Dougla-Prieta Trabaja (Dougla-Prieta Works) Women's Cooperative

~Written by Tonya

As we rode through the streets of Agua Prieta, I was trying to take pictures through the van windows. I wanted to capture the strange blend of poverty and vibrant art that I was seeing: broken down fences adorned with animals that someone had fashioned from castoff metal, dilapidated houses decorated with brightly colored paint, dusty and garbage-strewn yards with a garden or two struggling to grow. When we arrived at the Agua-Prieta, this strange blending of poverty and beauty only intensified. We drove down a deeply rutted dirt road, parked, and entered through an opening in a rusty fence.

As we approached an adobe block building, we were greeted by several smiling women of varying ages. Only one, Miriam, spoke English; she was our guide and translator. She introduced the other women, beckoning each of them from the kitchen and asking them to speak to us. Each one spoke in Spanish, telling what their duties were and what the cooperative meant to them. For one, it meant fresh vegetables and eggs for her family. For another, it meant a chance to help her whole community. For yet another, it meant that she could feed her Agua Prieta family as well as taking food, clothing, and shoes to her home village. That day, six women cooked for us and served us, happy to offer hospitality and proud to show us the good work they're doing. At least 20 other women are involved with Dougla-Prieta Works, helping to feed their families, learn new skills, and spread the news to others.

After a delicious lunch made from vegetables and greens grown in the co-op's garden, we got to look around the sustainable gardens, chicken coops, water tanks, green house, and rabbit hutch. Our guide, who turned out to be the wife of Mark from Frontera de Cristo, explained to us how she has been learning about sustainable gardens and sharing her knowledge with the other women. One thing that we were truly impressed with-and the women were quite proud of-was the building where we had eaten. They had built it themselves; they'd even made the bricks using local soil and a traditional method of drying.

Even the chicken coop is adorned with creativity! And the gardens have a beautiful symmetry! After we had walked around the gardens, we were offered the chance to buy some of the needlecraft items that the women had created. There were delicately crocheted scarves, vibrant bags and aprons, and their embroidered tortilla cloths(traditionally sewn by women for their men to carry tortillas) were works of art. We all bought as many of their beautiful pieces as we could afford and carry, almost wiping out their inventory. When we were gathering up to leave, we saw some children in school uniforms arriving. We were told that Dougla-Prieta Works is also home to English language classes, taught by volunteers from Frontera de Cristo.

At this point, I began to see the inter-woven connections within these two communities, Douglas, AZ and Agua Prieta, Sonora. Several groups work together to bring change to this part of the borderlands: Borderlinks delegations buy coffee from Cafe Justo which donates coffee bean shells to be used for compost and mulch at the sustainable garden; women from Agua-Prieta sell their crafts to people on Borderlinks delegations; the Presbyterian church supports Frontera de Cristo which, in turn, helps Cafe Justo and Dougla-Prieta Works, Joca from Frontera de Cristo works with the migrant shelter and community center in Agua Prieta; Cafe Justo is opening an eat-in cafe to help the youth; volunteers from Frontera de Cristo teach English classes to the children of Agua Prieta, using the building that was built by the women of Dougla-Prieta Works...and the connections go on and on. And, none of the groups are practicing solely charity...they are living examples of solidarity as they work together with- and speak out on behalf of -their brothers and sisters whose voices are too faint to be heard. THIS is what hope looks like when it is embodied by people of faith!

Moving Beyond Charity to Solidarity: A Faithful Response to Injustice

~ written by Tonya

We gathered early Monday morning in the back of the Borderlinks building for a workshop called "Solidarity vs. Charity."  It was our third day of learning together and of listening to the stories of this place and these people. I didn't know what to expect but I was eager to hear what the young leaders, Sabina and Grace, had to share with us.  As I looked around at my group, I saw evidence that we were all ready to learn:  notebooks open and pens poised, laptops fired up and ready, coffee cups on standby, faces lit by the soft morning sunlight.  Imagine a group of over-sized fourth-graders on the first day of school...that was us!

What we had experienced so far had kept us on an emotional roller coaster, our minds digesting human stories and daunting statistics.  From meeting Rosa and her family in sanctuary to hearing undocumented students describe their journey, from John Fife's life of faithful activism to Shura's life of selfless charity, we were ready to learn what we could do to help.  Sabina opened the workshop by saying: "I know you all want to 'fix' this...it's a normal North American response.  Let's spend some time looking at how power operates, and why leaping in and 'fixing' won't work."  Just like that, she burst our expectation bubbles and simultaneously challenged us to go deeper. What followed was a discussion that, while it didn't give us The Answer, helped us name and understand how hope, power, charity, and solidarity act and interact.

Sabina gave us a lovely Spanish expression to use in lieu of "brainstorming:"  lluvia de ideas or a rainfall of ideas.  We let the rainfall of ideas shower down as we tried to list acts and characteristics of charity, then acts and characteristics of solidarity. After a moment, the ideas came so fast that both leaders had to hurry to record them.  Under charity, words like *soup kitchens* building houses*giving money* were followed by phrases like* othering/"those people"* one direction* sharing resources* assuages guilt*Biblical commandment* Christian obligation.

Under solidarity, we listed *peaceful protest* shared humanity* relational* both directions* taking risks* following the lead of those who have been most affected* education* holding our community and our leaders accountable. As a group, we could see the undeniable value of charity in solving problems.  As the discussion went on, we began to see how solidarity goes beyond this-how solidarity involves finding the root causes of those problems and taking risks to address them.

 For example, we saw Shura and the Green Valley Samaritans as practicing charity: they work to solve the problem of people dying in the desert by providing water and supplies, but they don't act to change the root causes of people dying in the desert.  John Fife and the Sanctuary Movement, on the other hand, take risks by confronting our political leaders and holding them accountable for unjust policies.

 It is easy to see charity as an integral part of Christian life.  Looking at our lluvia de ideas, I noticed that we seemed to equate Christianity with charity while placing solidarity in the realm of "politics." What I took away from this experience is that solidarity is also a faithful response, perhaps even more so than charity:  solidarity requires relationship, recognition of the worth of each human life, and sacrifice-all central to the Christian faith.  For me, solidarity means following Jesus beyond feeding the hungry- to eating with the outcasts, beyond caring for the sick- to advocating for their rights, beyond giving of my resources-to turning over the tables of greed in the temple.  It means practicing the radical welcome of the table open to all, even if that means taking risks when we invite our migrant brothers and sisters to that table.

Border Infrastructure Tour

~written by Tonya

"Border Infrastructure Tour"

This innocuous-sounding title was part of our agenda for Monday, February 2nd.  We were to meet with Mark  who leads a bi-national Presbyterian ministry in Douglas, AZ and Agua Prieta, Sonora.  When we arrived at the Frontera de Cristo house in Douglas, Mark was waiting.  After brief introductions, he climbed in the van with us, and began to explain the progression of the border's infrastructure; how it had grown from a simple marker post to a monstrous iron fence. Soon, we arrived at what looked like a huge concrete ditch with barriers on either side. We stopped briefly so Mark could identify himself and us to some Border Patrol officers who were sitting in a truck.  After being waved on, we drove a few hundred feet and got out of the van to stand alongside part of the deep concrete channel that stretched as far as we could see to the west.  Mark explained that these channels were built to divert water from the torrential rains that swept through the desert in the winter.

Before the wall, natural arroyos had served this purpose, carrying the rainwater but allowing it to soak into the ground and nourish the flora and fauna of the desert region.  Now, this artificial arroyo kept the rainwater from the land with its concrete walls.  There were portals at points along the channel to allow access for repairs in the dry seasons.  Of course, these access points had to be gated...another barrier against those who try to cross the border.  As we gathered by the dry concrete channel, much deeper looking when you stand right beside it, Mark told us how six people had lost their lives just below where we stood.  These travelers, these "others" we were trying to keep out, were swept along by a flash flood.  When they were pushed up to the gated outlet, it was locked and they were trapped...all six of these beloved children of God drowned.

Silently, we climbed back into the van and headed away from the triple barrier of fence, wall, and channel, driving eastward on the dusty road created by a constant to and fro of patrol trucks.  We stopped at a point that, to me, looked no different than the rest of this scarred earth.  Mark, however, knew exactly where he was taking us; he knew this landscape deeply and well.  It had become his home. He showed us a shrine, visible between the iron columns, that marked the place of another life lost to this wall.  Mark told us the story of a young man, a teenager, who had crossed the border carrying marijuana for one of the Mexican cartels.  When he realized that Border Patrol agents had seen him, he tried to flee by climbing back over the wall.  He was shot multiple times in the back as he tried to escape and fell dead, back onto U.S. soil.  Yes, he was carrying drugs...but does that crime warrant a death sentence?  And could we truthfully lay all the guilt on the heads of those Border Patrol agents...or had they lost respect for human lives as a result of enforcing our laws?

Mark spends his life telling these stories of lives lost unnecessarily,  remembering the names of those who have died as a result of our policies, and reminding us of our culpability as U.S. citizens. Above all, Mark is a Christian minister- I would even venture to call him a prophet- who brings a message from God that we are failing our migrant brothers and sisters.  On that day, Mark reminded us that each of the people who died bore the Imago Dei, that each were our brothers and sisters, beloved of our Creator God.  Then, he walked into the cold shadow cast by the fence and invited us to follow.  Mark challenged each of us to touch the hard, rusted metal of our wall, to claim our part in its existence, and to cry out to God for forgiveness. For me, there is no other choice than to answer the call that I felt in that moment, the call to tell these stories and to do whatever I can to help bring down that wall.

They are Not Forgotten: Presente!

A vigil.

The schedule said "Vigil with Mark Adams."

I don't know about you, but when I hear vigil, I think of everyone, standing solemnly in a circle or in rows, maybe with a candle lit, offering pleas to the heavens.

So imagine my confusion when we started in a McDonald's parking lot, of all places. Instead of a dimly lit church sanctuary, we walked across the street to a park bench. We gathered in a circle; there were probably about 20 of us altogether. I noticed that the bench was engraved with a memorial for those who had died in the desert, a fitting place to begin our walk.

Mark, the director of a bi-national ministry that works in Douglas, Arizona and Agua Prieta, Sonora, Mexico, then explained how the evening would work and opened us in prayer. 

We began walking along the sidewalk, in a line like schoolchildren. We passed a grocery cart filled with dozens of white wooden crosses, each about 16" tall. Each one had the name of a person across the front, with his or her birth date if known at the top, and at the bottom, his or her date of death. For some, the name portion said simply, "No Identificado": they were carrying no identification.

These crosses represent each person whose remains were found just in this one county Arizona. There are innumerable questions about each of these lives: Why were they crossing? What were they leaving? What were they hoping to find?

What we do know is that attempting to cross is risky. It isn't just risky because of Border Patrol and detention and deportation - though those are all worthy of fear - but because of survival. Nine out of ten women is raped in the journey - NINE out of TEN. And they attempt anyway. Coyotes lie, manipulate, and steal. And they do it anyway. Thousands have died of starvation or thirst, of hypothermia or heat stroke (depending on the time of year), of infections from injuries. And they do it anyway - because what they were leaving is so bad, or because the hope of a better future seems so promising, or because they need to be with family. Or because they need food for their kids. 

They try.

And, many times, their lives end in the desert. 

So Mark and this group has met every Tuesday since 2000 - for FIFTEEN years - and honors them. Honors their lives. Honors their risk. Honors their hope.

Honors their deaths.

I walked, keeping my place in line, with four crosses in my arms. I glanced at the names and practiced saying each in my head. 

The first name was loudly read.

In unison, we all shouted, "PRESENTE!" We call into our minds, into our very presence, the memory of the person we were honoring. 

The person who shared this name holds the cross up, pointing it toward the north as a reminder to those of us in the United States that people are dying in the desert. In our desert. 

We slowly walk by the cross held high, remembering. 

And so it goes. When I am finally to the front of the line, I read the name on the cross as loudly and respectfully as I could.

"PRESENTE!" we shout.

I hold the cross up, with dignity, while each person passes. I hear more names behind me. When the last person passes me, I place the cross on the ground, leaning it on the curb of the sidewalk and join my place in the line.

This continues for an hour. The pattern reminds me of the child's game leapfrog, with the cruel irony of the lives lost. I look down at the birth date on the cross in my arms as I walk. 1979: the year my husband was born. I scroll through the others and am taken aback when I see November 1982: the month I was born. Why were they crossing? What would I do if it were me, trying to raise kids in a city overrun with the mafia, or with so little work we had no food? What would I do if it were my kids on the other side of that border and the only way I could see them was to take the risk to cross?

My attention was drawn back to the physical world in front of me, as we needed to walk across the street to continue on the next block. Up ahead I see the massive gated complex that is the United States-Mexico border. The border checkpoint itself is not a new image for me; my husband is an Army officer, and every military installation has a similar, albeit smaller, gated structure.

But as we approach the border, one crack in the sidewalk at a time, I become much more aware of the statement we are making. We're literally walking the street that leads to Mexico. Cars slow as they approach the checkpoint, and I lock eyes with drivers as they process what we are doing. 

Another name is read. "PRESENTE!"

I continue to hold up my cross. By this point, I'm on my sixth cross. They are seemingly endless. Each representing a person, a person who both loved and was loved. 

The sun is now setting. The chill has set in, and there was an ominous feel as we approached the border.

I look at one driver. He was sitting in the line, waiting for his turn in the checkpoint. I see him say quietly with us, "presente."

Finally the crosses run out. Each person has been remembered. We gathered in a circle, very near the border, and Mark held the remaining three crosses. A man, a woman, and a 'no identificado."

He held up the first and read her name. 

"We remember her, she was a daughter. Maybe a mother. Maybe a sister. Maybe a wife. Created in the image of God." 

"PRESENTE!"

He placed the cross on the ground in the middle of the circle.

He read the second, this one a man. "We remember him. He was a son. Maybe a husband. Maybe a father. Maybe a brother. Created in the image of God." 

"PRESENTE!"

He placed it on the ground, about a foot away from the first.

"No identificado. We do not know this person's name, but God does. We do know he was a man, maybe he was a husband, maybe he was a father, maybe he was a brother. Created in the image of God."

"PRESENTE!"

He placed this cross between the two, slightly raised, so the completed image looked like the crosses on Calvary.

We shared in reflection and prayer as a group and headed back, picking up the crosses along the way. 

There is power in naming a person. These were not faceless corpses in the desert; each had a name and a family. Each had a reason for crossing - I can't state this strongly enough: No one does it for no reason. It's too dangerous. 

That night, seeing those dates, imagining the lives each person might have lived, I suddenly saw myself as one of them. It was for no good work of mine that I was born into the life I was. There is nothing that separates me from a 32-year-old mother risking her life to save her children's... except that decision is not demanded of me. 

I invite you to take a moment now, wherever you are, and pray for those who are crossing the desert, right now, in this very moment. May we see each other through the eyes of the Divine.

Presente!

Operation Streamline

~written by Tonya

The day we went to the Federal Building to observe Operation Streamline in action, I was shocked into silence at what I saw.  Around sixty men and women were seated together, all wearing prison jumpsuits and translation headsets.  Most looked weary, some nervous and anxious.  The judge sat on her raised podium and read off a detailed legal explanation about the plea bargain each of them was about to accept:  they would plead guilty to the lesser charge of entering the U.S. without passing through an authorized checkpoint in order to avoid going to court later and facing the greater charge of entering the U.S. after having been deported previously.  Pleading guilty to the lesser charge carried a penalty of thirty days to six months in the federal prison, followed by deportation.  Foregoing the plea bargain and going to trial for the greater charge, she explained, meant that they would face penalties of up to $10,000.00 in fines and seven or more years in federal prison, followed by deportation.  Having met with their attorneys for about twenty minutes, each had agreed to the plea bargain.  After having read  the legal explanation to the prisoners as a group, the judge began  to call groups of five people at a time up to a line of microphones.  This is when I noticed that each person was shackled, ankles together with a chain leading to hands together and a chain around each of their waists.  Most of them shuffled with upper bodies bent in shame and fatigue as they were directed as to where to stand.  The judge then asked several questions, pausing between each to allow each of the five to answer yes, no, or guilty.  I noticed that some looked to their lawyer for signals as to how to respond.  I saw a slight nod or head shake pass from lawyer to client, followed by the hesitant "si" or "no" that was expected.  Each of the group was then given his or her sentence, mostly several months in federal prison, and led toward an exit door in front of where we were sitting.  Attorneys had to remove their headsets for them because their hands were bound.

 As the "prisoners" were led out through the door near us, I tried to use my eyes and face to say "I'm sorry" to each and every one.  "Lo siento" I whispered over and over again, "lo siento."   Dear God, Please forgive us!  My heart broke a little more with each child of God who passed through that door, eyes full of fear, shame, defeat- but no defiance.  That's one word that should never be used to describe the people whose eyes I tried to meet with mine that day.  Yet I hear over and over, "what do they expect; they defy our laws."  One thing I know is that these people are not being defiant when they try to come here by any means they can.  They are merely trying to survive or reunite with family or feed their children.

If you can get past the inhumanity of this process; if your heart doesn't break at the thought of mothers who were trying to reach children being imprisoned for six months, then consider the mind-boggling ineffectiveness and cost of Operation Streamline.  Ask yourself, who benefits from it?  Could it be the private, for-profit prisons who are paid exorbitant amounts  to hold these people in cold, crowded cells?  Then ask yourself, why spend our tax money to imprison them with the same end result: deportation, followed (probably) by another attempt to cross the border? Economically, this is insane...unless, of course, you are the one profiting from all this misery as are the prisons contracted by our government.

As you've probably guessed by now, both my heart and my mind were offended by what I witnessed
that day.  I left the federal building in Tucson with a sense of brokenness...a broken system that profits only a very few;  people's lives broken; my heart broken; and worst of all, God's commandments broken.

El Santuario Migratorio

~ written by Tonya

As we made our way through the sights, sounds, and experiences that are integral to the border land between Arizona and Sonora, we stood many times on Holy Ground. One of those sacred spaces is the kiva where the people of Southside Presbyterian Church worship together. When we joined in worship with them on a mild and hazy Sunday morning, several people in our group commented on the sense of hope that was almost palpable in that space. It was created by songs sung together, prayers uttered together, communion shared together...each note and word asking our Creator for grace and love to saturate the struggle for justice that is happening in our border lands.

Just a few steps from the door of the kiva is another Holy Place, the Santuario Migratorio. Unlike the kiva, this ground is not made holy by people joining together in words and songs of hope. No, this ground is saturated with lament and anguish, poured out before God in the form of stones bearing the names of those who have died while crossing through the border lands. "Giovanna Volasco Rodriguez, 4/27/2014," cries out one stone; "Desconocida, 2/16/2014," cries out another. Desconocida means 'unknown or stranger' in Spanish, the final 'a' means that this un-named child of God was a woman...or a girl. Above these stones is a monument made from clay embossed with footprints large and small, deep men's work boot prints and delicate sneaker prints. At the center of the northward flow of footprints, almost hidden among the others, is the impression of a tiny pair of shod feet. Stop a moment and let that image penetrate your heart.

The shrine is draped with rosaries; two dried flowers, perhaps left by another 'stranger' who survived the journey, rest on top. Nestled among the stones is a small statue of Our Lady of Guadalupe along with a silver cross and a small picture of a young man. After slowly approaching this sacred monument and breathing in the anguish that hung heavy in the air around it, my first thought was to run away, to head off the tears that I felt building. I started to turn away but something pulled me back; I knew that I needed to stay.

As I knelt before this shrine that bears witness to the suffering and death that our policies have engendered and perpetuated, I began to weep. My heart was beginning to break, to open to the sadness, anger, and shame that would fill me as my own footsteps passed through this wounded land, as I dwelt a moment among these wounded people. It was only the first heartbreak, the first of many tears that I would cry. I have come to see that moment as a blessing because it allowed my heart to open to all that I would witness over the next few days.

"...and I will remove from your body the heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh." ( Ezekiel 36:26b, NRSV)

Being Human at the Border: Shura

It was a sunny day, a welcome change from the dreary rain southern Arizona had greeted us with. We drove into the retirement community and got out of the van to enter Shura's house. Shura's love of art is evident at first glance. It was a warm home, even with the tile floors.  

As we made our way to her dining room, she motioned us to sit down. Laid out on the table were various items: a purse, empty Gatorade bottles. Children's clothing, shoes wrapped in cloth as a protective. Strips of burlap sack strung together with 550 cord: a way to carry bales of marijuana over your shoulders. Books, journals, photographs. Empty medicine containers. 

Holy trash.

Shura co-founded Green Valley Samaritans, a humanitarian organization that travels the desert, strategically placing food, water, and first aid supplies. She also picks up Holy Trash, the things that those attempting to cross the border leave behind. As she showed us each item, she would get a faraway look in her eyes as she imagined the story of the person to whom each item belonged. She would imagine the life they led in their city of origin. She would imagine why they might have dropped or left the item. Her eyes would fill with hope as she imagined them living happily and peacefully today, though her experience warns her that is not always the case. 

We sat there, for well over an hour, going over trash piece by piece, hearing Shura's stories. Stories about her finding people in the desert and giving them aid. 

There was one particular story that stuck out to me. Shura was at a migrant shelter, cleaning the wounds of one young man. She noticed he seemed to have pain in his shoulders, so she asked him to remove his shirt. 

His shoulders were raw. The skin had long worn away, and the flesh underneath was so injured that there were indentations in his flesh.

Indentations that were about 4" wide. The same exact width of the burlap marijuana holders.

He explained to her that the cartel had gotten a hold of him. They told him that if he didn't continue to smuggle in marijuana, they would go kill his family. He was familiar with their violence and knew they meant it. So he smuggled. Again. And again. And again. In order to save his family, his flesh was literally eaten away.

Shura cleaned his wounds. Applied ointment. Gently placed bandages on them. "So next time," she told him, "it won't be quite as painful."

She told us about how, when she started to tell that story to friends at home, they were aghast. "Why didn't you turn him in? He was smuggling drugs!!!" 

But Shura knew that this man wasn't the problem. This man was surviving. 

And what she said next will stay with me forever: "You know, we never know how far an act of kindness will travel. Maybe my kindness to that man that day will remind him to be kind to those he encounters in the desert. There is always a chance that those who receive kindness will continue to pay it forward. But when we choose NOT to be kind, that possibility is obliterated."

I thank God for Shura and others like her, who see the humanity of those crossing the border.