The wall of shame

by fernanda saavedra (Mexico)

A leap into the unknown Mexico

“Families need to stay together,” I thought as I looked around me and breathed the crisp air, I remember thinking how beautiful it was. It smelled like the beach and the soil was moist, it was a misty gray day. I almost couldn’t believe there was so much controversy surrounding this place. The activists were wearing rain ponchos while quietly listening to the volunteer explain; they had a gloomy look on their faces. There was a friendly dog walking around looking for a happier face; he was soaked from the rain. In the midst of a migration crisis, I went to work as an interpreter for the civil organizations that were attempting to come up with a solution for the current political situation in the United States-Mexico border. The heartbreak was palpable. Hearing the stories of despair, hopelessness and pain. It was impossible not to let it seep into you, believe me; I tried. “Here”, Norma said, “In this ribbon, you may write a feeling for the migrants who are asking for asylum, we are having a ceremony to honor them,” she said as I took the white cempasuchil flower I was handed. There was a carved watermelon where the flowers were placed to make the offering. You could feel the migrants’ pain creeping in your skin and moving inside your veins. You could see it coming out as they told the story, monsters, bats, and rats escaping their mouths. I saw them in agonizing detail, walking around growling and stumbling. They were on the walls, they looked hungry and rabid. It was chilling. The speakers’ face revealed a release, their shoulders widened, and a load was lifted; it went on and rested on those who were listening in astonishment. Their mouths dropped, their faces turned grim, the darkness was nearly tangible. Seeing Trump’s “wall of shame” up close was just as disturbing and unsettling. The wall goes straight into the beach as if trying to separate the water in the ocean, to control it, to keep it from crossing the border. This idea makes as much sense as the Friendship Park dynamic. A giant steel fence divides the US/Mexico sides of the binational park. Here, migrants get to see their families on a restricted schedule during the weekend. This is where we tied our ribbons, I wrote Fuerza y Amor on mine. The fence is filled with color. Murals, texts, drawings. Art knows no boundaries. Art doesn’t stop at customs. Behind this steel fence, there is another aluminum wall, it has small holes in it (around 2 in in diameter), and this is not all. Behind this aluminum wall, there is a cyclonic mesh. The kind to keep animals from escaping their farms. The rust corrodes into their hearts, leaving its red dust everywhere, breaking their hearts along with their families. Many names are written on the fence. Most likely of the dead. In the port of entry, another volunteer explained how neither the US nor the Mexican government are taking responsibility for the asylum-seeking process. They pass blame like siblings not wanting anyone to know who’s guilty of mischief. The “official list”? A lousy notebook and the post-it they hand you. This list isn’t even recognized by either government. Its sole existence is illegal, and both governments deny it exists. But how do the list-handlers know when to send the next person in line? The “official announcements”? A ripped piece of paper with your number written on it with a marker, it is taped to a fence near the entrance. It’s disheartening, this worthless piece of paper writes the destiny and doom of so many. Advancing one number in the list costs you up to 1500 dollars, and the waiting times are several months. Only around 15 numbers were called in 2019. 9000 names are written on this list. “Borders are imaginary; we are from where we stand at the moment” “Borders are social constructs”, “migrating is a human need”, “migrating is in our nature”. I heard this all weekend. It makes perfect sense.