Dreams in the Desert

The Border Wall
Photo courtesy of Hannah Ebling-Artz

Standing still in the desert that spans much of the U.S.-Mexico border, I heard the sound of the ocean.  No, not the Pacific Ocean—its roaring, surely, is not quite that loud.  Rather, as we stood solemnly circled around the make-shift grave of a 16 year-old who had died in the crossing, the wind siphoning over the rugged desert hills became crashing ocean waves in my mind.  Walking in the desert in the middle of a temperate day, led by an expert guide and sporting water bottles as full as our energy levels were high, in many ways I could not imagine what it would be like for the migrants—so many of whom are children and youth—compelled to make this journey for reasons of economic survival or physical safety.  The panic of being lost in this inhospitable terrain, the strain of weathering the extreme highs and lows that characterize the region, the terror of discovering one’s water supply has ended long before the voyage has, all of these realities resisted my ability to grasp.  But I could wistfully, wonderingly hear the ocean, and in this I imagine I am not alone. 

Along with the eight other students and two professors in our Church on the Border class, I spent Spring Break on both sides of the Arizona-Sonora, Mexico divide.  We were hosted by a group called Borderlinks, who helped us to pass the week gathering up stories as a way of learning on the ground about undocumented migration and the implications this movement across borders has for people of faith.

Our first full day of the trip, we worshipped at Southside Presbyterian in Tucson, the church that pioneered the Sanctuary Movement in the 1980’s.  The churches who joined the movement provided shelter for the refugees fleeing torture in Central American countries (and whom the U.S. initially failed to recognize), eventually serving as the impetus for the U.S. government’s decision to extend protection to these asylum-seekers.  In the interim period prior to this decision, however, the congregations that chose to offer safe-haven were technically breaking the law, and many of the participants risked federal prison sentences in order to act in the way they felt their faith to demand.  Speaking to two of the movement founders, Ken and Elna, after the Sunday morning service, I was struck by their passion and patience, not to mention humility, as they described themselves as “just normal people who never intended to get involved.”  Afterwards, I found myself feeling irrationally yet undeniably jealous. Only later through reflecting with friends was I able to puzzle through this unexpected gut reaction, and this with the help of words from the sermon we had heard earlier that morning.  Urging us to see Lent as an opportunity for discernment, Southside's minister asked us to consider whether we are currently living our most real lives, that is, the lives we long to live.  And I think that was it— here it was so beautifully and inspiringly clear that Ken and Elna were and are living in such a way, a thing I want terribly badly to be able to do.  How greatly I want to find ways to live my life in light of my convictions, to make use of all that I am learning, to honor the deep investment placed in me by family, mentors, teachers, and friends!  And yet somewhere deep in my very core I worry that that I’ll miss it somehow, that I’ll wind up being too busy, too sleepy, too oblivious…

Throughout the week, we had the opportunity to meet with migrants on both sides of the border, so many of whom were willing to vulnerably open themselves up to us and share their stories.  The stories I heard were beautiful, full of sacrifices made for love of family, signs of immeasurable resilience, and an abiding faith in the God who promises to lead us from the desert into green pastures.  In many ways, too, the stories were ragged and raw, highlighting the often inadvertent yet inherent cruelty of an immigration system that builds bridges for capital and goods to cross the border but not for humans.  A system that has militarized our border, downplays our complicity in creating some of the economic factors that fill people with the hopelessness that makes leaving homelands and crossing the border feel like the only option, and that ultimately violates human dignity by turning people into problems.  As I write this, please do know that I understand that U.S. immigration policy is an extremely complex, not to mention controversial, topic.  I am not writing to advocate for a simplistic and sadly doomed approach say, of opening up the border entirely and having no restrictions at all, nor even am I necessarily trying to change anyone’s mind.  What I do long to do, and hope to try my hand at in the next few weeks, is simply to invite you into some of the stories I was so blessed to share in last week, to help put a face on the issue—or, rather, the faces of those whom I met that remain profoundly imprinted on my mind. 

It’s hard to say, but who knows: maybe doing so is part of what it looks like for me to live my most real life?  Regardless, my goal is to write one (hopefully) short post each week for the duration of Lent, if anything to help myself continue to process the crazy and heartbreaking and wonderful experience that was my last week—we’ll see how it goes!