Jay Rochlin

           Marta’s face is half covered with a light gray sweater. To protect her from the sun? To protect her from me? I lift my camera to my face, look through the viewfinder, and peer down. I press the shutter button halfway down and Marta’s face snaps into focus. Her one uncovered eye stares through the lens. I trigger the shutter and get the shot.
            Have I done a good thing? I wonder. I know I’ve got a good shot. This one will make a cover.
            Thousands of people will see Marta’s face. They will feel sympathy, perhaps empathy. Perhaps they will think about the humans behind the numbers they hear as politicians rail about “protecting our southern border.” 
            
            Only three hours earlier, a reporter and I began a “ride-along” with Borstar, an elite Border Patrol division whose charge is to rescue stranded immigrants in the Sonoran Desert west and south of Tucson. We climbed into a generic SUV with Vincent Hample, the group’s leader, and headed west toward Sasabe, a tiny dot of a town along the Mexican border in the middle of nowhere.
            I’ve always had problems with much of the Border Patrol’s mission -- the anti-immigrant thinking behind the politics, the tinge of racism, and the militarization of the border. Now, I was on assignment, embedded, so to speak. I told myself to be objective and professional. As we headed southwest on highway 86 toward the border, I could not have known how much my perceptions would change during the course of the next few hours.

            Several weeks earlier, Marta Gomez Garcia, a 27-year-old mother of two young boys, left her home in Honduras and headed north. Things were going well. She made it to Altar, a Mexican town about 30 miles south of Sasabe.
            With the help of a guide, or “coyote,” thousands of people make it into the U.S. every year. But many don’t – the U.S. government tallies between 250 and 300 deaths annually. Local ranchers and groups that aid the crossers agree the number is low. 
            Just after the sun goes down, the same drama plays out night after night. Brown-skinned people – men, women and children -- trek north across the desert. If they see headlights they hide in bushes or ravines. They carry gallon milk jugs filled with water, a few sandwiches, perhaps some tins of tuna, and as many personal belongings as fit in the nylon backpacks their kids take to school. Many carry a clean set of clothes -- a pressed shirt for the men, sometimes new shoes and nylons for the women. They want to look good when they start their new lives in America. 
            If all goes well, after hiking 30 or more miles over two, sometimes three, nights, they are picked up at a pre-arranged site on one of 100 dirt roads off of Highway 86. From there they head toward Tucson, pick up Interstate 10, make other connections, and find their ways to Los Angeles, Chicago or anywhere there might be work, a friend, or a relative. Marta’s sister crossed four years ago. She settled in North Carolina, where Marta hoped she would also find a new home.

            About four hours after Marta began her crossing, a young couple from Hildago, Mexico, their 3-year-old son, the boy’s uncle, and a friend began their own odyssey from Altar. They made good progress through the night, but the boy and his mom were slowing down. When the sun came up, the group knew they had made it. Now all they had to do was follow the path, find transport to the interior of the U.S., and get work. Their new lives would begin. The sun gave them new energy, but before the nighttime cold left their bodies, the group noticed a woman lying on the path. It was Marta.

            She later told her story to the reporter:

            In Altar, Marta hooked up with a coyote and other crossers. Her group, mostly from Mexico, made good progress. Even though she wasn’t in shape to hike as far as was necessary, she kept up. There seemed to be enough food and water, but then came disaster. 
            North of the border and fewer than two miles from the pickup point, Marta tripped in the dark and fell hard. The pain was bad and she couldn’t stand. Probably a broken leg. The coyote was sympathetic, but he was responsible for 50 other people and he had to keep the group moving. There was no way he could, or would, carry her. 
            He didn’t want her to suffer. They talked. He detailed the agony of dying alone in the desert. If it wasn’t wild animals or deadly rattlers, surely the sweltering desert heat would slowly kill her over the course of the next two days, maybe three. The most humane thing to do for her, he said, was to shoot her in the head to end her misery.
            Marta begged the coyote to let her take her chances. She cried about her two children. She thought about her husband who had attempted this crossing four years ago, but had not been heard from since. She was afraid he was dead. She didn’t want her boys to be orphans. She would pray. A miracle would come. 
            The coyote relented. His other charges, men, women, and children, marched north. Not a single person stayed behind.

             The young family found Marta cold, frightened, and hurting. Their decision was instant. They would abandon their hopes so Marta might live. Raul stayed with the injured woman. The others went for help. In less than an hour, the four crossers and a cruising Border Patrol officer found each other.

            About 8:45 a.m. 10 miles west of Tucson, Borstar Agent Vincent Hample got the call. Border Patrol had apprehended four apparent illegals. The migrants claimed there was an injured adult female in the desert. Hample’s Borstar colleagues also heard the call and knew what to do. So did I. I began to visualize photos as Hample picked up speed.

            By the time we reached a rendezvous six miles north of the border, several officers and their official vehicles had already gathered. Minutes later, we were following the Border Patrol officers over rocks and through thick desert scrub. 
            When we arrived, Marta was crying. Her eyes were closed and her tears came slowly. Carefully, Vincent and his team members moved her from the dirt to the gurney. 
            I told myself that American border policy isn’t these guys’ fault. They weren’t writing laws or making speeches. They were out here in the middle of a 100-degree day, trying to get an injured woman help.
            Everybody worked hard. They rested and rotated positions frequently. Raul and his friend, both exhausted from their own crossings, took turns in the rotation. 
            After a particularly difficult 10 minutes, the men and one woman carrying the litter slowly set Marta down. She was not the only one hurting. The officers needed rest. One of them found a water bottle and gently lifted Marta’s head so she could take a drink. 
            Snap!
            Another good shot. A tender human gesture. 
            I felt good about my timing. But I also asked, “Am I taking advantage of Marta? How about her privacy? Do I want to share this moment?” 
            Another 45 minutes in the desert and Marta looked worse. She was not absorbing enough water. A paramedic decided she needed an IV. The team carrying the litter set her down.
            One officer pulled the saline out of his 40-pound backpack while another prepared the needle. The female officer gently put the half-inch rubber band around Marta’s upper arm – better to find her vein. 
            Seconds later another officer cradled her forearm in his own while he inserted the needle.
            Snap! A photo editor will love it.
            Marta did not react. And she ignored me.
            Moments later, with Raul holding the IV bag, the officers took their places again, lifted, and continued the trek.
            Finally Marta was safe inside a massive Humvee. So were Margaret and two other officers. The rest of us were sitting on the rack on top of the vehicle – Borstar agents, me, and Raul and his friend. 
            Inside the van, the group was quiet. Marta told Margaret, “I wasn’t expecting to live anymore.” 
            Up top, there are high-fives all around. Easy laughter. Here were four exhausted Border Patrol officers laughing with two men, who, in about two hours, they would turn over to regular Border Patrol for booking and certain deportation.
            Aren’t these two, especially Raul, exactly the kind of people we should want to be Americans – guys who willingly gave up their own dreams of a better life in the U.S., because a stranded woman needed help? I wondered why I’m helping make them look good? Still, they saved Marta’s life.
            As we approached the staging area, a local fire-district medical helicopter was waiting. I positioned myself. The officers who performed the rescue helped load Marta into the chopper. A couple of them wished her well. A female paramedic told me to leave. I ignored her. 
            Snap. A final picture of Marta, inside the chopper strapped to a stretcher, her face in full view, perfectly framed by the sleek curved line that outlined the helicopter’s window. I winked at the paramedic and stepped back. Maybe this will be the cover shot.
            As the pilot cranked up the engine, the blades began to rotate. We all moved back. This was Marta’s last contact with Border Patrol. Thanks to a quirk in policy and Border Patrol economics, she was about to become an indigent patient of unknown origin in the care of a local Catholic hospital. Raul, Isaac, Maria, little Isaiah, and their friend were put into another SUV for transport to the Border Patrol holding area.
            I anticipated the trajectory of the helicopter. Dirt scattered everywhere as the pilot revved the engine. I protected my lens but kept my eyes open. Finally, slowly, the bird lifted off. Snap. The road and official vehicles in the foreground with plenty of dust. Snap. Nice mountains in the background with some thin clouds. Snap. Good profile of the chopper against the mountains. 
            I’ve got my pictures. The reporter has her story. The border patrol conducted a rescue and made a few apprehensions. And Marta will live.  I wonder about the rest.