crossing the border

The light turned green and we pulled up to the gate. The border patrol guard looked in and before he had asked a single question, Emily quickly said, "U.S." I on the other hand looked at the guard, smiled and simply said, "hello." I thought it a polite thing to at least offer a greeting. He immediately smiled and with what sounded like more of a statement than a question said, "You've never crossed the border." I proceeded to explain that I had indeed crossed the border many times, but that it had been a few years. The guard responded, "Oh, she just didn't train you." He checked my ID, asked a few questions and sent us on our way. It was one of those moments where I realized just how naive I really am.

Maybe you're like me, a bit naive to what happens on the border. For instance, did you know that the city of Juarez Mexico, just across the border from El Paso, TX, "draws tens of thousands of young women from small, poor towns to take $55-a-week jobs in assembly plants, known as maquiladoras, operated by some of the wealthiest corporations in the world -- companies like General Electric, Alcoa, and DuPont," or that "more than 60 percent of maquiladora workers are women and girls, many as young as 13 or 14" (Mother Jones, June 2002). Well, I didn't know either until just this week.

On Tuesday we drove down the strip on the east side of Ciudad Juarez where many of the maquiladoras are located. As I looked out the window there were entire villages of row houses that have been built by these same corporations as housing for factory workers. There was something so sterile looking about these neighborhoods that I felt a bit uneasy as we drove by. I was trying to make sense of what they looked like and how they made me feel when I said, "They kind of look like..." and Alex finished my sentence with, "concentration camps?" He was right, there were no other words sufficient to describe what I saw. But since much of the housing in Juarez begins as squatter settlements (makeshift structures, no utilities, etc...), the newer colonias for factory workers seem to be a pretty nice option. In fact they'll even take your rent right out of your paycheck. That way, if you are a family who finds their work at the maquiladoras, you can live close to the factory (which alleviates the corporations from having to provide transportation for factory workers), live in a relatively safe and stable structure (which you will never own, but will provide your already wealthy employer with yet another revenue stream) and have your rent automatically deducted from your paycheck (which leaves your family with about $8 a week to live on)! How convenient!

I met a family this morning who recently worked in the maquiladoras but have since left to be the host family at an orphanage that one of the churches we partner with in Juarez is trying to open. We were all there to help Lupe (the maintenance worker and worship leader at the church) and his family move from the orphanage where they had been temporarily staying to their new home (which is a small addition attached to the church that Lupe is actually still working on). Even though I do not speak any Spanish and was therefore unable to communicate but through Emily and Alex, I was still humbled by the generous and joyful hospitality shown by this family. As soon as we arrived, they immediately sat us down for huevos and frijoles with fresh made tortillas and probably the hottest little peppers that I have ever eaten! They laughed with us gringos and we cautiously ate peppers that would be considered a staple at most of their meals.

After breakfast, we packed up the back of Alex's pickup truck with their belongings and made our way down the street. As I helped unload the contents of the truck into Lupe's new home, a single semi-divided room made of cement block and stucco, probably 250 square feet and still without any utilities, I wondered how on earth a family of five was going to live in this little room that barely fit the length of the bed we were carrying in. As I tried to wrap my head around the idea, I looked over and saw Lupe sweeping and moving construction materials to make room for us to unload. Immediately I knew that I had allowed my heart to rob dignity from this gentle, humble man who was making a new home for his family.

It is a strange thing to feel pity and then realize that even your pity is comprised of arrogance. But maybe that is a step toward compassion. Maybe it is a simple grace to have my naivete exposed and my arrogance revealed. Maybe all of the questions that have flooded my mind these past few days is yet another step in the journey toward knowing God's heart for the poor and oppressed. Maybe I am the one that's poor... who knows. One thing I do know is that each time I cross the border, something happens in my heart that will not allow me to return the same.