Well before dawn at 4:30 a.m., Chrysti and I met at the Humane Borders truck yard, loaded our gear for the day into the water truck, checked the tires, gas gauge and water tank levels, climbed into the truck and headed out to US 286 toward the border. We had the roads pretty much to ourselves. No surprise—hardly anyone else was out and about at that hour, neither sun nor moon. We tried to shake the grogginess from our minds by drinking coffee and craning our necks at the passing landscape. But we can’t help but think about the day ahead—searching for migrants seeking asylum but miles from the port of entry. Chrysti and I are what have become known as OWLS, but proud of it—Old White Liberals. We never tied up our white horses.

We drive in silence the 90 miles to Sásabe, Arizona, the official port of entry along the border with Mexico. What was once an active crossing has been impacted by a cartel war for control, burning out residents on the Mexican side and turning it into a ghost town, making any ventures across the border into town too hazardous for us to consider. Even our migrant resource center, Casa de la Esperanza, has been closed belying its name of “house of hope.” In truth, hope has all but disappeared from Sásabe, Sonora. There’s plenty of reason to fear there, but no one will hear it. Only a pack of loose dogs remain.

Before we enter the companion small U.S. border town of Sásabe, Arizona, we turn east at the school and head out on rough dirt roads to follow the wall road fifteen miles to Andy’s Camp. Andy is from Vermont, a school teacher and unique humanitarian. Tall, lanky, reddish hair and an adorable little dog, Andy single-handedly built a rough camp for asylum seekers last October fifteen miles east of the official port of entry. He felt compelled to do this because the Biden administration is sealing the wall gaps that have existed since Trump “finished” the wall. These gaps were located where ephemeral streams cross the border and pose flooding hazards so forceful during the monsoon season of July and August that they can take out wall bollards no matter how deeply they’re anchored. Flood gates have been installed in these sections now, and the Border Patrol says that during the rains they will drive out and open the gates. In reality, we’ll see if Border Patrol can even get out there on the muddy roads to accomplish this simple task. We’ve been stuck out there ourselves during gentle rains in soil so “gumbo” that nothing moves except sideways.

As a result of these sealed gaps, and the war of attrition between the cartels in Sásabe, asylum seekers are now dropped off at the east end of the wall, twenty miles from the port of entry. The mountainous terrain is so severe that even Trump’s engineers couldn’t build the wall through this area of the Coronado National Forest. At the end of the wall, someone has written on the very last bollard: “La Migra Ya Llevar Los Aqui. Buena Suerte.” (Border Patrol is ready to pick them up here. Good luck.) The only barricade past this point are the Normandy Beach-style crossed railroad track sections in crosses like a jack fence. They provide no obstacle to crossing into the U.S.

Across the way in Mexico, I can see a makeshift camp under mesquite trees where migrants shelter before walking across the international boundary. For them, this is a thankful short stroll after months of horrific travels and experiences that will be left unsaid, but nevertheless seared on their souls for eternity. A lone lookout stands silhouetted in the shade atop a hill farther south, watching and waiting.

But getting dropped off here by “coyotes” is just another step in their journey of misery. The border wall road in this part of Arizona is anything but flat. Describing it as a roller coaster doesn’t begin to convey how steep this road is and how many peaks and valleys must be negotiated over the next 20 miles to reach the official port of entry where refugees hope to apply for asylum. And that’s why we are here. We drive out early in the morning, looking for migrants who have had to spend the night out at the end of the wall with little shelter, food, water or belongings.

As we drive past Andy’s camp toward the end of the wall, we call out and search the arroyos north of the wall. And then we see them. A large group of women, young boys, and mere children are sitting beside the road, catatonic and exhausted. We stop, pass around bottles of water, granola bars, cookies and chips. They seem relieved and are grateful for the kindness and water.

But then we see more coming. Plodding, they stagger up the steep hill, laboring under the weight of daypacks, blankets to ward off the chill of night, breathing hard and stopping often. I can make out two teenaged boys, a younger girl, and a mom—carrying a small baby wrapped in a blanket. The “merchants of doubt” want you to question their intentions, their veracity, their sincerity, and would have you believe they are criminals, less than human, murderers, rapists. But they were all too human in an inhumane landscape on the Arizona border.

Even though it wasn’t yet 7:00 a.m., it is already warm—in the 80s. Cerulean sky, footnoted with a dusty horizon, presaging what will be another hot day. This family had been dropped off by their “coyotes” at the end of the wall in the Coronado National Forest near Sycamore Canyon the day before. Too tired to proceed in the dark, they tell us, they camped at the wall’s end. Spending the night, exposed, they warded off the chill with the clothes on their backs and with fires built from cholla cactus, mesquite branches and cow pies. Since dawn, they had been walking the roller coaster road west, looking for anyone to whom they could turn themselves in for an asylum request.

I quickly walk down from the top of the road to meet them and help carry some of their belongings to where the rest of the group is waiting. Now, we had a total of thirty-four people huddled along the Roosevelt Reservation (the 60-foot section north of the Wall that is Federal property in each border state) waiting for the Border Patrol. We pass out bottles of soap bubbles for the youngest kids so they could find a bit of joy in finally finding safety. The irony of the image—young children on the border, blowing bubbles that ephemerally drift into the air and disappear into thin air like the lies about who they are.

Doctors Without Borders (Médicos Sin Fronteras) has been invited to join us today at the border to assess what has been developing as a humanitarian crisis on Arizona’s border. Typically, Doctors Without Borders are known for services in war zones and at some of the most horrific humanitarian crisis spots around the globe. Their presence here in Arizona is a sign that even a developed, modern country like the U.S. can require a medical response to human suffering. Not only are hundreds of refugees showing up where the wall ends, but they have also had to dodge the cartel violence raging in northern Sonoran between factions of the Sinaloa syndicate. Along the way, they are victimized by “coyotes” and even from rival cartel members who see migrants as easy marks. They take everything from them—hidden money, food, phones, medications, baby formula, anything of any value. The nursing mother is no longer able to nurse her baby because of dehydration, and she was robbed of a meager supply of formula that she carried. Lack of water meant that even if she had any formula, she could not mix it.

Thankfully, Doctors Without Borders has a couple of trained doctors who can assist and assess the health of each of the migrants we have encountered. Belen, the lead doctor, does a quick check of the baby who she judges to be okay although pale and not very responsive. Both the mother and baby need water and food. So do so many of the others. Andy’s van is packed with supplies that are quickly passed around. We have more in our vehicle too. No reason to save anything back. These people are in great need.

We are far beyond any cell reception, but thankfully Andy’s van has internet, so we use that to call the Border Patrol and tell them where we are and that they need to come and pick up this group of people. Grudgingly, they agree to come out with several vehicles to transport all of the refugees to the port of entry. In our experience, the response of individual agents varies each time—some supportive of what we do while others resentful and berate us for even being there.

Meanwhile, the mother dandles a small child on her knee while the mother with a baby keeps it shrouded in a blanket to protect her from the sun’s heat and rays. Most of the rest wait atop a berm near the road, too exhausted to move. Belen and the others from Doctors Without Borders tell them in Spanish what is likely to happen next and how best to make their case for asylum.  What is “credible fear” anyway?

After about 30 minutes, seven Border Patrol vehicles begin to show up on the roller coaster road headed in our direction, raising dust along the way. When the two vans and five pickup trucks arrive, Agent M. Lord is the first to emerge, shouting: “Who are you people, and what are you doing here?” He is obviously speaking to us since he is looking directly at us and not speaking in Spanish. I step forward, pulling at my shirt and say: ”Humane Borders. We are here to help.” He is in an angry mood and scowls back at us. “You are trespassing on Federal land, and you need to leave immediately or you will be arrested. You cannot stop anywhere on this road and doing so is a Federal offense.” The other agents just stand around, waiting for orders.

Belen steps up: “We’re not leaving until we make sure these refugees are treated kindly and given transport in your vehicles to the port of entry in Sásabe.”

“You cannot be within 60 feet of the wall, or you can be arrested. This is the Roosevelt Reservation and is Federal property,” Agent Lord barks out again. It’s a standoff, but we are not leaving until we see all the migrants placed in vehicles and the Border Patrol departs.

“I can arrest you for trespassing,” Agent Lord growls. I step forward. “Then arrest me,” I say. He ignores me and instead directs the other agents to begin to assemble groups of people and assign them to various vehicles. We stand there and watch. In just a few minutes, everyone is placed in a green and white vehicle, and only when they begin to pull out do we approach our vehicles and get inside to leave.

But rather than head the same direction they are going, we drive back east to the end of the wall to see if there are others who are walking along the road. We find no one and so head back to Andy’s camp.

We talk briefly about the incident, pleased that everyone was transported to the port of entry without having to walk in the heat of the day for such a long distance. But we reflect on how dire this situation is on a daily basis. If they stay home, they die. If they try to come to the U.S., they may die. Along the way they are exploited, robbed, raped, abused, and misled. Without medications, like insulin, epilepsy drugs, hypertension pills, baby formula, antiseizure drugs and others, this could be a medical crisis compounded by heat and dehydration.

In addition to fears about violence, extortion, rape and incarceration, many of these refugees are fleeing an untenable economic situation aggravated by climate change. Lack of rains, extreme heat, unpredictable weather patterns have negatively impacted agriculture in many regions of the world. Ironically, during the debate over global climate change in the 1980s, the “merchants of doubt” like William Nierenberg suggested that migration might be the answer to climate catastrophes. He maintained that while some areas of the world might become uninhabitable, this could be addressed through migration. They explained that people had often migrated in the past, and when they did, they often had to adapt to new climates. “Not only have people migrated, but they have taken with them their horses, dogs, children, technologies, crops, livestock, and hobbies. It is extraordinary how adaptable people can be.”^[1] Apparently, he never thought about it long enough to ponder where these people might migrate to.

The fact is that historical mass migrations had been accompanied by massive suffering, and typically people moved under duress and threat of violence—just like what is happening now. The suggestion that migration is benign flies in the face of historical evidence.^[2] Belen continually stressed this when she spoke to the Border Patrol agents: “Migration is not fun. These people are hurting, scared and traumatized.”

We live in an information hall of mirrors where we can’t see a clear image of reality, an environment that is all sail and no anchor. National immigration policy tacks and changes course, but we are constantly adrift on a sea of confusion not unlike asylum seekers who land on our shores without knowing the current rules or restrictions. Congress can’t pass meaningful immigration reform, or promising compromises are undermined in order to keep immigration a politically volatile issue. President Biden frequently issues new and confusing restrictions or mandates. And there it sits—a $5 billion wall that is ineffective at keeping anyone but wildlife from coming into the country.