ankles. This is apparently mandatory for all defendants in a criminal trial, due to the often dangerous nature of the crimes, and, in the case, the fact that the migrants outnumbered their keepers 12 to 1. The only eligibility requirement for Streamline is having entered the US unlawfully (as hundreds if not thousands do each day); no previous record of any kind--crime, having crossed before--is necessary to be arrested and tried as a criminal.

The proceedings took a long time--3 hours, with about 10 minutes being spent on each group of 5. That 10 minutes was used to inform the migrants of the rights they were entitled to by being on US soil, but had waived either by signing a plea agreement prior to this sentencing and/or pleading guilty to the charges brought against them. The same 10 minutes recurred over, and over, and over; everyone answered correctly, since to answer otherwise is to go to regular court, which means more serious charges are brought and you spend more time in jail while awaiting trial. We also spoke to a public defender after the proceedings, and were told that in the half-hour or so they get with each defendant, they counsel them to plead guilty as the lesser of two evils.

The seriousness of that extra time in jail was made especially clear in the 2 instances (out of 62) when a migrant answered Yes to the question Do you have anything else you'd like to tell the court? Then, the repercussions of this silly government formality in real peoples' real lives was made explicitly apparent.

A woman (one of four) asked for her sentence be reduced from 65 days in jail--she's a single mother with a child who is about to be 3 years old has health problems. The child was getting care through Medicaid in Florida, where they lived; she went back to Mexico because her brother died. She asks if her sentence could be reduced because her child is sick, and she's a single mother. The judge says that there is nothing he can do: she signed the plea agreement for 65 days, if it is broken, the government is under no obligation not to charge her with a felony, instead of only the misdemeanor she and everyone else there is getting. She says ok and is escorted out by the marshal. One man's lawyer took this opportunity to also ask for a more lenient sentence, 10 days in jail instead of 60: he said his client had been in the US for 12 years, with kids and a wife here, with no record of crime or deportations. He added also that his client and his wife both work in the fields, making $350 per week. When asked if he had anything to say, the migrant said that if he's allowed, he will go to Mexico and not try to come back anymore. Something about his situation was different, and the judge approved the 10 day sentence.

There's little doubt that almost every migrant in the room had a similar story, illustrating the absurdity of assigning a criminal charge. It also reveals the inaccuracy of conceptualizing the trip north as a choice, and migrants as job seekers rather than economic refugees; Operation Streamline demonstrates the results of this seemingly subtle misconception.

THE FIRST WEEK: "Que vas a hacer para ayudarnos?" (Jessica Himelfarb)

Orientation is almost over. I can sum up the last few days as being completely exhausting, incredibly mind boggling, thoroughly enlightening, and just plain fantastic. I feel like I have experienced every emotion possible in such a short time—from feeling overwhelmed, emotionally drained, and really, really sad to the point of crying to feeling genuinely happy, exhilarated, and laughing to tears. It seems like I’ve learned more in the last few days than I have during entire semesters at school. What I’ve learned has been so complex and so unexpected that my mind is constantly reeling, trying to make sense of it all.

I have so much to say about everything I’ve done but for now I’ll just list some of the things we’ve done. We climbed a rocky hill to overlook the desert and watch the sunset, trekked around the Arizona-Sonora Desert Museum, crossed the border into Nogales, met with artists who put their art up on the wall on the Nogales side, visited El Grupo Beta to talk with migrants who were just deported, talked with women in Colonia Rosario who meet migrants as they get off the deportation buses to provide coffee and burritos, spoke with youth at DIF (Centro para menores repatriados) who were caught either in crossing or in the U.S. and are being sent back to Mexico, walked across the border from Nogales, Sonora to Nogales, U.S.A., and experienced being pulled over by the Border Patrol on the way back to Tucson and seeing the blatant racial profiling of the officers.

I must also add that I am thoroughly enjoying the tamales, burritos, and salsa that are an essential part of my every day. Oh, and it’s nice to be speaking Spanish again, although it will take a while to pick up the border lingo and to feel confident with my Spanish-speaking abilities.

The most valuable but overwhelming experiences for me so far have been speaking with deported migrants. At Grupo Beta we met 20-30 migrants who had just been deported and were waiting to receive or make telephone calls and to either travel back to their homes in Mexico or attempt to cruzar la frontera again to reach their homes in the U.S. I spoke with one young man who had crossed three times and had lived in the U.S. for a total of ten years. He told me he would not try to cross again because walking through the desert was too difficult and scary—the last time he had walked for three days and three nights. Another man had crossed at least six times without a problem and had been living in the U.S. for twelve years. He would not try again either because he claimed that there are just as few jobs on the U.S. side as there are in Mexico. There were also two fourteen-year old kids who were there. They had not tried crossing yet and were waiting for the rain to stop before attempting. They said they would not hire a coyote and didn’t seem to know much at all about the difficulty of trekking through the desert. Almost all of the youth migrants we spoke to at DIF stated that they crossed the border to look for work to help support their families back in Mexico. They said they had spent two days to a week walking through the desert. At least one had been trying to smuggle drugs.

What has been most surprising is the migrants’ openness, especially the adults. They seem so willing to talk to us and to tell us about their experiences with border crossing. I was expecting more resistance. One of the young boys at DIF challenged us by asking how we plan to help the situation. This is something we are all thinking about but, at least for me, is difficult to answer. For now, I am on the border to learn. I don’t think it is very possible to change anything until I understand the complexities of immigration. Meeting with migrants is one way of acquiring this knowledge. But it would seem wrong to me to spend a semester here, listening to these people’s stories, if I were not planning to do something proactive. Few people have the opportunity to witness first hand what immigration is like. I must find a way to make this opportunity meaningful. I have no idea how I will do this but as my interests develop and my knowledge increases I will be more equipped to find a way. For now, I will tell as many people as I can about my experiences on the border so that more of us will be aware of the injustices in our country and the human rights violations that our government supports.