Blue barrel diaries

Keep Going

On resilience and commitment at the border.

By Holly Knight

Gurupreet Kaur, who would have turned 13 this year, died of heat stroke in the Sonoran Desert on June 12, 2019. She crossed with her mother and three others who were all planning to request asylum. Her small body was found not far from Quitobaquito Oasis, just one mile from the border where daytime temperatures soared to 108 °F. When the exhibit Hostile Terrain 94 traveled to the university near me, I searched for her name tag for two hours in the sector where she died. The exhibit is a visceral and visual representation of the human toll exacted by the 1994 policy of Prevention Through Deterrence. More than 4,000 handwritten toe tags were geolocated on a wall map at the exact location where remains were found in Arizona’s Sonoran Desert between the mid-1990s and 2024. I gasped when I finally discovered Gurupreet’s tag, which was buried beneath a massive pile, all telling the same story of what happens when cruel policies are carried out in one of the deadliest places on earth.

Before I traveled to Arizona in late October 2024 to help my daughter move, I had never heard of Gurupreet Kaur or the thousands of others who have died or gone missing in the land of open graves due to a 30-year-old policy I knew nothing about. While I certainly knew that the term “illegal” was dehumanizing, I didn’t know it was also misleading because crossing without papers is most often a civil offense and not a crime. I also did not know that requesting asylum was a right protected by both international and federal laws or that asylum seekers must present themselves at a port of entry or to border patrol on US soil within one year of arrival in order to request asylum. In other words, they have no choice but to cross the border without papers or permission, and they do not need to initiate the process immediately. I certainly had no idea there was a backlog of nearly 4 million asylum cases in U.S. Immigration Court, which included Gurupreet's father, with a wait time of approximately six years. In short, I did not know that millions of men, women, and children fleeing violence crossed the “right” way and either died while making the attempt or have been patiently waiting their turn for a very long time.

In 2018, I had wanted to volunteer at the border because I knew that the policy of family separation was wrong, but I was unsure I had anything to offer. During my October visit to Arizona, I learned about the work of Humane Borders and boldly asked if I could volunteer. The volunteer coordinator assured me that education was central to their mission. Together, we organized a series of water runs. And I began a deep dive: stacks of books (by Urrea, De Leon, and more) multiplied like apprentice brooms, an embarrassing number of open tabs on my computer covered topics ranging from the 100-mile border to Annual Reports of the Pima County Medical Examiner, and hours hunched over the computer trying to write about what I was learning so I could contribute—something, anything. To call what happened during those two weeks in March of 2025 of volunteering with Humane Borders “a series of water runs” is inaccurate at best.

I will never forget the drivers, Scott and Tom, and Jim, who regaled us with stories of their lives before and after their encounter with the border. They were each so different, but similar in ways that mattered most: absolute commitment to the dual mission of preventing death in the desert and creating a more just and humane border. They had vivid stories about the brutal and beautiful landscape of trackless mountains and dry arroyos, the people they will never forget, and shifting border policies that somehow produced the same inhumane results. Scott took us on a journey beyond a water station and into a canyon. Accompanied by a drumming ladder-backed woodpecker and a singing Lucy’s warbler, we found carpet shoes and blackened water jugs left by travelers—all reminders to not give up and to keep going.

Tom remembered a day of 122 °F temperatures at water station number five along the border wall, where he met a mother who was carrying her nine- or ten-year-old son who was severely disabled. Because the mother was red-faced, exhausted, and obviously at risk of heat stroke, Tom called Border Patrol for help. When the agents finally rolled up, they asked, “What the hell are we supposed to do with that sh*t?” Tom’s reply was direct and unequivocal: “I think they need some help.” I asked Jim why he thought it was important to continue doing this work when usage was decreasing. I knew he would have a good answer, and he did. “In the past two to three years, I have seen such fluctuation in border policy and crossings.

We don’t know what’s going to happen next. Humane Borders has to be a steady and consistent source of life-giving water, so people don’t die.” During an overwhelming time when the odds seem particularly long, I take refuge in these memories. I continue to learn and strike up conversations with friends and strangers who are on their own journey of understanding the humanitarian crisis at the border. I plan to raise more money so Humane Borders can keep acting as a steady and consistent presence. And it is my goal to return this year for a longer period to gather hope, be surrounded by others who are deeply committed to this work, and to keep going.

When We Walk The

Migrant Trail, We

Remember

By Jamie Wilson

Tobacco, copal, and sage. These are some of the sacred medicines that Kat Rodriguez is mixing by hand as a small group gathers to prepare the ritual prayer ties for the annual Migrant Trail—a 75-mile walk from the U.S.-Mexico border at Sásabe, Sonora, to Tucson, Arizona, to bear witness to the preventable tragedy of migrant deaths. Red squares of cotton fabric have been cut and prepared to receive the generous pinches of fragrant tobacco. We also have a blue tie for the sky, green for the earth, and yellow for the sun. For many years, Maria Padilla, who is of Mayo and Mexican descent, has prepared the sacred ties for the walk. As we settle in for our task, the energy is mixed—the joyful camaraderie of our group is punctuated by the sobering knowledge that since we walked last year, the remains of 155 individuals have been recovered in the Arizona borderlands, and over the past two decades the Migrant Trail has carried thousands of prayer ties—one delicately wrapped pinch of medicine for each person whose remains were found in the Arizona borderlands.

In addition, there is a white prayer tie for the thousands who are still missing. Marco Hernandez was one of many missing migrants symbolized by a white prayer tie for over a decade, after he disappeared in 2008 while crossing the border into Arizona. His story is one of many that Kat Rodriguez has shared with me over the years. Kat, who has helped organize the Walk since 2004, worked for over a decade in Tucson documenting human rights abuses in the borderlands and helping to match recovered remains to the missing persons reports. She came to know Marco’s son during his long search for his father. In 2020, Marco’s remains were finally discovered and identified. It was Kat who ultimately delivered his ashes to his wife, bringing a measure of closure after years of uncertainty. Marco is just one of the many missing migrants whom Kat has helped to identify and return home, an experience she describes as utterly heartbreaking. As we prepare prayer ties, we think of people like Marco and his family; these are then carried at the front of the line.

On the first day, at the border wall, which divides the traditional O’Odham lands, the prayer ties are unfurled to receive a blessing, and are smudged with sage or cedar. Their long chain is another visual reminder of the border’s extensive damage. In fact, the Tohono O’Odham nation sits in the Sasabe Corridor, one of the deadliest corridors for border crossers, many of whom are Indigenous to the Americas. It is not uncommon for migrants and asylum seekers to speak an Indigenous language as their first language. There is a profound tragedy in the fact that so many Indigenous people are dying on O’Odham land, often within the sight of Mount Babouqivari, the spiritual home of the Tohono O’Odham People.

We also carry crosses with the names of people whose remains have been found in the Arizona borderlands. Many read “Desconocido/a” (“Unknown”), which is a misnomer because no human is unknown. Like Marco’s father, the crosses symbolize a person who is deeply missed. As we come into the water stops along the walk, we call out the names on our crosses, responding to each name with “presente” (present). This ritual is symbolic. It seeks to remember and recognize those who have died while crossing. For the “desconocidos/as”, it creates a time and a space for a person whose loved ones have been unable to perform the rituals of mourning when a body is present (for me, assuming their spirits are aware of these actions, it is one small way of asking for their forgiveness). For many years, the walk has begun at the Catholic church in Sásabe, Sonora—one of the small border towns where thousands of migrants, many from Central America and beyond, have likely rested before undertaking the final, treacherous leg of their journey.

While the Migrant Trail is not affiliated with any religion, it is deeply rooted in ritual and spirituality. We are a spiritually diverse group, but we recognize that many who cross the border come from Christian and Indigenous traditions. In Sásabe, we receive a blessing from the priest, pause to pray, and hold space in the very places where countless others likely have prayed before their crossing. These rituals center the lives, families, and spirits of those who have been forced to make the dangerous journey through the borderlands, and who ultimately perished there. While we walk to honor those who have died, we also walk for all who have suffered the trauma of migration—and because we believe no one should be forced to risk or lose their life simply because migration became their only option.

No family should be forced to have their loved ones disappear because of our border policies. Our walk is not meant to replicate the migrant experience, but it does take us through the same rugged terrain many have crossed. Even more than 50 miles north of the border—well past the highway’s Border Patrol checkpoint—we see signs of those who have come before us. Each day brings reminders of the immense hardships migrants face—the long distances, blisters, thick dust, intense heat by day, and chilling cold at night all take their toll. Most mornings, we rise by 5 a.m. to walk roughly 12 miles; on our longest day, we begin at 3 a.m. to cover 16 miles before the midday sun becomes dangerous. But unlike our migrant brethren, we walk freely without fear of apprehension. Furthermore, each of the obstacles we encounter on the walk can become life-threatening for migrants—a twisted ankle, dehydration, or minor injury can mean being left behind—with devastating consequences. The support we receive on the Migrant Trail embodies the kind of compassion we believe all migrants should experience and demonstrates our shared human capacity to offer care and solidarity. Along the way, we care for each other in teams, and our allies bring food, water, and provide medical evacuations—an all-too-common need in this harsh environment.

The further we walk, the clearer it becomes that we could never physically carry enough water for the journey. This year, by our fifth day, we had walked about 60 miles of the 75-mile journey. On that afternoon, we were camped on the outskirts of Tucson in the backyard of a church. It was hot and dusty, and most walkers were suffering from at least one of a combination of blisters, heat rash, or simple exhaustion. But then, like clockwork, the Humane Borders workers arrive with the water truck to fill our water jugs, providing us with anywhere from 50 to 100 gallons, depending on the temperatures and size of our group. When supplies permit, Humane Borders relieves us with a shower from the loud, lovely, generator-powered water tank. This daily rinse renews and revives us, and once again reminds us that the Migrant Trail does not mimic the migrant border crossing experience, which lacks such loving services. The refills and the showers are, however, reflective of the life-saving efforts and loving kindness that Humane Borders provides in the borderlands and the communities of care that our respective members seek to build. Our communities are further solidified during these hot afternoon visits. Migrant Trail walkers and the Humane Borders workers have forged friendships and alliances over the years.

To commune with Humane Borders, and all who come out to assist us makes me hopeful for a different future for our migrant siblings, who are forced to cross the border, and for the communities we can build together. Amber Naylor, who walked for the first time in 2025, described the Walk as “one of the kindest temporary communities [she had] ever experienced”. Our temporary community that has been built over 22 years exists within the larger family of humanitarians and justice warriors in the borderlands. As we near Tucson and the end of the Walk, our community broadens even further. On the last day, additional community members joined us, walking and/or participating in a ceremony at Kennedy Park on Tucson’s westside. As we walk on the highway into town, we count the Border Patrol vehicles as they come and go. The white Wackenhut buses used to transport migrants and asylum seekers are a regular sight as well. The militarized presence reminds us of why we are walking. This year, as we entered Kennedy Park, Natividad Cano received us with a blessing. Nati has walked with us for many years and is originally from Sásabe, a community now divided by the wall.

On one occasion, a man pulled over to talk with us. He suspected we were walking for migrants, given the crosses that we carry. He was from the Tohono O’Odham Nation, where a man had died on his land while crossing. He and his family had prepared a prayer tie for the man, and he had been carrying it, as if knowing that it belonged in a nearby ceremony. On that day, if memory serves, he asked if we would take his prayer tie. Indeed, we would. As we carry the crosses and prayer ties for migrants, we symbolically finish the journey that they were unable to complete. Then, just as we had begun, surrounded by the larger Tucson Community, we ended with a press conference and ceremony at Kennedy Park. The press event seeks to inform a broader audience of our motives and the deadly realities of current border policies.

We hope to spark awareness and action. We also share the stories of those who have died crossing. Despite the daunting reality and somber nature of our walk, we proceed with hope. We continue to hope that a critical mass of knowledge about the consequences of our border and immigration policies will inspire the public to demand an end to deadly deterrence strategies. We also strongly believe that the community modeling of hospitality and care can help to advocate for the creation of more humane and just systems. Finally, the crosses are placed in a circle at the center of our ceremony, which includes a foot washing, so that those who walk for justice may remember why they walk and continue to have the strength for the journey.

Community supporters like Humane Borders accompany us. It is at this ceremony, in community, that we bid farewell to our crosses and prayer ties. As a citizen of the U.S., responsible for their deaths, I pray for forgiveness from the spirits associated with each tie. Mostly, I pray that as the ties are surrendered soon thereafter to sacred fire that each spirit and each family finds some comfort knowing that they are not forgotten.

To learn more about The Migrant Trail please visit https://azmigranttrail.com/.