CHARLOTTE OBSERVER

February 27, 2006

HIDING IN PLAIN SIGHT

Political rift starts at border

Illegal immigrants in search of work find a nation at odds over their presence

By LIZ CHANDLER AND DÁNICA COTO

SÁSABE, Mexico -- What do you want in America?

The 33 migrants waiting at a desert outpost for a ride to the border call out answers.

"We want to do the work they cannot do -- or don't want to do," says Oscar Lopez, 22.

"We want them not to be racist," says Luis Piñeda, 17.

"We are trying to get a better life for our people," another man shouts.

A cattle truck rumbles up, and the migrants climb

A cattle truck rumbles up, and the migrants climb into the flatbed and peer out between the slats. As the truck grinds toward the desert, one man calls out in Spanish: "Let's put our heart in it."

America's strategy to stop this illegal flow appears no match for the sheer will driving it.

You can see that in Border Patrol practices and in the conflicted actions of ranchers who deal daily with the desperate wave. You can see it nationally, where nearly 11 million illegal immigrants live and work, including an estimated 390,000 in North Carolina. And you can see it in the faces of the migrants whose determination to reach America makes them risk everything.

They start their journey at the border with identification tucked in their clothes. If they die in the desert, their families will know.

Waiting on the American side is a front line spread thin and backed by a divided nation.

The Arivaca Valley sits in the desert between Altar, Mexico, and Tucson, Ariz. -- a major crossing corridor.

Every day fresh footprints appear on worn desert paths. Ranchers find their fences cut. Water bottles, tin cans, clothing and plastic grocery bags are left behind.

Chases are common, too.

A helicopter tracking migrants darts across the valley. Patrol trucks race to roundups, or sit empty along the road as agents venture into the desert with dogs and guns.

On Jan. 14, the Border Patrol closes in on two dozen migrants as they scatter among mesquite trees. Tipped by a resident, trucks circle the flock. Agents order the migrants to kneel.

As they search backpacks, a man from an aid group called the Samaritans arrives and yells in Spanish: "Is anybody sick? Does anybody need water?"

An agent tells the Samaritan to stop. When he persists, the agent threatens to arrest him.

Soon, the "aliens," as agents call them, are loaded into pickups and hauled to a detention center, 50 miles east.

Most will be sent back to Mexico, unless U.S. records show they're wanted for a crime.

Most will then trek right back into the U.S.

"I'll see half of them tomorrow," says one agent, as he escorts a group back to Mexico.

The Border Patrol focuses on urban areas, where it's easier for migrants to disappear. But numbers show such crackdowns only divert the flow to more isolated areas, like Arivaca.

With jail space and courtrooms in short supply, America uses a catch-and-release program, a revolving door for migrants.

The Border Patrol won't say how many of its 1.2 million arrests last year involved repeat offenders. But some might be caught and released 20 times before agents file deportation charges, says agent Sean King. When that happens, migrants risk prison time if they are caught again.

"You cannot stop this with enforcement alone," King says.

That's a debate that has divided Congress and the president's own party.

At issue is whether to build more border fences and crack down on employers, or find ways to accommodate the stream of migrants.

President Bush has proposed a guest-worker program, which would let illegal immigrants sign up to work legally.

The U.S. Senate will begin debating this in March.

At the border, Arizona U.S. Attorney Paul Charlton says Washington needs a practical solution that both enforces and accommodates. "We need a law that lets them come."

Welcome or unwanted?

Arivaca residents reflect America's conflicted views.Some protect their homes with razor-wire fences; others leave doors open so migrants can get water.

Some are scouts for the Border Patrol. Others criticize border dragnets, saying they destroy desert and crush human spirit.

"Anybody who is hungry, or sick or thirsty -- I'm going to help," says Byrd Baylor, 80, a renowned children's author whose home bears names carved by migrants passing through.

She allows aid groups to camp on her 35 acres. She worries that proposals for new border fences and stadium lights will drive wildlife away.

Then there's rancher Tom Kay, who worries about drugs creeping in.

"There needs to be a wall built. It'll slow (migration) way down," says Kay.

His bull mastiff, Ruby, offers protection. His wife, Dena, carries a .38 on her hip.

She resents aid workers who leave water in the desert: "They should go polish their (expletive) halos elsewhere."

Samaritans are angry, too. It's not unusual to find their water barrels riddled with bullets.

Plutarco Elías has worked the Arivaca Ranch for 20 years.

As a cowboy, tending cattle on 600 acres, he sees migrants all the time. He found a man dead two summers ago, he says.

"They're going to have to do something -- either legalize it or shut it down," says Elías, 47.

"There are men, women and children coming. I find little dolls and little trucks. It's really sad."

The roots are in the Mexican peso's collapse in 1994 and the U.S. appetite for cheap labor. An estimated 40 percent of people in Mexico live in poverty, with the average worker making about $2 an hour.

"It's gotten a lot worse in the last 10 years," Elías says. "Now, they come in waves."

`Does anyone want to go back?'

On Jan. 10, in one hour, 31 vans pull into a Mexican checkpoint near the U.S. border.

When doors open, 20 to 30 people tumble out.

Men, women and children cluster around an officer for Grupos Beta, Mexico's migrant protection agency.

He is not here to stop them.

He and other officers hand out pocket-size survival guides. Wear comfortable shoes, it says. Drink water. Rub on garlic to prevent bug bites.

They also give away cans of tuna and bottles of water.

The border is just 30 miles away now.

A road sign warns: "Temperaturas Extremas."

Officer Rodrigo Sánchez gives his three-minute speech again and again, with each arriving van.

"Have your ID on you, so if you die, someone can identify you," he says.

"If the border patrol stops you, don't run."

"Don't let yourself get separated from your children, your family or wives."

An elderly man squeezes a boy's tiny shoulder. A mother pulls her children close. A young woman with long black hair steps toward the man next to her.

The speech is uncomfortable for Sánchez.

"I see my family sometimes, especially if there are kids in the group. My throat closes up."

Officer Julio César Cancino wants to build a museum to show photos of grisly desert deaths.

Maybe then, they would reconsider.

After the lecture, migrants pack back into vans.

Before waving on one group, Cancino makes a last plea.

"Does anyone want to go back?"

We'll pay for the trip, he says.

Nobody speaks.

In the two years he's worked here, Cancino says, no one has accepted the offer.