When I tell people about my project in Arizona, the first questions I'll probably be met with will have to do with SB 1070. "Oh, you were on the ground when all the protests were going on?" or "You're happy about that injunction, right?" or even "Wait, Duke put together a DukeEngage program for 1070 so quickly?"
That's where the interest will stem from. And that's completely understandable.
But as I look back on my two months on the Arizona-Sonora border, I'll know that that's not all there was to it. SB 1070 rallied America's attention, yes, polarized groups on the immigration and documentation issue. It got people talking. In a twisted way, I and many people are grateful for that at least. This is an issue that needs discussion, but it shouldn't stop at the scrutiny of one poorly-written bill. It should even extend beyond Tom Horne's ban of ethnic studies and the proposals to deny people, born in Arizona, U.S. citizenship. The issue is huge, complicated, and 1070 is already in effect in some ways, as Arizonans could tell you.
The 1070 fight hit home pretty hard at my own internship, which I was sad to leave behind. Working at the Southside Day Labor Center was a struggle, but a healthy one. Most days, I had no idea was success looked like, was hard put to see hope when day after day the men went without work and money for their children. But I hope we made an impact in some ways, with our English tutoring, our computer classes, the advertising, health workshop, and every other way we tried to fill in the cracks of the laborers' needs.
Sustainability, though, was our primary goal as we worked through the summer. We tried to engage the church congregation–which seemed disconnected from the day labor program—hoping members could carry the torch when we left. That, we thought, would be the true test of solidarity.
It was the fateful date, July 29, which showed us the fruits of our labors. We weren't there to witness it, but the church pastor and the Tucson Sentinel (http://www.tucsonsentinel.com/local/report/072910_anti1070allnighter) alike reported what we'd unknowingly hoped for. Instead of watching the activities on the news or waiting for much-needed work, the Southside laborers, along with 60 church members marched to downtown Tucson to protest 1070 last Thursday.
Now I look forward to how I, how we, can bring all the experiences back to Duke. As I consider it, think of revamping a campus group, bringing speakers, teaching a course, I keep the image of the protesting laborers in my mind--as well as the pastor's quote: "Todos somos jornaleros" (We are all laborers).
Showing posts with label Shaoli. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Shaoli. Show all posts
Sunday, August 1, 2010
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Hearing Their Narrative (Ignorance, Part II)
They call it "blind" ignorance sometimes.
For a while this summer, my ignorance blinded me, made me forgetful of the fact that immigration laws should not be about fear and hiding in the shadows, but about having the courage to ensure that those who harm others are brought to justice, no matter the consequences.
A few weeks ago, a man "with papers" attacked one without. The result was physical and psychological harm, not to mention fear. I tried to give what advice I could, consulting people with more knowledge than I, and came to the conclusion that testifying was out of the question. Better to stay hidden.
"He [the attacker] will be released, though," I was told urgently. My mind wasn't changed.
They say ignorance is blind, but I've got news for you: it can be deaf, too.
In a recent, fluffy speech on immigration and SB 1070, President Obama reasoned that, "Among other things, [1070] puts pressure on police officers to enforce rules that are "unenforceable" while making communities less safe -- in part, by making people more reluctant to report crimes.
If only he knew. If only he'd lend us an ear.
Ultimately, my and the lawyers' advice were not followed, and I'm glad of it. It was discovered that the police–though sometimes easily painted as the persecutors and those empowered by 1070–wanted justice to be done, too.
After all, what kind of society would we have if a few pieces of paper could keep a good, hardworking person in fear for himself and his family, and at the same time keep a violent one on the streets?
That's the kind of society that already lives and breathes in Arizona and many other parts of country. If only Obama could see that. I'm fortunate to have learned that in my time here.
In many ways, papers give you a voice in this country and you're totally disempowered without them. If you're mistreated, denied wages, denied water and basic human rights, very few bother to listen.
That's a shame for countless reasons, but one is that what nearly all the people I've worked with at the Day Labor Center--no matter their status--have to say is so crucial to the immigration debate, not to mention damn interesting. Their voices are the ones so often missing. The result of our own policies, by the way. In the way that the deaths of the less fortunate migrants are on our hands, and the abuses that continue to go unheeded fall to us to resolve, though resolve them we won't.
All because we don't want to hear, or just don't know what to listen for.
Before coming to Arizona, I never thought I could have felt so strongly about amnesty. But if there is no pathway to citizenship for those 11 million+ living in silence, their opinions and voices go on muted. The wrongs, real crimes that certainly trump an offense that is nothing more or less than trespassing, will continue.
And the narrative, though it's being spoken, whispered in every corner of our country, goes unheard.
For a while this summer, my ignorance blinded me, made me forgetful of the fact that immigration laws should not be about fear and hiding in the shadows, but about having the courage to ensure that those who harm others are brought to justice, no matter the consequences.
A few weeks ago, a man "with papers" attacked one without. The result was physical and psychological harm, not to mention fear. I tried to give what advice I could, consulting people with more knowledge than I, and came to the conclusion that testifying was out of the question. Better to stay hidden.
"He [the attacker] will be released, though," I was told urgently. My mind wasn't changed.
They say ignorance is blind, but I've got news for you: it can be deaf, too.
In a recent, fluffy speech on immigration and SB 1070, President Obama reasoned that, "Among other things, [1070] puts pressure on police officers to enforce rules that are "unenforceable" while making communities less safe -- in part, by making people more reluctant to report crimes.
If only he knew. If only he'd lend us an ear.
Ultimately, my and the lawyers' advice were not followed, and I'm glad of it. It was discovered that the police–though sometimes easily painted as the persecutors and those empowered by 1070–wanted justice to be done, too.
After all, what kind of society would we have if a few pieces of paper could keep a good, hardworking person in fear for himself and his family, and at the same time keep a violent one on the streets?
That's the kind of society that already lives and breathes in Arizona and many other parts of country. If only Obama could see that. I'm fortunate to have learned that in my time here.
In many ways, papers give you a voice in this country and you're totally disempowered without them. If you're mistreated, denied wages, denied water and basic human rights, very few bother to listen.
That's a shame for countless reasons, but one is that what nearly all the people I've worked with at the Day Labor Center--no matter their status--have to say is so crucial to the immigration debate, not to mention damn interesting. Their voices are the ones so often missing. The result of our own policies, by the way. In the way that the deaths of the less fortunate migrants are on our hands, and the abuses that continue to go unheeded fall to us to resolve, though resolve them we won't.
All because we don't want to hear, or just don't know what to listen for.
Before coming to Arizona, I never thought I could have felt so strongly about amnesty. But if there is no pathway to citizenship for those 11 million+ living in silence, their opinions and voices go on muted. The wrongs, real crimes that certainly trump an offense that is nothing more or less than trespassing, will continue.
And the narrative, though it's being spoken, whispered in every corner of our country, goes unheard.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Didn't You Know?
From outcries that the White House is undermining national security and "what about the drug mules" to accusations of racism and human rights abuse, the immigration debate has set the stage for so much finger pointing I'm scared to lose an eye.
But there's one wrong that's the most common and most dangerous of all, and that's ignorance.
The truth is, most people wouldn't know border politics and life if it slapped them in the face. In fact, most "border issues" (including Jan Brewer), are built upon this concept of not knowing. And that's a devastating evil, if only because it can be easily avoided.
So, without further ado, didja know...
...that since 1994—the year NAFTA was signed—the bodies of 5,600 people have been found along the border, with thousands on U.S. soil?
Did you know that in your country, people trying to keep other people from dying in the desert is considered a crime? Groups like the Samaritans and No More Deaths struggle through loopholes and lawsuits, because according to our laws, setting out water for a man collapsing of a heat stroke is "littering," and ensuring that an injured person gets medical attention is "aiding and abetting."
Did you know the Border Patrol (now with 1200 more shipped to this area!) and others are often responsible for slashing, shooting, driving over, emptying, and vandalizing water bottles set out to prevent those deaths?
That many a migrant has been detained by the Border Patrol and been abused, physically and/or verbally, denied food and often water, and their wounds never treated?
After all, a cactus spine in the eye isn't worth the tax payer's money.
Did you know that the company contracted to build the All-American Canal—a border canal and the site of at least 550 migrant deaths—refuses to string rope along the canal to save the lives of those doomed to drown should they fall in? That the walls were purposefully made dangerously steep, making it impossible to climb out even if the canal were bone dry?
Did you know the border area is the one and only site in the country where it's legal to try 35 people en masse for the same crime in the span of an hour or so?
I don't blame people for not knowing what's going on. I've lived on the border most of my life, and didn't know the half of it until this program. But I do blame you if you don't try to amend it and learn the facts—and come to your own conclusions.
But there's one wrong that's the most common and most dangerous of all, and that's ignorance.
The truth is, most people wouldn't know border politics and life if it slapped them in the face. In fact, most "border issues" (including Jan Brewer), are built upon this concept of not knowing. And that's a devastating evil, if only because it can be easily avoided.
So, without further ado, didja know...
...that since 1994—the year NAFTA was signed—the bodies of 5,600 people have been found along the border, with thousands on U.S. soil?
Did you know that in your country, people trying to keep other people from dying in the desert is considered a crime? Groups like the Samaritans and No More Deaths struggle through loopholes and lawsuits, because according to our laws, setting out water for a man collapsing of a heat stroke is "littering," and ensuring that an injured person gets medical attention is "aiding and abetting."
Did you know the Border Patrol (now with 1200 more shipped to this area!) and others are often responsible for slashing, shooting, driving over, emptying, and vandalizing water bottles set out to prevent those deaths?
That many a migrant has been detained by the Border Patrol and been abused, physically and/or verbally, denied food and often water, and their wounds never treated?
After all, a cactus spine in the eye isn't worth the tax payer's money.
Did you know that the company contracted to build the All-American Canal—a border canal and the site of at least 550 migrant deaths—refuses to string rope along the canal to save the lives of those doomed to drown should they fall in? That the walls were purposefully made dangerously steep, making it impossible to climb out even if the canal were bone dry?
Did you know the border area is the one and only site in the country where it's legal to try 35 people en masse for the same crime in the span of an hour or so?
I don't blame people for not knowing what's going on. I've lived on the border most of my life, and didn't know the half of it until this program. But I do blame you if you don't try to amend it and learn the facts—and come to your own conclusions.
Monday, July 5, 2010
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Russian Dolls and Human Rights
Nowadays, when I see a picture of Arizona on the map, I see one of those Russian matryoshka dolls, the ones that open to reveal another doll then another then another...except instead of appearing as a giant doll, AZ seems to me just a giant struggle, a giant problem that, no matter how you open it, it goes on to reveal another challenge.
Right now we're at the day labor center at Southside, one of those last dolls, a microcosm of the greater immigration issue. This is where so many of the aspects of this one "national issue" are brought home. We work with a relatively small group of day laborers who struggle to get paid for their hard labor, struggle to learn English (if they show an interest in it), struggle to get work in the first place. Labor, language, human rights, worker law, employer sanctions, national security, aiding and abetting, culpable, education, economy...who knew that there were so many issues centering around just "one" problem?
I know that I've been blessed in that I never had to worry where my next meal would come from or if my family would be able to pay rent. And if we moved out of the state, it wasn't to flee persecution or the shadow of a contested law.
That shadow is certainly looming down on us here, and more so on the community. The worst is that although the rest of world doesn't seem to know it, 1070 is already in effect. Sheriff Joe Arpaio spends more time and state money launching police raids—on sites where undocumented workers may or may not be working—than he does on trying to catch killers and fugitives with outstanding arrests. Not to mention that he says he plans to house detainees in war tents in the desert in lieu of prisons.
1070's in effect when you go through border checkpoints set up miles from the border itself. Policemen and BP alike are already demanding people's papers though they don't technically have the right to do so. Many policemen have already elected themselves federal immigration agents, getting people deported on pretexts like "even though you're a passenger, the driver's headlight is broken so you're under arrest and a criminal."
I think what makes me feel so helpless about all this is that the smallest tasks we try to accomplish for the center seem hard enough. Garnering interest, funds, fighting the small fights. What can an intern, an army of interns, an army of organizations do against all this?
I am a little comforted, though, by something said by Kat Rodriguez the other day at a Derechos Humanos training. In labor law, at least, the law is on our side, she said. That's where we can win. We intend to work with Derechos Humanos to help document human rights abuse, whether it be failure to pay wages or law enforcement abuse. There at least, we know we can make a little dent of a difference for our workers at Southside.
Through all this, I know I give the (strong) indication that I don't have much faith in the law, in police, in everything that we usually label as unequivocally right here in the U.S. That's because for once in my life, I've lost faith in the law. I don't feel that police officers nor Border Patrol agents are bad people out to get us, or waiting to pounce once July 29 comes around. I know they're just doing their job, or what they believe their job to be. But people tend to forget that all the people working hard in Arizona, whether they be green card holders, citizens, undocumented or what have you, are just doing their job, too. Keeping their families healthy and alive. Since when is that wrong?
I may have lost a little faith in the law, but corny as it may sound, I do still trust in people. I still hope that instead of touting Southside as the site of the 1980' Sanctuary Movement–when the church was in its "heyday" and fought for social justice even though it was deemed "illegal" (click here for more info)—people will start seeing the people in the parking lot as...people. People with rights just like the rest of us.
Hopefully that's not me thinking too big. One doll at a time.
Right now we're at the day labor center at Southside, one of those last dolls, a microcosm of the greater immigration issue. This is where so many of the aspects of this one "national issue" are brought home. We work with a relatively small group of day laborers who struggle to get paid for their hard labor, struggle to learn English (if they show an interest in it), struggle to get work in the first place. Labor, language, human rights, worker law, employer sanctions, national security, aiding and abetting, culpable, education, economy...who knew that there were so many issues centering around just "one" problem?
I know that I've been blessed in that I never had to worry where my next meal would come from or if my family would be able to pay rent. And if we moved out of the state, it wasn't to flee persecution or the shadow of a contested law.
That shadow is certainly looming down on us here, and more so on the community. The worst is that although the rest of world doesn't seem to know it, 1070 is already in effect. Sheriff Joe Arpaio spends more time and state money launching police raids—on sites where undocumented workers may or may not be working—than he does on trying to catch killers and fugitives with outstanding arrests. Not to mention that he says he plans to house detainees in war tents in the desert in lieu of prisons.
1070's in effect when you go through border checkpoints set up miles from the border itself. Policemen and BP alike are already demanding people's papers though they don't technically have the right to do so. Many policemen have already elected themselves federal immigration agents, getting people deported on pretexts like "even though you're a passenger, the driver's headlight is broken so you're under arrest and a criminal."
I think what makes me feel so helpless about all this is that the smallest tasks we try to accomplish for the center seem hard enough. Garnering interest, funds, fighting the small fights. What can an intern, an army of interns, an army of organizations do against all this?
I am a little comforted, though, by something said by Kat Rodriguez the other day at a Derechos Humanos training. In labor law, at least, the law is on our side, she said. That's where we can win. We intend to work with Derechos Humanos to help document human rights abuse, whether it be failure to pay wages or law enforcement abuse. There at least, we know we can make a little dent of a difference for our workers at Southside.
Through all this, I know I give the (strong) indication that I don't have much faith in the law, in police, in everything that we usually label as unequivocally right here in the U.S. That's because for once in my life, I've lost faith in the law. I don't feel that police officers nor Border Patrol agents are bad people out to get us, or waiting to pounce once July 29 comes around. I know they're just doing their job, or what they believe their job to be. But people tend to forget that all the people working hard in Arizona, whether they be green card holders, citizens, undocumented or what have you, are just doing their job, too. Keeping their families healthy and alive. Since when is that wrong?
I may have lost a little faith in the law, but corny as it may sound, I do still trust in people. I still hope that instead of touting Southside as the site of the 1980' Sanctuary Movement–when the church was in its "heyday" and fought for social justice even though it was deemed "illegal" (click here for more info)—people will start seeing the people in the parking lot as...people. People with rights just like the rest of us.
Hopefully that's not me thinking too big. One doll at a time.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
Friday, June 25, 2010
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
A Note on Religion, About Which I Know...Very Little
When I first began planning out my summer, I was pretty sure I knew where I'd be spending it. India. Naturally; definitely India so I could volunteer or at least visit my grandparents and virtually every other living relative I have.
More than six months after I did all that planning, I find myself spending my early mornings at a Presbyterian church in Tucson. Different than India? Oh my, yes. Unwanted? An unequivocal no.
As an aside, I didn't know what Presbyterian actually meant before I got here. And I'm about as religious as Bill Maher, so what was I supposed to do at a church, I wondered before coming here. Would I have to attend services and be expected to know what was going on? Would I have to cite passages from the Bible? Oh no, what if they made me lead prayers?
By now I've realized two things: one, I was being as ignorant and ridiculous as my personal image of a televangelist and two, I was thinking way too much about myself. Me, me, me, I, I, I. Even though I'm not very in tune with religion, I am devoted to the belief in humanity and helping people. I have those basic beliefs, and that's enough. The fact that this church has reached out to those in need on so many occasions, whether they be homeless or in need of work, bowls me over.
In my last post, I discussed the environment Mexican children grow up in, where news of drug cartel violence and addiction are a daily dose of life. I neglected to mention, though, that one anchor that seemed to keep these kids grounded to the good in the world was religion. Whether it was through songs of Jesus or interactions with the Casa's pastor and his wife, Catholicism is an everyday part of life, and I felt grateful for that.
When people cross the desert, they often carry a figure or charm of the Virgin of Guadalupe with them. When we were in Altar and met a man who'd tried to cross several times. He was in his fifties and had an infectious smile permanently affixed to his face. He ended many of his sentences with "Gracias a Dios" and confided that he enjoys reading his little Bible often.
Back to the present: Several things initially drew me to the church here, though, and part of it was certainly personal. That is, a need to work on a more intimate level with day laborers. Call it a bad version of white man's guilt, but I'll bet few of the modern buildings we've ever stood in, whether we're from NC or TX, would be there if not for the presence of immigrants and their families. Such is also the case with, as we saw in NC, the produce we consume. The labor center here gave me the opportunity to put a face to the construction work, the dry wall, the painting, the basic aspects of life we take for granted. And it's funny but probably good that when we talk to the guys, the tasks they carry out for the community, aren't on our minds. We're not thinking, "Oh, this is Carlos, the painter." We're thinking "Oh, it's Carlos, the guy from southern Mexico, the one who wants to get his GED, the one with two little daughters he sends money to, but rarely sees."
I asked one man what he does if he can't find work for the day--there is little work to be had for the 20+ men we see each day; only about five of them end up getting work.
Read, he said, all kinds of things. "I read the Bible a lot," he said and it was a novel feeling, but it just made me glad.
More than six months after I did all that planning, I find myself spending my early mornings at a Presbyterian church in Tucson. Different than India? Oh my, yes. Unwanted? An unequivocal no.
As an aside, I didn't know what Presbyterian actually meant before I got here. And I'm about as religious as Bill Maher, so what was I supposed to do at a church, I wondered before coming here. Would I have to attend services and be expected to know what was going on? Would I have to cite passages from the Bible? Oh no, what if they made me lead prayers?
By now I've realized two things: one, I was being as ignorant and ridiculous as my personal image of a televangelist and two, I was thinking way too much about myself. Me, me, me, I, I, I. Even though I'm not very in tune with religion, I am devoted to the belief in humanity and helping people. I have those basic beliefs, and that's enough. The fact that this church has reached out to those in need on so many occasions, whether they be homeless or in need of work, bowls me over.
In my last post, I discussed the environment Mexican children grow up in, where news of drug cartel violence and addiction are a daily dose of life. I neglected to mention, though, that one anchor that seemed to keep these kids grounded to the good in the world was religion. Whether it was through songs of Jesus or interactions with the Casa's pastor and his wife, Catholicism is an everyday part of life, and I felt grateful for that.
When people cross the desert, they often carry a figure or charm of the Virgin of Guadalupe with them. When we were in Altar and met a man who'd tried to cross several times. He was in his fifties and had an infectious smile permanently affixed to his face. He ended many of his sentences with "Gracias a Dios" and confided that he enjoys reading his little Bible often.
Back to the present: Several things initially drew me to the church here, though, and part of it was certainly personal. That is, a need to work on a more intimate level with day laborers. Call it a bad version of white man's guilt, but I'll bet few of the modern buildings we've ever stood in, whether we're from NC or TX, would be there if not for the presence of immigrants and their families. Such is also the case with, as we saw in NC, the produce we consume. The labor center here gave me the opportunity to put a face to the construction work, the dry wall, the painting, the basic aspects of life we take for granted. And it's funny but probably good that when we talk to the guys, the tasks they carry out for the community, aren't on our minds. We're not thinking, "Oh, this is Carlos, the painter." We're thinking "Oh, it's Carlos, the guy from southern Mexico, the one who wants to get his GED, the one with two little daughters he sends money to, but rarely sees."
I asked one man what he does if he can't find work for the day--there is little work to be had for the 20+ men we see each day; only about five of them end up getting work.
Read, he said, all kinds of things. "I read the Bible a lot," he said and it was a novel feeling, but it just made me glad.
Monday, June 14, 2010
Boundaries Don't Keep Other People Out—They Fence You In
The immigration issue is simple, people might tell you.
There are two sides to it, they'll reason: US and THEM-exico. So what better way to "solve" our problems than with a border fence delineating that obvious divide?
Take a leap over our 800-mile wall, though, and you’ll find that there are more facets to Mexico than you could ever imagine. And it makes you wonder how a single wall could ever hope to contain all the layers that define this region and those driven to leave it behind.
The border has been in the news a lot for drug trafficking violence. It doesn’t stop with images of arms-wielding cartel members, though. This integral problem has leaked into other sectors of life.
Children, for example, can be very accurate indicators of the social climate. This past week, we visited Nogales, Mexico, just a jump from Arizona, where, among other things, our group ran a kids’ camp for latchkey kids. In Nogales, many children play out graphic, narco-trafficking scenes for fun, pretending to be cartel assassins. One little boy at the camp wanted to draw “drug addiction” during art time. We’ve heard outcries about groups in Africa that train child soldiers, but no one’s ever said a word about how the “war zone” that is the border is seeping into day-to-day life, conditioning children to think drug violence and death are normal.
Yet it’s ridiculous to imagine that the children of Nogales are ruthless children or miniature soldiers. They play in their playground, their faces light up upon learning new games, they squeal happily at the thought of piggyback rides. Put a piece of paper and marker in their hands and they act as if you’ve just given them a Wii, complete with a score of games. Help them make a (misshapen) cat mask and they’ll gaze at it as if it were the most beautiful thing they’ve ever beheld. The children we worked with threw themselves into every activity with explosive energy, and sometimes I wondered if, as a kid, I was ever so in love with life.
It must be admitted, however, that these kids are “older” than children on this side of the border. The kids in the area must stay home alone while their parents work at places like maquiladoras (where most earn 67 pesos a day [that’s $5.60 U.S. dollars]). Most of the little ones must baby-sit their infant siblings while their parents work to feed them. Kids still in primary school are cooking dinner, cleaning the house, grocery shopping while their equivalents in the U.S. go to ballet class and learn to tie their shoes.
The living conditions are little better. We visited a neighborhood where maquiladora workers live—just yards from where tens of factories stand. The houses are little more than shacks, plumbing virtually nonexistent, so that the children are susceptible to all manner of illnesses. Electricity is a novelty in this neighborhood. Water isn’t safe to drink so it must be purchased with the little money earned at the giant maquilas, which are never low on water, electricity, air conditions, and all manner of “luxuries.”
For a long while, this border region and these maquiladoras have been the Mecca for those Mexicans seeking out work. But just how beneficial are the maquilas, if the wages are barely enough to buy food for the week? Is it any wonder that parents who can’t scrape by, whose children are ill with disease and malnutrition, think to cross the border and the desert to earn more than the maquilas (many with abysmal working conditions) ever plan to give them?
Would you do the same? Could you do the same? Or are they the only ones who’d think to risk their lives to give their children a better life?
*
Reflections on Mexico, Pt II
You’ve crossed the border, having nearly died of thirst in the attempt. But then—you’re apprehended. Sent to a detention center. Now you're imprisoned, shackled up, but it can't be all bad, right? At least you’ll get some food in you.
Ha.
While in Nogales, our group spoke with an employee of Grupos Beta, a government-run agency that receives recently deported Mexicans/Latin Americans and helps them call home and fund transportation back. We were told that the people they see are often mistreated by BP (don’t you love that abbreviation?) and at the detention centers.
“And they feed them only with peanut butter cookies,” the man said.
I whipped my head up at that. I didn’t believe it. This guy was totally exaggerating; it was really easy to vilify the U.S. and Border Patrol, and well I knew it. Ever since the media exposure of conditions and deaths at detention centers during 2006-2007, there had been a big crackdown on ICE and humane treatment of detainees.
Outside the office we ran into a whole troupe of recently deported men and one woman. Their grievances came out slowly, and only with some prodding. How they were mocked when they told their guards at the detention center that they were hungry. “Yeah well, I’m hungry too,” the woman was told.
Some were held for several days before being deported, though there are those who spend months in detention centers. They weren’t allowed to bathe. They were held in shackles, like the men I mentioned, the ones who went through Operation: Streamline.
They were fed twice day. And for all ten, fifteen of these people, those meals consisted of peanut butter crackers.
At this point, I just didn’t want to believe it, but the thing was…I did.
“Look,” said one of the men. And he reached into his backpack and pulled out the irrefutable proof—a small packet of peanut butter crackers.
The kind you get from the vending machine. The kind your mom might have put in your sack lunch during elementary school—along with a sandwich, a juice box, and a piece of fruit, among other things. The idea of a young, active man having his hunger satiated by two packets of crackers is laughable.
All I could think at that moment was “What the hell?”
The stories continued to come out. How one man saw a BP agent hit a detainee for being impertinent. Another man crossed over when he was eight years old, 25 years ago, and was deported after being pulled over at a routine traffic stop.
He was stranded in Sonora, looked much like all the other Mexicans crowded 'round, but didn't speak Spanish. Was probably more American than many people I know.
There was a story about another man, who was being transported back to Mexico. Jokingly, he asked if they could pull over and get McDonald’s and was then told:
“You don’t have any rights here.”
Hold up. Last time I checked, migrants were tried under U.S. law, and everyone makes a whole hullabaloo about how their given their Constitutional rights, because we're a developed, sophisticated country and the American way is best. But someone needs to tell me, then, exactly which rights/processes are applicable in this process?
Does a human being, supposedly “guilty” of a victimless crime, not deserve three square meals a day? As Megan pointed out afterwards, there are serial killers and child molesters who receive those square meals. Is a hardworking family man—who happens to be found on the wrong side of an imagined line—less human than those heinous criminals?
Is this what the U.S. stands for? Peanut butter crackers and shackles?
There are two sides to it, they'll reason: US and THEM-exico. So what better way to "solve" our problems than with a border fence delineating that obvious divide?
Take a leap over our 800-mile wall, though, and you’ll find that there are more facets to Mexico than you could ever imagine. And it makes you wonder how a single wall could ever hope to contain all the layers that define this region and those driven to leave it behind.
The border has been in the news a lot for drug trafficking violence. It doesn’t stop with images of arms-wielding cartel members, though. This integral problem has leaked into other sectors of life.
Children, for example, can be very accurate indicators of the social climate. This past week, we visited Nogales, Mexico, just a jump from Arizona, where, among other things, our group ran a kids’ camp for latchkey kids. In Nogales, many children play out graphic, narco-trafficking scenes for fun, pretending to be cartel assassins. One little boy at the camp wanted to draw “drug addiction” during art time. We’ve heard outcries about groups in Africa that train child soldiers, but no one’s ever said a word about how the “war zone” that is the border is seeping into day-to-day life, conditioning children to think drug violence and death are normal.
Yet it’s ridiculous to imagine that the children of Nogales are ruthless children or miniature soldiers. They play in their playground, their faces light up upon learning new games, they squeal happily at the thought of piggyback rides. Put a piece of paper and marker in their hands and they act as if you’ve just given them a Wii, complete with a score of games. Help them make a (misshapen) cat mask and they’ll gaze at it as if it were the most beautiful thing they’ve ever beheld. The children we worked with threw themselves into every activity with explosive energy, and sometimes I wondered if, as a kid, I was ever so in love with life.
It must be admitted, however, that these kids are “older” than children on this side of the border. The kids in the area must stay home alone while their parents work at places like maquiladoras (where most earn 67 pesos a day [that’s $5.60 U.S. dollars]). Most of the little ones must baby-sit their infant siblings while their parents work to feed them. Kids still in primary school are cooking dinner, cleaning the house, grocery shopping while their equivalents in the U.S. go to ballet class and learn to tie their shoes.
The living conditions are little better. We visited a neighborhood where maquiladora workers live—just yards from where tens of factories stand. The houses are little more than shacks, plumbing virtually nonexistent, so that the children are susceptible to all manner of illnesses. Electricity is a novelty in this neighborhood. Water isn’t safe to drink so it must be purchased with the little money earned at the giant maquilas, which are never low on water, electricity, air conditions, and all manner of “luxuries.”
For a long while, this border region and these maquiladoras have been the Mecca for those Mexicans seeking out work. But just how beneficial are the maquilas, if the wages are barely enough to buy food for the week? Is it any wonder that parents who can’t scrape by, whose children are ill with disease and malnutrition, think to cross the border and the desert to earn more than the maquilas (many with abysmal working conditions) ever plan to give them?
Would you do the same? Could you do the same? Or are they the only ones who’d think to risk their lives to give their children a better life?
*
Reflections on Mexico, Pt II
You’ve crossed the border, having nearly died of thirst in the attempt. But then—you’re apprehended. Sent to a detention center. Now you're imprisoned, shackled up, but it can't be all bad, right? At least you’ll get some food in you.
Ha.
While in Nogales, our group spoke with an employee of Grupos Beta, a government-run agency that receives recently deported Mexicans/Latin Americans and helps them call home and fund transportation back. We were told that the people they see are often mistreated by BP (don’t you love that abbreviation?) and at the detention centers.
“And they feed them only with peanut butter cookies,” the man said.
I whipped my head up at that. I didn’t believe it. This guy was totally exaggerating; it was really easy to vilify the U.S. and Border Patrol, and well I knew it. Ever since the media exposure of conditions and deaths at detention centers during 2006-2007, there had been a big crackdown on ICE and humane treatment of detainees.
Outside the office we ran into a whole troupe of recently deported men and one woman. Their grievances came out slowly, and only with some prodding. How they were mocked when they told their guards at the detention center that they were hungry. “Yeah well, I’m hungry too,” the woman was told.
Some were held for several days before being deported, though there are those who spend months in detention centers. They weren’t allowed to bathe. They were held in shackles, like the men I mentioned, the ones who went through Operation: Streamline.
They were fed twice day. And for all ten, fifteen of these people, those meals consisted of peanut butter crackers.
At this point, I just didn’t want to believe it, but the thing was…I did.
“Look,” said one of the men. And he reached into his backpack and pulled out the irrefutable proof—a small packet of peanut butter crackers.
The kind you get from the vending machine. The kind your mom might have put in your sack lunch during elementary school—along with a sandwich, a juice box, and a piece of fruit, among other things. The idea of a young, active man having his hunger satiated by two packets of crackers is laughable.
All I could think at that moment was “What the hell?”
The stories continued to come out. How one man saw a BP agent hit a detainee for being impertinent. Another man crossed over when he was eight years old, 25 years ago, and was deported after being pulled over at a routine traffic stop.
He was stranded in Sonora, looked much like all the other Mexicans crowded 'round, but didn't speak Spanish. Was probably more American than many people I know.
There was a story about another man, who was being transported back to Mexico. Jokingly, he asked if they could pull over and get McDonald’s and was then told:
“You don’t have any rights here.”
Hold up. Last time I checked, migrants were tried under U.S. law, and everyone makes a whole hullabaloo about how their given their Constitutional rights, because we're a developed, sophisticated country and the American way is best. But someone needs to tell me, then, exactly which rights/processes are applicable in this process?
Does a human being, supposedly “guilty” of a victimless crime, not deserve three square meals a day? As Megan pointed out afterwards, there are serial killers and child molesters who receive those square meals. Is a hardworking family man—who happens to be found on the wrong side of an imagined line—less human than those heinous criminals?
Is this what the U.S. stands for? Peanut butter crackers and shackles?
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Why I Came to Tucson
I’m here because there is perhaps no issue so divisive, yet so important, as that of immigration. And the hot-spot of that issue, is of course, the border. Or, as I call it, home.
I grew up on the U.S.-Mexico border, further down west from Tucson, in El Paso, Texas. And before I came on this trip, I thought myself well-equipped for the environment. I know Spanish, virtually all of my friends are Hispanics, I’ve traveled I-10 most days of my life and have seen the giant Mexican flag near the bridge on each and every one of those days. The border and the many facets of bi-national issues, from green cards to to naturalization to deportation, surrounded me. The struggles of immigrants spoke to me, hit so much closer to home than I could imagine. I was set for this program, I thought.
It goes without saying that I wasn’t quite right.
It’s one thing to live in a border town known to be virtually impenetrable, compared to places like…Arizona, for example. It’s another thing to be completely immersed in the world of the non-profits, humanitarians, hard-working volunteers that throw themselves into the roiling debate that is immigration so that they can help, not hardened criminals, but many real, loving people. People who risk their lives crossing the desert, leave behind $4/day jobs because their kids are still crying from hunger, can’t be sustained by $4 worth of livelihood.
Okay, I’m off my soapbox (for the moment).
*
So, you’re probably waiting for some revelation about Senate Bill 1070, right? The heart and soul of what is wrong with Arizona, many may think. That one bane of a law. That’s the thing, though. It’s not just one problem we’re looking at.
If you get nothing else out of my ramblings and my new-found education, know this: SB 1070 is not some out-of-the-blue, isolated event. It’s not like one day Gov. Jan Brewer and former Senator Russell Pearce got together and thought, “Oh hey, look at all those immigrants, looking all illegal and speaking Spanish. Let’s apprehend them by handing over federal, immigration-related duties to policemen; it’s not like those guys have other things to do or anything. It’s not like there could be negative repercussions.”
1070 is the culmination of a cascade of factors—from the tightening up of the borders on either side of Arizona—creating a funneling effect through AZ—to the passing of several propositions (like one that makes those smuggled across the border “co-conspirators” in smuggling) to tje white, retiree conservative demographic in the state, and on and on.
Alright, so you’ve heard of 1070. I know you’re dying for another atrocity, so allow me to present to you, without further ado: Operation Streamline.
One of the most moving arguments against illegal immigration is, of course, that it's detrimental to our economy. Want to talk detrimental to our economy? I’d say that sucking $3.5 BILLION out of federal taxes just for FY 2010 (which is not even halfway completed yet) is kind of detrimental, economically. Just a guess.
That’s exactly what Streamline does, though. Since its institution in Tucson in 2008–having already been present in a few other border towns—about 35% of the immigration budget set aside by homeland security, is used on Streamline. The federal public defense office is completely opposed to it, and only conceded to provide one federal public attorney per month for a Streamline hearing. The rest are privately contracted. And yup, that costs money, too.
*
What is Streamline?
After being detained by Border Patrol, a migrant can either voluntarily return, be formally deported, or plead guilty to illegal entry at a hearing of 30 other people and then be deported. Your pick. Except that, oh wait, it’s not.
It’s hard to describe just how awful Streamline appears and feels unless you’ve witnessed it—sat in that courtroom that houses 35 hearings in the space of about an hour and a half (depending on how much time the judge feels like spending on his job). It's all a big show, a way to criminalize immigration, instead of just deporting people off the bat like they used to.
Here’s the scene: you walk into a big federal courtroom. Behind the judge’s bench hangs a huge U.S. federal seal done up in a dull golden color. On the front near the left is where the jury typically sits. There are a number of Hispanic men sitting there, probably a little more than twelve of them; all wear what appear to be upside-down headphones that look like stethoscopes. Those, you know, transmit the judge’s words translated into Spanish. You’re told to sit on the far right only. That’s strange, since usually the audience of a trial/hearing can take up the whole back row, but you go with it. There are two Border Patrol agents standing near you; closer to the “jury” of accused are U.S. marshal agents. Some suited people seated near your left are whispering, laughing, joking.
The hearing begins once the judge enters. Everyone stands. Then there’s this startlingly loud clanging of chains.
The men you saw earlier, you realize, are all wearing shackles, both on their wrists and their legs. But that’s not all—on the far left of the “audience’s” seats stand at least 20 or 25 more people, some women, all of them shackled and wearing those headphones. A hearing for 30 people. Something completely un“heard” of in any other situation.
The proceedings begin. A number is called and then a person’s name and he/she yells, “Presente.” There’s a lot of posturing afterwards and you feel like you’re watching a play. The judge rambles about rights, the crowd feels pressured to say nothing except the expected “Si” even if they don’t understand what’s going on. Considering the lawyers have four or five clients each, and talked to each for no more than 30 minutes that morning.
Each Streamline experience is unique, because, unlike what the judge and some in the courtroom seem to think, not every immigrant is exactly like the next. They seem to think that justifies their being judged en masse. Have you ever heard of any court hearing where more than a score of people is tried at once, like they were two dozen eggs? I didn’t think so.
In this unique case, the judge has trouble pronouncing the defendants’ names, and drawls Nogales so it sounds like No-gaahlesss. At one point, he addresses a woman by the completely wrong name, then has to shuffle through papers to figure out what her name actually is.
During the proceedings, the immigrants don’t really have a chance to talk. All they say is “Si” or “Presente” or “Culpable” (basically, “yes, I’m guilty of illegal entry and willing to return to Mexico). The attorneys don’t really talk either.
But once in a while, the judge will ask if anyone has anything to say. The first group up is the batch of people who have entered the country twice. That is apparently felony-worthy. They all get between 30 to 90 days in prison. More tax dollars at work to house working people guilty of a victimless crime.
One man, on the shorter side asks into the microphone where his young son is. He crossed with him, he says, but the two were separated and this father doesn’t know what’s become of him.
The judge has no idea. The man gets 60 days in prison. He walks out, getting really close to you because the exit is right in front of you. Everyone stumbles behind in their leg shackles.
The man is crying. You want to cry, too. You think of his son. His son who probably has no idea what’s happening to his father. Who could be hurt, dying, in another courtroom. Who knows? Certainly not the judge.
When other men speak at the mic, their words are usually ones of thanks.
“I’d like to thank this country.”
“I’d like to thank the immigration officers for giving me water in the desert.”
You might think I’m making this up, but it’s the honest-to-God truth. While the Wackenhut buses are getting ready to deport these men and women back to Mexico (probably many, many miles from their actual homes)—they’re saying thank you.
*
If you don’t know me, you might think that, being on this trip, I’m a Spanish major or a Public Policy major, or maybe a Political Science major.
Actually, I’m a pre-med English major pursuing a Global Health Certificate (and a Bio minor). I am nowhere near getting all my ducks in a row education-wise, life-wise, etc. I’m hoping, though, that this program can help me through that journey.
On the last day of a creative writing course I took back at Duke, the teacher dropped a few pearls of wisdom. Always respect your elders, neither a borrower nor a lender be, don’t eat the yellow snow. Just kidding. One piece of advice of hers, though, struck me. She told us that when we encounter situations in which, instead of feeling the expected feeling, some other, contradictory or unwanted feeling rises within us, that is where the story lies. That is what is worth writing about.
I’m not saying that when I’ve been told a heart-wrenching story here, my heart hasn’t been wrenched, because oh, trust me, it has. What I mean is that I often have my point of view on issues challenged and sometimes the lens needs to be adjusted. For me, this trip is already a series of contradictions and internal conflicts and often misplaced emotions. So I write, trying to leave nothing out, because it’s all bemusing, and thus worth writing about.
I grew up on the U.S.-Mexico border, further down west from Tucson, in El Paso, Texas. And before I came on this trip, I thought myself well-equipped for the environment. I know Spanish, virtually all of my friends are Hispanics, I’ve traveled I-10 most days of my life and have seen the giant Mexican flag near the bridge on each and every one of those days. The border and the many facets of bi-national issues, from green cards to to naturalization to deportation, surrounded me. The struggles of immigrants spoke to me, hit so much closer to home than I could imagine. I was set for this program, I thought.
It goes without saying that I wasn’t quite right.
It’s one thing to live in a border town known to be virtually impenetrable, compared to places like…Arizona, for example. It’s another thing to be completely immersed in the world of the non-profits, humanitarians, hard-working volunteers that throw themselves into the roiling debate that is immigration so that they can help, not hardened criminals, but many real, loving people. People who risk their lives crossing the desert, leave behind $4/day jobs because their kids are still crying from hunger, can’t be sustained by $4 worth of livelihood.
Okay, I’m off my soapbox (for the moment).
*
So, you’re probably waiting for some revelation about Senate Bill 1070, right? The heart and soul of what is wrong with Arizona, many may think. That one bane of a law. That’s the thing, though. It’s not just one problem we’re looking at.
If you get nothing else out of my ramblings and my new-found education, know this: SB 1070 is not some out-of-the-blue, isolated event. It’s not like one day Gov. Jan Brewer and former Senator Russell Pearce got together and thought, “Oh hey, look at all those immigrants, looking all illegal and speaking Spanish. Let’s apprehend them by handing over federal, immigration-related duties to policemen; it’s not like those guys have other things to do or anything. It’s not like there could be negative repercussions.”
1070 is the culmination of a cascade of factors—from the tightening up of the borders on either side of Arizona—creating a funneling effect through AZ—to the passing of several propositions (like one that makes those smuggled across the border “co-conspirators” in smuggling) to tje white, retiree conservative demographic in the state, and on and on.
Alright, so you’ve heard of 1070. I know you’re dying for another atrocity, so allow me to present to you, without further ado: Operation Streamline.
One of the most moving arguments against illegal immigration is, of course, that it's detrimental to our economy. Want to talk detrimental to our economy? I’d say that sucking $3.5 BILLION out of federal taxes just for FY 2010 (which is not even halfway completed yet) is kind of detrimental, economically. Just a guess.
That’s exactly what Streamline does, though. Since its institution in Tucson in 2008–having already been present in a few other border towns—about 35% of the immigration budget set aside by homeland security, is used on Streamline. The federal public defense office is completely opposed to it, and only conceded to provide one federal public attorney per month for a Streamline hearing. The rest are privately contracted. And yup, that costs money, too.
*
What is Streamline?
After being detained by Border Patrol, a migrant can either voluntarily return, be formally deported, or plead guilty to illegal entry at a hearing of 30 other people and then be deported. Your pick. Except that, oh wait, it’s not.
It’s hard to describe just how awful Streamline appears and feels unless you’ve witnessed it—sat in that courtroom that houses 35 hearings in the space of about an hour and a half (depending on how much time the judge feels like spending on his job). It's all a big show, a way to criminalize immigration, instead of just deporting people off the bat like they used to.
Here’s the scene: you walk into a big federal courtroom. Behind the judge’s bench hangs a huge U.S. federal seal done up in a dull golden color. On the front near the left is where the jury typically sits. There are a number of Hispanic men sitting there, probably a little more than twelve of them; all wear what appear to be upside-down headphones that look like stethoscopes. Those, you know, transmit the judge’s words translated into Spanish. You’re told to sit on the far right only. That’s strange, since usually the audience of a trial/hearing can take up the whole back row, but you go with it. There are two Border Patrol agents standing near you; closer to the “jury” of accused are U.S. marshal agents. Some suited people seated near your left are whispering, laughing, joking.
The hearing begins once the judge enters. Everyone stands. Then there’s this startlingly loud clanging of chains.
The men you saw earlier, you realize, are all wearing shackles, both on their wrists and their legs. But that’s not all—on the far left of the “audience’s” seats stand at least 20 or 25 more people, some women, all of them shackled and wearing those headphones. A hearing for 30 people. Something completely un“heard” of in any other situation.
The proceedings begin. A number is called and then a person’s name and he/she yells, “Presente.” There’s a lot of posturing afterwards and you feel like you’re watching a play. The judge rambles about rights, the crowd feels pressured to say nothing except the expected “Si” even if they don’t understand what’s going on. Considering the lawyers have four or five clients each, and talked to each for no more than 30 minutes that morning.
Each Streamline experience is unique, because, unlike what the judge and some in the courtroom seem to think, not every immigrant is exactly like the next. They seem to think that justifies their being judged en masse. Have you ever heard of any court hearing where more than a score of people is tried at once, like they were two dozen eggs? I didn’t think so.
In this unique case, the judge has trouble pronouncing the defendants’ names, and drawls Nogales so it sounds like No-gaahlesss. At one point, he addresses a woman by the completely wrong name, then has to shuffle through papers to figure out what her name actually is.
During the proceedings, the immigrants don’t really have a chance to talk. All they say is “Si” or “Presente” or “Culpable” (basically, “yes, I’m guilty of illegal entry and willing to return to Mexico). The attorneys don’t really talk either.
But once in a while, the judge will ask if anyone has anything to say. The first group up is the batch of people who have entered the country twice. That is apparently felony-worthy. They all get between 30 to 90 days in prison. More tax dollars at work to house working people guilty of a victimless crime.
One man, on the shorter side asks into the microphone where his young son is. He crossed with him, he says, but the two were separated and this father doesn’t know what’s become of him.
The judge has no idea. The man gets 60 days in prison. He walks out, getting really close to you because the exit is right in front of you. Everyone stumbles behind in their leg shackles.
The man is crying. You want to cry, too. You think of his son. His son who probably has no idea what’s happening to his father. Who could be hurt, dying, in another courtroom. Who knows? Certainly not the judge.
When other men speak at the mic, their words are usually ones of thanks.
“I’d like to thank this country.”
“I’d like to thank the immigration officers for giving me water in the desert.”
You might think I’m making this up, but it’s the honest-to-God truth. While the Wackenhut buses are getting ready to deport these men and women back to Mexico (probably many, many miles from their actual homes)—they’re saying thank you.
*
If you don’t know me, you might think that, being on this trip, I’m a Spanish major or a Public Policy major, or maybe a Political Science major.
Actually, I’m a pre-med English major pursuing a Global Health Certificate (and a Bio minor). I am nowhere near getting all my ducks in a row education-wise, life-wise, etc. I’m hoping, though, that this program can help me through that journey.
On the last day of a creative writing course I took back at Duke, the teacher dropped a few pearls of wisdom. Always respect your elders, neither a borrower nor a lender be, don’t eat the yellow snow. Just kidding. One piece of advice of hers, though, struck me. She told us that when we encounter situations in which, instead of feeling the expected feeling, some other, contradictory or unwanted feeling rises within us, that is where the story lies. That is what is worth writing about.
I’m not saying that when I’ve been told a heart-wrenching story here, my heart hasn’t been wrenched, because oh, trust me, it has. What I mean is that I often have my point of view on issues challenged and sometimes the lens needs to be adjusted. For me, this trip is already a series of contradictions and internal conflicts and often misplaced emotions. So I write, trying to leave nothing out, because it’s all bemusing, and thus worth writing about.
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