By John Heid
“What did you go out to the desert to see? A reed swayed by the wind? Then what did you go out to see? Someone dressed in fine clothing? Those who wear fine clothing are in royal palaces. Then why did you go out? To see a prophet? Yes, I tell you, and more than a prophet.” Mt. 11: 7-9
The three of us had been hiking since breakfast. It was now midday and the August heat was bearing down full force. We were exploring and mapping migrant trails in preparation for future water drops-offs. The relentless Sonoran sun soaks the body and dries the throat at the same time. I was overdue for a break as we descended into Bartolo canyon.
The spiral trail took us down into a sheltered wash. As my eyes adjusted to the shade, my mouth opened wide. Was this a mirage? Was I in a cathedral or the middle of the Sonoran desert? Ahead in nooks and crevices along the canyon wall were holy card pictures of saints alongside family photos peering out at me. A large Virgen De Guadalupe cloth hung prominently on the side of a boulder. Scattered about were food tins, most empty, some unopened. Clothing and crushed water bottles covered the rocky ground. Small statues of saints with pesos and pennies at their feet were lying on ledges. A rock altar with rosaries and used votive candles was centrally located.
In the muggy stillness we realized one candle was still burning. Had we interrupted someone’s vigil? What pilgrims had just passed through? I put down my pack, removed my hat and entered into prayer. What else does on do on holy ground?
“Migrant shrines” like the one we encountered dot the desert like way stations on a modern Via Dolorosa. Like the saguaro cactus these shrines embody the character of the contemporary Sonoran desert along the U.S./Mexican border.
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The desert is the locus of wonder. Triple rainbows. Wrap-around-the-horizon sunsets. Midnight coyote serenades. Four a.m. dawn chorus from a choir of unseen birds. Clouds of butterflies. Monsoon showers that soften the arid, leathery terrain into a lush green carpet. It is no wonder that prophets and prophetesses sought the Sacred in these environs. The margins. The wilderness.
The desert is also the locus of pathos, brutality and death. The fragile terrain is lethal. The tiny luminescent scorpions pack the meanest bite. Radiant cactus flowers are protected by fish hook spines. In minutes dry washes become raging rivers. Trails can seem like a gauntlet of needles and thorns. And the heat. Always the heat. The desert floor reaches 140 degrees at midsummer.
None of these natural features of the Sonoran haunt me as much as the sight of a child’s footprints in a muddy wash or a toddler’s discarded clothing along a migrant trail; or family photos strewn beneath a mesquite bush. Or half-filled bottles of filthy cattle tank water which kill our sisters and brothers in transit.
How can we blame the desert for these deaths? The autopsies of the thousands of migrant workers whose remains have been found in the desert over the past decade and a half say “exposure” or “coronary failure”. While the medical diagnosis may be accurate, the real cause of death is not the heart failure of migrants, but ours. In the deserts of the southwest the soul of our nation is dehydrating, atrophying and dying.
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Shortly before leaving the desert, I visited a shrine dedicated to Josseline Jamileth Hernandez Quniteros. Beside a brook which flows year round this 14 year old El Salvadoran girl’s remains were found in mid February. She was unable to keep up with her companions en route north and was left behind. Weeks of search and rescue efforts had failed to find her.
Central to the shrine is a chalk white cross with a plaque that reads: “Cuando sientes que el camino se te ha vuelfo duro y dificil, no te des por vencido y sigue adelante, y busca la ayuda de Dios. Te llevaremos siempre en el Corazon.” [“When you feel the way has become hard and difficult, don’t give up but move forward and you will find God’s help. We will carry you in our heart always.”]
The site of Josseline’s shrine seems so antithetical to the grim reality of a vibrant young girl’s life cut so brutally short there. Bird song filled the air. The sweet fragrance of gardenia wafted like incense from the shrine. Serenity presided. Sacred ground. I felt oddly at peace. Grieving lead to clarity. A Mother Jones remark came to mind. “Pray for the dead and fight like hell for the living.”
At this shrine I came to recognize that it was time for me to leave the desert. Josseline’s path on earth, not mine, ended beside this clear running stream. While it is critically important to place food and water in the desert for our brothers and sisters in
migration, it is absolutely necessary that we
seek and address the cause of this migration beyond the desert. How long does one carry gallons of water (each weighing 8 lbs.) deep into the desert before one asks why there are people in the desert in the first place?
Somewhere deep in the Sonoran a candle burns. A light of hope. Can we find that same light in our hearts and by its flicker recognize that all our paths are woven into one?