Long before I went to the border last fall, the conditions and treatment of refugees there has been a deep concern to me. Near the end of last week, emails arrived at work saying there would be a gathering of Catholic leaders in Washington DC, to demand an end to the detention of children and separation of families on the border. “Stop the Inhumanity!” I agreed to go but did not agree be arrested in an as yet undefined act of civil disobedience.
Sunday, I was at mass and hoping that the homilist would tie the gospel story of the Good Samaritan into the situation on the border with Trump’s criminal detention of migrants and their children, and his immoral policies of separating families. Ours is a multi-cultural parish with a growing number of Latinex members.
We have a new pastor in our Church of St. Anastasia and I was hoping that that would mean more homilies that were adapted to the news of the day, rather than cookie cutter pieces of piety that can be rolled out word for word every three years as the lectionary cycles. The new pastor who was “in the house,” did not say the Mass, nor did the homily fall to the melancholy Sunday assistant who is a chaplain at the local Catholic hospital. It was a deacon who preached. I’m sure he felt he was contemporary in that he celebrated his time with the parish youth who had just returned from a two-week service trip to low-income families and churches (our neighbors in his homily) in the Plaatsburg, NY region.
But there was no connection made between the Good Samaritan and the families on the border. It is not the first time my hopes for a meaningful, contemporary homily were dashed. But God is not limited to the homily to get a message across.
During the Offertory, the music ministry led us in singing “Day of Peace” by Janet Sullivan Whitaker. I had never heard song, a favorite on my playlists, sung in any parish liturgy. The lyrics of the third verse made the connection that the homilist did not. The verse and refrain reads as follows:
I dream of a night when all the children
Slumber safe warm and fed
and rise to a day of possibility
Each one loved, each one free
Refrain:
I know there will be a day of peace
For this, let us all work and pray.
I was nearly brought to tears. Instead, I resolved at that moment to not only go to the day of action in Washington but I would also risk arrest.
Leaving for Washington DC
I left for DC Wednesday afternoon before the action was to take place. I was going to stay with my son and his wife who live in DC, giving me a chance to spend a little time with my 2-1/2-year old grandson, Patrick. I met my son on the Metro after work so we could ride home together. It was great timing …we were underground and missed the fast-moving downpour that hit when we were below ground. We arrived at their home to find Patrick, who has never been caged at the border, waiting for us outside as the rain was evaporating quickly.
We had a nice dinner, read some books together, and prepared for Patrick’s bed-time. I answered some his parent’s questions about the next day’s action but as an early riser, I am not awake much beyond the 2-1/2-year old’s bedtime. When I got to my bed, I saw that Patrick had put one of his stuffed toys in my bed and was told he did it “so I would not feel lonely at night.”
If only the president has as much compassion as a 2 year old.
My son and I traveled together in the morning to Union Station. He had a business day trip to Philly. I had some coffee at the station then walked up to the Lutheran Church of the Reformation where we Catholics who were willing to risk arrest would gather for some introductions and last-minute instructions. At the sign-in table I met Eli McCarthy, one of the day’s leaders. I had not met Eli before, but knew of his work with the Catholic Nonviolence Initiative just after their first meeting at the Vatican in 2016. Then I met a fellow Associate of the Sisters of St. Joseph of Peace, Denny Duffell, a deacon from Seattle and his son John. Denny was in town after a trip through New England with some family members. He was ending his trip in DC to attend a meeting with Pax Christi to discuss bringing the UN nuclear ban treaty more into the consciousness of Americans. We chatted a while then split up to meet some new people. I recognized and spoke briefly with two sisters with whom I would pray at the Isaiah wall outside the UN while the negotiations were going on for the Nuclear ban treaty in 2017. There were others whom I recognized but did not have chance to meet like Fr. Joe Nangle, OFM of the DC Assisi community. I’d read at least one of his books years ago. As we were preparing to leave for the press conference and rally outside of congress, we were Joined by Maria Biancheri of Catholic Charities of the Archdiocese of Newark who was our parish liaison when we were resetting a refugee family from Afghanistan.
It seemed that none of us were new to this work. Yet, when asked how many were risking arrest for the first time most hands went up. I had risked arrest before, during the Obama administration over the treatment of Guantanamo detainees, but was not arrested at that time.
We were brothers and sisters in faith. We had not just come together just seeking publicity. This was an attempt to use our powerlessness as citizens to get the out-of-control President to treat the migrant children with some measure of human respect. Hopefully as our action emerged it might cause some others to pay more attention to the inhumanity of detaining children in cages and tearing them away from their parents and guardians. We explore deeper powerlessness by getting arrested in DC.
We left the church to walk to the Capitol lawn.
The crowd continually grew as we gathered outside on the lawn of the Capitol. We had several speakers, the most moving was a mother from El Salvador, who spoke holding her 17-month old daughter about the fears of being at the border and of being separated. She was hoping to find sanctuary and the chance to stay in the U.S. with her child. Other powerful words were delivered by Sr. Carol Zinn, SSJ, executive director of the Leadership Conference of Women Religious, with her resounding call for the time to STOP the inhumanity with which our central American brothers and sisters and children are treated at the borders.
It was very, very hot in the sun. In the heat I was nursing the contents of my water bottle so I would have some water left until we got to the Russell building. I was not sure they would allow water in the bottle, or the bottle itself into the building. When it came time to go into the Russell Office building to do the civil disobedience we were hoping for a much cooler setting.
Those not risking arrest gathered first, then we who would risk arrest were led into the rotunda two by two wearing signs with the names and faces of the children who had died on our border in custody of the CBP and ICE. We who were on the floor of the rotunda could look up to see the arches on the floor above filled with people watching, including faces we recognized. The support was incredible. After singing a few rounds of “We shall not be moved,” we started praying the rosary using words from migrant interviews as new “sorrowful mysteries” on which to meditate as we prayed the Hail Mary’s.
As we prayed, from the very first, my mouth became extraordinarily dry but I continued in the vocal prayer regardless.
When we started the Capitol Police, using the bullhorn, began the first of their three warnings. After the third warning to “leave or be arrested” the arrests started. Many others were removed before they got to me. A police officer approached with the plastic cuffs, he looked me in the eye and asked if I understood that if I did not leave immediately, he would arrest me. I nodded as I continued praying aloud. A green wristband was applied by the officer meaning I could no longer leave the room on my own. Later, another officer returned to cuff me and accompany me out to the street to the waiting Capitol Police buses.
On the street, in the sun again, we were patted down fairly aggressively. They took my belt, my fitbit, the water bottle, my hat, two photos of children who had died in CBP custody and anything else I had in my pockets. I was allowed to keep my ID, a metro card and enough money to pay the fine.
Having lost several pounds doing yard work in the heat, gravity was winning on the fight to keep my unbelted trousers above my hips. I had been chatting with the officer assigned to me who had come to DC from Ohio. He never took his hand off my arm, which seemed to be procedure. I shared my gravitational dilemma with “My” officer who laughed and shared that after a week of work at the Capitol, almost always outside in the sun, he often lost weight and his clothes did not fit by Friday. He told me a weekend of bar-b-que usually resolved his problem. Then he suggested stretching my cuffed hands down lower so my fingers could engage the tops of my pants and prevent any further descent. My shoulders complained but I managed to get to the waistband.
Further potential “exposure” charges thus resolved, I was led to the bus.
In the bus I was seated next to Denny, behind his son, and across the aisle from Maria. The bus ride to detention was thankfully not too long. I was in pain from my bad right shoulder which did not like the stretch involved with being cuffed behind my back. It was hard to situate myself to protect against a possible bump or sudden turn of the bus completing the tear in that joint.
We were detained at a warehouse, not a jail. There were at least 20 Capitol Police officers working the room. Multiple large fans were blowing to move the air, keeping us relatively comfortable. On arrival, another officer patted me down again which included sitting me down so he could remove my shoes, pat down my feet and shake the shoes to see if anything came out.
Finally, the plastic cuffs were cut off. I could not help but release a short yelp as the pressure on my shoulder was released. The officer thought he had hurt me and was very solicitous, but I explained that he was not the cause of the pain.
We were all then re-cuffed with our hands in front of us and led us to assigned chairs where we would sit for the next hours. Men on one side of the aisle, women on the other. We could not cross from one side to the other.
The mood was actually very cheerful. We had done what we had come to do and were happy, sharing smiles and some double thumbs up. The officers, while following procedure, realized we bore them no animosity and were no threat to them as a group. In fact, I was struck by the many smiles around the large room. Officers responded to requests for water by reaching into one of several large coolers to pull out ice-cold bottles of water and delivering them to those anyone who requested one. They even opened the bottles since the cuffs prevented enough dexterity for us to do it ourselves.
The water looked very good and I was thirsty, but I knew the women and children in the southern detention facilities had been told to drink water from toilets. I did not feel right asking for a cold bottle of spring water.
The cuffs were loose but still very uncomfortable. I kept looking down at the deep red marks left on my hands and wrists from the cuffs. I could not move my hands freely, but I had a chair to sit in. So many of the migrants had to stand for days with no places to sleep due to overcrowding in the camps.
I quickly lost track of time. They had taken everyone’s watch so we were all in the same boat. Seemingly after an hour or so they began to call us up one at a time to sit with and officer who read us our rights. I was asked if we would waive them so the officers could ask questions. I did so. The only questions I was asked were, “What is your birth date” and “What is your phone number”. All these one on ones took time. My only hint as to the hour was that the air blown by the fans had gotten much warmer, perhaps it was the high temp of the day? Maybe three or 4 PM?
Then back to sit again.
When almost all of us had been interviewed, the first of us were released. Someone would have their name called by a wide grinned officer and be told to go to a table on the other side of the room. A female officer there asked for the money to pay the fine. A thumb print was taken, cuffs removed, and a second officer would return the bagged belongings taken by the officers during the pat downs. A receipt for the fine was produced and then you were free to go.
As you turned to go up the short ramp to the exit door, the remaining crowd still handcuffed could not applaud, so they did the next best thing and would cheer: “Woo hoo! Woo hoo!” The response of those who were freed was to turn and bow to those remaining behind. A simple gesture of honor between those who were willing to put their bodies on the line to draw attention to the plight of innocent children and terrified parents on our borders.
Will our action make a difference?
The stone-hearted president is not likely to pay attention until the number of those willing to give up their bodies becomes embarrassingly large.
Perhaps we can motivate more people of faith to take similar risky actions and visibly grow the number of those will to take risks to see the children are set free.
And so…
I dream of a night when all the children
Slumber safe warm and fed
and rise to a day of possibility
Each one loved, each one free.
Refrain:
I know I will see a day of peace
For this, let us all work and pray.
Janet Sullivan Whitaker