I am not an expert. I am a United States citizen, a Utah resident, a chaplain and a follower of Jesus. I write today from my perspective as a witness.
This past week, I traveled to the southern border with six of my fellow theology students. Our “border pilgrimage” was the experiential portion of a graduate course called “The Theology of Migration.”
The timing of our pilgrimage, just two days after the CBP One app was shut down, was significant.
In line at the San Ysidro port of entry for clearance to walk across the border from the U.S. into Mexico, an email alert dinged on my watch: “Dear Granite District Families,” it read. “We learned earlier this week that President Trump signed an executive order allowing U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) and Customs and Border Protection (CBP) to conduct enforcement actions in locations previously designated as “sensitive areas,” including schools, churches, and hospitals ...”
The sound of the rubber stamp pressed on my passport by the border patrol officer echoed through the large chamber, startling me.
An hour later, we stood on the Tijuana side of the border. There was no chaos or lawlessness. The atmosphere was heavy. Somber. Small groups of people sat on the curb and on park benches in the open area.
We spoke to a multigenerational family of seven from Cuba who sat with bowed heads at a round cement table. They had an appointment on the CBP One app for Jan. 21, and had waited for nearly 11 months for this day. They had arrived in Tijuana on Tuesday to discover the appointment was cancelled and the app was shut down. They cannot go back to Cuba. They cannot enter the U.S.
“We don’t know where to go.”
My heart is broken as a witness.
We drove three hours east to Mexicali the next morning, where we visited the Posada del Migrante Shelter. Families fleeing their countries apply for an immigration hearing and wait in this shelter, sometimes for many months, to be called for an interview for legal admittance into the U.S. Two immigration attorneys from San Diego joined us, volunteering their time to address the current situation with anxious families.
While the adults met with the attorneys, I went to the makeshift classroom with the children. We drew pictures of flowers, hearts and butterflies. I played Connect Four with 8-year-old Isaiah for nearly an hour, using only the language of love to communicate. Outside in the small courtyard, mothers wept. The news was grim. Their agony was palpable and the children were quiet and aware.
I walked outside with 12-year-old Cami, who is four weeks older than my youngest daughter.
“Are you alone here?” I asked on Google translate.
“No, I’m with my mom.,” she said. “She’s right here.”
A small woman in jeans and a Mickey Mouse t-shirt came over. She was trembling and tearful.
“I’m Danielle,” she told me over Google translate.
She and her daughter have been in the shelter for four months. She doesn’t know where her older two children are. Her home was raided by cartels and they had to flee. They can’t return, and they can no longer enter the US. She sobbed. I stroked her hair. Camile watched silently.
“I’m so sorry for your suffering,” I said.
“Not all Americans are bad,” she said quietly.
I nodded, sighing.
“And,” she said, “not all Mexicans are bad.”
I left the shelter a few hours later as Danielle and Cami stood inside the locked gate, watching me, their hands forming hearts. I will never see them again.
My heart is broken as a witness.
I witnessed a young girl, separated from her family and living in an orphanage, playing with a Barbie house. What does “playing house” look like for a migrant child with no home?
I witnessed a room in a Tijuana shelter where 70 families sleep in poor conditions. Lice. Bedbugs. One family per bed. No privacy. The smell of urine. More, many more, are expected. They have nowhere else to go.
On Sunday, I participated in a non-denominational church service known as “Border Church.” The Episcopal priest conducting the service invited us to touch the wall. “Consider it an altar,” she said. “Here at the border, may we promise to live out the mission of Jesus as he proclaimed in Luke 4:18:”
“The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to bring good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind, to let the oppressed go free . . .”
I touched the wall. My heart is broken as a witness.
(Jenny Richards) Jenny Richards is currently finishing a graduate degree in theological studies from the Franciscan School of Theology at the University of San Diego, and began work as a chaplain at St. Mark’s Hospital in September.
Jenny Richards lives in Salt Lake City with her husband and four children. She is currently finishing a graduate degree in theological studies from the Franciscan School of Theology at the University of San Diego, and began work as a chaplain at St. Mark’s Hospital in September.
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