by David J. Danelo (Author)
Border Field State Park sits on three square miles of protected California real estate tucked south of a score of horse farms. Rusted steel spires slice through the final white obelisk that marks the line between nations and towers against a background of salty, endless blue. Waves crash along an empty beach; surfers and sunbathers are banned from this part of the coastline. A "Danger/Peligro" sign warns that those who-like me- walk down to the ocean should not dive in, lest we risk being infected by industrial waste. A Border Patrol agent sits inside a truck parked on a hilltop,scanning the sea for any migrants willing to take the plunge.
I gazed upon the vastness of the open sea, inhaled the wet, heavy fragrance of flora and fauna, and reflected on my quest to understand this complex 1,952 mile terrain. During the early 1990s before the fence was installed, migrants used to sprint north from the flat floodplain stretching into Tijuana. Back then they would mass in groups and run on highway, dodging La Migra and traffic until reaching a pickup point. Today the beach was quiet.
Rafael Peralta had been one of those illegals. He was twelve when he broke the law and ran accross the border near this stretch of sand. For six years he lived illegally in San Diego. Sowehow, he obtained a green card for one reason: he wanted to join the U.S. Marine Corps.
In November 2004, Sgt. Rafael Peralta, USMC- who had become a dual U.S.-Mexican citizen - was a platoon scout with an infantry company in Iraq assaulting the city of Fallujah. Prior to departing for the attach, Peralta wrote his younger brother Ricardo, telling him not to worry. "Be proud of me, bro," he said, "and be proud of being an American."
On November 15, as the fighting spread from house to house, sargeant Peralta stood at the front of several Marines and threw open the door to a room occuptied by insurgents. As he entered the room, Peralta was shot several times in the torso and face. After Peralta's fellow Marines had flooded in, an insurgent threw and hand grenade. Bleeding and mortally wounded, Sergeant Peralta grabbed the grenade and cradled it, absorbing the blast with his body and saving the lives of four others Marines. Sgt. Peralta has been nominated for the Medal of Honor.
As I stood at the end of the border, less than ten miles south of Sargeant Peralta's final resting place at Fort Rosecrans National Cementry, I wondered if anti-immigration activists would attempt to block the reception of America's highest honor for valor because of his former immigration status. And if they would not, I wondered why they prevent millions of other Mexican men and woman-who would grow up to be heroes like Sergeant Peralta-from being offered a pathway to do so. I knew what thier answer would be, I did not find it satisfactory.
But despite my pessimism, I was unwilling to throw in the towel. To give up hope entirely on a rational solution to stabilizing the U.S.-Mexico and U.S.-Mexican borders would dishonor Sergeant Peralta's memory. Someday, I thought, perhaps Americans and Mexicans will freely traverse this vast river and land. Perhaps citizens from both nations will have access to honorable work and fair trade, united against economic challengers accross the pacific. Perhaps the people will not fear their differences, because the police on both sides will be trustworty. Perhaps the border will finally make sense.
I closed my eyes and let the ocean breeze embrace me. Accompanied only by Sgt. Rafael Peralta's memory, I welled with emotion as I tried to imagine the impossible: the day when both sides of la frotera would be at peace. That moment felt very away.
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