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David Rochkind, for the Pulitzer Center
Hector Juarez, and his older brother Alfredo, were two of only a handful of migrants in an otherwise packed mass at the Our Lady of Guadalupe Church in Altar's central plaza. I had expected the church service would be full of migrants, especially since a prayer is recited specifically asking god to protect all those who make the dangerous journey to the United States. A nun at the church later explained that there are never many migrants at Sunday mass. It isn't that they are less religious, but rather that they prefer to pray when the church is empty; they are often embarrassed to be dressed in worn, dirty clothes while surrounded by the freshly cleaned, pressed and coifed church members. Nevertheless, there were Hector and Alfredo, sitting in a pew at the back of the church, spending their time with God as they decided if they should go home or trek north through the desert one more time.
A few nights later, I returned to the shelter and saw a large tattoo of Jesus crucified on Hector's back as he hand washed his only t-shirt in a sink. The tattoo covered half of his back, and was a dark olive green monotone. You could see that his muscular upper body and shoulders were a bit too broad for his frame. His barrel chest, thin wispy mustache and constant giggle made him seem like an acrobat that a Mexican circus had left behind in the desert. He was only 22, but had already spent time in the US, mostly in Idaho, where he worked several different jobs. He had been back in Mexico for 3 months, having been caught and deported while working as a janitor at a K-mart.
Hector came to Altar to meet up with Alfredo, who had recently been caught by the Border Patrol while trying to cross into the US. He arrived to the town with no bag or backpack, owning only the clothes he was wearing and a wallet stuffed with telephone numbers and photographs. The first picture he showed me was of an infant, his one-month old son that had been born to his fiancé, an American in Idaho. Hector had never met his child, as he had been deported during his fiancé's pregnancy. Seeing his son was his main motivation for returning north, and when he prayed at church it was often with his American family in mind.
Just beyond the main entrance to the church in Altar is a small chapel with a painting of Mary and a colorful sculpture of Jesus in a white tunic. Throughout the day people enter the chapel to pray or light a candle. Some of them kneel on the concrete before leaving. The migrants, however, are mostly found during the church's early, empty hours. They usually come alone and pray for a safe journey north. They ask for help to make it past the bandits and the drug cartels, the snakes and the scorpions. Each person rests their hands on Jesus' feet for a few moments and then, just before leaving, massages their own legs, praying that their bodies will literally have the strength to carry them through the desert and into the United States.
The mostly male migrants travel alone, or in small groups of friends, before joining a larger group headed by a guide that will lead them. We often imagine that these men go to the US to pick fruit or wash dishes in order to send money back to the families they left behind in some small pueblo in Mexico. We imagine that they pray for the strength to make a solitary journey, planning to be alone for a few years before returning to their loved ones. This is often true.
But sometimes, as is the case with Hector, migrating to the US is not a departure, but rather a return. They are the migrants that, as a result of an imperfect system, have successfully slipped through the porous border once, only to be deported after beginning to put down roots. They are then forced to make an increasingly difficult crossing in order to be with their families again. There are 4 million children in the US that have at least one parent who has illegally entered the country. It is one small sign that, after decades of failed immigration policy, migrants have become woven into the fabric of the US, not only economically but also socially.