"Why does this country hate us so much?"

When we moved here six years ago, I had a newborn and a toddler. I was blessed to be in the position of not needing to work right away, so I took some time to stay home with the kids. I put my toddler in preschool two mornings a week to give baby and I some one-on-one time. One of those mornings when baby was about nine months old, I was browsing the internet and saw an article about the "No Tolerance" policy being enacted on the border.

According to the article, Border Patrol was taking children away from their biological parents at the border. Tearing children out of their mother's arms. These boys and girls were then being put into crowded "shelters" in spaces that were not meant to house anyone, let alone small children. The article stated that the youngest child taken was only five months old.

As I gazed down at my own baby sleeping peacefully in my lap, tears streamed down my face.  My heart would never survive having strangers take away my son. I couldn't even fathom the pain these mothers were experiencing. The trauma these children were undergoing. How could our country be so cruel?

I knew I needed to be there. I needed to be involved.

The first thing I did - because this is what I do - was read. I read books and articles about the border, about border policy, and about the history of migration to the U.S. I informed myself as much as I could on what was happening. 

Though I had worked a lot with immigrants and refugees, I had never given much thought to the Southern border. Partially perhaps because we had never lived by the Southern border before. 

I did remember a story I had heard years ago from a client. She was from Mexico and had come into the country undocumented as a teenager. She told me about the horrific physical and sexual abuse she suffered at the hands of her father from the time she was four until she ran away at fourteen. She told me about the long journey up to the border, and about getting smuggled across. She told me about her fears as an undocumented person in this country, unable to attain legal work, always afraid she would be caught and deported and sent back to Mexico, where she was certain her father - who was in the government - would find her and kill her.

Oddly enough, though her story is abysmal, she would not qualify for asylum because of the narrow definition of asylum. I'll write a blog about that sometime...

I also thought about all the refugee stories I had heard over the years. Families who had escaped war and terrorism and genocide and violence. It seemed to me that the stories of the people coming to our Southern border were just as intense and devastating as those of the refugees from other parts of the world. Why were we treating them like criminals, instead of offering them safe haven? These were our neighbors, knocking on our door, needing life-saving assistance. Instead of helping, we were throwing them to the wolves.

More informed, I found a position as a Shelter Manager at a local church who dared to establish a shelter within their walls. It was daring, because shockingly, a lot of church people were against it. I was excited to tell people at my church what we were doing and was continually surprised and disappointed at the reactions I received. Why would I want to do that? Why would I want to help "illegals"? Didn't I know they were "invading" our country and "taking our jobs"? Didn't I know how "dangerous" they were? And the drugs - didn't I know about the drugs?

Additionally, people from my church gave me very judgmental looks when I mentioned which church I was working for. It was a liberal church, known for its acceptance of and programming for the LGBTQ+ community, among other things. Why would I want to work there?

But I did. I did want to work there. And I loved it. I loved the people. They were mostly families - mothers and sometimes fathers and little children. I loved their fascination with the sprinkler system and their appreciation for the simple accommodations of cots and home-cooked meals. I loved the drawings the children drew in chalk on the cement patio. I loved feeling like I was doing something, even if it felt like a drop in an enormous bucket.

I saw the way the families tensed when airplanes flew overhead. I saw the way a siren from an ambulance wailing down the street made them jump. I saw the way they held their children tighter when stories came out of yet another child separated from his or her family. I saw the way their shoulders lowered and their tension eased when I told them we were not affiliated with the government or immigrations. I saw it all... and I held their pain.

That summer, I took a few of our interns across the border on a trip to visit one of the shelters in Mexico. I met a woman there who was planning on crossing the border to ask for asylum the next day. She had two of her children with her - ages seventeen and nineteen. I told her that the nineteen-year-old would be considered an adult, and his asylum application would be decided apart from hers. In fact, they would most likely put him in adult detention (read: prison), apart from her, and it might be months before they let him out.

She considered this carefully, then nodded. "That's all right," she told me in Spanish. "It's better he be in prison than here."

Imagine a world where prison is better.

This is the world these families are fleeing.

Our Southern border policies are reacting to the people arriving as though they have a choice. As though they haven't been pushed out of - sometimes chased out of - where they were. As though they are trying to take advantage of our system, instead of merely seeking a system where they actually have a chance - a slim one, but still - of a life.

Anyway, unfortunately, a new pastor came to the church shortly after that summer and decided it was "irresponsible" of the church to house asylum-seekers when there were so many "vulnerable" people at the church who could be targeted for this good work. He shut us down within a week of coming on board.

I moved to another shelter, where I basically served as the volunteer coordinator. It was the largest shelter for asylum-seekers in the area. At the time, it was primarily run by volunteers - and it was run amazingly well. The volunteers were devoted to the work and went above and beyond to make the shelter warm and welcoming to everyone. A true place of refuge. Compassion in action. I felt as though I saw Jesus every day in those early months at the shelter - in the volunteers, serving as His hands and feet, and in the people themselves, holding onto their faith and hope. 

One day, a certain volunteer came into my office in tears. He buried his face in his hands and cried out, "Why does this country hate us so much?"

I came to find out that about ten minutes before these words of lament, Border Patrol officers had brought a new guest to the shelter. While we regularly received guests brought to us directly from the Border Patrol, this particular drop-off was handled differently. For some reason, the officers, who were both rather large gentleman, decided to put our five-foot tall, one-hundred-twenty-pound guest in shackles for the hourlong drive from the border to the shelter. Chained by his hands and feet, he had needed assistance getting out of the van.

It broke all of our hearts to see, but this particular volunteer had taken it especially hard. Being a self-described “brown person,” as well as an immigrant himself, he empathized in a way that many of us could not. As he continued to sob, he talked about how much harder it had become for “brown people” in America under Trump. He talked about how a White person, such as myself, would never be able to fully understand the difficulties of being brown.

He wasn’t wrong.

True, I may speak fluent Spanish. I grew up in a diverse neighborhood. I lived in South America for three years. My husband is a Latino immigrant. My kids are half-Latino. I have worked with immigrants and refugees in varying capacities for over twenty years.

But I am at the start and end of every day still a White woman. I have no idea what it is like to be a person of color in this country.

Perhaps if I did, I would also be asking, “Why does this country hate us so much?"

I don’t know if he remembers this encounter. Neither of us presently work at the shelter anymore. But I recall this conversation vividly. It happened before Covid, before George Floyd, before the craziness of 2020. His tears, his pain, his words… have stuck with me.

Working with asylum-seekers, I saw over and over again hatred and fear directed towards “brown people.” Towards immigrants. Towards desperate, hurting people looking for a new start and a safe place to live. I watched the previous administration systematically disassemble the asylum process in what often seemed like the cruelest way possible. I heard story after story of unjust treatment and even abuse inflicted upon the people that I served. The people who I loved.

And tragically, even with the new administration, things have not changed as much as I had hoped they would. People are still unjustly deported, often in shackles. Children are still separated from their families. Thousands are stranded at the border under unfair laws and unhealthy conditions, unable to return to where they came from. Our asylum system is still in shambles.

The saddest part for me, though, the part that I still have trouble wrapping my head around, is how Christians are not a part of this fight. The Bible I read is pretty clear about seeking justice, caring for the alien among us, welcoming the stranger, and loving our neighbors. It doesn't say anything about "protecting what's ours" or making any one single country "great again". 

The even worse part, is the Christians who are a part of the fight but are - in my view - on the wrong side of it. Hating or fearing immigrants and refugees. Voting for people and policies that are harmful towards our immigrant communities. Going as far as to say that if immigrants are thrown in detention for years or deported in chains or separated from their children, somehow they "deserve it" for not "coming legally" - even though claiming asylum at the border IS a legal process, and often the only one available to them.

How is that Christian? How is that loving? Forget Christian, how is that even being a decent human being?

I don't understand.