Beacon Press
Independent Publishing Since 1854
24 Farnsworth Street, Boston, MA 02210 · Tel: 617.742.2110 · Fax: 617.723.3097
Cart is empty  View Cart View Shopping Cart

Book Search

Categories
The Death of Josseline - Immigration Stories from the Arizona-Mexico Borderlands
The Death of Josseline: Immigration Stories from the Arizona-Mexico Borderlands
Author: Margaret Regan
Product Code: 4227 ISBN: 978-080704227-4
Pages: 
256
Binding Information: Cloth 
Size: 
5 1/2 X 8 1/2 Inches (US)
Illustrated: 
No
Copyright Date Ed: 
02/01/2010
Trade Code: 
00C
Price: $26.95  Backorder policy
Qty:
From the Prologue

She was just a little girl. She was on her way to her mother. --Kat Rodriguez, human rights activist

Josseline shivered as she stepped over the stones and ducked under the mesquites. She was in Arizona, land of heat and sun, but on this late-January day in 2008, it was cold and damp. The temperature was in the 50s, and the night before it had dropped to near freezing. A winter rain had fallen, and now the desert path was slippery and wet, even more treacherous than it had been before.

Josseline was seven miles north of the Mexican border, near the old ranching town of Arivaca, in prime Sonoran Desert. It was a wonderland of cactus and mesquite, beautiful but dangerous, with trails threading through isolated canyons and up and down hills studded with rocks. She had to get through this perilous place to get to her mother. A little girl with a big name--Josseline Jamileth Hernndez Quinteros--she was five feet tall and a hundred pounds. At fourteen, young as she was, she had an important responsibility: it was her job to bring her little brother, age ten, safely to their mother in Los Angeles. The Hernndez kids had never been away from home before, and already they’d been traveling for weeks. Now they were almost there, just days away from their mother’s embrace.

The family hadn’t been together in a long time. Their father, Santos, was living somewhere in Maryland; their mother, Sonia, in California. Both parents were undocumented, working in the shadows. Back home in El Salvador, the kids lived with relatives, and in the years their mom was gone, Josseline had become a little mother to her brother. Finally, Sonia had worked long enough and hard enough to save up the money to send for the children. She’d arranged for Josseline and her brother to come north with adults they knew from home, people she trusted.

The group had crossed from El Salvador into Guatemala, then traveled two thousand miles from the southern tip of Mexico to the north. The trip had been arduous. They’d skimped on food, slept in buses or, when they were lucky, in casas de huspedes, the cheap flophouses that cater to poor travelers. In Mexico, the migrants feared the federales, the national police, and now, in the United States, they were trying to evade the Border Patrol, the dreaded migra.

But here in the borderlands they were in the hands of a professional. Like the thousands of other undocumented migrants pouring into Arizona--jumping over walls, trekking across mountains, hiking through deserts--their group had contracted with a coyote, a smuggler paid to spirit them over the international line. The coyote’s fee, many thousands of dollars, was to pay for Josseline and her brother to be taken from El Salvador all the way to their mother in Los Angeles.

So far, everything had gone according to plan. They had slipped over the border from Mexico, near Sasabe, twenty miles from here, and had spent a couple of days picking their way through this strange desert, where spiky cacti clawed at the skin and the rocky trail blistered the feet. The coyote insisted on a fast pace. They still had a hike of twenty miles ahead of them, out to the northbound highway, Interstate 19, where their ride would meet them and take them deep into the United States.

Josseline (pronounced YO-suh-leen) pulled her two jackets closer in the cold. She was wearing everything she had brought with her from home. Underneath the jackets, she had on a tank top, better suited to Arizona’s searing summers than its chilly winters, and she’d pulled a pair of sweatpants over her jeans. Her clothes betrayed her girly tastes. One jacket was lined in pink. Her sneakers were a wild bright green, a totally cool pair of shoes that were turning out to be not even close to adequate for the difficult path she was walking. A little white beaded bracelet circled her wrist. Best of all were her sweats, a pair of “butt pants” with the word hollywood emblazoned on the rear. Josseline planned to have them on when she arrived in the land of movie stars.

She tried to pay attention to the twists and turns in the footpath, to obey the guide, to keep up with the group. But by the time they got to Cedar Canyon, she was lagging. She was beginning to feel sick. She’d been on the road for weeks and out in the open for days, sleeping on the damp ground. Maybe she’d skimped on drinking water, giving what she had to her little brother. Maybe she’d swallowed some of the slimy green water that pools in the cow ponds dotting this ranch country. Whatever the reason, Josseline started vomiting. She crouched down and emptied her belly, retching again and again, then lay back on the ground. Resting didn’t help. She was too weak to stand up, let alone hike this rollercoaster trail out to the road.

It was a problem. The group was on a strict schedule. They had that ride to catch, and the longer they lingered here the more likely they’d be caught. The coyote had a decision to make, and this is the one he made: he would leave the young girl behind, alone in the desert. He told her not to worry. They were in a remote canyon that was little traveled, but the Border Patrol would soon find her. Nearby, he claimed, were some pistas, platforms that la migra used as landing pads for their helicopters. Surely they’d be by soon, and they would take care of her. Her little brother cried and begged to stay with her. But Josseline was his big sister, and Josseline insisted that he go. As he recounted later, she told him, “T? tienes que seguir a donde est? Mam.” You have to keep going and get to Mom.

The other travelers grabbed the wailing boy and walked on, leaving his sister alone in the cold and dark. She had only her clothes to keep her warm. On her first night alone, the temperature dropped below freezing, to 29 degrees. By the weekend, when her brother arrived safely in Los Angeles and sounded the alarm, Arivaca had warmed up--to 37 degrees.

Three weeks later, Dan Millis was getting ready to go out on desert patrol. He was filling up a big plastic box with nonperishables for migrants--granola bars, applesauce, Gatorade-- and new socks, something the weary walkers always seemed to need. He tossed the box into his car and then loaded up dozens of gallons of water. A former high school teacher, Dan, twenty-eight, was an outdoors enthusiast who was spending a year volunteering with No More Deaths, a Tucson group determined to stop the deaths of migrants in the Arizona deserts. As the United States clamped down on the urban crossings, desperate travelers were pushing into ever more remote wilderness and dying out there in record numbers. So the No More Deaths folks began hiking the backcountry in the Arivaca borderlands, an hour and a half southwest of Tucson, setting out water and food in the rugged hills. Sometimes they’d meet up with migrants who were lost or sick, and they would provide first aid. But sometimes they found a body.

Before he left town, Dan studied the trail map. He could see that several heavily traveled Arivaca trails converged on a single ridge, and he wanted to drop his load there, where it would do the most good. Three buddies were coming along to help, but the goods they were packing would be heavy-- each gallon jug of water weighed almost eight and a half pounds--so he wanted to get his car as close to the ridge as he could. The map showed that a dirt ranch road edged near the drop spot, but the volunteers would have to hike up Cedar Canyon, where they’d never been before. Dan didn’t know whether the canyon would even be passable, but he decided to give it a shot.

He had heard about Josseline Hernndez. When the girl’s little brother arrived in LA without her, her distraught family had called the Salvadoran consul in Nogales, a border town, and the consul connected them with Coalicin de Derechos Humanos, a human rights organization in Tucson. Derechos compiles annual lists of the desert’s dead, and tries to help the families of the missing. The coalition’s Kat Rodriguez gets two or three reports of lost migrants a month. Josseline’s mother couldn’t even talk to her--”She was coming undone”--but the uncle gave Kat a description of the teenager and her clothes, including the distinctive green shoes Josseline was so proud of. Kat always asked for pictures of the loved one smiling; teeth, after all, can be used to identify a corpse.

The family sent Kat photos that pictured Josseline in uniform and cap, banging the cymbals in a parade with her high school marching band; Josseline posing in fashionable capris and a tank top; Josseline standing forlornly in her church, with flowers, lit candles, and a statue of the Virgin Mary behind her. The pictures showed her black hair and eyes and her warm brown skin--morena, the consul called it--but in every one she was serious and unsmiling, a young girl with heavy responsibilities. Kat organized the images and identifying info into a color flyer headlined “Menor detenida o desaparecida” (Female minor detained or disappeared). Kat sent her report to the Pima County medical examiner, in case he had a matching body in his morgue, and activists from the Samaritans immigrant-aid group checked the hospitals and detention centers. Other volunteers went out looking for her. They didn’t have much to go on. The coyote had told the family Josseline was near pistas, or platforms; no one was quite sure of what he meant since there were no structures in the desert. And the flyer stated, erroneously as it turned out, that the girl had last been seen near Nogales, miles from where she’d been walking.

Dan Millis hadn’t gotten involved in the searches. Hunts for missing migrants are needle-in-a-haystack affairs, typically conducted by well-meaning amateurs who don’t know search-and-rescue techniques. Sometimes the volunteers get injured themselves. Even BORSTAR, the Border Patrol’s search, trauma, and rescue unit, can’t help when there’s too little information. Far better, Dan thought, to stick to the work he knew would do some good, putting out food and water for the living. So he and his companions drove down to Arivaca and started into Cedar Canyon, lugging the water jugs and the box of goodies, traipsing a narrow path between looming rocky walls. There was an old dam back in there, along a wash, and he and his buds had to scramble up over the concrete. They’d been walking maybe twenty minutes when up ahead Dan spotted a pair of bright green shoes.

He didn’t think of Josseline at first. Or of death. The owner of the shoes had to be around, he reasoned, maybe hiding. He began calling out the standard No More Deaths chant, designed to reassure fearful migrants. “Hola, hermanos! Somos amigos de la iglesia. Tenemos comida y agua.” Hello, brothers! We’re friends from the church. We have food and water.

Then, suddenly, he saw her. She was lying on a rock, under a bush, her hands raised up near her head, her feet plunged into water that had pooled in a cavity in the stone.

“I saw her teeth,” he said months later. “I knew she was dead. It was a horrible feeling. I told my friends to stop. “The body was intact,” he went on, reciting details of the scene in a monotone. “She had taken off two jackets and hung them on a rock. She had a tank top on and sweatpants. Her feet were in the water.” The little pearl bracelet was on her wrist. But Josseline’s little brother had said his sister was wearing jeans, and this girl had on sweatpants.

Dan used his cell phone to call Sarah Roberts, a nurse active in No More Deaths who had helped coordinate Josseline’s case. He told her about finding the body and the telltale green shoes and the sweatpants that didn’t match up. Sarah got the message to Kat Rodriguez, who called the uncle, who questioned the brother one more time. This time, the little boy said, No, now he remembered, Josseline had put on her Hollywood butt pants. The news flew back over the cell phones to Dan. But the body was face up, and he couldn’t see any writing. He knew enough about police procedures not to disturb the scene.

Dan telephoned the sheriff. Then he and another volunteer, Clint, drove the hour into Arivaca, marking down their route through the tangle of ranch roads so that they could give the police detailed directions back to the canyon. It was getting cold, so they picked up some hot soup in town for the two volunteers who had stayed behind with the body. In the meantime, that pair, a Frenchwoman named Marie and a refugee-rights worker named Max, had twisted some branches into a cross and planted it in a pile of rocks. When Dan and Clint got back, all four volunteers held a vigil, sitting by the body and the makeshift shrine, waiting for the authorities to come.

In the late afternoon, two sheriff v's deputies finally arrived. They gently turned the body over. On the back of the pants was a single word: Hollywood.

Dispatches from Arizona,Ä“the front line of a massive human migration,Ä“including the voices of migrants, Border Patrol, ranchers, activists, and others


She was a little girl with a big name,Ä“Josseline Jamileth Hernv°ndez Quinteros. Just five feet tall and a hundred pounds, she had an adult-sized responsibility: the fourteen-year-old was to shepherd her ten-year-old brother all the way from Honduras to their mother in Los Angeles. But Josseline fell ill in a remote Arizona desert, just north of the Mexico line, and her smuggler and the rest of her group abandoned her. She died alone in the wilderness in February 2008.

For nearly a decade, Margaret Regan has reported on the chaos along the Arizona-Mexico border, ground zero for immigration since 2000. Undocumented migrants like Josseline cross into the state in overwhelming numbers, pushed into its dangerous deserts by a U.S. border policy that seals off safer urban crossings. In peak years, Border Patrol agents in Arizona’s Tucson Sector catch more than a thousand migrants a day. And Arizona has the highest number of migrant deaths; Josseline was just one of thousands to perish in its deserts and mountains.



Set against the dramatic landscape of the untamed West,Ä“a rocky wilderness of mesquites and cacti, where summer temperatures hit 115,Ä“Regan’s book tells stories of the people caught up in this international tragedy. Traveling to both sides of the border, she visits migrants stranded in Mexican shelters and rides shotgun with the Border Patrol, hiking with them in the scorching Arizona desert. She camps in the back country with “No More Deaths” activists and speaks to angry ranchers and vigilantes.

Regan writes firsthand of the desperation that compels people to cross, of the environmental damage wrought by the new border wall, and of the unidentified bodies piled up in a Tucson morgue. She documents the increasing militarization of the borderlands, a place where Black Hawk helicopters clatter overhead and U.S. citizens are randomly stopped on the roads. As one Border Patrol agent explains, “When it comes to the border, there’s an asterisk on the Constitution.”

Regan’s on-the-ground reportage puts her in the heart of America’s complicated story of immigration. Her extraordinary ability to witness guarantees that the stories and characters you encounter here will stay with you, long after you finish the book.

Reviews
Review   Booklist - January 1, 2010
“Regan…has compiled a compelling chronicle of the flow of migrants from northern Mexico into the “Tucson Sector” of Arizona, distilling the many facets of this phenomenon into an enlightening account.”
Review   Kirkus Reviews - November 15, 2009
“Regan puts a human face on the multiple problems created by desperate, poverty-stricken people entering the United States illegally to look for work.”
Review   PopMatters - April 2, 2010
“Regan, a Tucson resident and journalist, writes with the ease of one who is well versed with its people and issues, but The Death of Josseline is not a ‘just the facts’ book that breaks down immigration policy. Reagan also gets down and dirty with some good old fashion journalism. Her chapters focus on one group or incident and weave them so that reader can better understand its layers and complexities. She talks with migrants about their own harrowing experiences crossing the border and with members of humanitarian groups who try to help them. She rides along with Border Patrol agents and interviews Arizona ranchers. She visits Café Justo, a Mexican coffee co-op that tries to sustain itself and its workers so they will stay in the country.”
Review   The Huntsville Times - April 30, 2010
“The first step in solving a problem, my smart mother used to tell me, is confronting and defining it clearly. Regan's book is surely one of those first steps as we Americans begin the slow process of re-structuring an immigration bureaucracy run aground in good intentions and deadly consequences.”

Quotes
The Death of Josseline is a humane, sensitive, and informative perspective on a current and controversial topic. It also testifies to the fastest growing international criminal activity today: body trafficking. We all must pay attention.” --Ana Castillo, author of The Guardians

“This book should be required reading for everyone--from President Obama and the director of Homeland Security to the Border Patrol agents, the vigilantes, and migrant rights activists. If people on both sides of the immigration issue picked up this book instead of arms, we would come to a peaceful resolution; it gave me inspiration.” --Sandra Cisneros, author of The House on Mango Street

“In The Death of Josseline, Margaret Regan stands midpoint between immigration’s push and pull . . . her clear and sympathetic eyes watching the south on its treacherous slog north.” --Tom Miller, author of The Panama Hat Trail

“Most border v'experts’ and immigration writers are mere tourists. This writer is not one of them. In Margaret Regan’s The Death of Josseline, you have a writer who lives the story, reports from the heart of the killzone, and works the territory on a regular basis. The many admirers of Enrique’s Journey will find much to admire, and fear, in this powerful report.” --Luis Alberto Urrea, author of The Devil’s Highway

“There may be no better way to understand the muddle that is U.S. immigration policy than by reading these portraits of people who cross the border in hopes of a better life. . . . The Death of Josseline is an excellent way to understand-on a human level-the ebb and flow of human labor across political boundaries.” --Ted Robbins, Southwest Correspondent, National Public Radio

The Death of Josseline is a border reality check. It tells searing stories of those who’ve died crossing the Sonora/Arizona desert, of young people sent to prison in Tucson for the crime of working, and of the courageous people of conscience who stand up for the rights of migrants. Read it, and see why our deadly immigration policies need to be changed.” --David Bacon, author of Illegal People

Also Available As:
Binding Information: Paperback Not Defined
ISBN: 978-080700130-1
Availability: In stock.
Price: $15.00
Qty:
Related Products:
Author: David Bacon

ISBN: 978-080704230-4
Availability: In stock.
Price: $18.00

ISBN: 978-080704156-7
Availability: In stock.
Price: $14.00
Author: Tram Nguyen   Foreword by: Edwidge Danticat

ISBN: 978-080700461-6
Availability: In stock.
Price: $14.00
 
Beacon pressBeacon Press is a department of the Unitarian Universalist Association