Halfway across the bridge - Feb 27, 2020

Sitting inside one of the thin, nylon tents in the camp, I could hear the wind whipping by, coursing through the rows of tents, causing the metal poles holding the outer circus-like tent shade above to shake and shiver, emitting metallic clangs, and spooky resonance. The occasional metal clasp raps against the metal pole, thrown about by the wind, and making me wonder how sturdy the massive outer structure is. 

It's the middle of the day and I've gone into our supply tent, camouflaged in a sea of other bright green Colman camping tents. We are running out of masa (corn flour), so I came into the supply tent where we mostly store the tables we use each day to see if we had left any masa behind on another day. As I was searching through supplies, fear began to creep in and surround me in the tent. The noise of the crowd was amplified, from what I knew was a quiet murmur between companions, transformed into a mythically loud, scary, raucous roar of an uncontrolled riot. 

Though I was only 20 ft from my team, I realized I was all alone and vulnerable. Someone easily could have come into the tent, and my voice would have been silent, muffled by the wind. I started to feel the many scary things that must creep into the tents as darkness falls, scary realities, amplified by the  imagination. 

Each day we've been to the camp has been dramatically different from the next. The first day was dusty and dry, the next was cold and windy. Then we had rain for a day or two, then blindingly got sun. Today was windy and cool, bullying it’s way through the camp, sending the empty cups waiting to be filled with chocolate milk onto the ground, still empty and now dirty. During these two weeks of February, I’ve worn sweaters and coats and sweated through short sleeve shirts. It’s been so hard to keep up with, I can’t imagine how volatile the seasons are for people in tents. 

Today was also filled with uncertainty about reentry. Through a series of circumstances (Ash Wednesday mass and running an errand for a team member), my sister and I got to the center later than usual. The team for Mexico left only fifteen minutes before and they needed more cart-pullers. So were high-tailed it back to the car and tried to catch up, arriving just as the carts were full and ready to depart. Happy to have two young “pullers” join the ranks, we joined the cheering group and headed off to pay our dollar to cross the bridge. 

Halfway across the bridge to Mexico, while relaying my exciting adventure to another participant, I realized I left my passport in the car! I was stuck between two countries with a car full of food for Mexico! Luckily the bridge guard had seen me each day and kindly bent the rules, allowing me to return (definitely not allowed on the one-way bridge). I sprinted to the car, sprinted back, prepared to pay my dollar again but was welcomed in instead, and caught up with the team. My ashes were now bathed in sweat from running, but the coolness of the air was gone. I can’t say that i was scared at any point, but looking back, I should have been. 

On the return journey, halfway across the other bridge, one of our Canadian teammates was stopped and forced to wait in the very long line of non-US passport holders. Last week, there was the threat that this might happen, and today it did. 

I must confess. I have neglected to tell you something, friends. Every day, when we return to the US, there is a long line, going at least halfway across the bridge, sometimes as long as the whole bridge, filled with Mexican citizens waiting to enter the US. You see, there are two lines. One for US passport holders and registered SENTRI card holders (a line that never had more than 2 people in it), and a line with hundreds of people that can take 4 or 5 hours to get through. Every day, our team walks by hundreds of people to the front of the line, with our empty carts in tow. It must be so frustrating for the people to watch this, and I feel so filled with the opposite of patriotism. I feel shamed and privileged. I rationalize that we probably wouldn’t be able to go across each day if there were a 4 hour wait,  but it’s one of the hardest parts of the day. 

Today, our teammate, who didn’t have a US passport but instead a Canadian one was forced to experience the “long line”, while her driver and carmates waited patiently in the US “witnessing” on the street corner. Luckily, she speaks Spanish and was able to learn what the others stood in line so long. They went to the US to shop for a few hours. And they did this a few times a week! Can you imagine the patience or necessity to do this so often! Our teammates made friends in line and once out of the eyesight of the one bully agent, she was able to move through faster, to exercise her privilege because of the kindness of strangers. 

It was a strange day, needless to say, and with the trip ending in a few short days, my emotions are getting heavy. It’s so hard to leave when there’s work to be done, and harder to leave such a dedicated team of friends and family. Tonight, as I lay in bed writing this, I imagine myself inside the tent and the fear that I felt, that I knew wasn’t real at the time, but it is very real tonight for many . 

Seeing deeper and sleeping at night - Feb 24, 2020

A week has passed, a few people have joined our group, and a few have already left. We have settled into a routine, leaving the house around 8am to head to the center where some of our team will drive an hour to the border to distribute food and toiletries and some of our team will stay at the center with the people who were welcomed into the country, preparing and serving meals for them, helping them find a change of clothes, organizing the closet of clothes so it’s ready in case a big rush comes, preparing bags of food to distribute at the border, and cleaning the center. 

The center has a very empowering approach to volunteering. The pace is very self-guided, and if you don’t know what needs to be done, you might think there’s no work to do. As veterans, with a whole week behind us, we’ve learned not to wait to be asked to do something, just to jump right in. Often, the people livingu at the center can be seen helping as well: sweeping the huge shared living area and preparing bags of food to send over (perhaps having experienced how helpful those supplies are). 

In the camps, we have been able to bring chocolate milk a few times and see the grins on the kids faces as they come back for a second or third cup. Meanwhile, the parents wait patiently in a line by the food while diapers and toiletries are distributed next. The calm about the place is incredible. In a camp that has over 2,500 people, you’d expect a table with only 60 bags of food to be pilfered and overrun, but no one touched the food, or even tried, day after day, patiently waiting for the distribution. People walk right by getting their milk and toiletries, and not one person attempts to take a bag, instilling so much confidence that none of the volunteers are even watching the food. 

I read one article that described the Tents in the camp like “barnacles” on the tip of Matamoros. Another article helped me realize what I find so confounding about the camp - the quiet. It described: For a group of people who love music so much, all you hear is quiet chatter in tents. I think I find the calm exhibited in the line similarly perplexing. Articles have reported gang activity in the nights, many cases of rape, kidnapping, trafficking, and “disappearings”, but that seems like a different place than the calm of the day, or perhaps it explains it. For families who are on the run for their lives to escape this kind of violence, it seems unconscionable that the government is making this situation worse. 

But we leave each day after the food is distributed and look the government officials in the eye as we return to the US, hoping there will be no problems. We drive back to the center to prepare for tomorrow’s run so it can all begin again. 

At the end of the day, some days as early as 3pm, some days as late as 5pm, we drive the 10 min from the center back to the AirBnB that we rented in a ranch-style house in the middle of suburbia. We all stay together in one house, to enjoy community time in the evenings, a shared meal and prayer. 

Our team is comprised of five sisters of the Congregation of Notre Dame (from Toronto, NY, Montreal, and PEI), two people from North Carolina, one from PEI, and three from nearby San Antonio (my mom, sister, and 8-year old niece). 

My mom joined us the first week, and graciously prepared a dozen meals ahead of time, so our evening meal preparation is simple. She spoiled us with enchiladas, lasagna, rice casseroles, and a special seafood extravaganza, culminating in a homemade cheesecake for the shared birthday celebration! She left, but we continue to enjoy her hospitality. 

A week into our trip, my sister and niece drove down from San Antonio to join us, and a day later my mom and niece left. During the 21 hours she was here, my sweet 8-year old niece played pool (billiards) with some of the sisters in the lounge part of the house, volunteered at the center, spending hours bagging food and practicing her writing skills labeling bags, and took a break to go dress shopping for her upcoming first communion. We really maximized our day together, spending our last hour at a local skee-ball, pizza party locale to celebrate my upcoming birthday. As mom and Layla waited for the bus to San Antonio, part of our team came bustling in for one last hug. The bus departed and those of us left returned to work after a very busy 24 hours. 

In the evenings at the house, you might see one of us occupying the ongoing scrabble game that started when I was at the novitiate and never seems to end, someone playing the guitar or ukuleles, someone taking advantage of the washing machine and doing laundry, or a happy soul enjoying a bowl of ice cream. We are pretty tired when we get home, but there is chatter for hours until the grand silence when people head to bed around 9pm, preparing for the noise to start again the next morning around 6am. 

Sharing a house has been a wonderful experience, especially participating in prayer each night, led by a different person each with their own style if giving thanks for the joys of the day, and centering ya in our purpose for being here. We’ve also discovered our rendition of Dona Nobis Pacem in parts and rounds could put us on the map if thus volunteering thing doesn’t wasn’t work out. 

As comfortable and grateful as we all are to have a lovely, safe place to sleep each night, the people we serve are never far from our thoughts, sleeping in tents on the ground, scared for their security amid the “disappearings” and gang activity not seen during the day. It is unsettling to think about the hardships they are experiencing, hoping for a better life, especially while we go about our evenings together. 

We are here for the anniversary of MPP  - the policy that made it legal to keeping people from specific countries out of the USA. 60,000 people have been excluded this way, in the hopes that they return to their country rather than live in the camps. Many families have left the camps, and more still have been deported after an unsuccessful asylum hearing. It has been reported that many of the people who return (voluntarily or not) are killed by the gangs they were fleeing. Bringing 60 families meals each day in a camp that has at least a thousand people is not enough. We as a people need to do more. 

Making a Better Life - Feb 23 2020

From guest contributer Sister Maco Cassetta

“Be doers of the word and not bearers only...  Those who peer into the perfect law of freedom and persevere, and are not hearers who forget but doers who act, such as they shall be blessed in what they do…  Care for orphans and widows in their affliction and keep oneself unstained by the world.” Saint James 1:19-27 

Since our arrival a few days ago, I was pleasantly surprised by this reading that came up in prayer on one of my days in McAllen, TX.  Yet, as one of the doers, the blessing received is the realization of my place of privilege since my situation is far from what I witnessed.  For one full day, eleven of us including a child in our midst (Lindsey's daughter and Libby’s niece, Layla) gathered at the Respite Center in McAllen as our completed team to be doers of action.  Some of us made our way to cross the border to support the families who are waiting in tents before being processed to cross over, while the remaining of us have helped feed and clothe the migrants who arrived at the center for support.  We have sorted clothes, packaged food and supplies, and made meals. Most importantly, we have been taking some time to be a presence, to play with the children and rock babies to sleep.

Many of the families that I have met to date come from Central America, the Congo, Brazil, and Haiti. I was even able to put my French to use to communicate with some of the families.  While all of us have come from different parts of North America, the “doers” and “blessed” are the men, women and children who have risked their lives to leave their homeland so they can begin anew.  I am reminded of my parents who left Venezuela, via Italy, with two babies, myself and my sister, to make our way to Canada for a better life.  In those days, migrants’ actions and desires were no different than what I witness today except it is more difficult to be accepted and encouraged to start anew.  Like then, it took courage to leave one’s homeland behind and risk displacement for the sake of many blessings.  As a nation of privilege, my hope is that we become more welcoming and encouraging without blocking migrants from their deep desires to act and make a better life for themselves…  

Return to the Border - Feb 17, 2020

This blog begins our next epic journey. This particular camino is to the southern tip of Texas, to meet the people who live in tents between the US and Mexico. Their temporary home is a make-shift camp, as they await their court date to see if they will be granted asylum. 

Last year, a group of us went to El Paso, at a time when 1000 people were being released  from US government custody each day. Our aim to help the travelers find their way to their sponsoring family members across the country. We spent the two weeks organizing which guests will stay in which room, (as the turnover was constant), who is headed to the airport at which time (and showing them the ins and outs of the airport terminals), and trying to meet the needs of the people who are waiting for their bus ride or flight (it could be days or even weeks). Last year was spent helping huge volumes of refugees and asylum seekers. 

This year, a 15 hour drive further south in Texas, the political landscape has changed, requiring asylum seekers to wait outside of the US for their court hearing. A team goes across the border into Mexico each day with basic food supplies in zip lock bags filled with: corn meal, beans, sugar, coffee, salt, oatmeal, and a water bottle refilled with cooking oil. 

The journey to the people begins an hour away, where the bags are prepared (filled from larger volumes of supplies). Then there is an hour's drive, parking near the border, filling 8 beach carts with 60 portions of each item, and then we wal. First we pass through a toll booth that requires exactly 4 quarters. Then we cross over a wall, the Rio Grande River, and a checkpoint into Mexico. After they inspect our goods, we cross a street that feels like a parking lot, filled with cars waiting to get into the US. 

Immediately you can see the tents in the distance. The tents are all covered with plastic bags, because the dust is constant. (I have a false tan, composed of dust). The outside temperature is in the 80's (in February), so I can only imagine how hot it is inside the tent and plastic covering. 

We walk then length of the camp to the opening, whose mouth seems to be a few city blocks away, then back that same distance to a known gathering space. Through all of the up and down slopes, we pull the hefty carts, filled with precious cargo. 

Children appear once we enter to encampment and help push the loads from the back, hoping we have chocolate milk with us (which sadly we didn’t). We pass latrines and clothes washing stations, clean water supplies and tents turned churches. There is a barber and a hair-dresser busy at work, their salon open to the sky, sitting on the concrete steps. There are tents everywhere. If you didn’t know better, you’d think this could be camp for the summer. Clothes hang on the line. Adobe stoves are made out of mud. There are piles of sticks nearby, fuel to the cook the food. And there are children - everywhere there are smiling faces, giggles, and eyes filled with curiosity. It seems the surprise of what might be in the carts is too exciting to miss. 

The camp has 4 distinct sides: concrete Mexican streets, the parking lot of cars headed to the US and on two sides the Rio Grande, with the wall and the US beyond. 

I have no more impressions to share as I was so overwhelmed by the familiarity of what could be a summer camp and yet the surreal-ness that this isn’t a fun vacation, it’s a semi-permanent home, where many people have been living in for over four months. 

I never felt unsafe, and wondered where these supposed ruffians (according to one side of the political spectrum) that we keep hearing about must be. I saw a very calm group of people, patiently waiting, trying to survive for their day in court. 

After distributing the food, one sweet six-year old girl launched herself into my arms, gave me a bear hug, removed my sunglasses to inspect the color of my eyes, and delicately replaced the glasses with precision. She smiled and ran off, leaving me  filled with a fantastic fuel for the walk back to the car and hour’s drive home.  

Today our team was 6 people, and tomorrow we grow by 3. We hope to bring you different impressions of our journey over the next two weeks. Via con Dios!