2/19/20

By Josh Rubin

We go out mornings to the airport and we watch as people who must be trembling with fear are patted down, their mouths inspected, shackled at five points, carefully watching their feet in the semi dark on the stairs into planes that will take them back south, into an abyss.

All we hear are the jet engines and our voices raised over them to each other, look there, do you see his hands, here are women now, her hair is over her face. We face off against the buses, largely symbolic, anxious to show at least the drivers that we want them to stop, we want this to stop.

And then, shooed away by authorities, we stand for a bit, stunned, for me at least feeling again the moments when tears rose, welled in my eyes, and I take longer breaths.

I am tired, my dear friends, and I have been out here for a long time, and I will be going home for a little while. I need some time at home, time to remember what life is like without witnessing genocide daily. Because that is what we are seeing. This is no humanitarian disaster. This is an official act of elimination. The camp in Matamoros is on a precipice, a sinkhole of history. It will not last, no matter how valiant the efforts of lawyers and doctors and volunteers. Those flown, those we watch mount those fateful steps, are climbing to death.

We must watch. For a few weeks it is your turn. I will go home and find some more strength. Please come.

I cannot, those who I leave in my place—we cannot do it alone. It must be seen.

Witness.