Mr. Chairman, I would like to submit for the Record portions of an article from the Tucson Weekly that was published on February 15, 2007. Following the Amnesty Trail Leo W. Banks follows one of Arizona's most popular illegal alien…
Mr. Chairman, I would like to submit for the Record portions of an article from the Tucson Weekly that was published on February 15, 2007.
Following the Amnesty Trail
Leo W. Banks follows one of Arizona's most popular illegal
alien crossing routes
and finds piles of garbage trampled public lands, angry
residents and the suspected presence of a vicious gang.
In the coming weeks, as President Bush and the Democrat-
controlled Congress take up immigration reform, and the
political talk turns to amnesty, everyone living along border
smuggling routes will hunker down to wait for the worst. They
know their lives will get miserable in a hurry.
The word amnesty possesses remarkable power on the Mexican
side of the line. It has the same effect as a starter's
pistol.
Bang! Let the land rush begin.
It happened after Jan. 7. 2004. when Bush floated his idea
for a temporary worker program. The idea was broadly viewed
in Mexico as amnesty, and the Border Patrol's own survey
proved it. In the weeks following the proposal, the agency
quietly questioned crossers apprehended at the southern
border and found the president's plan had caused a big spike
in illegal crossings. Forty-five percent said they'd entered
our country ``to get Bush's amnesty.''
Nowhere will the coming stampede be more evident than on
the smuggling routes that begin at the border at Sasabe, 65
miles southwest of Tucson, curl up through the Altar Valley
and continue all the way to the Ironwood Forest National
Monument, a full 75 miles north of the border.
The 129,000-acre Ironwood, located west of Marana and south
of Eloy, is a desert paradise of giant saguaros and spooky
black-rock peaks worthy of a gothic novel. President Bill
Clinton declared it a Federal monument in June 2000.
But the smugglers have turned this signature Arizona
landscape into a criminals' playground. The land here is
crisscrossed with trails so packed from use, they shine white
under the sun. Another Monument resident, Cindy Coping, uses
Google Earth to zoom in on the Amnesty Trail, which comes up
clear as a bell on her monitor.
What's it like to live here?
If you're out on the land a lot, expect to find the corpses
of those who've made the terrible decision to cross this
desert. Including the three murders last week, seven bodies
were found on the Ironwood in the three months prior to this
writing.
One photo, taken sometime in 2000 by my anonymous
photographer, shows the skull of a presumed illegal, with
other human bones in the foreground. Next to the skull, not
pictured, stands a saguaro-rib cross, probably built by
companions after the deceased went down.
For those trying to keep cattle on their land, the
smugglers have made living in the Ironwood a nightmare. At
this writing, rancher Emilio Figueroa says he has 18 head of
cattle, valued at $800 each, on Tohono O'odham land
immediately west of the monument. They got out when coyotes
cut his fence. Now the tribe is refusing to let him onto
Indian land to retrieve them. He's out $14,000.
For Cindy's husband, Bob, a 58-year-old retired Raytheon
engineer, one of the defining aspects of life on the Ironwood
is a particular sound he can hear, literally, a mile away.
``I'll be out working and I'll hear, `wappa-wappa-wappa', and
I know it's a load-out truck coming down the road with a flat
tire,'' he says.
The smugglers keep driving on the flat until the rubber
flies off. Even then, they don't stop. They keep driving on
the tire's rim until that, too, falls off or disintegrates.
Sometimes the drive train falls out first.
These smuggler vehicles, most stolen from Phoenix, often
travel at night without headlights, with tape over the brake
lights, and they've been clocked tearing through the
monument's dirt roads at 89 mph. This endangers the lives of
residents and visitors alike.
It also ensures that many of these load vehicles--such as
the tan truck pictured--never make it out of the monument.
They smash into trees and saguaros, or run into ditches. The
BLM has towed 300 vehicles a year out of the monument since
2000.
These load-outs, as well as the constant foot traffic,
destroy habitat and threaten cultural sites and endangered
species. The trash left behind requires pickup crews to have
biohazard training and armed guards watching them as they
work.
Even worse, Vic Brown says that MS-13, the notoriously
vicious Salvadoran gang, might be operating on the monument,
based on suspicious tattoos law enforcement has seen on
smugglers arrested there. The Border Patrol's public
information office in Tucson wouldn't return a call to talk
about MS-13 in the monument.
Says Vic Brown: ``We're trying to maintain some semblance
of a national monument out there, and to be quite honest,
we're not able to do it, because undocumented immigrants have
targeted the area. I've watched it degrade from when I got
there in 1992, and in the last 5 years, it has gotten
progressively worse.''
The Copings bought their land here in 1995, and since then,
they've been eyewitnesses to the explosion of the smuggling
trade. In the mid-'90s. it was mainly small family groups
that crossed at Sasabe and walked the 75 miles north to the
monument, then an additional 18-20 miles to their pickup at
Eloy. They rarely used coyotes.
In 2000, the Copings began seeing vehicles, often Ford F-
150 pickups, parked at the side of the road. They usually had
dark windows, no license plates and the keys resting on a
tire. The illegals would drive themselves out to I-10, then
Phoenix.
The abandoned-truck phase gave way in about 2003 to the
huge load-out phase. The Copings began seeing SUVs with five
to eight illegals sitting on the roof, as Bob says, ``like
wasted college students,'' or on the hood, forming a narrow
tunnel through which the driver can see.
Some of these illegals have told the Copings they already
had jobs lined up in places such as North Carolina, and
curried plane tickets out of Sky Harbor in Phoenix.
Cell phones revolutionized the smuggling racket, allowing
illegals to call ahead to arrange a pickup in the Ironwood,
often eliminating the longer walk to Eloy. Independent
walkers are gone now. ``Everybody we see now is somebody's
customer,'' says Bob.
The business has become sophisticated, commercial and very
dangerous. Cindy, 50, a former engineer at Hughes, used to
check fences alone on horseback, but she quit, afraid of what
she might encounter. ``Sometimes I'll be at the house alone,
and 20 illegals will walk down the road,'' she says. ``It's
intimidating. They sound like an army marching.''
Bob says the number of load-outs in the Ironwood increased
last spring before and after demonstrators took to the
streets in Tucson and elsewhere to demand a rewrite of
American law to accommodate illegal aliens and their
corporate partners. The atmosphere, including talk of
amnesty, created an explosion in traffic. In April, the
Copings counted eight load-outs in one day.
When the National Guard was sent to the border, the free-
for-all ended abruptly, if briefly. ``We saw helicopters
overhead, military-type aircraft, and we didn't a see a load-
out for two weeks,'' Bob says. ``The traffic probably dropped
90 percent.''
But the numbers have risen again significantly, and in
recent e-mails, the Copings have told me the big load-outs
have returned with a vengeance. Cindy's e-mails have the
tension and immediacy of dispatches written from a war zone--
because, in fact, she and Bob live in one.
Last Thursday, three illegals were murdered in the
Ironwood. Cindy and Bob learned of the trouble when a male
illegal came to their house, his thigh covered in blood,
evidently splatter from someone else's wound. In rapid
Spanish, he repeated words like, ``Pow! Pow!'' and ``911''
and ``muerta'' and ``mujer,'' while gesturing of blood
pouring from someone's chest. Cindy grubbed her medical kit,
and she and Bob and this man jumped into a pickup and raced
to the scene.
Here is what she wrote next:
``I called 911 and attended to the woman, who was shot in
the shoulder with a bullet wound coming out that soft spot at
the bottom of her throat. The 911 dispatcher was
simultaneously responding to a similar call from the Asarco
Silverbell Mine, which is about a 10-mile drive south. As
soon as I could see the woman was in stable condition. I
crossed the street and assessed the motionless man on the
other side.
``I felt no pulse on his still-warm throat. His eyes were
closed. I grubbed his wrist, and it cold. Then I saw the back
of his head was shot open. He was gone. There was no bleeding
at the scene, so I assume this shooting took place earlier,
and these four people were unloaded.
``The woman, Sebastiana, whom I later found out is 24 years
old, began shivering in the morning's chill. I found no signs
of continued bleeding. Her wound had been hurriedly dressed
with someone's cotton coat stuffed up under her shirt. It was
a gaping 2-inch-wide gash between the two bullet holes, but
it had stopped bleeding. She was alert and breathing, even
able to talk. She had a smaller wound to her abdomen. I
elevated her feet, and Bob made two trips back to the house
for wool blankets to keep her warm.
``A younger (undocumented) woman, Linda, at the scene had
blood covering her cheek and circling one eye. She indicated
no pain, so this was perhaps someone else's blood. She
indicated that something had grazed her face, possibly a
bullet. In the dark, it appeared she'd been punched in the
eye, but after it got light. I could see it was just dried
blood on her face. The first official to arrive on scene was
a Pima County deputy who told us that someone had walked into
Asarco with four fingers shot off.''
The e-maiI goes on. It ends with Cindy and Bob retreating
to their house and locking the gate, another case of Arizona
citizens sealing themselves off from the horrors this
invasion has brought to our state.
But heartrending encounters are not unusual in the
Ironwood. In November, a man in his mid-50s showed up at the
Copings' corrals and said he'd been drinking his urine for
four days. Cindy made him macaroni and cheese and watched him
gobble it down. As he ate, he broke down in retching sobs.
The man said he owned a small farm with 70 pigs in Colima,
Mexico, and had seven sons living in Phoenix. Breaking her
rule of not allowing strays to use the phone, Cindy allowed
him to call them to pick him up. He waited and waited, but no
one in his family came for him.
That night, he slept in the bed of one of the pickups. In
the morning, he gave Cindy several necklaces--depicting
Jesus, the Virgin of Guadalupe and other images--then left,
and Cindy isn't sure in which direction he went. She never
called the Border Patrol to pick him up.
``They usually don't come if it's one or two strays,'' she
says. ``But mostly I didn't have the heart. I couldn't do it
after all he'd been through.''
Cindy figures she and Bob have made six such ``rescues''
over the years, She has no
choice. ``If I don't help them, they'll die,'' she says.
``We're 75 miles from the border, No one gets here without
walking, at least three days, and it's another 20-mile walk
out.''
But living in the Ironwood presents other tough choices.
In 1997, as a precaution, Cindy got shots to immunize her
from contact with hepatitis A. At the time, she was working
with Pima County Search and Rescue, and that agency
recommended that its personnel get immunized for the more
worrisome, and potentially fatal, hepatitis B. It is spread
through contact with the blood of an infected person, and
Cindy has had contact with bleeding Third World people.
She hasn't gotten the second shot yet. ``If I were taking
the best care of myself. I'd get the B shot, too,'' says
Cindy. ``I probably still will.''
It's easy to understand her anxiety, and her belief that
she is on her own against this invasion--because, in spite of
what she calls the dedicated Border Patrol agents on the
ground, Cindy knows that the American government has neither
the will nor desire to control this border.
The same year she got the shots, a Border Patrol agent told
Cindy that while traveling in Guatemala, he walked by a
travel agency in Guatemala City and saw in its front window a
map showing the 1,800-mile route to the United States--with
her little house in the Ironwood as a landmark.
But Cindy just shrugged at that disturbing news. After so
many years of living on the Amnesty Trail, she's no longer
capable of surprise.