Day 4: Nogales, Sonora

Nogales, by Harrison Chase

Our first full day in Nogales was a busy one. We started the day with breakfast in the “casa”, a community center where we’d be spending the next day or two. The casa was a homey place where kids from the colonia would gather to play soccer and fool around on the amazing playground that the casa provided. After breakfast we headed into the heart of Nogales. Before having lunch with Teresa we needed to get our permits to be in Mexico. This meant going to a heavily guarded office where we filled out applications and watched as armed police lead a group of deported children out of the building. Ater getting our permits done we then had to walk to lunch. At this point we had driven through Nogales to get to the casa but had not yet walked through Nogales. The difference between walking and driving is huge. Being able to walk to lunch gave us a chance to experience things out of the comfort zone of the vans. There were no metal doors separating us, and the busy streets, we were fully immersed in one of our first Mexican experiences on the trip. Being our first day in Mexico this also meant the meal with Teresa would be our first authentic Mexican meal. As we scanned the menus there were constant questions to Memo to explain what tacos dorados were or the difference between burritos and quesadillas. As lunch was served we listened to Teresa explain what it meant to be native to Mexico and how her people have been oppressed. She also talked about the crippling affect that the maquiladoras had on the environment and how people work all day for 5 or 6 dollars. After lunch we went with Teresa to the wall at the border to hang white crosses with the names of the people that have died in the desert. It was interesting the way this changed how locals looked at us. We were now no longer gringos to the people sitting at the bus stop and I now sensed that they respected us a little more. The first day we spent in Mexico brought us a new perspective of life on the Mexican side and even showed us those Mexicans that some of the gringos cared for what was going on in the deadly Sonoran desert.

Talking with migrants, by Kyle Takei

Today was supposed to be a learning experience, and in a way, it was. However, I never expected to be touched like I was by the stories that the migrants told me in el Comedor, the place where recently deported migrants go to get a meal, oftentimes the first meal they’ve had in days. I only talked to two migrants, because I don’t think I could handle anymore stories from the migrants.

I remember clearly the second story that I was told. The migrant I was talking to wouldn’t give me any personal information, except that he was from Puebla, far in the south. From what I understood, he has been to the United States at least 5 times, but more likely he had crossed at least 7 times. He told me that on the Mexican side of the border, the police had extorted him by threatening to place evidence of drugs on him or even kill him unless he gave them his phone and what little money he had. On the U.S. side of the border, he had been verbally and physically abused by the Border patrol, specifically by one Chicano officer on the I-8, who denied him food or medical attention, among other violations. He fears being arrested by Chicanos in general, the naturalized children of Mexican immigrants, because they are all extremely abusive of immigrants, even though their white companions generally treat immigrants well. I asked him why he kept crossing, even though he knew how deadly the desert can be and that it was extremely likely that he would get captured, abused and deported again. He just looked at me for a second, and started to speak with such determination, that it seemed like he would cross hell itself if it lead to the United States.

He told me “I have a father back home who needs a special medicine to save his life. My kids and wife are starving, and uneducated. In the United States, you have cheaper medicine, and even though I am going to be doing the exact same jobs as I would be doing here in Nogales, they pay much more up north. It’s easier to study, to get an education, so that even if I don’t get any better place in life, my kids will. I hate crossing the desert, but to survive, sometimes you have to do crazy things. The way I see it, I have two options: I can cross and get a better life, or I can stay here and slowly die.”

The last thing he told me was that he had gotten back to Nogales a few hours before, after being caught wandering in the desert, and that he was going to cross again if not tonight, then tomorrow. Then he got up, walked to the gate, and out into the street. I wonder if he has made it, or if he’s just another statistic for the people that have died in the desert.