Courage, My Friends
/Dear friends,
Last week I witnessed the court case of friends who were arrested last year for protesting in front of Raytheon/RTX and BAE Systems, weapons manufacturers that have profited from Israel's killing of tens of thousands of Palestinians (one recent independent survey put the number at over 80,000 people) in Gaza since October 2023.
Standing in Injustice Square, before our friends went into the courtroom, we sang: Courage, my friends, you do not walk alone. We will walk with you and sing your spirits home.
The song took me back to 2013 when, as part of my training to be a member of Community Peacemaker Teams, an international human rights organization, I took part in a weekly vigil outside of the Broadview Detention Center, a facility near Chicago run by U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE). It holds detainees from Illinois, Wisconsin, Indiana, and Kentucky. At any given time, about 1,000 people are there whom ICE processes after a raid or individual pick-up. ICE then deports many of them.
Every Friday for years, a dedicated group of peacemakers has gathered at 7:15 AM to pray in front of the detention center.
During the vigil we prayed for our migrant brothers and sisters and read the names of those we knew; we prayed for their families; we prayed for more just immigration laws. We celebrated small successes - the release of one man slated for deportation (he was present), a law that had just been passed in Illinois allowing undocumented migrants to get a driver's license, the (re)introduction of comprehensive immigration reform. We ended by singing "We Shall Overcome."
On Fridays Broadview allows three people to board the buses to pray with deportees. I was one of the three who got to do so. We tried to prepare ourselves for any scenario, including the possibility of angry deportees. We had been warned that the bus would be dark, the deportees would be shackled, and that we'd have to speak loudly through a small hole in a plexiglass/metal grate panel that would separate us from the deportees and prevent us from seeing most of them.
We entered the building and a guard directed us into a small kitchen to wait as deportees were herded to the transportation. As the men passed, we heard the clanking metal of shuffling shackled ankles.
That day the bus had broken down, so the men were transported in five vans. They held men from Mexico, Honduras, Guatemala, and El Salvador.
One guard escorted us to a van, another urged us to be fast. In Spanish, we introduced ourselves and told the men we were there to pray with them. We invited them to name anyone who needed prayers. Their responses were generous, welcoming, and thankful. The men told us their own names and spoke the names of their wives, children, mothers, both in the U.S. and in their home countries, and other detainees. One man told us we needed to change the broken immigration system. We assured him we were both praying and working for it. Then together in Spanish, we prayed the Our Father. As I made the sign of the cross, I saw that shackles prevented the men from doing the same. We offered a final blessing, the van doors closed, and we went back to the kitchen to wait. Van by van, we repeated the ritual.
We were close to the men. We saw the faces of those near us and when there wasn't a grate between the front and back of the van, we saw all their faces. We could have touched those near the door. Their faces were familiar. They were the faces I saw when I lived in Guatemala and traveled in Central America. They were the faces of friends. They were the face of family.
Each time my eyes stung, holding back tears. My throat tightened. My heart ached imagining the journey each man had already been through and the one ahead. As we waited in the kitchen between vans, we heard the garage door open and people outside were singing, "Courage, migrant brother,/ you do not walk alone/ we will walk with you/ and sing your spirits home." The group outside sang continuously until all vans were out. They also sang in Spanish. We joined them after the fifth van left the building. We sang together until the vans finally drove off to O'Hare Airport.
De-briefing the vigil and prayers afterwards, someone recalled being in jail. The person said that seeing non-uniformed, non-weaponed people had made an impact, was a welcome and comforting sight. The person noted that the faces of the men in the van registered the same kind of relief and gratitude.
"It makes a difference. Praying with them is not a small thing. It is a big thing."
It was a big thing for me, too. It was a gift, a privilege, an honor to speak and pray with the men - Henry, Alfonso, Jose, and so many more - even briefly. Year later, I continue to pray: May God keep them safe. May God bless their families. May God open our hearts to all people, regardless of their origin.
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There are so many things happening in our country and world that stimulate fear, anxiety, grief, rage, and other strong emotions. I've gone back and forth about including a list here, but I suspect you already have your own list of pain and grief. Left to grapple with these things on our own, we may become overwhelmed and paralyzed, feeling helpless and uncertain of how to take any meaningful action.
If we are able to turn toward and lean into others, we often find courage and grounding that are elusive in isolation. We find ourselves better able to take action, even if the action feels small.
Singing together is something. Praying together (if that's a thing you do) is something. Marching together is something. Making art together is something. Listening open-heartedly to another person is something. Encouraging, affirming, and otherwise supporting someone who is taking bold action is something. All of these things make a difference and help us build our capacity to move through fear and practice courage. You are not alone. We are not alone.
Courage, my friend. You do not walk alone. We will walk with you and sing your spirit home.
May we walk, sing, pray, create, listen, and encourage each other home.
