At 1:53 a.m., Peter Fink was on a barren mountain plateau near Campo, California, handing out blankets to people from four continents who had arrived under cover of night.
It was a nightly ritual for the 22-year-old, who wore a ball cap and wool overshirt. His perch — a rocky slope just over 300 yards from the U.S.-Mexico border wall — had become a place to circle. Watch boarding space for people who entered the continental United States illegally.
mexican armed national guard Although the migration routes are now located at the most popular transit points along southeastern San Diego County, the migration routes have moved into more remote wilderness areas where people have little or no infrastructure to survive. Not at all, facing more extreme terrain and temperatures.
For migrants apprehended by U.S. Border Patrol agents who are about to begin applying to stay in the country, Fink's makeshift camp, a plot of earth beneath the grates of a high-voltage tower, offers only modest rations. It was the first destination. Thanks to donated food, water and firewood, the migrants were able to survive as officials crossed the scene and detained them before their health deteriorated dangerously.
At this and other locations along the border, migrants are forced to wait hours or even days before being taken into custody, and a federal judge ruled last week that the Border Patrol is keeping children safe and sanitary. The court ruled that they must act “swiftly” to get them into suitable shelters. However, unlike outdoor waiting areas that have sprung up in densely populated areas, Fink's property had no relief tents, medical volunteers, trash cans or toilets, just a pit dug for a communal toilet. was. Himself.
In the morning, there were Indians, Brazilians, Georgians, Uzbeks, and Chinese.
Officials say federal funding and personnel are too limited to keep up with the influx of border crossers into the region, and such operations are a source of great tension in San Diego County. There is.
Asked if humanitarian aid would encourage more people to enter the country illegally, Fink shook his head.
“People aren't going to spend their savings or risk their children's lives just to enjoy this peanut butter and jelly sandwich,” he said.
Peter Fink has blond hair and a refreshing face, And he grows a beard just to look his age. He grew up in the Pacific Northwest and learned Spanish while working summer cherry pickers. Fascinated by the 2020 immigration crisis, he spent months in Arizona, crossing the border by day to volunteer at a migrant shelter in Sonora, and by night using the university's free Wi-Fi. in International Studies online. Local McDonald's.
He didn't create this mountaintop camp. he found it. A local man noticed fires burning on the plateau every night, and Fink, a wildland firefighter and avid camper who was traveling through the area, set out to see what was happening. I volunteered to pitch a tent and spend the night on the site. Within hours, more than 200 migrants arrived on foot. Among them were pregnant women, children and the elderly, who huddled together in the biting wind.
Word spread to the southern communities known as the Mountain Empire, which were so isolated that the small desert town of Jacumba Hot Springs (population 857), 30 miles away, became the headquarters of operations. Ta. Volunteers collected firewood from the ax throwing venue and waste from live edge table manufacturers. An abandoned youth center was used to sort non-perishable donations. A shipping container that was in someone's yard became a kind of warehouse for boxes of water and tarps.
After the first night in early March, Mr. Fink had another night. He pitched four-person tents in neat rows, and when the wind became particularly unbearable, he packed ten people into each. He used white paint to attach labels in four languages to the drawers of an old office file cabinet, indicating the rations for applesauce for children and formula for infants. He established campsite guidelines. Don't throw away trash; save firewood. Women and children have priority inside tents.
On this day, when Mr. Fink looked through his binoculars, the sun was almost directly overhead. A couple was dropped off by an unmarked vehicle on a dirt road in Mexico, trekking through dry brush toward the United States. The woman began to slow down. She was clearly pregnant.
Fink grabbed two bottles of water and began descending into the valley below, waiting a safe distance from the border wall so as not to encourage the couple. Once on American soil, the woman lowered her body to the ground, panting heavily. Her husband crouched down in front of her and held her face in his hands.
“Estavien?” he whispered, wiping the sweat from her forehead. She nodded.
There was silence for a moment. Mr. Fink then spoke in Spanish about where the couple were from (San Salvador), how long the baby was due (one month), and how they extorted cash from Mexican authorities on their way to the border wall. I asked him if he had been. The couple said that was not the case.
“Buena suerte,” he said.
He handed over abandoned bags and clothing and led them up the climb to the camp, using scaffolding dug into the ground using techniques he learned fighting wildfires. As soon as they reached the camp, he turned around and started running towards the valley again. He spots a young girl walking with his mother wearing polka dot pants and a ponytail, and sees them about to take a wrong turn.
When the girl, Briana Lopez, 5, arrived at the camp, she ate Welch's fruit snacks given to her by Fink and spoke on the phone with her father, who was still back home in Guatemala.
“How are you, my child? Are you happy?” he asked in Spanish.
“Bien!” she said. “Shhh!” Good! yes!
Her parents discussed how to navigate immigration detention after she and her mother were arrested. Brianna called out excitedly. She believed they were going to Disneyland.
By dusk, the last group of migrants had been picked up, and Fink was huddled in his tent, stuffing himself with pita bread and arranging donations on his cell phone.
This was the time he usually slept, anticipating the few hours until the first wave of the night arrived. But in the distance he heard exasperated breathing, and a woman appeared alone, collapsing into his arms and crying.
She said her traveling companions left her behind and followed the subway tracks too far west, disappearing into the wilderness. Now they are gone.
Mr. Fink climbed to the highest point on the ledge, put his hands over his mouth, and shouted in Spanish: Don't be afraid, come here! ” His voice echoed across the valley. “Hello, welcome to America!”
He wrapped the woman in a blanket and waited. “Dios te bendiga,” she said. god bless you.
Finally, her two missing companions climbed over the top from the other side of the plateau and wrapped their arms around her, sobbing. Mr. Fink complied with the Border Patrol's orders and packed a bag for each of them as he removed a layer of clothing and boarded a government van.
At 8:13 p.m., the scene was quiet again, except for the buzzing of power lines overhead and the sound of dogs singing their evening songs on the Mexican side. In the darkness, Fink disinfected and packed up tents and lit garden lamps and psylliums along the path to camp for those arriving in the evening.
Within a week, Mr. Fink will be leaving for the Northwest, where sorghum and amaranth planting season has begun, and landscaping and construction work awaits. But his tarps, firewood and file cabinets remain on the pile, and supplies are regularly replenished by volunteers.
The following week, when a group of Colombians was released into the United States from Border Patrol custody, they learned about the “angel” who kept them alive and won their hearts: “un guerrito,” who spoke extremely fluent Spanish. Aid workers overheard the discussion. He was the one I found hanging out in the tent.