ESTA ES SU CASA--AUGUST 2014: THE BORDER CRISIS
DOUBLE CROSS
Remember, I’ll be in St. Louis September 17 to October 15. Will I see you?
Well, they didn’t make it. Last month I sweat blood telling the anguished tale of Eduard, Freddy, and Rafael’s attempt to get to the United States. They only got as far as Veracruz, a port city snug in the lower curve of the map of Mexico. ‘Veracruz’ means ‘the true cross.’ More like a double cross, perhaps, when the police noticed them lingering in the bus station too long to be “locals.” So when they finally boarded, the police got on, too. They fingered Rafael and Freddy right away, then they just waited till the coyote finally stood up and nudged Eduard: “We better go, too.” With the little group no longer intact, any further progress was impossible.
They spent five days in jail, apparently treated well enough, and never fully fingerprinted or registered, so another try will not be a “second offense,” I guess. The Mexican government runs buses all the way back, through Guatemala, to the Honduran border, a trip of at least fourteen hours. From there it’s a short jump to San Pedro Sula, where Fermin was waiting for them. I wish I could have eyewitnessed the re-union, but I think we can all picture it pretty well. I went to Morazan a few days later, to see them; Rafael and Freddy are ready for another go, and soon. Arlin, Freddy’s wife, tearfully explained Freddy’s “logic”: he can more quickly pay off the $2000 he lost in the aborted attempt if he gets work in the States right away. And the $4000 after a second failure?
So let’s talk about the border. People are asking me for my thoughts and perspective about the current crisis, involving tens of thousands of children “flooding” into the United States. I usually don’t talk “politics” in the CASA, because you can get that on the news. I tell the stories you will never hear about folks that will never be in the news. But this is so big, I will try to offer some insight.
First of all, the United States has treated Central America like its back yard for a couple hundred years. “Banana republics” are very convenient when you don’t want any competition. How come you like a Japanese car but there’s never been a Honduran auto industry? The USA has hollowed out Honduras’ economy for years with cheap exports like bananas, wood, cement (!), not to mention the ‘maquilas,’ or sweatshops.
Second, when Hurricane Mitch in 1998 chased thousands of, yes, refugees to the States, many fell into the webs of gangs when they couldn’t find work; they brought those “talents” back to Honduras when they were deported and have been a growing plague ever since.
But, third, nothing prospered the gangs like the drug cartels, who used their ready-made organization to ply their trade. When air routes for drug transfers were successfully interdicted, land routes multiplied and Honduras became the fulcrum for South America’s supply and North America’s demand, corrupting every level of Honduran society, the law, the courts, the government, the police, the military, everything. Thus, Honduras became the bloodiest country on the planet. It’s trendy to say “meat is murder,” in defense of vegetarianism; a little less popular, but much truer, would be “marijuana is murder.” In fact, the Honduran President Juan Orlando Hernandez reminded President Obama that the “root of the immigration problem” is the gringo drug habit. (Of course, JOH, as he’s known here, is thoroughly corrupt himself!)
[Update: the mayor of Yoro City was just arrested for drug trafficking, including 137 murders, dozens of rapes, land thefts, etc.; they’re expropriating at least 9 mansions, luxury automobiles, a carnival of exotic animals, including 250 fighting roosters valued at $2000 apiece. I’ll take your bets on his successful prosecution....]
So the word went out, some months ago, that children, or women with small children, would be “welcome” at the border. Was this some “code” from Obama to his sleeper cells, or was it opportunistic coyotes promising the moon, or sheer desperation? In last month’s CASA, I compared it to victims fleeing a burning building, and I see that metaphor everywhere now.
And speaking of metaphors, how about “The Beast”! The freight trains that immigrants “board” for a ride through hell. One of my neighbors fell into the rails and was ground up a few years ago. In recent months, at least 6 trains have jumped the poorly maintained tracks, gobbling up dozens more souls as the whole train falls on top of them. Mexico recently budgeted to improve the tracks, so they can SPEED UP the trains, so people won’t be able to catch up to them and jump on to them. Yeah, that’ll work. And the gangs that “monitor” the trains; they’ll throw you off if you don’t satisfy their demands for money or sex or you name it immediately.
I am as mystified as anyone, but I think it's a combination of a long build-up from this side of anxiety and despair and some hint of hope from the other side that NOW is the time. And so it has exploded into this mess. I think this article (sent by a dear friend in St. Louis) says it best: what "changed" was, the "immigrants" became "refugees." And I must note that Chemo’s brother Marcos and his girlfriend live in the “Nueva Suyapa” featured in the article. If you have tears, prepare to shed them now.
I have to say, the IQ of the average commentator seems to be cut in half when they approach this issue, saying the most hateful things about us here in Honduras, where people have allowed me to share their life in prayer and sharing. Of course, there are criminals and time-servers and hijackers sneaking in with the crowds; I’m not talking about them. But when you’re a poor, wayfaring stranger crossing Mexico, it can seem a million miles, and we forget that Honduras really is very close to “America,” just around the corner, you might say. So the differences in wealth and poverty seem inexcusable.
Friends like you all, who have a heart for the poor, ask, What can we do? Well, with your help, I could just try to make things a teensy more “equal” here, if you want to save some people whose names and faces, from these CASA’s, you actually know.
Love, Miguel
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