Prayer and Promise Along The Migrant Trail

Abstract

Under the intense desert sun in Arizona's Altar Valley, we set out to walk. We follow well-worn trails used by people trying to reach northern destinations without detection, people turned into illegal aliens after stepping across a line in the sand. We walk as volunteers with No More Deaths, a humanitarian group whose mission is to end death and suffering on the U.S.-Mexican border. Each day is organized around walking the trails, searching for the sick or injured left behind by the coyote. We call out to offer water and medical assistance, our ears alert for the sounds of breathing coming from someone tucked away in the brush, resting covertly or nursing a blister. We walk to reclaim space in the borderlands, to contest Department of Homeland Security claims that public lands are too dangerous to visit. We walk to bear witness to human suffering in the face of injustice. One sun-baked afternoon in July, four of us walk to an altar deep in Pajarito Canyon, an altar created by those seeking safe passage north.' Following our GPS unit, we begin looking for the entrance to the canyon, a mere crack in the ancient lava flow that forms the eastern edge of the Altar Valley. Here, cataclysmic shifts over thousands of years have created a buckled landscape with fissures small and wide that form south-north corridors facilitating the movement of water, sediment, plants, and animals. Pajarito serves as one such corridor for those who choose this path to their dreams: sending children to school; paying off medical bills for aged parents; escaping violence or vulnerability; joining a lover who can't leave a job in Houston, Los Angeles, or Nashville. Inside the narrow fissure, dramatic vertical walls block the burning sun. Ocotillo and mesquite trees cling to rocky outcrops, cooling the passage. Trained as we are to watch for signs of recent passage, my eyes focus on water bottles scattered along the trail. Brittle and chipped plastic suggests that they had lain there for months. I pick up a bottle with a salmon-colored label. Bold blue letters scream Bonafont, an expensive brand of bottled water in Mexico. A blue figure reaches for the sky, arms spread in a joyful, triumphant gesture. Smaller letters say: El Agua Ligera, the light water. I whisper the word, feel it on my tongue: ligera. The sound evokes tranquility and leisure, a kind of fitness so alien to this trail, where death may come in the form of a small blister that grows until the pain becomes unbearable and dreams of el norte are surrendered for peace on the other side of the line between life and death. Our silent walk on the narrow canyon trail is disrupted by a scream. My scream. A sharp pain shoots through my hand. I touched a venomous caterpillar when I reached for a branch to secure my step. As we examine the culprit closely our conversation shifts to the desert's many acid-spitting, fuzzy things. Tarantulas on the road that morning, halting traffic while seeking mates. Prehistoric-looking Gila monsters provoking panic. We laugh at our small fears, a salve for the very real terror facing those moving north along these trails. Border Patrol agents promising arrest. Helicopters hovering, generating blinding dust. Dehydration, and the voice of the coyote saying, Let's go, we can't wait for her. Mind games as the days pass. Water runs out. No sign of help, not even la migra--the popular Spanish term for the Border Patrol. We scramble along the trail for a small eternity, reaching an opening in the canyon cooled by mesquite and sycamore trees. A quiet hollow punctuated by signs of those who stopped here to rest and eat. Empty water bottles, tuna-fish cans, and cookie wrappers litter the ground, recalling the small corner stores in Sasabe, a Mexican border town that sells water, protein, and sugar to those preparing to cross. A crumpled brochure printed by the Mexican government warning migrants of the desert's dangers. Garlic is recommended for protection against snakes. …