Backpack Journalism at Creighton University is a collaboration between the Theology Department and the Journalism, Media, & Computing Department. It came about because of a theologian interested in social justice and filmmaking and a journalist and an artist interested in filmmaking and social justice.
Each summer, a small group of students travels to a community in search of a story. Led by professors Dr. John O’Keefe, Tim Guthrie, and Carol Zuegner, the students immerse themselves in the communities, interviewing, filming, recording, and writing. When they return to Creighton, they take the stories they have collected and develop them into a short documentary film. The Backpack Journalism documentaries have been accepted at several film festivals, including the Omaha Film Festival. The class has traveled to such far-flung places as the Dominican Republic and Uganda, Bethel Alaska and Nogales Arizona/Sonora. The next project is tentatively planned for Northern Uganda in 2018.
The border is a complicated and sometimes, intense place. One way to wind down after a long, heavy day was to hang out with my incredible Backpack family. While we were there to learn, we laughed a lot and made memories that I will smile about forever. In the style of one of my favorite movies, 10 Things I Hate About You, here are the 10 things that I “hated” about this experience:
I hated stepping outside of my cooking comfort zone.
I hated the way my dance moves looked on Snapchat.
I hated losing my breath from laughing too hard on the long van rides.
I hated the deflated beds that created so many jokes in our room.
I hated being caught as a member of the “mafia” during our silly game.
I hated how my classmates cheated at Tenzi.
I hated the way we all looked out for each other.
I hated the pressure of picking the perfect song when I had the aux cord.
I hated how my cheeks would hurt from smiling during our hilarious dinner chats.
But mostly I hated the way I didn’t hate it, not even close, not even a little bit, not even at all.
I think the best way to describe the way this experience altered me is by what something Nico said during our final reflection. He said something to the effect of “We’re not just putting names and faces to the issue, we’re putting real, actual people to the issue,” and he could not have been more right.
It wasn’t just seeing these issues firsthand that got to me, it was learning about these issues and then meeting and become friends with the people these issues affect that really changed me I think.
And I’ve said this a million times, but I think it’s so special and so important that we have the ability to share these stories and these people with an audience. I think that’s an incredibly powerful tool and has led me to appreciate and love journalism and all its many facets and capabilities so much more than I already did.
As far as the issue itself, I think the biggest thing is that it makes me wonder what else is out there that I don’t know or that is so largely misunderstood. It just blows my mind that all of this is happening right under our noses and people, including myself, have been able to remain so ignorant about it. Again, I think that makes me appreciate the importance of journalism and makes me want to discover and share more.
It also blows my mind, from a political standpoint that there’s such a lack of knowledge. I would love to see politicians visit Kino and look at these issues firsthand before passing policy and legislation. This is an issue that cannot be resolved from afar, because the bottom line is that things aren’t working because there isn’t a concrete enough understanding of what the issues are.
I guess, to that extent, I find myself getting frustrated by our political system and by the backwards structuring of it all. But overall I think this trip has helped me understand how incredibly powerful journalism can be.
On Tuesday, May 31st, we went to the Tucson courthouse. Carol and John told us that this would be for our personal learning experience rather than something that would be in our film. Our field trip took us to Operation Streamline.
I won’t bore you with the facts that you can lookup online, but I want to tell you about my experience.
This was my first time being inside a courthouse. Of course I have seen some courts while binge watching Law and Order. But this was my first time physically being in a courthouse. I read through a Most Wanted list while I waited outside the courtroom. Freaky.
When I walked into the courtroom, I could smell the stench of sweat and filth. I could hear the sound of chains in a never ending chorus. As I looked around, I saw rows on rows of people chained by their feet, waist, and ankles.
I sat down next to my partner in crime, A.J., and we made eye contact and shared a brief smile, not knowing what we we were about to witness. I don’t know what came over me, but before anything had even started, tears were streaming down my face. I looked over to A.J again and he whispered, “Already?!” We both laughed a little and he offered to go get me Kleenex but the trial was about to start.
All of the migrants had headphones in so that they could hear the translator who repeated the judges words in Spanish.
As I listened to the judge, I understood most of what he was saying, but was left confused for various parts. I thought back to being told that many Mexicans do not even have an eighth grade education. If I could barely understand with my advanced education, I couldn’t imagine trying to understand the court system of a foreign country. The judge asked them if they didn’t understand to stand up. I wanted to stand up. But like them, I was paralyzed with the fear of looking stupid, out of place, like I didn’t belong.
The judge asked them to raise their hand if their ear pieces weren’t working, but their hands were chained.
One lawyer asked the judge if her clients could go first as she had places to be.
Migrants went up, five by five, to answer questions.
A woman went up, head down. When the Judge asked her if she was a US citizen, she let out a regretful sigh and answered no.
My heart sank as more tears ran down my cheeks.
I heard the judge list cities of where these people had crossed. I heard Nogales. I heard Sassabe. I heard Tuscon. All places that we had been and had become familiar with. All places where I couldn’t imagine being out in the desert for more than a morning.
After each set of migrants had individually answered the judges questions, they were sent out of the courtroom. I saw their faces and thought of all the people I had interacted with at the Comedor. People I had danced with, laughed with, played games with, talked to, the stories I had heard. It all came back.
I felt as if I was in a some sort of nightmare.
When I came back to the realization that this was real life, I noticed I hadn’t stopped crying. I also realized that it had been over an hour since the trial had started. I looked around and saw that I was the only one crying in the entire room. I felt like a fool.
We left about halfway through the list of migrants. A lawyer came out and asked us if we had questions. Yes, I had questions but I didn’t know where to begin.
The question that I was able to formulate was why they couldn’t say that they were seeking asylum from the drug wars going on or that their families were starving back home.There had to be another way, right? Instead of having criminal charges put on your record and being sent to jail?
His answer kind of confused me. It was something along the lines of it would be a different process, in a different court and there wouldn’t be enough evidence.
Someone else in the group asked how often he sees the same people getting charged again. This time his answer was crystal clear. “It depends on how hungry their families are or the condition that they are in, whether or not it’s safe.”
I cried much of the way home and during the reflection that we did once we were home. After what seemed like eternity, I took a nap, hoping that my dreams would be more peaceful than what I had just experienced.
I wish I could just take a nap and when I wake up, my troubles and the troubles of my brothers and sisters would have perished. But sadly, that’s not the way things work and I’m still trying to figure out why things are the way they are.
When talking about the border it is easy to turn it into a conceptual political issue. However, there are so many people living this reality and they are the ones who make this issue so compelling. They are the ones who humanize this issue. These are some of the people we met…
Jim and Sue own the Chilton ranch in Arizona. This is a 50,000-acre ranch. Jim, in 2003, won the title ‘Rancher of the Year’ and has testified in front of Congress six times. Sue, spent five years on the Arizona Game and Fish Commission. Jim and Sue are a ranching power couple.
I went with the first group, with Jim, to set up the interview at the ranch. We quickly learned Jim was a jokester. On our way into the ranch, with a while to drive still, Jim pulls over, saunters up to our van and says he is glad we made it through all the congestion. We were in rural Arizona and had not seen a single car on the drive. He then immediately, walks back to his truck and we finish the drive to his home. Jokes like this continued throughout the day.
Jim and Sue’s house was beautiful. Honestly, like no other house I have ever seen. The master bedroom was circular room made of 16 windows, which Jim designed himself. In the foyer of their house sat a stuffed cougar. Jim told us the day he got the cougar he placed it in the door to scare Sue when she came home.
Jim referred to Sue as Super Sue, and it is apparent why. Sue was buzzing around whether she was preparing and cleaning up the potluck at the church, leading the choir, getting ready for the interview, or just making us feel at home. It was clear Sue rarely stopped moving. Sue couldn’t be more than a couple inches over five foot and wore bright blue cowboy boots. This couple was just so genuine a few times throughout the day I had to remind myself I was not meeting my own grandparent’s friends in rural Iowa.
I talked to a man for only a couple minutes after church in Arivaca, Arizona (a small town), but I managed to find out he was originally from Sioux City. Sioux City is a small town in Iowa my grandma was from. This was a nice reminder how small the world really is.
Father Neeley is a Jesuit who led us around Nogales for a couple of days. He has a commanding bass voice, a full white beard, mustache, and a cowboy hat. He learned Spanish in his 30s over a bottle of alcohol and before working at the Kino Border Initiative he was a professor of marketing. He taught a class about wine marketing because of his connections in the wine industry and was the faculty advisor for one of the school’s fraternities. I do not think I have seen such pure excitement as when Father Neeley got to see the drone fly in rural Arizona.
We were given a tour of Nogales, Mexico by a lawyer and his historian friend these two would contradict and passive aggressively argue about the real history of Nogales. One would tell one story and then the other would explicitly tell us all that the other was wrong, then telling us his version of the historical event. This went on until we were late for our dinner reservation and had to say goodbye.
John was our tour guide on the desert walk. He had long white hair, shorts, and sandals. He was a Quaker and the most peaceful person I have ever met. He quickly climbed a rock wall, told stories of casual conversations with border control, and slyly dropped that he had to be back in Minnesota for a court date due to a protest he had participated in. The most telling encounter I had with John is when he told us that shoes were optional on our desert hike. The desert hike was filled with cactus, thorny bushes, and we walked on gravel, yet shoes were only recommended.
We went to Saguaro National Park where we met Cecil and Carol. Cecil was an Arizona biologist who studied the horticulture and amphibians in the park. Carol used to be an editor at National Geographic, yet sat back and let Cecil have his moment as he informed us about all the wildlife in the park, which included instructions on getting high by licking the backs of frogs.
Father Neeley and Ivan a Jesuit in training (which is not the official title) came over to dinner one night. With them was a man who casually mentioned, half way through dinner, his career as a UN ambassador. He then retired to work in the Vatican before actually retiring to his new home in Spain. He worked in Pakistan, Bosnia during the war, Geneva, Spain, and the list goes on. He worked in the Vatican and told us about his nice photo with the pope. He shared stories of his time in Europe and Africa over pizza sitting in a plastic Adirondack chair.
We ended up going through border checkpoints almost every day. Every experience at these checkpoints was a little bit different. However, the best experience I had at one of these checkpoints was just quintessentially Midwest. Our vans had Creighton University printed on the side. On seeing this a border control agent from another lane jogs up to our car and tells us he is also from Nebraska. We small talk about why we are in Arizona and our mutual knowledge of the somewhat small town he was from.
Ultimately, the people we met on the border were why this trip was such a good experience. They helped add complexity and a human face to this highly politicized issue.
There are no easy solutions to immigration. There are issues in every sector and across both sides of the border. The corruption that is the immigration system means that we are far from having a solution.
I can walk away from this project saying that I still don’t understand everything there is to know about immigration. Some of the questions I’m left with include:
I need to know why we have not had immigration reform before this. I need to know why we are constantly seeking the most simplistic answers to the most difficult questions. I need to know why we cannot band together when we clearly know the wrong of something, but refuse to do anything about it.
I am deeply concerned about my beautiful and wonderful country turning into one I am no longer proud to live in by those who wish to turn us back in time to “ greed is good.”
I can only hope those dearest to me will not drop the ball, but fight for the rights of all who are here to live in this land and respect the people who have come here for a better life.
This experience has drastically changed what I thought about immigration. I went in thinking one thing and left with thinking another.
I encourage whoever is reading this blog to educate themselves on immigration. It is a very real situation that is happening right outside. Seek out sources and individuals that challenge your current way of thinking.
The biggest fear people have when it comes to immigration from Mexico is that we are letting criminals and drugs stream over the border. To a fairly large extent, this is true. The problem comes with our government’s inability to separate the drug trade from people who are crossing to escape violence and reunite with their families. Because this distinction is not made, all Mexican migrants are essentially treated the same. People often ask why migrants can’t simply cross the border legally. There is a 20 year waiting list for Mexicans to get a visa, even though immigration into the U.S. is actually the lowest it’s been in 50 years. Waiting 20 years is probably not a viable option for immigrants fleeing from violence, or trying to get to the family they’ve been separated from. So, all migrants are forced to cross illegally. Many of these illegal immigrants carry drugs across the border. Border security has been increasingly heightened and militarized, making it harder than ever for migrants to safely make their way into the United States. So, these migrants have very few options. This is where the cartel comes in. They know the border and the surrounding areas extremely well. They are able to successfully go back and forth across the border with no problem. In this way, they become many migrant’s only hope. Migrants pay thousands of dollars to cross the border under the cartel’s protection. This means more revenue for the cartel and more backs to load their supplies of drugs onto. Essentially, by making the border inaccessible to anyone, we are causing migrants to aid in the very practice that we fear most about immigration: criminality and drug smuggling.
This knowledge and this frustration that I have developed over the course of this trip is what makes this trip different from any experience I’ve ever had. It was such an intense few weeks of learning and growth that led to so much understanding about the complications and misconceptions of the issues at hand and I don’t think I could have found that anywhere else.
So thankful for these hooligans. I’m grateful for everything that they have taught me about journalism, theology, life and myself. Even though it’s almost over, I know that we all will remain friends. So grateful for you guys everyday.
Two weeks ago, there was a lot about migration across the U.S.-Mexico border that I was unaware of. After spending two weeks on the border, I understand more, but I realize there is still so much more to learn.
Operation Streamline is one such concept I was ignorant of. Operation Streamline began in 2005 under the Department of Homeland Security and the Department of Justice. It requires almost all undocumented immigrants crossing the U.S.-Mexico border to be prosecuted through the federal justice system.
Last week, we had the opportunity to witness just this. Inside the federal courthouse in Tucson, we sat in the back of the large courtroom, notebooks in hand.
Roughly 70 migrants with handcuffs shackling their wrists, and a chain snaking around their torso, continuing down to their feet. Headphones cupped their ears, as a means for them to hear the Spanish translation of what the judge said. They looked scared, confused. As I watched them, I felt awkward. Knowing if I were a defendant, about to stand up in front of a crowded courtroom to plead guilty, I would be so humiliated and angered to have strangers watching me.
Five at a time, the migrants walked forward to be prosecuted. To each migrant the judge rattled off questions: Do you understand the rights you’re giving up? Yes. How do you plead? Guilty. Do you understand the consequences of pleading guilty? Yes. Are you a U.S. citizen? No. Are you pleading voluntarily and of your own free will? Yes.
In the U.S., each first-time offender is prosecuted for misdemeanor illegal entry and a six-month maximum sentence. Those who have tried crossing previously, are prosecuted with felony reentry and given a two-year maximum sentence, which can be more if the migrant has a criminal record.
I was unaware that this happened at all, and shocked to discover it happens every day of the week. Here were my main takeaways after witnessing Operation Streamline and doing some research.
Deters the attention of lawmakers away from fighting violence on the border. Law enforcement must focus on the prosecution of migrants who have entered illegally for the first time. Meanwhile, drug smuggling and human trafficking is occurring at the border.
Fails at reducing undocumented immigration. Petty immigration prosecutions are increasing, while the number of migrants attempting to cross the border is declining.
Is unconstitutional. Migrants are not given due process. Many defendants don’t receive probable cause determinations within 48 hours of their warrantless arrests, as the Fourth Amendment requires (see attacked article below).
After we walked out of the courtroom, a Magistrate Judge who was off duty followed us out and asked if we wanted to talk about what we had just witnessed. After answering a lot of our questions, it was obvious that he too was frustrated with the current system.
“Everyone wants to be tough on crime. No one talks about being just in crime,” he said.
He encouraged each of us to reach out to our state congressmen, voicing our concern with the process. I hope to do just that, as well as educate others that this injustice is occurring. For a more thorough explanation of Operation Streamline, I strongly encourage you to checkout Berkeley Law School’s review of the system.
On Saturday, our group ventured out early in the morning to set out on a desert hike to experience what the migrant goes through. The only thing I was sure of was that it was earlier than I was used to and the road to get there was barely even a road.
Our tour guide’s name was John, a crunchy granola looking fellow with long, white hair. His quirky character and love for all humanity is probably what stuck out to me the most. He took us across grasslands, up and down hills, through ravines, along both beaten and unbeaten paths. I fell within the first 15 minutes and tried to catch myself. My hands landed on some rugged rocks and got pretty scratched up.
As we were walking, I tried to listen to what John was telling us. We were crossing over from a cattle trail to a migrant trail when he told us that we were part of the story now, that this wasn’t just a migrant story. That struck a chord with me. Up until then, I always saw it as their story, their struggles, their lives. But it’s the story of the human race, including all of our struggles and our dreams.
Above is a photo of Isabel Navasca Corpuz, also known as my Lola (Grandma in Tagalog). She was born on July 7, 1927 in Manilla, Philippines.
During WWII, she lived in a house with five other families on a farm in a rural area. She had just become a teenager but she was prohibited from going anywhere public by herself. Whenever she did go out, she had to disguise herself in old woman clothes so that the Japanese would not capture her and rape her.
When the war was over, my Lola finished her college education. She met and fell in love with Raymundo Corpuz and together they bore two sons. However, they saw that the Philippines was not the best place for them to raise their sons. Like many immigrants, they faced oppression in the country that they happened to be born in. With prayers tucked into their pockets, they left whatever material things they had behind in hope for a brighter future. They found refuge in this country that I call my own, America, the land of the free.
Almost a half of a century later, Lola has five grandchildren. Both of her sons have pursued higher education and have been able to provide for their own families.
Above is a picture of Josseline Jamileth Hernandez Quiteros. She was born on September 15, 1993 in El Salvador. When she was young, her parents left of the United States in order to make more money to support their family. Both came into the country illegally and had been working in the shadows. Meanwhile, Josseline was in charge of taking care of her younger brother. Eventually, her mother, Sonia, had made enough money to hire a guide to take both of her children all the way from El Salvador to Los Angeles.
Josseline, 14, and her brother, 10, went with other trusted adults to travel over 2,000 miles; jumping walls, hiking up and down the mountains, and trekking through the desert. They only brought with them the clothes on their backs. Josseline chose a pair of jeans and some sweatpants that had “Hollywood” bedazzled on the bottom. She planned to wear them when she arrived to the land of the famous.
They hid from Mexico’s national police as well as the United States Border Patrol. Just after they had crossed the US/Mexican border, Josseline started to get sick. The rest of the group were on a time crunch. They needed to be at a certain location where they would be picked up and time was running out. Josseline could barely walk. She encouraged the group to go on without her. Her brother cried and refused to leave his main caretaker. She encouraged him and told him to tell their mother where she was and to send help the second that he was able to.
Her first nights alone in the desert were spent in the freezing cold. She had on two jackets and two pairs of pants, but that still wasn’t enough to beat the 29 degree weather.
Three weeks later, members of No More Deaths were hiking the migrant trails to leave out jugs of water and canned goods for migrants. They stumbled upon the small body of a girl whose dreams were cut short. A memorial was held at the site where Josseline’s body was found. However, her family was not able to make it in fear of being arrested and deported back to Mexico.
I will be a part of my grandchildren’s history, like Lola was a part of mine. I grew up asking her stories of her hardships, of her hopes for her family, of her American Dream. When my grandchildren ask me questions, I want them to be as proud of my accomplishments as I am of Lola’s. I want them to learn from my courage and my determination for social justice. I want them to know how much I would sacrifice for our family and for our brothers and sisters around the world. I’m lucky that my Lola’s experience was not as difficult at Josseline’s and I have my life to show for it. I can only hope to do my 4 foot 6 inch grandmother justice.
Migration isn’t an us versus them issue, this is a we issue. When we see them as people with families and friends, with fears and dreams, then we will be able to stand in solidarity with them and fight for change.