United States Border, Sasabe April 1, 2007

I made contact with a man by the name of David Jones while crossing back over the border from Mexico, through Nogales. The line of cars at the trucking point-of-entry was long and provided plentiful time to make calls and write endless notes on scraps of paper torn from the corner of an out-of-date map of the United States. David was a minuteman spokesperson, terribly curt in manner and reluctant to discuss their activities and even more suspicious of my intentions. After a short conversation he granted me the right to visit a camp (sector) in southern Arizona. It took three hours to reach the area that he had referred to, and this after negotiating the back roads of Tucson and Three Points. I realized later after some thought that David was extremely accommodating in allowing me to visit the camp. I would hope that one day I could meet this man.

The minuteman stronghold was buried in a desert I had not even imagined before, surrounded by high mountain ridges and open vistas. The car rolled uncontrollably along a rough track after turning from highway 286, about ten miles south of Three Points. After a short while the antennas and dishes of parked vehicles came into sight. It was unnerving to me and conjured up images of a futuristic Colonel Custard's last stand or commando base located somewhere in deepest Columbia. On closer inspection I realized that the vehicles were parked in no particular fashion and what was initially thought to be a covert military operation in my mind, seemed frankly disorderly. It looked more like a free-for-all camping park in the New Forest in Southern England. The numerous aerials and antennas I had seen from the turn off actually belonged to an assortment of recreational vehicles and pick-up trucks. My visions of armored vehicles and hum bees crumbled immediately. A small building sat to the southeast end of the parcel. An officious sign on the opened front door "Comms/Admin" seemed daunting to me and rather unapproachable. A couple of guys leisurely engaged in loose conversation under canvas awnings while resting back in colorful garden deck chairs. I did not see any military flair in this picture. Perhaps it was a roost to confuse our outlook on this seemingly relaxed place. They appeared unperturbed by our presence but decided to lift themselves out of the deep chairs they had been long enjoying. One man turned to the other and with a high five announced in high spirits "Good Hunting Larry". They wandered off together across the lot kicking stones like kids about to set out on a trip down to the creak to hunt fish and rusty baked bean cans. I leaned hesitatingly into the cabin and was immediately greeted by a bubbly lady who was clearly pleased to have her day interrupted. Peggy launched into a well-versed introduction to the mandate and goals of the minutemen. The CB radio clattered in the background with the sound of distant voices, obviously of those out on the range. She referred to the voices while signaling with pointed eyes at an old radio in the corner of the hut as a "Sortie in the eastern sector. We found 226 people last night and one poor man was dead". She had a sincere and sad look to her when the words came out. I felt for her as much as the poor man who died. "He had documents on him, early forties with two children left behind in Mexico. They just keep coming!"

After signing in we stepped out of the cabin to witness the return of several vehicles. Pickups and ATV's followed with middle age men and even older gentlemen dismounting proudly from their chargers. Some wore camouflage outfits while others simply had white t-shirts and dirty looking jeans. Several of them wore pistols while others looked harmless in floppy hats and baggy pants falling down around their ankles. They were a real sight and I became decidedly nervous until they began to feverously shake my hand and welcome me with unabated enthusiasm. I must have looked taken aback. Frankly I was. Before Peggy could introduce me they circled my spot like Indians in a movie, offering big grins and excited chatter. They were clearly proud of their participation here but also carried worn out expressions on their sun beaten faces. Their message was strong. There sense of humanity was even stronger. They were here at the beginning to safeguard the sovereignty of the United States. They had instead become guardians of common, normal everyday people who risked their lives to visit this country through the intimidating desert that they patrolled; and they patrolled with vigor and pride. It was so clear to me that these men and women were here to save lives and that they carried out that very function everyday without question. Larry, a burly man with thick beard and plump exterior was very obliging and took my cameraman and myself on a convoy three miles into the desert. From our vantage point we looked across at least fifty miles of staggeringly beautiful desert landscape to the south. He referred to the small ranches located between this point and Sasabe in the south as places under fire. Their owners barricaded in by makeshift barbwire fencing to stop roaming migrants, coyotes and drug dealers from entering their properties seeking shelter and food. We stopped for a short while on the rough track that appeared to wind itself into the enclave of a mountain range. Within ten minutes I recognized that elderly looking ladies were passing us in smart Buick vehicles. As they drove by waves and smiles came our way to which we immediately reciprocated with complete bewilderment. Larry could not fail to notice the dilemma on our faces and indicated to our sheer amazement that these old folks were descending from the RV Park in the mountain shadow. They were on their journey to the store some twenty miles away to gather supplies. Here in this dangerous landscape where smugglers, human traffickers and coyotes regularly share gun battles with local law enforcement agencies these folks drive around with apparently no feelings of intimidation. I immediately thought back to our first interview in Tucson some three weeks before with a gentleman now retired from the New Mexico sheriff's department with years in the narcotics division. "It's a war zone down there. I would not go within fifty miles of the border". Now the sight of old biddies in smart flowery dress's and large brim sun hats passed by us as if driving down the middle-class neighborhoods of Phoenix. I found a broad smile developing on my face at the picture in front of me.

Later we rendezvoused with other minutemen on the line who happily accompanied us to the dumping grounds left by migrants traveling through the area. As far as I could see the desert was littered unceremoniously with plastic bottles, clothing and anything else one might associate with human activity. It was appalling. It is an environmental disaster. The stories they tell are awful and disturbing. Women repeatedly raped while children of all ages succumb to heat exhaustion, hyperthermia and often death. The official numbers gathered from both sides of the border are disturbing. The unofficial numbers I believe to be staggering.

Before I came to this place and yet another stop on this incredible journey, I felt as uncomfortable as I had been earlier at those remote border areas and towns such as Altar in Mexico. Why was I so reluctant and nervous I ask myself now? These men offered me no reason to be in fear. They were welcoming, charming people. Some of them rough around the collars but nice with it. In fact I liked them as much as I did those border patrol officers encountered in Douglas. I liked them as much as those people I met in the rough towns of Mexico. Ordinary men and women who clearly understood the sanctity of life and precious commonalities we all share. All of them taking their own road in order to simply survive the hardships of life in this border land. After the second and final day with them I left with mixed feelings. Turning out of the gate I missed already their natural compassion for human life and a friendship that I felt so strongly after spending so little time with them; less time that I would have liked. Without these individuals many men, women and children would surly die. Without them human suffering would increase. Without them, future generations from all backgrounds would not be able to stand up and say, "in my day when these two great countries learnt finally to come together and hold hands, the minutemen provided a lifeline to the human bridge that developed. A human bridge that evolved in part because of a compassion and kindred spirit held by these ordinary and wonderful people".

David William Gibbons

Sasabe, Arizona Border - April 1, 2007