Neighborhood Relations: El Paso/Ciudad de Juárez

Around the northern perimeter of El Paso, there is a mountain that looks over all of El Paso and Ciudad de Juárez. Rim Road will take you from downtown, up the mountain, past many mansions, and eventually to a scenic overlook with incredible views of El Paso, Juárez, the border, the border bridges, etc. Rim Road makes for a great bike ride. On my first ride up someone looked at the mansions and remarked, “I bet these houses sell for a lot with such nice views of all the poverty that makes them rich.” Although that is probably not why the residents enjoy the view, it is indeed an intense contrast seeing a mansion in a peaceful neighborhood, with big windows that watch over the slums, the border, and the most dangerous city in the world—Ciudad de Juárez.

One day I biked up the hill and relaxed at the top while the sun was setting and people were coming and going to enjoy the view. One notable part of the view is very large white letters on a mountain in Juárez which read, “La Biblia es la verdad. Leela!” “The Bible is the truth. Read it!” A family showed up and began taking pictures of the overlook. With great emotion one of the younger boys pointed to the writing on the mountain in Juárez and said, “Mommy, look, I think that says Hollywood!” The mother responded, “No honey, I don’t think that says Hollywood, I think it is something about the Bible. It says the Bible is good. Ha! See kids, I told you the Bible was good!”

Juárez is certainly far from Hollywood. It also happens to be very far in many ways from it’s own neighbor, El Paso, despite looking like just one city from the overlook.

A family points out various sites from the overlook

Juárez’s population of 1.6 million is twice El Paso’s population of around 742,000. For a few reasons Juárez’s population has been increasing dramatically as of late. It often goes unnoticed that Juárez is actually the final destination for many migrants. Since NAFTA, many American companies have put factories in Mexico, called “Maquillas,” right along the border, which has created many low wage, but somewhat consistent jobs. Juárez has one of the strongest economies of any Mexican city, and many people travel to Juárez for work with no intention of crossing the border. If they can’t find work in Juárez as they had planned, then they might cross the border.

Taking in the view

Despite having half of Juárez’s population, El Paso has far more active police officers than Juárez (1,728 to 1,300), meaning that the officer per capita rate is at least twice as high in El Paso than in Juárez. For example, if Juarez has one police officer for every 100 people, El Paso has one police officer for every 50 people. However, the Mexican Government recently called on the Mexican Military to serve as the officers in charge, which proved to be a very controversial decision.

Some people may say that El Paso’s higher number of police officers attributes to its incredible safety, but criminologists say it is another factor. El Paso seems like it should be prone to crime for many reasons. First, it is located across the border from what is now considered the most dangerous city in the world where 1,600 people were murdered last year. Second, it has many immigrants—undocumented and documented—whom the media often portrays to be perpetrators of crime. Lastly, El Paso’s poverty rate lingers around 27% (over twice the national average). All of these factors might lead someone to think El Paso is a dangerous place, and in fact, many of my friends expressed great fear for my safety in El Paso. Speaking on the phone, one of them asked me, "Can you walk on the street by yourself ever?" My answer? "Yes."

To the great surprise of many, there were only 18 people killed in El Paso last year, making it the third safest large city in the country in terms of violent crime. But, with all the factors listed above, how could it be so safe…safer than all but two large cities in the US? Many studies done both independently and by the government for the past 100 years have shown that immigrants are actually less likely to commit crimes than native citizens. So it is in fact the immigrant population itself that makes El Paso so safe.

One irony in the relationship between the cities is that the mayor of Juárez lives in El Paso. At first this seems absurd, but I guess if he can, why not?

People wonder about Juárez’s violence spilling North over the border, but I wonder why El Paso’s safeness isn’t spilling South over the border. This year, since January 1st, there have been 1,420 murders in Juarez. It is the single most dangerous city in the world, with 130 killings per 100,000 people. To compare, Baghdad ranks 10th on the same list. But how could it be so dangerous if it is right next to the third safest city in the US?

One reason that Juárez is dangerous is the strong drug cartels, which are fueled with guns from the US, and with money from the vast US narcotics market. Also of concern is the number of criminals that the US deports to Juárez. Just out of jail, dropped in a new city, knowing nothing more than crime to get by, what might one do?

El Paso is safe because of the high immigrant population. Juárez is dangerous because of the cartels, which are essentially employed by the US narcotics market and armed with US guns. It appears to me that the northern counterpart is safe because of what the south gives it (immigrants), and the southern counterpart is dangerous because of what the north gives it (money and guns). This arrangement seems incredibly twisted.

Aside from population, police force, and homicides, there is a lot to describe about the emotions and ethos of the Juárez-El Paso neighbor relations. To begin, it is an unbalanced relationship. If you want to go into Juárez from El Paso, you simply drive, walk, or bike in, with no checkpoint or stops. Coming back to El Paso could require multiple hours in a line and a crossing fee. Any person north of the border can go into Juárez whenever they choose. But only a select few from south of the border can travel north. I often take this ability of mine for granted.

When one of the guests from Mexico left a few days ago to head back home, I said that maybe someday I could visit him. He seemed surprised and asked, “Tienes papeles? Do you have papers?” Immediately I laughed, because it seemed so obvious to me that I could just go into Mexico if and when I pleased. I then realized that he was serious, and justifiably he had assumed that since you need papers to get into the US, you would also need papers to go into Mexico. I was taken aback by my laughter because it exemplified how one-sided the relationship of travel is between these cities and between these countries.

The border is seen above

Also, the ancestral culture here is very different than any place that I have lived. Before I came down here, I would have been hard pressed to list five people I know that migrated to the US in their lifetime, or even five people whose parents had migrated to the US. Here, I would be hard pressed to list five people who don’t fit that criterion. At one point, a boy at the house continued to ask me, “eres gringo?” which, to my knowledge translated to, “are you white?” but because it was so obvious that I was white, I figured their must be something more than the color of skin to the term gringo. While I stood confused, another girl jumped in and said, “Yes, you are a gringo! Because you were born in the US right?” “Yes” I said. “And were yours parents born here to?” She continued. “Yup!” “And not yours parent’s parents too, right?” “yea, they were born here to.” I said. She responded, “wow, that’s like a lot of years, and soo much family. You really are a gringo!” Having grandparents who were born in the US seemed so typical to me, but I have learned that here in El Paso, that is a very rare thing.

Through the comparison of data and ethos between the two cities, and their relationship, it is clear that these cities are very different from each other despite their proximity. I was marveling today that eleven blocks from the peaceful bench where I sit, is the most dangerous city in the world.

I had always viewed the border as being something that separated the two cities. But now that I am here, I am beginning to think that as different as these two cities are, maybe the border is the only thing that holds them together.

Blame and Perpetuation

I was on shift one night and the doorbell rang as it does every 5-10 minutes. Habitually, I stood up from my chair, walked out of the office, and through the sala towards to the door. As I looked up towards the door, I saw her slap her two year old in the face. My energy and emotions froze, but I continued to take steps toward the door. He balled intensely, his cheeks were wet with tears. She pulled her hand back and slapped his face again. The image of his quivering lips stuck in my mind. I opened the door, but couldn’t tell you who walked in. I turned around back towards the office, and saw her strike his face once more. After this slap blood from his lip emerged and joined his tears to cover his cheek. As I continued to the office, stunned, I could hear his wailing prevail behind me.

I was shocked, stunned, scared, overwhelmed, and not in control of my actions or thoughts. As I stood there, back in the office, I could not believe that I didn’t grab the child and scream at the mother. I didn’t know if I should be ashamed that I kept walking, and allowed her to slap him twice more after the first time…should I be appalled that the other guests in the Sala looked on quietly too?

The Guest Sala

When it occurred to me that I was legally obligated to call Child Protective Services (CPS) and report the incident, more dread, despair, and fear amassed within me. The mother who had hit her kid is a guest that I respect greatly and interact with frequently. She has four kids in the house, all of which are tremendous, and whose company in the house is thoroughly enjoyed. What would it mean if I called CPS I wondered. Would they come take the kids and separate the family? Would they not have time for the report and never follow up? I wondered what the implications would be in this house. Would this family forgive me? Would they think I had disrespected them by calling the authorities on them instead of dealing with it myself? I didn’t even know what I thought would be the better scenario, if CPS ignored it or acted on it. I guess none of these thoughts mattered because I had to call CPS.

I called and they took down all the names, birthdates, and specifics of the situation. They thanked me for the report and said goodbye. At that time, I had heard from people that these days CPS is very short on money and resources, and generally don’t follow up on reports unless they were extremely urgent or dangerous. I expected nothing more to come of it.

An hour later I received a follow up call from CPS asking for more details of the situation. That call ended and it was still unclear what would become the situation.

Thirty minutes later, the doorbell rang as it does every 5-10 minutes. Habitually, I stood up from my chair, walked out of the office, and through the sala towards to the door. I opened the door and she said, “Hi I am from CPS, I need to speak with one of the guests.” My heart sunk and I stepped outside and shut the door behind me. I went into this desperate prattle about how she is a good mother, how she is only doing what she knows, and how her kids should stay with her. The CPS social worker sensed my uneasiness and assured me that I didn’t need to worry.

I stepped inside, found the mother and said, “Hay una mujer a la puerta por usted, There is a women at the door for you,” with a quiver in my voice. Surprised because it was 9:30 at night, she curiously proceeded to the door.

Next, the whole family— four kids, mother and father—were waiting in the office to speak with the women from CPS. I tried to stay busy with dishes and such, but couldn’t get past the idea that they all knew I had caused this. The fear and uncomfortable ness in the room was eminent. They all sat fifteen feet away from me and I was sure they were wondering why I would have done this to them. One by one they walked out of the office, none with any words or positive emotions on their faces. I was anxious know what had happened.

I finally got a chance to talk to the woman from CPS. She had decided to give the family a warning, discuss the nature and patterns of violence and discipline, and sign the mother up for free parenting classes. Hearing this I became incredibly relieved and grateful for the prompt action and sound judgment of CPS. I felt lucky that I am in a country that has structures for organizations such as CPS.

A few kids playing out side the house

But as good as it all sounded, I realized that the mother’s reaction is really what is important when determining if any progress will be made. What message was sent to her by all of this? Was it simply that now she knew she had to ‘discipline’ her kids in private? When the mother walked out of the office and into the crowded sala, she went up to people, and explained what had happened. They all gasped in shock. While they gasped at the fact that CPS had been called, these very same people had not gasped at the site of a two year old getting hit in the face until he bled. In this same nature, the father of the child who got hit complained to another volunteer a few days later, “Now my wife can’t discipline her kids right.” There is a high level of disturbance in all of this, but is there any blame in it?

People do what they know. We live how we have watched other people live. Growing up, the mother and father of that two-year-old boy may well have been disciplined with violence too. But back then, in a different place in a different time, CPS was never called, and the cycle perpetuated to the next generation. Do we blame the loving mother who is disciplining her kids the way she was taught to do so?

On a larger scale, can we blame the perpetuators of harmful tradition, because it is all they know? Do we blame those who are racist, even though they were raised racist? Do we blame those who oppress, even though they were in raised to oppress? Do we blame those who disregard the health of our planet, even though they have never known the implications of their actions? If we do project blame, what will come from it? If we do not project blame, but instead take action against something that we see as unjust, what will be gained from that?

I do not blame or judge that mother for hitting her child. She did what she thought was right.

But neither do I accept a mother hitting her child in the face as anywhere near OK. I consider it very wrong.

I think that if in our reaction to the things that we see as wrong, we can step away from blame, or judgment, and focus on action and non-complacence, perhaps the perpetuating, pernicious traditions of our world will slowly dissipate.

Chile Rellenos con Velia

A guest named Velia left the house yesterday to stay with a friend; we will miss her for many reasons, one of which being her exquisite cooking. Before she left, she taught me how to make one of her favorite things…Chile Rellenos. Below is the recipe from my memory, in vague quantities as if you were making them for the 50 people Annunciation House. ENJOY!

Chile Rellenos (stuffed peppers):

One dozen eggs
Half a big block of cheese
A few onions
A handful of salt
50 Poblano peppers, or green anaheims
A lot of oil
A big bowl of flour

First take the peppers and cook them directly over the flame on the stove until they become softer and have a burnt outside look. I couldn’t do this properly without burning my fingers, but I wish you luck.

Take each pepper once it is cooked over the stove, and scrape off all of the black burnt parts that you would not want to eat. This step is messy and time consuming. I suggest music and a trash can nearby.

Once the peppers are cleaned of the burnt parts, dig your finger into any part of the pepper and make a small (1/2-3/4 of the pepper) vertical incision. Then clear out the seeds from each pepper.

Now the peppers are ready to be stuffed.

Shred the cheese and chop the onions finely. Mix the cheese and onions together in a bowl.

Now the stuff is ready for the pepper. Make the following assembly line…

From left to right: Peppers, cheese/onion mix, bowl of flour, empty platter or plate.

Take the pepper, fill it with the cheese/onion mix, fold one side of the slice over the other to hold in the cheese, roll it in the flour trying to cover it all, and place it on the platter.

Now, the stuffed peppers are ready to be dipped in batter and fried.

To make the batter, separate twelve egg whites and mix them in a bowl until you can hold the bowl upside down and they won’t fall out. Of course this is much easier if you have some sort of electric mixer. Then, add the yokes to the mixture, a small handful of salt, and mix well.

Heat up a good amount of oil in a pan, take each pepper by the stem, dip it into the batter trying to get as much on as you can, and place it in the oil filled pan. Quickly splash the oil onto the stuffed pepper in order to cook all sides. Flip as necessary. Once each pepper is golden brown, it is complete!

When Velia and I made these I made a small error. I had put leftover peppers, completely unprepared, next to the prepared peppers ready to be fried. In the excitement of the frying process, I by accidentally grabbed an unprepared pepper, dipped it in the batter, and tossed it in the pan. It was until a guest spit it out on his plate, and loudly proclaimed, “there’s nothing in here but seeds,” that I discovered the error. C’est la vie!

Raul is waiting for his Chile Relleno!

Doubt and American Pride

Doubt in my work here and overbearing American pride are, to my dismay, occasionally alive within me. Often times these thoughts fill me with anger, confusion, and a cynical mindset. It is incredibly difficult for me to ascertain what of my doubt for compassion and what of my immense American pride is legitimate or valid, and what of it is the result of that which I have absorbed from a potentially twisted society in my nineteen years.

When I interact with guests, get to know them, spend hours working with them, receive rare rudeness, disrespect, or lack of appreciation from them, become exhausted on their behalf; a painful mindset of skepticism and cynicism creeps into my energy. Sometimes thoughts begin to circulate in my mind such as, “She doesn’t need this shampoo,” “Why doesn’t he have the respect to say thank you when I open the door?” “Why has it become expected that I will just hand out food?” “Why won’t he do his chore correctly, when that is all we ask of him?” Or even things as bad as, “Why did he come all the way from Honduras just to sit in the sala all day?”

To ground myself and understand how ludicrous these thoughts are, I project them on myself…compare it all to me. Do I really need the shampoo that I use? Do I say thank you every time that I walk into my home? Do I say thank you every time I take food out of the fridge? Do I always do chores around the house fully even though that is the only thing my mom asks of me? Is it OK when I waste days sitting around, even though I have the privilege to take advantage of so many options? The answer to all of these questions is no.

Why then I wonder, is my mind able to resent these qualities in the guests, but accept them in myself? Is it because I somehow feel like I have earned the right to these qualities? Or that because the shampoo I take, the door I open, the food I eat, or the time I spend is more ‘mine’ because my family ‘earned’ it? Is it because I think I have earned what I use?

Above, some guests pose with proudly decorated
zombies who roamed the paths during a 'Music
Under the Stars' event at Chamizal National Park.

To be frank, I have hardly earned the right to anything…I was just born extremely lucky as a citizen of the US and to a loving family that can provide for me.

It seems that the essence of the dynamic that I find myself uncomfortable with is the very dynamic which I strive to build; a power dynamic in which I am not treated like a superior. Why then, am I resentful of this balanced power dynamic once it exists? Why do I take pleasure to being called ‘Mr. Dan,’ while I know the distortion it creates? Who do I think I am to say that anybody doesn’t deserve what we provide, the very basic services? Who am I to cling to power and separation, while at the same time I try offer solidarity. How do I let this ambiguity exist within me?

I write this all because I want it to be known that in me, these thoughts do exist. I too experience moments of doubt and distrust. I too project blame on the immigrants and on the economically marginalized Americans. I do experience these thoughts. They exist in extreme ambiguity, in contradiction with my thoughts and energy of solidarity and compassion. But the thoughts that prevail, and that I know in my gut are right, are the ones that are compassionate, trusting, and rooted in solidarity. The rest, are that of a palimpsest from a society and a childhood filled with privilege, ignorance, and an unhealthy pride and unyielding sense of deserving. I know that the doubt and distrust—manifestations of fear and of privilege—are on the wrong side of truth, and with effort, should be erased from my life and cultural lens’.

This is all so confusing to me, I can only imagine what you are going through trying to sort through my splattered thoughts on this page.

To contradict myself more, I feel an opposite argument…Although disillusioned at times by our government, I constantly find that I am incredibly patriotic, incredibly proud, and incredibly hopeful. Sometimes I wonder how I can remain this way while witnessing so much pain and suffering that the US has caused, but in the end, patriotism, pride, and hope is very much a part of me.

At the bottom of it all exists patriotism, pride, with equal frustration, pain, and compassion. If understood correctly, I think that all people can maintain each of these feelings in a positive way. I finally have learned to cherish this ambiguity and allow my pride, patriotism, and privilege, to interact happily with my compassion, concern, and offerings of solidarity. After all, nothing here is mutually exclusive, as long as I can figure out how to use all of these deeply rooted views and emotions together.

A Parallel I Pick At

In the blog ‘options,’ I wrote about the need to turn people away at the door. A striking parallel came to my mind today and made me skeptical that I may be in the middle of hypocrisy.

The United States, if you think historically, is a nation of immigrants or refugees. As time has passed, this nation has created structures and laws to provide order and/or prosperity. Because of these structures, we must turn people away at our borders, even if they are in need.

Annunciation House is a house of refugees and immigrants. As time has passed, this house created structures and rules to provide peace and order in the house. Because of these rules, we must turn people away at the door, even if they are in need.


Through thinking about this parallel today I was able to determine for me, what justifies turning people away. I tried to grasp what situations constitute a scenario where it is OK to turn away somebody in need.

At first, I couldn’t think anything but that these were exact parallels between the US border and Annunciation House’s front door. I was shocked. I kept saying to myself, “are we incredibly hypocritical? We turn people away in need and at the same time, are often outraged by the US turning away or deporting people in need.

A view of Mexico from the roof of Annunciation House, which is eleven blocks from the border. A guest's shoes are included drying on the roof, where laundry is routinely washed and dried.

But as a sifted through it more, I was able to ascertain differences between the natures of turning people away. Annunciation house and the US both have structures in place. The difference is what the structures are designed to do. At annunciation House, all of our rules exist to keep the house safe and comfortable for the guests. In the US, do all of our laws exist to keep the citizens safe and comfortable? Maybe. But there might be more.

Are our laws also in existence to make us prosperous? To give us advantages over other nations? Do some of them have roots in a fear of another race and culture taking over ‘our’ land? I think it is safe to say, that the answer is yes, which is OK, and very natural for a nation. But then my question is, is it justifiable to turn away people in need in order to continue our agenda of being prosperous and richer and stronger than the rest? I personally think not.

I finally arrived at this: It is not that turning people away, even if in need, is inherently bad or unacceptable. Instead, it all depends on the way that people are turned away, and the reasons they are.

Thankfully, our immigrant rich history has shown that we can achieve both compassion at our borders and the prosperity that we seek.

Dreaming American

Today when I sat down with a guest, he began explaining to me his process to make a life for himself in the US. He said it is all about, “waking up each day one step further than you were the day before.” He explained that, “everyday I try to improve. I try to be a better person. I also try to get closer to my working permit, closer to a state ID. I try to get closer to the day that they will take this tracking monitor off of my ankle. Everyday, I think, I am getting closer to being successful,” he continued confidently, “right now, things are hard, but you have to squeeze the fruit to get the juice, and one day, I will have the juice.” All of this is intensely hopeful and positive, and it does indeed seem like he is taking steps forward each day. But a grave question was echoing in my mind as he spoke these words. How long can this productive pattern continue for a black man in America with deportation orders, no money, no family, and limited English? Will there eventually be a wall that he hits, where the opportunity he came for in America is no longer available? Can he achieve the potentially fabled American Dream? I simply don’t know.

The American Dream is one idea that many people in this country appreciate. Our culture seems to hold its notion close to our hearts and carry it high with pride. It is the American Dream, that hastened—if not caused—the white settlement of America, and it is that same American Dream that inspires people from all over the world to uproot from there home and seek a better life today. The American Dream manifests ideas of opportunity, freedom, and to some, relief from suffering. Whether this manifestation is accurate, I simply don’t know.


What is it about our nation that allows for the American Dream to occur, if it does indeed? What structures exist to ensure its possibility? What actions do we need to take to maintain or improve these structures? It seems to me that the idea of the American Dream is dependent upon a scenario in which race, class, and family connections are not of central importance to ‘success.’ Meaning that someone of a minority race, from a poor family, and with little connections can find ‘success.’ To what extent does that scenario actually exist? To me, the American Dream is all about acceptance. More than just the acceptance of people that are different from ourselves, but also the acceptance that people with ‘less’ have a right to ‘more,’ that people who suffer have a right pursue happiness, that people who are starving, have a right to find food, that people who are dying to live, deserve a fair chance. The idea of the American Dream is what could provide that chance.

But there is a sobering catch, a contradiction, and an assumption built into the American Dream that has become rooted deeply in my views during my life as a citizen. The notion of the American Dream includes projected views of the poor and of poverty. If we say that, “In this country anybody, if they try hard enough, can create a better, richer, and happier life,” what then are we inherently saying about those who are not making it, those who live in shelters, those who can’t make their lives better, happier, or richer? Through the prism of the American Dream, we are spinning blame on those in society that aren’t making it, because after all, anybody can make it if they really try, so those that don’t, must not be trying. Right? I feel strong traces of these thoughts engrained in my mind, and I am constantly trying to understand them and move away from them. Just because the opportunity to rise from poverty may exist in some small way, does not mean that those who do not find that some small way are failures or have anything less than the dignity of all people. For most people it seems, and to no fault of their own, the American dream will remain that way, just a dream.

If we as a nation were committed to the American Dream, the idea that anybody can make it, then we would not accept the idea of homelessness and poverty in our country. But we explicitly do accept homelessness and poverty as OK and as a seemingly eternal part of our system. By including money for shelters, food stamps, etc. in our federal budget, we are thereby admitting that we don’t have a system that works, or a system that can keep people out of poverty and away from hunger. It is in fact being complacent, and accepting of the fact that our system cannot support our people.

Above, three guests pose on a couch in the sala on the first day of school.

Immigrants don’t come to the US asking for food, a better job, housing, or anything else, they come asking for a chance to find these things within our system. I think they deserve the chance. We as citizens must not forget our roots in this country, and what allowed us to be here, we must not deny the very notion of the American Dream that brought us here, for those that are seeking it today. If we can’t know that the guest that I sat down with today can find a good life, and get the juice he dreams of from the US if he continues to take steps ahead each day, then I think we have lost the spirit of that idea which we keep close to our hearts, and boast high in the air; the fabled American Dream.

I am one American, one of many, that is dreaming of an American Dream that can become an American reality. Am I being unrealistic in this hope? I simply don’t know.

My Somalian Brother Salomon

The Statue of Liberty, the widely known symbol of US Immigration, reads:

"Give me your tired, your poor,

Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,

The wretched refuse of your teeming shore,

Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,

I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"


A week ago today we received a call and learned that a Somalian man had been dropped off by Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) and was stranded at a gas station. We called the pay phone at the gas station, reached Salomon, and told him that Sarah (a fellow volunteer) and I would pick him up soon. At the Chevron, when we found Salomon, a gigantic smile emerged from his thin face. As he extended his arms for hugs he said, “Hello! Thank you so much, thank you so very much! I am Salomon.”

On the drive home, Salomon explained to us part of his story. When he was in Mexico trying to cross and seek asylum, he was scammed into buying a fake ID that he was told, “always works.” Salomon spent his last $100 on an ID that he believed would complete his long journey from Africa. With the ID he walked on to the crossing bridge, waited in a long line, and eventually he nervously presented his clearly fake ID to US customs officer. Salomon spent a few weeks in jail for false documents, and then six months in immigration detention. The night we picked him up was his first taste of the United States outside of detention.

We began to tell Salomon a bit about Annunciation House. He asked curiously, “Is this place that you will take me…like detention? Will I be able to leave?” Surprised by this question Sarah answered, “no way Jose!” After we told him a bit more he humbly asked, “Well what is the cost, because I do not think that I can afford all of that.” He exuded gratefulness when we told him it was all free.

Breaking a moment of silence Salomon asked, “Excuse me, I have a question…what is it that I can do to be a productive member of this great society? I do not want to be a nuisance…I want to be helpful. When I was in detention I promised myself that never again would I be in a place like that.” Chills went up my back when I heard these words. Here is a man who has spent 6 months in detention for the ‘crime’ of escaping violence in Somalia, and somehow he holds no resentment to the US, but simply wants to be helpful. We explained to Salomon the process of acquiring a work permit, then social security, and then a state ID. He wanted to start the process when we got home that night at ten, but I said we should get some rest and start in the morning.

Since then, Salomon and I have gotten to know each other better. To my surprise one morning, Salomon began speaking Spanish with other guests in the house. When I asked him where he learned he explained, “Brother Dan, you see, when I was in detention I lived in a room with many many Mexicans. Each day I asked them to help me, and I would write Spanish and try to speak it. After a few months, I could speak with them. They were very very good people.”

Salomon later explained to me why he came to the US. In Somalia, his dad died when he was really young, and his mom died a few years ago. He was living on his own when his friends became involved with piracy. They kept encouraging him to “come on and make money with us” and he continued to refuse because he says, “ I didn’t want to be a part of any crime.” It was when Salomon got shot in the arm that he decided he needed to leave Somalia to save his life. First he took a boat for two months to South Africa. Then he flew to Bolivia, then to Guatemala. From Guatemala, he crossed the border into Chiapas, the southern state of Mexico, and took busses north until he reached Ciudad de Juaréz, El Paso’s neighbor city. Then he crossed with the fake ID.

Once in detention, Salomon lost his asylum case even though he said, “I showed them my bullet wound and told them everything, but maybe they don’t believe me.”

This story seems to be painfully ironic. Salomon could have chosen to join the pirates, and may well have been a part of an attack on a US ship. Instead, he chose to uproot his life and journey to the US, to become a “productive member of this great society.” As a nation our response was to react to his decision with six months in detention, denied asylum, and a deportation order. The irony is intensified when you compare the way Salomon was treated upon his arrival to this country to the ideals that we as a nation hoped to stand by stated on the Statue of Liberty.

Salomon only remains in the US because Somalia will not accept deportees. However, the deportation order will forever loom over him, and if things change in Somalia someday, he will be put on a plane and sent back. For now though, Salomon is working hard and smiling lots. I am incredibly humbled, inspired, and grateful to have somebody like him in this country.

Here is an interesting link to an article about a current asylum case very similar to Salomons which will have tremendous implications on future asylum seekers. http://online.wsj.com/article/SB125081039222347885.html