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.
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