1/28/20

By Josh Rubin

Take a look at the map sometime.

Matamoros, in Mexico, and Brownsville, in the US, twin cities divided by the weeping, open wound of a river, armed guardians of our privilege on the bridges, are almost as far south as you can go in this country. Further south by far than any other place on the border. The least distance from Central America, where frightened, hungry, endangered people make the choice to set out for the north, somehow hoping that they will overcome the odds against reaching family somewhere inside our borders.

Hope and hopelessness drive the poor people’s marches northward. And here we sit on the southern tip of Texas. Along the way, the Mexican military, arms twisted by the madman in the White House, commit crimes against humanity that would be recognized by victims of the Holocaust. And they arrive at the border, in places like Matamoros, where some of the local citizenry, misdirecting their anger, use terms of hatred, casting refugees of the world’s neglect, also in all too familiar language, as parasites and predators. All for daring to take a desperate step to save themselves and their children.

Meanwhile, on our side of the bridges, we sometimes hear the same language. Invaders. Or the more sanitized, not our problem. Further north, in the corridors of power, we hear terms of hatred, too. But the worst thing we hear is the silence. The sounds of indifference. The obsession with the national soap opera.

They tell me that family separation is an issue that people care about. Well, each day, families are shattered here on our southern border, as broken-hearted people, despairing of mercy, beg us to accept their children, on their own.

Do you hear the sound of the children crying as they walk alone to the armed guards at the center of the bridge? Look at it on the map, to hear where it is coming from.