One of the main tasks that we’ve been asked to help with while we’re volunteering at the South Texas Human Rights Center is filling the water stations. We talked about the water stations a little bit in a previous post, but I think they warrant more attention. A water station is a plastic barrel filled with jugs of water. These stations are placed in areas where undocumented border crossers (UBCs) are most likely to be traveling through. A long pole with a flag on the top is attached to the barrel in hopes that UBCs who are struggling through the desert will see the flag in the distance and head towards the station. These stations were started with the intention of preventing more UBC deaths, since many UBCs succumb to death by exposure to the elements.
Water station map
Hanging on the wall of the South Texas Human Rights Center is a map of Falfurrias with pins marking the location of every water station they have set up on it. The amount of pins on the map is impressive and the Center has plans to add more stations in the future. Many of these stations are located on private ranch lands. A number of landowners have agreed to have these water stations on their land and some have even asked if the Center would place stations on their land. We’ve learned over the last couple of days that managing all of these stations is no easy task. The stations are placed along several different routes. Each route takes about two hours to complete and there are five routes in total.
The Center checks on each station at least once a week to refill the barrels with water and also to collect data on the usage of each station. Some stations are heavily used while others are hardly used at all. Collecting this data helps the Center figure out which routes need more water stations. For each water station, we tallied up how many jugs of water were left, got rid of any damaged or empty jugs, and then added more jugs if needed. There are only two people at the Center in charge of managing all of these stations and I have a lot of admiration for the both of them. I’ve been on two routes so far and I can tell you that it is exhausting work.
Traveling down a route
Helping fill waters stations has given me some insight into the UBC’s journey. I can’t begin to imagine what it’s like for UBCs trying to get through the dense brush of these ranch lands. I was tired and hot after doing only one route and we drove in a car for most of the time and stopped periodically to check on water stations. As I drove through the ranch lands, I noticed the wilderness and the remoteness of the areas we were traveling in. There are no markers to tell you which way you are going. No mountains in the distance, no major changes in vegetation. All the land kind of looks the same and I can see how easy it would be for someone to get lost and walk around in circles for hours.
I’m happy that some of the water stations are being used. The thing that really gets me is that just by doing something as simple as putting a jug of water in a barrel, I may have helped save a life. I only wish I had more time to help out at the Center.
Today we packed up the minivan and started our journey towards San Marcos. We met with Sister Pam and two volunteers from Ohio on our way out of town and followed them to Karnes City. There we found the Karnes County Residential Center, a place where women and their children are detained while waiting for their court date to determine refugee status. We thought we were going to see the center but were informed by Sister Pam that we would each be visiting a different family detained in the center. She told us that we were used to working with the material objects, the burials and the bones. That these items were predictable and in our comfort zone. That working with the living was unpredictable and a necessary part of understanding this humanitarian crisis from all angles. We all looked at each other and I could tell that my students were as terrified as I at that moment. Our Spanish was little to none. What could we possibly say or do for these families that were suffering so much? But once Sister Pam makes a decision it’s final. We were going in. This experience ended up being life changing for us all. I asked everyone to contribute to this post by reflecting on their experiences today.
Krista Latham: As we stood in the parking lot Sister Pam told us to leave everything in the car except our driver’s license. No phone, no sunglasses, nothing. She handed each of us a piece of paper with the name of a woman, her identification number and the names of the children. I was anxious as we entered the facility. We stood in line and went to the receptionist. We had to fill out paperwork requesting the visit and turn in our identification cards. Then we were sent to the waiting room in the hope that our family was available and that they would let us in. To be honest, in those minutes I hoped my family was not available. I was terrified. I speak very little Spanish and kept thinking my family would wonder why this crazy women came to visit them. But eventually my name was called. I went through security in a similar fashion to what you would see at the airport. Seventh door on the left and give this paperwork to the guard, I was told. I walked slowly down the long hall getting more and more nervous with each step. I entered the room and was told to sit at a table in the middle of the room. I saw Ryan already with his family and sat close to him for moral support.
A young woman wearing a Captain America shirt and an adorable little girl with curls entered and sat at the table. I told her my name and that I was a visitor. She immediately began speaking to me in Spanish. I explained my Spanish was not very good and she slowed her speech. She knew no English and I knew very little Spanish. But very quickly I was able to understand that she was here from El Salvador. She left with her two children and was here with her daughter. She believed her son was in Dallas. She had been there for several months. I told her about my son and where I lived. After the introductions we both relaxed and began to joke and laugh together. She would speak to me quickly in Spanish and then shake her head and laugh. She knew I didn’t understand everything but was just happy to be talking to a visitor. Her daughter played with the other children in the corner of the room where there were a few toys. All the women laughed and joked with all of us in the room. There were times when the guard looked visibly annoyed at all of our laughter. Before I knew it the guard was telling us that our hour was over and I had to leave. We hugged and said our good byes.
We all met back in the waiting room and reflected on this experience. We were happy to have spent an hour with these women and share a laugh with them during obviously stressful times. We learned that these are very strong women that not only endured a life of violence in their home countries, a long journey with their young children from Central America to the US, but also detainment with restricted access to resources and little to no contact with family. All to give their children a better life free of violence. Something many of us take for granted.
Ryan Strand: I’m still thinking about today, and no matter what day you read this, that statement will hold true. I spent an hour with a young woman and her son at the Karnes City Detention Center, and we communicated in Spanish, English, very broken Spanish, very broken English, hand motions, finger-writing on the table, eye contact, facial expressions, and any other possible form of communication. We talked about our families, where we were from, where we were going, what sports we loved, and how bad my Spanish was. Although I learned so much with the little Spanish I knew, we spent the majority of our time smiling and laughing, both knowing that the time and effort spent trying to understand each other was more important than the actual communication.
I was extremely nervous walking into the visitation room. I figured the meeting would be awkward because I spoke very little Spanish and I knew little about the unbelievable situation the family was in. Without a common language or an honest understanding of the family’s situation, how was I supposed to find any common ground? Yet, naturally, it happened. We DID share a common language: a smile and laughter. Verbal communication wasn’t one bit necessary for the need of the moment. The three of us smiled and laughed until the guard made me leave an hour later.
We all agreed to write each other, and of course I promised my Spanish would be better in my letters with the help of a dictionary. The boy loved sports, especially soccer, and so I promised to send pictures of the soccer teams from Indianapolis. Once I move to Austin, I plan to visit the family as many times as possible, which I think can be as often as once a week. I’ve promised to help the family in any way I possibly can along their journey. Even if it becomes difficult, I know I can always rely on a smile and laughter.
Justin Maiers: I sat very quietly in the lobby of the Karnes facility. For those of you that know me, silence is not my strong suit. In my mind I practiced all of the remedial Spanish phrases I could muster. Part of me wanted to just to leave. It would be easier. Instead I sat reticent and fearful of what lied ahead. One by one the others entered the visiting room. My name was the last to be called.
I came through the door to find a mother who looked very tired and a small girl with glowing eyes and a beaming smile. They both gave me a hug as if it was the last or only hug they would ever give. We sat and talked as best we could, with our collective remedial Spanish. Their native language was not Spanish, but K’iche’. They had only learned Spanish 10 months earlier when she arrived at Karnes.
We talked a lot. Still, the most powerful aspects of our conversation were unspoken. Language is a funny thing. We don’t need to speak the same language to understand each other. Words aren’t necessary to convey love, anger, or pain. Between the broken words and silences there was something tacit.
I was silly to have been afraid, as we talked that fear melted away. It’s funny to think that a four year old girl had more strength and courage than I may ever know. We hugged one last time before being escorted out of the visitation room. I walked back down the stoic white halls just as quietly as I came, this time with bolstered fortitude given to me by my new chiquita amiga and her brave mother.
Amanda Khan: The women I was assigned to visit at the Karnes County Residential Center had two adorable little girls. When the family walked into the visitation room they looked unbelievably exhausted, but the little girls perked up immediately when they saw the play area. They ran over to the toys with smiles lighting up their little faces. They suddenly transformed into kids again, laughing and playing with each other. All of their worries seemed to slip away in that moment.
The mother walked up to me and gave me a hug. I was a complete stranger to her, but she literally welcomed me with open arms. I was touched by her kindness. We sat down and tried talking, me with the little Spanish I knew and her with the little bit of English she knew. Together we were able to have a conversation, but she was so tired. You could see it in every movement she made and in every word that she spoke. There were lulls in the conversation when we both couldn’t think of anything to say. We watched her children play during these lulls and she seemed content to just watch her daughters have fun. At some points in the conversation she would just stop talking, take a breath, and rub her face in exhaustion.
My heart hurt for her. Here she was sitting in this purgatory of sorts. Her future unclear and her journey far from over. Yet, she had this unwavering strength and somehow managed to remain hopeful about the future. She left me with another hug and I wished her good luck.
Today we went to visit the Sacred Heart Burial Park where the University of Indianapolis Archeology and Forensic Laboratory’s involvement in the human rights crisis in Brooks County all began. Back in June 2013, the UIndy team and the Baylor University team started doing work in this cemetery. For those of you joining our blog late in the game, our team helped with the exhumation of undocumented border crossers (UBCs). The UBCs found in this cemetery died while trying to travel through ranch lands after crossing the border. Brooks County lacked the funding and resources to deal with a crisis like this, so these remains were buried in the Sacred Heart Burial Park in pauper graves without identification. So far over 100 sets of remains have been exhumed by Uindy and Baylor. These groups and Texas State University are working on identifying the individuals through skeletal analysis and sampling for DNA comparisons.
Since I’m new to the team this was my first visit to Sacred Heart. I had seen pictures of the cemetery and the exhumations through various presentations given by Dr. Krista Latham and the more seasoned members of our team. However, the pictures from these presentations failed to capture the essence of the cemetery. When you walk into Sacred Heart, the first thing you notice is the color. Sacred Heart is bright and vibrant with splashes of color at every turn. Hundreds of plastic flowers adorn the headstones making a seemingly solemn place oddly more lively.
The cemetery seemed smaller in person and was more crowded than I imagined it would be. It was crammed pack with graves that were clearly being cared for. The love and devotion from the family members of the individuals buried at Sacred Heart was tangible, vibrating in the air as we walked through the cemetery. As I approached the area were the exhumations first started, I noticed how incredibly small it was. Pictures had made this area look so much bigger. I couldn’t believe that so many individuals had been placed in such a small space.
The next thing I noticed was a small metal grave marker that was being used to mark a UBC grave. The marker was small and flimsy, labeled with the words, unknown remains, and a death certificate number. Many of these markers had been removed once the exhumations began, but several of these markers still remain. Each marker had been used to mark the graves of the unidentified. These markers were adorned with colorful flowers and decorations too, showing that these people had not been forgotten, will not be forgotten, and that their identities will not be lost in the background of this ongoing crisis.
