Fri Apr 23, 2010 at 17:36:38 PM EDT
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Ok, so that didn't happen. But it seems possible now. He probably looked like he didn't have papers. Today Arizona Governor Jan Brewer signed into law one of the most enforcement heavy and anti-immigrant, if not out-right racist, pieces of legislation aimed at addressing the challenges we face in a country with a broken immigration system. A great argument was made by the Immigration Policy Center about why she should not sing the bill, citing the costs of enforcement as upwards of $22,781,547 in jail costs, attorney and staff fees, and expenditures by law enforcement.
Pointing out the financial burden was smart and shows the recklessness of this bill. And, if that wasn't persuasive enough, Obama called the bill 'misguided' and 'irresponsible', Cardinal Roger Mahony in Los Angeles said it encourages people to turn on each other in Nazi- and Soviet-style repression, and the Mexican government voiced concerned about "the potentially serious effects for its nationals’ civil rights".
But to me there was a more personally salient argument to be made against this law that will now allow police to stop people they suspect are undocumented and compel them to provide proof of legal immigration status or face arrest. And to me, there's a reason why as Jews in particular we need to fight to repeal this legislation. |
| Rachel Feldman :: Jewish Peddler Without Papers Arrested in Arizona? |
I grew up with an image in my head of my great-great grandfather, who escaped pogroms in Eastern Europe to come to New York alone and send money home to his family, walking the streets of Manhattan wearing a long beard, long coat and shoddy workboots. My family told me he was a peddler and I've always pictured him on the streets of the Lower East Side selling rags for a few hours each day until he earned enough to buy a few beers that night. The way my grandma tells the story his wife had to come over to the States and tracking him down, because he wasn't sending enough money home. She didn't even know where he lived, but found him through a tight knit Jewish community on the Lower East Side. From then on, when he was no longer so alone, they worked hard and saved any money they weren't sending home. They were able to save enough money to buy a cart and then eventually enough to move out of New York City to Massachusetts and then to open a small corner store. It's maybe not the noble image we're supposed to have of our families, but it may be the most real. It may sound familiar.
My family's story began to take on real meaning for me on a trip to Arizona where I spent time on both sides of the US/Mexico border. The group I was with traveled to a town just south-west of the city of Nogales in the state of Senora, MX. We stayed in a church overnight and talked with migrant workers who had worked in factories in the export processing zones (EPZs) in Mexico, worked in agriculture, sold goods on the streets (like my great-great grandfather the peddler) and other assorted jobs. Many of them were alone and no longer able to find work to support their families. Many were planning to cross the border to find work in the United States. Much like my great-great grandfather had come to New York to scrape out a living.
I remember talking with one group of men in particular. They were all from the same small town in the south of Mexico. They talked about how their families had grown corn for generations, but after the passage of NAFTA could no longer make enough to continue in agricultural work. So, they said, they were planning to go to the town of Sasabe, a town right on the border, and find a coyote (a guide) to take them through the desert into Arizona.
I was suddenly terrified for them as they discussed their plans. I thought of the stories and news reports I'd heard about coyotes robbing, abusing, abandoning or killing people in the desert. I thought about all the people who starve or die of dehydration. I thought of the minutemen with guns and lawn-chairs sit around waiting for someone to pass.
These men had risked so much to come this far, hopping freight trains through Mexico, and now were planning to take the most dangerous leg of their trip before heading to Iowa to do farmwork.
As they told me this story I thought also of the conditions of the migrant farm camps I knew of in my home state of Michigan. How so many people sleep in such tight quarters, how poorly kept the facilities are, how hard it is to get around without a car in the middle of nowhere, how farmworkers are treated by their bosses, how there is so little access to health care, how little money farmworkers make, and how alone each person is. I thought of how it would be in Iowa.
I started to cry in the middle of our conversation and had to leave. Their story didn't seem so different from my great-great grandfather's and many other immigrants who had come here to make a living and support a family. I couldn't help but place myself and my family in their story. My eyes fill with tears just writing about this story, though I've told it many times.
As Jews we often remember the story of how our family came to the US and why. Whether it was fleeing poverty and famine, pogroms and ghettoization or escaping Nazi Germany. We remind ourselves of where we came from and, at least the Jews I know, think about what that means for our lives today. To me it means we can't stand by, throw our hands up, or look away from the conditions and treatment immigrants face today.
To me it means we should fight legislation like this that criminalizes and dehumanizes immigrants and which discriminates against so many. |
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