IMPORTANT NOTICE! The following story contains an intense account of sexual assault and violence. This may be triggering and extremely emotional. If you decide to read on please treat this with the utmost of respect and care.
I walked into the ‘comedor’ (the hall where free meals are served to deportees and migrants) and prepared to give my small introduction to the group and let them all know that I would be documenting stories of abuse and separation from anyone who wanted their story shared. Before I could even introduce myself one of the long-term volunteers who knew me asked if I could set some time aside to speak with a woman named Lorena (name changed for her protection). After Lorena ate, her and her mother-in-law Guadalupe (name changed as well) cautiously approached me. Lorena is 21 years old and Gloria 59. The family (Lorena, her husband, nephew, uncle, mother-in-law and father-in-law) had all crossed the desert together into the US after being deported from their homes in Los Angeles, California. Lorena was crossing in an attempt to return to her US citizen, 1-year-old son who had stayed with a relative when the family was uprooted and sent away to a city they did not know. Lorena is currently pregnant. Our time together was short because the whole family was getting on a bus to Tijuana to search for other deported relatives and to devise a plan to get their child back.
When they were caught in the desert by Border Patrol agents after days of treacherous hiking the male agents wasted no time in promptly took off the women’s jackets to feel them up and down. Lorena was then hit in the stomach with the fist of a Border Patrol agent who she described as a tall, white, bald man who is on the heavier end physically. “Yo no se si sabia.” Through tears Lorena questioned if he knew she was pregnant or not. (She has a thin build and her pregnancy is obviously showing.) Since the incident she has since been going through severe physical pain alongside unspeakable psychological trauma. She was so traumatized that each word that came out of her mouth seemed like a huge accomplishment in of itself. She was shaking and jittery the entire time. She was walking slowly and it was abundantly clear that she was scarred physically, emotionally and mentally. She bravely chose for this testament to be heard, but is terrified of the possibility of the agent finding out that she ever told anyone. I felt invasive and wanted her to only share what she was able to. She decided to continue on and both of them made sure we knew exactly what type of torturous conditions they had survived.
The Border Patrol agents then threw their food, water, and hygienic products into the desert. They were not given any water and once they had been placed in detention they were given nothing but crackers to eat until the next day when they were transferred. No medical attention was given for Lorena who was in urgent need of care for her and her baby. The detention facilities were freezing cold and while they were held captive and shivering they were not informed of their legal rights and were forced to sign documents that they did not understand. They also witnessed a man get thrown into a wall and attacked by officials while they were in detention which augmented their fear and trauma. Lorena was finally deported alone and left hanging on to life by a thread to somehow find her loved ones later in Nogales, Sonora. With the help of others who were in similar crises themselves she did.
I cannot describe even a portion of the feelings that came over me as I sat with Lorena. She reminds me of a close friend of mine from my hometown. That is all I can say. Any attempt here for me to try to give some well-worded response to sexual assault on the border would be a slap in the face to her. I feel it would be disgustingly inappropriate for me to try to tie together a theory about how the border allows those in uniforms and those not to sexually assault our people in their most vulnerable moments. I refuse to throw around any academic analysis around as if it matters. It doesn’t. All that matters is the love and rage of our people. All that matters is solidarity.
As I walked through customs that evening entering back into the US I could hardly contain myself. I felt a deep sorrow for this stolen indigenous land (Tohono O’odham) which is being desecrated by this violence, and a boiling anger at the ugly legacy I was born into. “Are you bringing anything back with you from Mexico today sir?” The agent inquired. “Yes I am. I’m bringing the stories of the people you beat, assault, and kill. I’m carrying the heavy testimony of a survivor of your inhumanity. I’m bringing the worthy rage and fury of the displaced. I’m bringing the love, smiles, and hugs of my ‘compas’.”
I paused and took a deep breath, biting my tongue for future moments of action and instead only answered, “No I am not.”
