Contrary to popular belief, agents are not taught in the Border Patrol academy to destroy water and food left on trails for migrants. We are taught this once we get into the field.
The class goes something like this: "If they need help, they can always go to a road and flag us down." This makes sense to young trainees who have no experience of just how vast and remote much of our southern border is. It is only once you become an agent and spend hours hiking after them, picking up their lifeless bodies that one realizes this is not true. Once they realize they are in trouble, it is often too late. They can be days away from help.
In the beginning, I did as I was trained and destroyed their food and water jugs. My field training agents told me that to not do so only furthered their incursion into our country. I always carried a knife or two while working the east county mountains of San Diego, and although I used them for a variety of emergency and non-emergency needs, I also used them to stab water jugs. I used my boots to destroy any food left behind.
The first body I found had a rosary wrapped in his hands; it did not change my ways. The racist propaganda still fresh in my mind from the academy allowed me to tell myself he was likely a drug dealer, though I found no drugs. Change in me would require the face of an innocent child. She did not die but suffered for days as she wandered the mountainous terrain that often left me feeling like I might die. This young child hiked some of the most dangerous terrain in our area. Years later, I would require an IV (intravenous fluid) after chasing and apprehending a dozen or so men in a 110 degrees Fahrenheit on that same trail.
No more than 10 years of age, she hid when agents came upon the group miles south of Interstate 8 and screamed, "LA MIGRA!". When the agents left with the others and her mother, she realized she was alone. I spent the morning getting her clothes from the thrift store next to our station, some breakfast and talking about how she survived. She survived by drinking the water left behind on the trail and eating the tortillas left in plastic shopping bags. For three days, she followed the trail until she could hear cars on the interstate.
After that day, I never destroyed another water jug or bag of food left on a trail. I trained my trainees to leave them be and not listen to other agents, the ones who took trophy pictures of bodies and laughed. At the academy, I had been officially trained to save lives no matter what their citizenship. This was the first time I thought our motto of "Honor First" might be a lie.
Last month, I had the privilege of visiting and volunteering with Humane Borders. The organization is a nonpartisan, donation funded, volunteer operated group that maintains dozens of 55 gallon barrels throughout Arizona's Sonoran Desert. Each barrel is marked with a blue flag extending 30 feet into the air. These barrels have saved the lives of hikers, migrants and even Border Patrol agents although few will admit to this.
As Border Patrol agents and militias run around southern Arizona continually vandalizing and destroying these life saving barrels, Laurie Cantillo and her crew of volunteers continue to replace, refill and monitor the cleanliness of the water they supply. Just as I once did, today's agents and militia tell anyone who will listen to them that they are the humanitarians and heroes while they enforce the laws pushing migrants into the desert, while they puncture the barrels letting the precious water spill onto the dry desert sand.
This is because "Honor First" is a lie.
A few months ago, I adopted a barrel for a year. Money from the sale of my book went straight to saving lives in the desert, and I couldn't be more proud. Laurie took me to that specific barrel located deep in the brush on an old path that can only a vehicle with serious four-wheel drive can traverse. The bouncing and jerking of the truck sent me back, and the memories flooded in as they always do; their faces, their pain, their cries. The woman who was 8 months pregnant, dehydrated, near death who asked me if she would be okay as the EMTs were taking her away. She and her baby died. The old guy whose body was twisted with cramps covering his entire body, unable to speak, shaking with pain as spit fell from his mouth. He died too.
Hanging from a branch above my blue water barrel is a white rosary left by a migrant. Rosaries are the thanks left for the volunteers of Humane Borders. The prior day, I had received a blessing from an indigenous priest while in Mexico. Tied to my wrist was a string representing that blessing, tied by the priest himself. He recommended placing the string under a tree or plant in my yard to continue the blessing.
I tied the blessing string to the rosary instead because I was trained to save lives.