Dropping In on Obama's Kenyan Grandmother
SLATE | What it means to be an Obama in Africa.
FIRST PUBLISHED IN SLATE, OCTOBER 28, 2008
KOGELO, Kenya—Last Sunday morning, while Barack Obama stumped in Colorado, his paternal grandmother, 86-year-old "Mama Sarah" Obama, stood before a microphone and a crowd of several hundred villagers on a plot of land in Kogelo. Beside her was Kenyan Prime Minister Raila Odinga, whose helicopter had descended unexpectedly onto her tin-roofed homestead moments earlier. Streams of excited villagers ran across the surrounding corn and cassava fields and from a soccer game at Senator Barack Obama Secondary School.
Odinga addressed the crowd and the Kenyan TV cameras that followed him in Luo, the local tongue: "Today we have gathered here to say hello to Mama Sarah. The boy from here, he's gone to compete. We are praying for him so that he succeeds. Are you happy with Obama?"
"We are happy!" the crowd responded. "Are you happy with him?""We are!"
Though I may have been the only person for miles around who actually has a vote in the U.S. presidential election, the occasion seemed oddly like a campaign rally. In a sense, it was. For Prime Minister Odinga, who, like the Obamas, belongs to the Luo tribe, and whose loss in a tainted presidential election last December touched off devastating ethnic violence, the appearance with Sarah Obama was not only an expression of solidarity, but also unambiguous political groundwork for what he might one day claim as a direct channel to the White House. For Obama's grandmother, the arrival of the Kenyan prime minister was another indication of how the phenomenal rise of an Obama child has changed the lives of the other Obama family half a world away.
"At the beginning, I thought it was something that would be short-lived, but it's been getting bigger every day," Obama's uncle Said had told me earlier that day on the drive from the provincial city in Kisumu for what I expected would be a quiet interview with the family matriarch. "It will continue to be a major preoccupation—or maybe my employment." Said wasn't referring only to his changed daily routine, which now involves rising at 4 a.m. to track the latest U.S. campaign news on Anderson Cooper 360—"people will ask me to comment on a development, and I don't want to be caught unawares"—before a full workday as a technician for a spirits company, followed by night school for his business management degree. Said was also referring to what it has meant, and what it may mean for at least the next four years, to be an Obama in Kenya: the frequent visits from people asking for money or help getting a U.S. visa; the requests to help sponsor scholarships for study in the United States; and the random pale faces, African dignitaries, and international journalists that have been arriving at Mama Sarah's home on a daily basis for the last year, paying respects and seeking favors and quotes.
"You can't fail to see there's a perception that we are in a better place economically," Said said. "People know that if you are in a senior position, you become rich. Leaders here steal. But our lives go on. We are a hardworking family. We should not just stand idly and think Barack is going to fix everything for us."
A 36-year-old cousin of Barack's, a hairdresser in Nairobi who has returned to Kogelo to support Mama Sarah during the final weeks of the campaign, told me that he tries to maintain a low profile. "I won't be able to walk freely," he said, asking that his name not be publicized out of concern for both unwanted attention and personal safety. His girlfriend, he added, doesn't even know about his family ties to the U.S. senator. "She might think I've been hiding money from her. She'll expect a lot." Last August, Italian Vanity Fair "discovered" Barack's half-brother George, who lives in the marginalized outskirts of Nairobi; his plight was sensationalized by international media and in turn exploited by conservatives who suggested that the candidate doesn't care for his own family. Because of the widely brachiated nature of the Kenyan Obama family tree, as for many traditional African families, notions of family are very complicated. Certainly, the Obamas that Barack seems closest with appear loved, financially secure, and not at all resentful.
A perception of family wealth was likely the motive of an attempted burglary of Mama Sarah's home in September. When I arrived at the homestead, I was met by armed Kenyan police officers posted behind a newly erected 8-foot fence. I was asked to sign a visitors log. Hundreds of names from all over the world had filled the book since the first entry on Sept. 16.
The guards were securing what may be the world's most modest gated compound: With the exception of a small solar panel on the corrugated tin roof of Mama Sarah's two-room home, the most obvious signs of affluence appeared to be a pair of cows, which mooed as I walked in.
Mama Sarah's living room had obviously been configured to accommodate visiting delegations. Several wood couches and chairs were neatly arranged arm-to-arm around the perimeter of the cement floor, their cushions covered by plain white cloths with embroidered fringes. A television draped in a decorative cloth sat atop a table in one corner, and a life- size photo cutout of a smiling Barack presided over the room from another. Other Barack memorabilia and family portraiture hung from the walls: a framed black-and-white image of Barack Obama Sr., an image of Sasha and Malia Obama watering a seedling in front of a Masai tribesman while Barack snapped a picture, and an autographed poster from Barack's Illinois state Senate campaign, signed, "Mama Sarah: Habari! And Love."
"Barack is a good listener," Mama Sarah told me. "He is somebody who pays attention to the plight of people. With those kinds of attributes, I think he will be in a better position to sort out the problems that are bedeviling the world. I think he's got all it takes to be a world leader." Clearly reining in her normally spontaneous personality, Mama Sarah was proud and on-message: "We are leaving everything to God. We know it's been a long wait, and, God willing, we hope that everything is going to be OK."
The day before, in Kisumu, I was talking about Obama to a boatman on Lake Victoria when a nearby car radio blared the following judgment: "God has already chosen Obama on Nov. 4! Who are you to say no?" Nowhere in Kenya—perhaps nowhere in the world outside of blue-state America—is there more optimism about an Obama victory as in Kisumu, a predominantly Luo city on Kenya 's western border with Uganda, which still bears the scars of last winter's election violence. Indeed, the widely held fear that vote-rigging on Nov. 4 could snatch the election from Obama reflects the lingering sentiment among Luos here that Kenya's tainted presidential election—in which Odinga officially lost to Mwai Kibaki—was stolen from them. I've been asked several times, "Do you think John McCain can steal the votes?"
Obama's likeness appears on watch faces, key chains, posters, T-shirts, calendars, and women's shoes. Hawkers offer CDs of Obama-inspired reggae and Luo songs in the open-air bus depot. Mockups of $1,000 bills with Obama's portrait filling the oval are plastered on public minivans. ("I just asked the designer to pimp the van, and it came back like this," the driver told me.) A generation of newborns named "Obama" are entering the world. A schoolteacher in a local village says her students sing Obama songs: "He is a genius/ He is a hero/ He comes all the way from Africa/ To go compete in the land of the whites/ He makes us proud/ For at least he's made Africa known to the world." The campaign 8,000 miles away has been closely observed. When I arrived in town, my tuk-tuk driver offered punditry of the third debate: "For the first 20 minutes, it was competitive and McCain was good, but then Obama was much smarter."
Daniel Otieno, the local bureau chief of Kenya's the Nation newspaper, believes the fierce partisanship is a legacy of the area's early bullfighting days, when Luo clans rallied behind their favored bull. "Barack Obama is their bull," he says, adding that "a victory on Nov. 4 will be felt as a consolation for the Kenyan election." Bundled with that pride is an exaggerated expectation that Obama will support Kenya, and especially the Kisumu area, currently crippled by the country's highest incidence of HIV/AIDS. Unemployment here is rampant, and many of the young and jobless I spoke with believe an Obama presidency will directly improve their lives—a belief that I hope does not turn into resentment if and when they are disappointed.
While the TV cameras rolled in front of Mama Sarah's home, Prime Minister Odinga attempted to temper these expectations. "Kenyans know that Barack will be first and foremost the president of the United States of America, not a Kenyan president in the United States." He added, "Under an Obama presidency, trade and investment between Kenya and the United States will increase. Kenyans hope that there will be more scope for cooperation. We also think that Africa will get more attention than it has received in the past."
With that, Odinga and Mama Sarah walked toward the car that would drive the prime minister to his helicopter. He was a step ahead of her, and just as it seemed he was about to get into the car, a reporter reminded him that Mama Sarah was behind him, anticipating a goodbye. Odinga turned, offered a warm and genuine embrace, and then drove out of the compound.
The villagers dissipated, the reporters disassembled their tripods and climbed into SUVs, and Mama Sarah headed toward the house. Said called out, "Intercept her!" Then he led her by the arm to a waiting chair in the shade of an avocado tree, where a Canadian TV crew was setting up for an interview.
Extended relatives of Barack Obama celebrate his election in Kogelo, Kenya. Credit: Andy Isaacson
Springtime on the Border
ALTERNET | Instead of waiting for Washington to take action, the Minuteman volunteers bring Washington to the border, demanding attention for an illegal immigration storm.
FIRST PUBLISHED IN ALTERNET, APRIL 19, 2005
THE WARM, BREEZY SUMMIT of Coronado Peak, in Southeast Arizona's Huachuca Mountains, offers a fine view of the seemingly endless arid grassland below, a high desert plain of brown earth accented by a fertile strip of green willow and ringed by gentle mountain ranges. A faint dirt road slicing the plain marks the division between the United States and Mexico. Francisco Vasquez de Coronado once ambled exhausted through this rugged terrain with a legion of soldiers, Indians and priests on a "missionary undertaking" seeking the fabled "Seven Cities of Gold" to the north.
Every day, more than 450 years after that historic expedition, the scene continues unabated. Under the hot daytime sun and the dark cloak of night, quiet squadrons of drug runners march right through the meager barbed wire cattle fence marking the U.S.-Mexico border, and through the Huachucas, to supply addicts as far as New York. Indians from the Central American highlands trudge for days up dry washes lined with bramble bushes, some told that the ocean lies only a day's walk ahead. Church groups supply water to these migrants, hoping to stem the deaths that claim more than a hundred lives annually. And Mexicans, finding no trace of gold in their homeland, flow illegally north seeking the fabled 7-Eleven, or just about any job that will pay.
Cochise County, AZ is evidence of how illegal immigration is crippling the United States at the very same time it seems to benefit. The intense enforcement effort concentrated on the California and Texas borders has shifted migrant flow into Arizona, and the Tucson sector has bore the brunt of that redirected stream. In 2004, approximately 350,000 migrants were caught along the Arizona border, almost half of these apprehensions occurring within this county. This status sits uneasily with locals here. In the wake of streaming migrants and smugglers comes littered belongings, damaged property, strained social services, an enforcement presence and a violent edge. It's a reality that local resident May Kolbe calls "living in a war zone."
In a way, it's always been like this. Cochise County is steeped in a rich "Wild West" history of lawlessness. It's the land of Wyatt Earp and Geronimo, gunfights at Tombstone's OK Corral, copper mines, Army forts, Indian wars, cowboys, cattle rustlers and gamblers.
A Call to Arms
Situated blissfully in the middle of the valley, a mere two miles from the border fence is the Miracle Valley Bible College, where the Minuteman Project has set up its headquarters.
Hundreds of volunteers from across the nation heeded a call put out over the internet by a loosely organized coalition of immigration activists to join a grassroots gathering that would spend the month of April here, patrolling a 23-mile stretch along the nation's most penetrated section of border. The volunteers, calling themselves the Minutemen-- after the Massachusetts colony militia who were the first to arrive at a battlefield -- were retired military, teachers, and construction workers who brought a modest air force, communications equipment, guns, lawn chairs and sunscreen to perform "the job the government won't do."
Not easy to typecast, the volunteers who descended on the desert represented a spectrum of backgrounds and views -- moderate to extreme -- but united by a core sentiment. They're indignant at an illegal invasion that sees immigrants, drug smugglers and possible terrorists streaming across a porous and undefended border, unchecked, by the thousands. Many are "Pat Buchanan Republicans" who feel "Bushwacked" by a president who looks the other way to the problem while lining his political pockets with the support of employers who profit off the exploitation of cheap labor. They see a corrupt, Mexican government flagrantly assisting the illegal flow, washing its hands free of impoverishment while collecting remittances from migrant workers who send back their wages in amounts that have now surpassed domestic oil revenues. And they arrived out of concern for the changes in their communities, the violence they feel is a byproduct of impoverished immigrants seeking economic opportunism and the demographic changes they view as threatening the American way of life.
They included Cindylou Dampf of Denton. TX, who worked in security most of her life, but whose job as post-commander at Andrews Corporation ended last year when the plant closed and moved to Mexico. A displaced worker and single mother, she held fast food and housekeeping jobs. When she learned about the Minuteman Project, the relative of Harry S Truman quit her two jobs, left her 20-year-old son behind, "with resolve, to carry on the family name" if something were to happen to her, and drove the 900 miles to Cochise County.
And there were those like Curtis Stewart from San Antonio, TX who felt they were the vanguard of a silent majority frustrated with the government's ineffectiveness.
"How many demonstrations have we had in the United States for women, lesbians, blacks - minority demonstrations, right? Never have you had the white, right wing say 'I've had it.' This is the first demonstration - for the country - since the Boston Tea Party," said Stewart, driving a truck with a "Liberal Hunting Permit" sticker on the windshield.
What made their act of civil disobedience different from marches on Washington was that rather than bring an issue to Washington, it succeeded in bringing Washington to the front door of an issue -- here at the border -- enabled by the throngs of media that surrounded the volunteers in what seemed, at times, to be equal numbers.
"What we're doing right here is First and Second Amendment, plain and simple," aid volunteer Greg Coody of Waco, TX. There's not any insurrection or vigilantism -- except to the extent that President Bush said to be 'vigilant' after 9/11. We're trying to close this sieve that's called a border. If you don't want it to be against the law -- then get rid of the law. But if you're going to have a law, then enforce it. What part of 'illegal' don't they get?"
What also made the Minuteman Project different from other demonstrations was its Anglo-Saxon tapestry, inciting accusations of racist intentions. But volunteers here cloaked their racial and cultural views under a legal banner. They said it's not about who comes in, but how.
"If I'm in my house, and I see my neighbor's house being broken into and call the police, I'm not a racist just because the burglar was black, brown or some other color besides white," said Coody. "A burglar is a burglar. This is not a race thing, it's a law thing."
While officially there to assist law enforcement, the Minuteman Project perilously walked the fine line between civilian watchdogging -- like volunteers driving around their neighborhoods observing and reporting suspicious activity -- and vigilantism, taking the law into your own hands when the authorities are felt to be falling short. Local residents and authorities there eyed the arrival of these outsiders suspiciously, mostly out of a concern for the potential violence they would usher in, fueling an already raging fire.
Tailgating on the Border
Aware of the intense scrutiny and the high stakes for success, Chris Simcox, publisher of the Tombstone Tumbleweed and an organizer of the event made clear to volunteers at an orientation meeting on April 1 in Tombstone that their job was to observe illegal activity, make no contact with "illegals," and report to border patrol. "Hold the line, but put your ideals before any instant gratification," warned Simcox, whose group Civil Homeland Defense is one of a few civilian border groups that have operated controversially in the region for years, tracking down and reporting migrant and drug smuggling activity.
By acting as a deterrent on the border to would-be crossers, the Minutemen hoped to prove to policymakers that with political will, the invasion can be stopped on two fronts. First, by going after the supply side -- stemming the flow across the border -- and the demand side -- punishing the employers across the country that exploit the migrants.
After the first orientation meeting, Simcox downplayed the project's paramilitary resemblances. "If you want to talk about training for volunteers," he quipped to reporters, "I guess that would consist of knowing how to unfold a lawn chair, how to look into camera monitors, and how dial a cell phone." The group seemed to hold to standard operating procedure. A week into the watch, a volunteer was sent home because, although he had offered a distressed migrant a bowl of cereal and $20, he had shaken the man's hand, thereby breaking the "no contact" policy.
Indeed, it soon seemed that the hysteria over the armed and dangerous Minutemen was much ado about nothing. Retired men and women sitting on the backs of pickup trucks in six-hour shifts, concentrated along a two mile stretch border fence eyeing the vacant desert, appeared more like a group on a bird watching excursion than a violent, paramilitary force.
The kaleidoscope of overlapping characters that swirled around them, however, created a cultural circus. A flurry of reporters and camera crews watched young, liberal ACLU representatives in white "Legal Observer" T-shirts watch over middle-aged, middle- American Minutemen. The Minutemen kept watch over the desert for migrants, some of them retired military communicating in command speak through walkie talkies with a grain of self-importance and nostalgia for their days in service. Border Patrol agents cruised by, responding to remote sensors planted in the brush that all these onlookers had tripped.
For a time in April, the Minutemen found themselves amidst the multiplicity of interests that define life along America's most active stretch of border. With their arrival, they brought out the wide panorama of contradictory voices that characterize the debate over illegal immigration.
Cross-Cultural Détente
On a hot afternoon, a mile south of the border fence, Sergio Medrano peered through binoculars, combing the Mexican desert for a trace of migrants. "No hay migrantes," he said. "They're intelligent enough not to cross here."
He shifted his focus to the 40 vehicles and handful of satellite TV trucks stationed along the fence "Why does this have to happen for people to find out really what happens on the border? Why does there have to be these activities of racist and anti-immigrant groups? I don't know why there are groups of people that don't like us -- every person has the human right to better himself, in any part of the world."
Medrano is a former "coyote," a migrant smuggler who was caught 49 times shepherding illegals across the border before records-keeping technology caught up with him and forced him out of the game. He turned to drugs, became homeless, and later checked himself into a drug rehabilitation center in Mexico, which he now directs. His organization operates Agua Para Vida, a humanitarian program supplying water and food to migrants on their path north.
"So many people have died here in the desert in past years; why does it take all this [to call attention to the problem]?" says Medrano, pointing to the media circus across the line. "They come here, see what happens, and then they'll just forget about it. We'll keep fighting for our people so that they don't die trying to realize the American dream."
After checking on the water drums his group leaves under shady trees across the desert, Medrano and a couple of volunteers from the center -- one a former drug smuggler now undergoing rehabilitation -- decided to walk up to the border fence. Curious media and Minutemen alike clustered around Medrano, at first excited that he might have been a migrant attempting to cross, but then engaging him in what might truly have been the only cross-border dialogue both sides will see during the month-long confrontation.
"Mexicans that work in the United States send their money back home -- and they use the doctors and hospitals here. President Fox tells them to come here because he wants us to pay for their health," an elderly woman says to Medrano in Spanish, holding an American flag in each of her hands.
"I think if the U.S. didn't have any Mexicans it would have serious problems," Medrano replies. "Is anybody hungry?" he asks the volunteers and media congregated around, handing them a Ziploc bag packed with snacks he has brought for migrants.
"What do you think of the Minutemen?" asks a reporter.
"They do what they do. But there are people appointed by the government with this job. It would better if [the Minutemen] were home taking care of their families instead of being on the border and getting in the way of the border patrol."
"When Mexicans come to the United States why don't they want to learn English? If I was going to live in a different house I would learn that language." asked the woman with the flags.
"For me," replied Medrano, "English is difficult."
As he walked away, a volunteer from California shouted "Viva Mexico!" Her friend then pointed to the shopping bags stuck in the shrubs on the south side of the fence left by journeying migrants. "I want to tell you something light, a little joke we talk about. See those white plastic bags? I've given them a new name. They're called 'Mexican Samsonite.' Isn't it true? They're all over the place..."
From Agua Prieta to Douglas
Douglas, AZ sees a steady flow of Mexicans who come over the border for the day to shop. Along its historic main street, cars with Mexican license plates are stuffed with items purchased from the shoe, clothing and variety stores up and down the strip. On the other side of town, icons of American consumerism - McDonald's, Wal-Mart, Radio Shack - feed south-of-the-border appetites. Walk down to the international border gate, past a cluster shopping carts left by Wal-Mart shoppers, and the scene suddenly changes. Dusty streets with potholes, taco trucks, music and ice cream stores line a main street flowing with pedestrians and vehicle traffic.
Agua Prieta, Mexico used to be a sleepy town with a population equal to its American sibling north of the fence, but this staging ground for drug and human smuggling has burst into a sprawling town of single story buildings with a population of 135,000.
In the main plaza, Hispanic organizations from Southern California were rallying "in solidarity" with Arizona civil and human rights organizations to denounce the "racist" Minuteman Project and the group's complication of a multifaceted problem that calls for more peaceful, systemic solutions.
"What we're simply saying is give workers access to globalization," said Christian Ramirez, who directs the U.S./Mexico border program for the American Friends Service Committee. "Why is it that the borders have come down for transnational corporations but it has become more deadly for working people on both sides? It's been 11 years since NAFTA was introduced, and the issue of labor movements has not been resolved. Allow workers the same rights that we have allowed products."
Jose Jacques Medina from the Los Angeles-based Comite Pro Uno, dismisses any idea that undocumented migrant workers, while boosting domestic product, cost the system.
"In order to be productive you have to be at least 15 years old, right? You have to feed, educate, and raise this worker from the day they're born. This is money the people of Mexico have invested in any given individual ready to work. The United States doesn't invest a single coin in this human being, but it is ready to exploit and take all the production out of their body. That's a free thing that is given to the U.S. economic system."
Credit: Andy Isaacson
A mile from the main plaza, Javier Rodriquez, 20, and his two friends from Guadalajara have arrived in Agua Prieta. They sit bleary eyed and travel weary in the courtyard of La Iglesia Sagrada, a church which provides shelter to those migrants en route to a better life north, or those freshly deported.
Flyers with depictions of crossed shotguns have been distributed by church groups to migrants warning them of the Minutemen's presence on the line and the increased attention on the border that has followed in its wake. The three of them saw this first hand when they snuck up to the line earlier in the day but retreated, discouraged.
They sat in near silence in the courtyard, with no money to pay the coyotes and polleros that guide migrants for as much as $2000 to far-flung destinations such as Atlanta, North Carolina and Tennessee, all of which have seen sharp rises in illegal job seekers in recent years.
"I want to go to New York because I hear the wages are better. But I'll work wherever - at factory, car wash, pizzeria - whatever pays," says Rodriguez, whose father died least year, leaving him the eldest son in a family of five.
At dusk, after eating a meal the church will provide, Javier and his friends will set out.
Between mile markers 8 and 12 on the Geronimo Trail east of Douglas, U.S. Border Patrol agents sit in waiting. The dry washes that meander up from the borderline and cross this dusty road are frequent migrant trails, and with the Minutemen and increased patrol presence concentrated west of Douglas, more migrants have begun traveling these remote routes. The agents are expecting them, and drive their trucks along the shoulder with their eyes peeled for footprints and other signs of traffic. With night vision scopes they locate movement in the brush, and then pursue the migrants by foot and ATV.
By 10pm, the night had gotten busy. Agents came across a young Mexican man and his sister - the rest of their traveling group had been caught earlier that day, and the couple had waited in the brush until dark. Shortly afterwards, a group of 14 young Mexican nationals were apprehended and sat orderly along the side of the road, illuminated by the glow of patrol headlights. Agents say that when they are spotted, migrants stand still rather than run and risk injury, while their guides turn tail back across the border.
The processing that takes place on the roadside is cordial and routine - the migrants' items are gathered and searched, their bodies frisked and paperwork is signed. They will be brought back to the border gate in Douglas, temporarily detained, and sent back to Mexico. The whole scene resembles a mother catching her child pilfering a cookie from the jar: she catches her child because that's just what moms do, but knows that kids will be kids, and will try for the cookie as soon as she turns her back. The child wants - even needs - that cookie, and while being caught red-handed is a disappointing setback, he knows that he's only due for a light slap on the wrist. Tomorrow, he'll try for the cookie again.
Home on the Frontlines
Since last October, agents in the Douglas, AZ corridor have caught 102,341 migrants attempting to cross illegally into the United States. For every one that's apprehended, unofficial estimates are that three or four make it through. But even those migrants apprehended will usually make it through, eventually, perhaps on their twelfth try.
The vast majority of those apprehended are Mexican, but a rising number are OTMs -- Other Than Mexicans -- a trend that some point to as evidence of how the border has become a convenient entry point for large numbers of people from countries with large populations hostile to the United States. While the U.S. Border Patrol does not release exact OTM figures or provide country breakdowns, citing sensitive intelligence, local residents have found prayer rugs, journals written in Farsi, and Korans littering their property. One rancher north of Douglas tells of an Iraqi asylum-seeker who walked onto his property one night crying, "call the police!" The man's father had been killed, his mother and sister were missing, and he had journeyed from Iraq to Turkey, Guatemala and Mexico before reaching this rancher's front gate.
Those who sneak past agents on Geronimo Trail will soon find themselves walking across Warner and Mary Glenn's cattle ranch, a breathtaking 15,000 acres of sensitive mountain desert habitat home to white-sided jackrabbits, pronghorn, mountain lion, and black bear. The Glenn's have joined with other ranch owners to form the Malpai Borderlands Group, an innovative grassroots project -- one of the largest "ecosystem management" experiments in the country -- that is protecting 800,000 acres of contiguous open space ranchland stretching into New Mexico.
Mary Glenn has seen a lot of traffic through her property over the past decade. There was a time, she says, when they would recognize almost half the people coming through every year because they were returnees, like the "spiffy-looking" man who would walk through their pasture on his way to a job in Chicago carrying a briefcase and wearing dark glasses. "But boy, I'll tell you, they're all different now," she says. "They're from way South, and there are more of them."
Almost every landowner in the area confronts incredible stories of human struggle, like that of the migrant woman who gave birth in Glenn's pasture. The woman cut the umbilical cord with broken glass, tied it off with an unraveled sweater and sought help on Glenn's porch holding the new American citizen in her arms. Others arrive on Glenn's porch hungry, injured and lost -- some have spent four days walking the desert in circles, devastated when told they have only journeyed five miles from the border.
But in their wake, the migrants have laid waste to the pristine landscape. They defecate near water sources, leave toilet paper, sanitary pads, piles of food containers and discarded clothing. Some neighbors' cattle have died ingesting plastic bags left in the pastures. The Glenns secured a grant from the Bureau of Land Management to hire someone to clean up the garbage. "But what a waste," she says. "It's good money that could go to improving the land, but instead we're picking up trash."
As policymakers debate the economic equation of illegal immigration, and consumers across the nation benefit from a lifestyle of cheap goods and services, residents on the front line bear most of the costs. Among those "losers" out of the immigration phenomenon -- those who stand to gain the least, while sacrificing the most, from the influx -- are those living in border communities like Don and Grace Wiggens.
One afternoon, the Wiggens' granddaughter arrived from school to an empty ranch house. No sooner had she walked into the living room and locked the front door when four migrants banged on the door, demanding that she open it, feed them, and drive them to where they needed to go. Rattled, she called her grandmother, who called border patrol. Only after brandishing a gun and exposing the muzzle through the Venetian blinds did the migrants run off.
Many local residents in Cochise County share these horror stories of borderline life, a reality that "comes with the territory" but terrorizes all the same. Dogs bark throughout the night at passing migrants, as their owners lie sleepless. The Wiggens were so fed up with repairing damages to the barbed wire fence surrounding their property that they installed a section which migrants could take down and secure behind them to aid their passing. Don Wiggens arrived home from his job as security head at the local airport to find his horse tangled up in the barbed wire fence which migrants had removed and left on the ground. They coughed up the $1,000 in veterinarian fees. Other neighbors have found migrants butchering their newborn calves, opening water lines to drink -- leaving them flowing -- and stealing their trucks.
Although locals recognize these crimes as the doings of only a minority of passing migrants, their outrage gets to the emotional heart of what angers those calling for tougher border security: the government is not doing what it should be to protect the safety and honor the rights of its legal citizens.
This feeling has hit home for the Wiggens. Their daughter, now living in California at a military base, at one time was a single mother and applied for government assistance to help raise her child. "Here was a someone who had served her country, but the office turned down her application," says Grace Wiggens. "They gave food stamps to the man in the next cubicle, who couldn't speak English, had no proof of address - and may have even been illegal." A few months ago, their granddaughter sprained her arm, but none of the county hospital emergency rooms -- in Douglas or Bisbee -- had open space. They went to Douglas anyway, and after waiting several hours they learned that illegal immigrants had taken up the beds.
The Wiggens say they are compassionate people, but their emotions -- like those of the majority of Americans who polls show favor a crackdown on illegal immigration -- run high as they weigh the opposing forces of compassion and practicality. The United States was built by immigrants seeking to better their lives, but the system cannot accommodate those who come through the back door.
Make a Run for the Border
At dusk, back at the Minuteman compound, the jagged peaks of the Huachuca Mountains to the west stand silhouetted against a glowing magenta sky. A white aerostat blimp looms omnisciently above, launched below from Ft. Huachuca, the country's largest military intelligence complex. The blimp, which contains some of the most advanced military intelligence technology known to human civilization hovers, ironically, over a rampant smuggling route across one of the most penetrable borders known to human civilization.
"It frustrates me that politicians want to have this 'war on drugs' yet don't want to take the steps to stop the ones coming through our backyard," said Terry McCormick, 37, an ex-marine from California who enlisted in the Minuteman Project not out of a concern for illegal immigration but for the more insidious and flagrant drug smuggling that flows under the noses of authorities.
Credit: Andy Isaacson
Away from the media spotlight, to the west of where retirees stand watch over the desert, McCormick quietly commandeers a small group of former and current Marines that are "doing the dirty work and the ground pounding."
The day before, at the base of Coronado Peak, his group had spooked a crew of drug runners carrying backpack loads of heroine and marijuana on U.S. soil, and chased them across the border. Drug smuggling operations have sophisticated weaponry, communications and a network of tunnels that they use in the Huachucas.
McCormick, his wife, and a couple young marines load into a jeep in camouflage uniforms and leave the Minuteman compound, heading down a maze of dusty ranch roads toward the border fence. They want to get a closer look at "Cocaine Cabana," a white building visible across the border which McCormick says acts as a staging ground for smuggling operations.
"These routes go from here to Los Angeles up to Canada" he says. "We figured we'd hit them hard here and see how it affects California. We're here to do our duty, to do our part. It makes us feel good when we come out here and find out that this border is slammed and shut down, even if it's just for a 10 mile length. This basically opens up the government's eyes to say that this can be done, if done and implemented properly - - by putting our national guard back on the line and regaining control, and by getting an immigration policy that actually works and enforcing the laws already on our books."
After a week along the border, it appeared as though the Minutemen were finding enemies in those who stood to profit from the status quo. Volunteers around the Minuteman compound stepped up their internal security, installing guards and ground sensors around the perimeter of the compound. The violent Central American gang MS- 13, they said, had also jammed their communications and rumor had it were planning attacks.
A Coca-Cola delivery truck entered the compound, and Cindylou Dampf radioed to the communications center through her walkie-talkie. "It could be Al Qaeda in the back," she said. "I'm joking, but you never know."
Jim Gilchrest, a retired accountant from Orange County, CA who organized the project along with Chris Simcox, arrived to say the FBI had just passed along credible death threats against his family. "I have to go, I have a family to protect," he yelled, driving off.
According to the U.S. Border Patrol, apprehensions for the first ten days in April in the corridor where the Minutemen were posted decreased by almost 6,000 from the same period a year ago.
But a USBP spokesperson said that whenever Mexican authorities are out in greater numbers on their side of the fence -- which have assembled in the wake of the Minuteman presence and media attention -- "our numbers plummet." The enforcement presence had been beefed up on the U.S. side as well. Not coincidentally, the Bush administration deployed 500 more border patrol agents just days before the Minutemen arrived - locals said they had never seen so much government law enforcement in the area.
Whatever the reason, Minuteman volunteers are calling the project a resounding success. Emboldened by the turnout and the attention it garnered, there is talk about staging similar protests along the borders New Mexico and Texas, and even one in June against employers who hire illegals, another target of their frustration.
"The thing about marrying up a willing worker with a willing employer, that these people re doing jobs that 'Americans won't do' -- you need to further that sentence. It's the jobs that Americans won't do at that price," says Minuteman volunteer Greg Coody of Waco, TX.
But the economic forces at play may be stronger. "If the market needs it, the market will attract it," says Salvador Reza, who operates a day laborer center in Phoenix and came to the border to watch the Minuteman events unfold. "It's like a river: You can block a river, but if the river has enough rain, it will go around."
From the summit of Coronado Peak, the San Pedro River below flows through a contiguous landscape that only relatively recently saw a barbed fence dividing north from south. Despite the efforts of the Minuteman, and those of the border patrol agents in the evening, several hundred migrants will have reached U.S soil by daybreak.
The sight of a hundred migrants trudging single file across private property indeed resembles an "invasion" on the homeland if looked at through the prism of nationalism.
But from high up in the Huachuca Mountains, the desert valley below just looks like land, not like two different national homelands. And long before Coronado marched through here - in fact, since the beginning of human history all across the world -- populations have shifted across lands, following resources and seeking self-preservation. In their wake, over time, demographics and cultures have changed.
The Minutemen, in demanding the enforcement of laws and the preservation of a more unified culture, might be waging a fight in futility, as the forces that have governed the flow of human beings across lands since time immemorial - wealth, greed, power and human survival - are very deep and historic phenomena.
What's to stop those now?
Theater of War
MONOCLE | To build up the Afghan National Army, the U.S. Marines create their own Taliban stronghold – in Nevada.
FIRST PUBLISHED IN MONOCLE, MAY 2008
NEVADA, HOME TO THE BUNNYRANCH, the Bellagio and the Burning Man festival, is an unlikely place for a radical Islamist to seek sanctuary, unless, of course, he wanted to wreak havoc in one of the US’s premier leisure destinations. But its arid mountain landscape closely mirrors Afghanistan’s, so when Marines camped in the state’s rugged Wassuk range learn that Taliban insurgents have hidden weapons in a nearby village (even if that village is populated by Afghan refugees hired from Dallas and San Diego to impersonate real villagers), it does not require a great suspension of disbelief.
Inside a tent in a snow-dusted valley, Major Daniel Geisenhof, 41, and troops from the iii Marine expeditionary force normally based in okinawa, Japan, sit across a table from role players acting as allies from the afghan National army (aNa).together they plan a morning raid on “Malakashay”, a mock village built nearby. over tea and dates, Geisenhof listens to the afghan commander’s plan. But Geisenhof has problems with it. there are not enough soldiers – it is unclear whether the commander is concerned about scaring the villagers with larger forces, or just doesn’t have more and is ashamed to admit it. It seems he also favors an aggressive raid, while Geisenhof believes a softer approach will avoid alienating the village. “I wouldn’t say this to the commander,” Geisenhof’s interpreter, an Afghan from Dallas, suggests. “It makes him sound weak.”
For Geisenhof, a chiseled Marine with combat experience in Iraq and Somalia, the moment calls for humilityand compromise. “This is a great plan, sir, but what if we’re ambushed?” He invites the commander to discuss more troops in private. A Marine supervisor nods approvingly. “One of the most important things you can do in these meetings is pimp the commander. Always let him save face, even if that means losing face yourself. His troops will see that, and they’ll both respect us more for it.”
“Everything with Afghans is a negotiation,” says another. “As Marines, that goes against everything we’ve known.” Yet this is the role – by turns mentor, ambassador and cultural neophyte – that Geisenhof and the 150 Marines training for three weeks last February outside Hawthorne, Nevada, will assume this year as advisers to the real ANA.
Major Daniel Geisenhof consults with ANA role players. Credit: Andy Isaacson
For these final pre-deployment exercises, called Mountain Viper, 25-man adviser teams maneuver Humvees and shoot AK-47s, bivouac in blizzard conditions, and learn the afghan dialect of Dari and cultural idiosyncrasies such as how Afghans skin goats (“they respect the hell out of the thing,” notes one Marine).
Some 180 refugees from American- Afghan communities are paid up to $250 a day to play villagers, insurgents and soldiers, and to toss out cultural insights. Many fled to the US to escape the Taliban, and say they participate in Mountain Viper to help their motherland alleviate its 25-year burden of war. “The Soviets made a lot of mistakes,” says a refugee now living in San Diego who is playing an ANA officer. “They didn’t know our culture or our people. What the Marines are doing is very smart. Hopefully, it will save lives in Afghanistan.”
Indeed, an upturn in violence there and a resurgence of Taliban control, which US National Intelligence director Mike McConnell estimates at 10 per cent of the country, have underscored the need for more capable afghan security forces. Last autumn, the US asked NATP countries for more forces to quell the volatile south. Meanwhile, 3,200 Marines were deployed to southern Afghanistan in March – 1,000 as ANA trainers – still below the 3,500 that General Dan K McNeill, commander of NATO’s International Security assistance force, has requested.
Mountain Viper is an answer to this shortfall. It is the most immersive environment the Marines have created to train its adviser teams for Afghanistan, who had previously only received ad-hoc training at regional bases. Last spring, the Marine Corps formed the adviser training group to supervise the first Mountain Viper; a third is planned for this summer.
From its infancy in 2002, the ANA hasbeen built into a force of 45,000. It is targeted to reach 70,000 by 2010. Despite efforts such as Mountain Viper to improve relationships with locals, Afghan president Hamid Karzai has chastised the US and NATO for inadvertent civilian casualties – resulting from aerial bombardments and botched house raids –that threaten the tenuous popular support for the Afghan government and international presence. “That has been a challenging part of everything we do,”says US Army Major General David Rodriguez, a commander in eastern Afghanistan. “But part of that is because of how the enemy fights and how they try to have civilians in there.”
On the morning of the raid on Malakashay, a convoy of ANA soldiers and Marines in armored Humvees heads from base camp toward the village.
Malakashay consists of a dozen small shelters with painted rock and mud façades amid the sagebrush. Chicken korma scents the air. When the pickups arrive, the Afghans jump out and descend on the houses. They seize an insurgent guarding a weapons cache and bring him to Geisenhof, who then engages in village diplomacy, or rather, damage control – shaking hands with elders, reassuring them. Later, in a tribal council with the ANA commander, villagers complain that ANA soldiers stole antique glass from a home during the raid. They ask if the Americans could donate a water pump, tractor parts, and help clear landmines.
“You have to be a creative story- teller,” a supervisor advised Marines earlier on. “If you say, ‘Inshallah, we’ll get to it’, they’ll know you can’t deliver. It’s OK to dance around it. They’ll understand that you care and will look into it.”
Geisenhof says he will contact the UN about clearing the mines, but avoids making promises about the parts. “I’ll check our supplies.” the convoy then leaves for base camp: ANA role players are there, busy grilling kebabs.
Geisenhoff meets village elders. Credit: Andy Isaacson
Me, with Marines.