The Things They Carried

One of the most powerful experiences of our border immersion trip for me was the afternoon we spent walking in the desert with the guys from CREEDA. CREEDA is a residential drug and alcohol rehabilitation center in Agua Prieta, Sonora based on the model of Alcoholics Anonymous. A major part of their program is doing community service, in order to help build self-esteem of addicts, and get them reconnected with the community in a productive way.
One of the ways in which CREEDA clients serve is by trucking water to tanks along the Mexican side of the border in areas where there have been high numbers of deaths due to dehydration. The city of Agua Prieta pays for the water, and ranchers with border lots grant permission for the tanks to be placed on their land. We were advised not to drink the water from the tank. At first I thought the concern was that if all 11 of the people in our group drank just a half liter of water, there would be little left for those who really need it. Then it was explained that the water is not filtered, and it would likely make us sick. The water isn't "clean," but it is wet, and it can mean the difference between life and death for many migrants.

Rising from the center of this tree, barely visible, is a faded and tattered flag
indicating the presence of a water tank.

The men who walked with us through the desert confessed that they had crossed mojado. Wet. In a place of so little water, they walked from one country to another and they came out wet. Many of them not only crossed the border themselves but for a time worked as polleros, coyotes, smugglers. They knew the most common paths, the best hiding places, the greatest dangers. They pointed out discarded tuna cans and extinguished fires, and some of them knew how long it had been since someone had passed.
As we walked, even our inexperienced eyes noticed things on the ground. Discarded objects. Dropped objects. Unnecessary things. Sometimes it was clear what made their owner leave them there on the ground--a tin can emptied of food, a bottle drained of water. Sometimes it wasn't even clear what made someone bring them there in the first place--a pot of hair gel, a metal spoon. Each object told a story in a language of hopelessness I will probably never learn to speak, or to hear. I cannot tell you their stories. I barely begin to tell you my own. I can only hope they might speak themselves.