Juarez

I don't want you all to worry about my safety. As I have told many of you, El Paso is actually one of the safest cities in the United States, probably much safer than my neighborhood in Philadelphia. That being said, I did make a trip to Juarez last week just to see it. I had to. If Mexico were the great love of your life and Mexico were ten blocks from your doorstep, you would have to see it too. If you had come to the border to see and experience and soak up the reality of border life, you would have to see it too. And finally if you were living with a houseful of people whose lives were shaped and split by la frontera and you felt called to accompany them, you would have to see it too. I went with the house coordinator of our sister house and three other summer interns to go pay the water bill on the vacant property that Annunciation House still owns in Juarez. After a brief stop to pay the bill, we had lunch near the downtown plaza and then did a little bit of exploring.

It was absolutely incredible to me how different Juarez felt from El Paso. As soon as we crossed that bridge by foot and stepped onto the other side, it was clear that we were in another country. El Paso is almost Mexico, but Juarez is unquestionably the real thing. The sounds, the smells, the storefronts, the colors... I was under my content Mexico spell once again. The tacos de carnitas and agua de limon that I had for lunch were bursting with flavor and color, Mexico all wrapped up in a corn tortilla, doused with neon green cilantro salsa, sweetened with too much sugar. As we made our way down bustling streets, I stopped and purchased a bag of fresh potato chips covered in valentina salsa, soy sauce, and lime juice... so odd, so Mexican. There was stand after stand of identical shoes, miniature tank tops, and bedazzled jeans; the informal economy bloated with vendors of commercially made crap. Store owners cleaning their store fronts, tossing buckets of water to the sidewalks and sweeping the water (yes sweeping the water) to the street with quick strokes of the broom. Music blasting, people staring, sun beaming down hot on our necks, everything alive with potential.

It was clear to me that we were in Juarez, not Mexico City (my previous home), for two reasons: the heat and the prevalence of police and armed guards. I am not sure to which entity the men in uniform belonged- were they the federales? the army? the municipal police?- only a more experienced hand would know. Their presence was felt, however, and it was a clear reminder that for as light and musical as Juarez seemed, the reality of this war-torn city was much darker and more unpredictable. In only a few hours, I caught the smallest glimpse of the longing the juarenses must feel for their city to be restored to its former beauty, to its former freedom from the horrendous tyranny of the narcotraffickers.

One of the most interesting parts of my brief experience in Mexico was the actual border crossing itself. Crossing from El Paso to Juarez included no bells and whistles whatsoever; you pay fifty cents and simply walk across, sin documento ninguno. Crossing from Juarez to El Paso gave me much more of a sense of what it's like crossing the most secure border in the world. As US citizens, me and the others in our group had to proceed through a much, much shorter line in order to reenter our country. In fact, we breezed by a line of Mexican citizens which seemed to stretch three quarters of the length of the entire bridge. With long strides we zoomed to the front, uncomfortable by the curious, perhaps resentful glances in the non-moving right lane as we realized again the privilege inherent in our blue passports. The mid-day heat was stifling, people were shifting their weight, our minds wondered about the stories of those who were crossing. Many of the guests at our houses have come to "present" at the bridge, asking for political asylum and protection from the violence they're fleeing in Mexico. If you are granted permission to cross, you are then either detained or paroled by immigration. If they don't believe you, you are sent back to where you came from.

Once we arrived at the front of the line, an unexpected curve ball came our way. One of the other summer interns did not have her passport, just a birth certificate. She had lived in El Paso her whole life and had never crossed into Juarez before in 21 years. The official guarding the entrance did not mince his words in saying that no passport meant a trip to the back of the line. Hot and dehydrated, we filled up our water bottles and made the walk of shame back across the arching yellow bridge. I was in some ways relieved. This was solidarity. There should only be one line anyway. One long, sweaty, roller coaster ride line that led us all to the same place. Fortunately, the breeze was strong, the walkway was shaded, and the line moved along at surprising speed. We arrived in front again within 30 minutes and this time encountered a new official who ushered our native El Pasoan to the left. She made it through immigration before any of us. Turns out that it's all arbitrary, passport or no passport, punished or rewarded, it's up to the discretion of the border official to decide your fate. When I passed through immigration, I was under interrogation:

"What were you doing in Juarez today, miss?"

Oh, just exploring... (No. Stupid, Heather, stupid. What gringo goes "exploring" in Juarez these days?) I mean, we had to pay a water bill. I work for an organization and we had to pay a water bill for a property we own in Juarez.

"What organization?"

It's called Annunciation House.

"And what do you do there?"

Ummm, it's a migrant house. (Crap, I should have said homeless shelter. I AM talking to immigration after all).

"It looks like you've traveled quite a bit. Ecuador. Mozambique. What were you doing in Mozambique?"

I switch to Spanish hoping to somehow improve my credibility and begin to wonder if my reentry into the US hinges upon what I did in Mozambique five years ago. Eventually, I'm given permission to pass. Small beans compared to what is happening in the next room where the Mexican residents are waiting for their number to be called.