It’s an hour before dawn, and the night is moonless, cold, and quiet. Chrysti and I exchange muffled, groggy greetings and use our keys to open a series of gates and locks to enter the Tucson Humane Borders truckyard inside the House of Neighborly Service. A curve-bill thrasher whistles from a nearby palo verde tree, letting us know that he sees us.

We load our gear into the water truck, checking the tires, the gas, and the food supplies, and making sure the 350-gallon water tank is full. I take the driver’s seat and Chrysti hops into the passenger seat, ready to head west on Route 286. Our destination is a camp near the end of the border wall. Today’s trip is special. We will be meeting representatives from Doctors Without Borders who have been invited to assess the humanitarian crisis unfolding in Arizona.

Drinking coffee and shifting in our seats, we try to shake off our sleepiness.  We whiz by white crosses that mark the scenes of traffic fatalities. As we get closer to the border, the meaning of the crosses changes. They mark locations where migrants have collapsed and died from exposure, fatigue, and dehydration. Tucson artist Alvaro Enciso’s project, “Donde Mueren los Sueños,” erects the crosses as a tribute to the people whose dreams of a better life died with them. The Humane Borders death map documents the grisly reality of the number of deaths recorded. In southern Arizona alone, more than 4,300 lives have been lost to date, and those are the ones we know about.

Blonde-grey curls billow from my truck-mate’s cap. A veteran of border work, Chrysti has served as the volunteer coordinator at Casa Alitas (“House of Wings”), Tucson’s migrant resource center. We met there three years ago and have volunteered together ever since. She has spent enough time in Central American countries to speak fluent Spanish. Meanwhile, I’ve taken years of Spanish, but I have never attained fluency.  I keep working on it, though. 

“What do you think we’ll find out there today?” she asks now.
“Vigilantes or migrants—or both?”

“Hard to know—every trip seems to be something different lately.” The situation on the border continues to morph, moving in ever-stranger directions. Drug cartels and human smugglers known as “coyotes” prey upon migrating people, often stripping them of everything they have: money, clothing, and personal items. And U.S. Border Patrol agents may be humane or cruel on any given day, often confiscating all the prescription medications they find—insulin for diabetes, or drugs for blood pressure, epilepsy, and more.

We drive in near silence for the rest of the ninety miles to the wall’s end, both of us preoccupied with the yet unknown events that will unfold today. Eventually we approach the twin towns of Sasabe, Arizona, United States, and Sásabe, Sonora, Mexico. Once an active crossing, Sasabe, Arizona, is now a ghost town. Warring cartels burned residents out of their homes on the Mexican side. Even our migrant resource center there, Casa de la Esperanza, had to close; for migrants, there is no longer a House of Hope.

We continue along the wall road, following it for fifteen miles to Andy’s Camp. Andy Winter, a schoolteacher and humanitarian from Vermont, built this temporary camp to assist refugees arriving at the border. Tall and fit, with reddish hair and glasses, Andy wears the same ball cap every day and is always accompanied by his adorable little dog, Rafa. He’s a taciturn individual, given more to action than talk. 

“Welcome to my world,” Andy says. “And thanks. I appreciate all the help I can get out here.” 

The volunteers from Doctors Without Borders (“Médicos sin Fronteras”) are already at the camp. Andy introduces us to Dr. Belen, Athena, and Dr. Dan. Doctors Without Borders is an organization known for its service in war zones and in some of the most horrific humanitarian crisis spots around the globe. Their presence here is a sign that even a developed, modern country like the U.S. can generate crises of human suffering that require outside medical intervention. 

“We met nearly 150 migrating people on the road yesterday,” Andy tells us. 

“It’s a good thing you put together this camp near the end of the wall,” Chrysti says. “Saves people a lot of hard walking and suffering, on top of what they’ve already gone through.” 

When the border wall was built, three sections were left open where streams, engorged with water and trees during flood season, would have destroyed the wall. These gaps provided easy passage across the border and were close to the port of entry. Even though former President Biden declared that “not one more foot of wall would be built,” during his administration, floodgates were installed in these gaps, forcing migrants to skirt around the wall’s end and then traverse twenty-two rugged miles to reach U.S. soil and make their asylum claims. Without Andy’s camp, many asylum seekers wouldn’t make it that far. 

Chrysti and I head out first toward the end of the wall, while Andy and the others finish loading supplies into the other vehicles. We drive with the windows open, listening for sounds of people, calls of distress, or pleas for help. Every so often we stop, get out of the truck, and walk into the brush north of the wall. We spot discarded clothing, black water bottles, food wrappers, a baby’s sock, and a random tennis shoe. 

“¡Amigos! Tenemos agua y comida! Ven aqui! No somos la migra!” we call out. “Friends! We have water and food! Come here! We are not Border Patrol!” 

No response. So we get back in the truck and keep driving. Describing this road as a roller coaster doesn’t begin to convey how steep it is or how many peaks and valleys must be navigated. Some of the sections are a 20 percent gradient. Even our four-wheel-drive truck groans up the hills, and brakes burn on the descents.

At last, we reach the end of the wall. On the very last bollard, someone has written in chalk: “La Migra Ya Llevar Los Aqui. Buena Suerte.” (“Border Patrol is ready to pick you up here. Good luck.”) The only barricades past this point are the Normandy Beach-style railroad track sections, welded together in crosses like a jack fence. They provide no real obstacle to crossing into the U.S. For that matter, neither does the five-billion-dollar wall, as any border volunteer can tell you. Walls don’t even begin to address the issues of human migration, but they do exacerbate human suffering and misery.

We walk the short distance to the low barriers where the wall abruptly ends. Across the border, there’s a makeshift camp under mesquite trees where people shelter before crossing the international boundary. This last segment is a short walk to hoped-for sanctuary, after months and miles of horrific travels and experiences. 

Historically, mass migrations happen only under extreme duress and the threat of violence. Many refugees today are also fleeing extortion and dire economic situations aggravated by climate change. Lack of rains, extreme heat, and unpredictable weather patterns have devastated agriculture in many regions of the world, leaving millions without access to food. People do not want to leave their home country, culture, language, family, and way of life. They are forced to make an untenable choice.

A lone lookout stands silhouetted in the shade atop a hill further south in Mexico, watching and waiting, shifting occasionally from one leg to the other. But on the U.S. side, there is no one at wall’s end. 

We climb into the truck and head back toward Andy’s Camp, continuing to call out and search the arroyos north of the wall. We’re about twenty miles from the end of the wall when we see some women, young boys, and small children sitting on the side of the road. Pulling over, we see Andy’s van and the Doctors Without Borders truck approaching from the opposite direction.

“No somos la migra. Nosotros estamos aqui para ayudarte. Tienes sed? Quieres agua? Tienes hambre? Tenemos comida para ustedes,” Chrysti calls out. (“We are not Border Patrol. We are here to help you. Are you thirsty? Do you want water? Are you hungry? We have food.”)

There are weak smiles and eager, outstretched hands. We pass around bottles of water, granola bars, cookies, and chips. The migrants seem relieved and grateful for the kindness and water. But they are still cautious, curious about who we are. 

Dr. Belen, Athena, and Dr. Dan spread out to do a visual assessment of each person, trying to determine where they came from, how long they’ve been on the road, and who might need more urgent care. They learn that the group is from Guatemala and has been traveling for more than a month.

“Te duele algo? Estas lastimado?
Alguien está embarazada?” Athena asks.
“Do you have pain somewhere?
Are you hurting? Is anyone pregnant?”

Most shake their heads no, except for one woman, who tells us her name is Juanita. “Me siento mal,” she says. “Tal vez estoy enferma.” 

Dr. Dan takes her temperature and checks her pulse. Both are elevated, but that’s understandable, given the heat and the stress of a monthlong walk. He asks her to hold a cold bottle of water on her forehead. “Tu debes beber mucha agua, por favor.” Drinking lots of water will help.

Marie, another of the adults, speaks to Chrysti in rapid Spanish. We learn these families were dropped off by their coyotes at the end of the wall near Warsaw Canyon the day before, that the group slept in the open last night. 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 have been walking the roller-coaster road west, hoping to surrender for an asylum request. 

On my way back to Andy’s van to get more food, I see people staggering and weaving up the steep hill to the east. I can make out two teenaged boys, a younger girl, and a mother. The boys are wearing sweatshirts with sports logos, jeans, and sneakers. They grimace with exhaustion. Lagging behind the boys, the girl and mom appear even more spent. They stop often to catch their breath. I notice the plain blue blouse with a few embroidered flowers and the serape draped around the girl’s neck. Mom, wearing a long skirt and a white top, carries a bebé in a sling fashioned from a blanket, an all-too-human improvisation in an inhumane landscape. She seems ready to cry at the sight of us, either from relief or exhaustion—it’s hard to tell which. 

With Andy close behind me, I descend from the top of the road to meet them, offering to carry some of their belongings. Back at the top of the incline, we provide snacks and water to the new arrivals, inviting them to rest. Now there are thirty-four people huddled along the Roosevelt easement, the sixty-foot-wide corridor north of the wall that is federal property in each border state. 

Andy hands out bottles of soap bubbles to the youngest kids. The irony of the image—young migrant children on the border in red hoodies, giggling and bright-eyed, blowing bubbles that ephemerally drift away into the air—strikes me hard. If only the lies that are told about them could disappear as effortlessly as those bubbles. 

We learn the family group is from Oaxaca. The mother tells a story like so many others: They crossed the border at 2 a.m. and started their trek to the border entry station overnight with little water or food, in search of officials to whom they could surrender for their asylum claim. They saw our vehicles and heard us shouting, but they weren’t convinced we were friends. Their wariness isn’t surprising, given the number of individuals they’ve encountered who are anything but. Rival factions of the Sinaloa syndicate in northern Sonora see migrating people as easy marks. They rob them of money, food, phones, medications, baby formula, anything of any value. Some migrants are kidnapped until a ransom is paid. 

Belen, the lead doctor, does a quick check of the baby girl and concludes she likely has low blood sugar. She is alive but pale and lethargic, breathing shallowly. Her mother was no longer able to nurse her, due to dehydration. She’d been robbed of the meager supply of formula she had, but without water, it was useless anyway. Both mother and infant need water and food—quickly. So do the children. They wouldn’t have been able to walk all the way to the border station—about twenty miles from where we are now—without serious harm. 

We’re far beyond cell reception here, but Andy’s van has an internet with Starlink. We call Border Patrol, aware that we’re using a system created by someone who is anti-immigrant, despite being an immigrant himself. We give our location, requesting that they pick up this group of people. Grudgingly, they agree to transport all the refugees to the port of entry. We are in luck this time. On some occasions, we have been berated for even being there. And yet without our help, many would perish.  

“Escúhame, por favor. Somos amigos y estamos con Médicos sin Fronteras. Los otros estan con Fronteras Compasivas.” (“Listen, please. We are friends, and we are with Doctors Without Borders. The others are with Humane Borders.”) Dr. Belen explains in her fluent Spanish that they have arrived in Arizona, in the United States. She asks them to turn off their phones, to keep their children close, and to refuse to allow separation. She says they should inform the Border Patrol if there are unaccompanied minors in the group.  These may be children sent ahead by desperate parents who hope to join them later, or children whose parents are already in the U.S. waiting for reunification.

Dr. Belen and Chrysti explain that once they are picked up and taken to the official port of entry in Sasabe, they have the right to ask for asylum (“derecho a pedir asilo”) if they have suffered violence, threats, or sexual violence, and if they fear returning to their country of origin. Chrysti lets them know that they should never say they came here looking for work. And tells them not to sign anything they do not understand, no matter how much pressure border agents put on them. Dr. Belen explains that if they are granted asylum, they will be able to enter the United States and be reunited with relatives. If asylum is denied, they will be returned to their home country. 

It’s about thirty minutes later when we spot seven Border Patrol vehicles headed in our direction, raising giant rooster tails of dust behind them. The two vans and five pickup trucks arrive at high speed, scaring the kids away from the road. 

“Who are you people, and what are you doing here?” The lead agent speaks in English, looking directly at us. 

I step forward, pulling at my shirt to show him. “Humane Borders. We are here to help.” 

He scowls. “How come whenever we see you people out here, we always have more customers?” 

Customers. An odd choice of word, I think, to describe people seeking safety. 

Dr. 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 Sasabe.” 

“You cannot be within sixty feet of the wall. This is federal property,” Agent Lord barks out. “I can arrest you for trespassing.”

“Then arrest me,” I offer.

He ignores me, likely figuring that arresting a humanitarian for trespassing would be bad publicity. Or maybe arresting me is just more trouble than it’s worth. He orders the other agents to assemble groups of migrants for transport.

Our country’s immigration policies are as difficult to navigate as the hastily built border road pockmarked with potholes that we traveled today. Under the two most recent administrations, U.S. immigration policies have changed almost weekly—first there were few restrictions, then Title 42 prohibitions based on health fears. Next we saw numerical limits, then sudden and random border station closings, and then a lottery system through the CBP One app to decide who would be granted an appointment for an asylum interview. 

Recent policy dictates that all asylum claims be denied and asylum seekers instantly deported. These latest decisions by the Trump administration run counter to both U.S. law and international law, which stipulate that a plea for asylum must be honored once a migrant touches the soil of another country and makes the request. 

Chrysti and I believe that resignation in the face of cruelty is not an option. We do this work because we care about those seeking a better life. The younger activists call us OWLs: Old White Liberals. We’re proud of the label. Old, sure, but ours is a crusade to end deaths in the desert.

Andy, the Doctors Without Borders volunteers, Chrysti, and I keep watch, ensuring that no one is roughed up or abused. We don’t leave until the white and green vehicles pull away. Then we all head to the east end of the wall for a final check—no one in evidence—before we drive back to Andy’s Camp. 

We’re pleased that today’s group of asylum seekers was transported to the port of entry, that they did not have to walk another twenty miles in the life-threatening heat. But we also know the seekers today may be returned to danger. None of us can even imagine how bad one’s life must be to pack up children and belongings, to walk 2,000 miles over unforgiving terrain, only to face an uncertain outcome. But as long as people keep coming, we will keep helping, hoping they will cross to safety.