Walking the Borderlands: A Reflection on Liminal Space in Southern Arizona
A mid-semester reflection on my senior retreat with HELM fellows
Last week, I stood face-to-face with the border wall in Nogales, a city split between Arizona and Mexico. It was a moment that crystallized so many of the complex realities I’ve studied, but also one that made those abstract lessons heartbreakingly tangible. My senior retreat with the Christian Church (Disciples of Christ) Higher Education and Leadership Ministries brought into focus the liminal space we all inhabit—spaces between nations, ideologies, and futures. I was in Arizona for four short days, arriving last Thursday and returning on Sunday, but my time there was filled with stories, locations, and people I can’t forget.
One of the most striking moments of our trip to the U.S.-Mexico border was when we visited Nogales, where the border wall literally splits the city in two. Nogales, Arizona, and Nogales, Mexico, are separated by a towering steel barrier, a stark and intimidating reminder of the tensions and ideologies that govern this land. As we stood face-to-face with the wall, it felt surreal—a military zone in the middle of a neighborhood. Cameras and surveillance equipment lined the area, the same technology used in other high-conflict areas like Gaza and the West Bank. It was unnerving to think that this was a street where families lived, children played, and life carried on under the constant watch of heavily armed border patrol agents.
Within ten minutes of our group arriving and calmly discussing the history and significance of the place, two border patrol cars pulled up and parked nearby. They sat there, watching us from a distance, a silent but ever-present reminder of the heightened security and the tensions that exist at this intersection of nations. The presence of the patrol cars wasn’t overtly threatening, but it was a stark indicator of the weight this wall carries—not just physically, but ideologically. It’s not just about preventing crossings, but about reinforcing divisions in a much deeper sense.
One of my fellow students posed a question that stayed with us throughout the rest of the trip: “If we tore down the wall, would our ideologies even change?” Standing face-to-face with that barrier made this question painfully real. The wall represents far more than a physical divide—it embodies the fear, exclusion, and the rigid boundaries we’ve built in our minds and hearts. As I stood there, within arm’s reach of the wall, I realized how close we are, and yet, how divided we remain.
This trip brought my academic research on borderlands to life in a way I hadn’t expected. I’ve studied and researched how borders are shaped not just by geography but by politics, economics, and identity. Yet standing in front of the wall, meeting the people who live in its shadow, and hearing stories of migration made it a living, breathing reality. It’s one thing to study borders in theory; it’s another to stand at one and feel the weight of its presence.
I was struck by the contrast of what we were experiencing and the rhetoric I see flooding my social media feeds and news outlets. Politicians speak of division and fear, but standing there, it became clear that real people live on these streets, in these militarized zones. At one point, we stood in front of houses, knowing that families lived within sight of this border every day.
Later that night, we returned to the church that was hosting us and had dinner with a migrant woman from Venezuela. Our conversation with her was one of the most profound moments of the trip. She had journeyed thousands of miles with her two children—a two-month-old baby and a thirteen-year-old son—through some of the most dangerous terrain in the world, including the Darien Gap, one of the most treacherous regions for migrants. Her story was both heartbreaking and awe-inspiring. To think of the courage it took to embark on such a journey, fleeing violence and oppression, carrying the hopes of a safer future for her children, is almost unimaginable. She spoke of the hunger, fear, and exhaustion they faced, but what stood out most was her determination. It wasn’t just about survival; it was about seeking a life where her children could grow up without the constant threat of violence. Hearing her story reminded me that migration isn’t just about crossing borders—it’s about carrying dreams, resilience, and the hope for a better life. Her journey put a face to the abstract concept of “migrant crisis,” and her bravery will stay with me for a long time.
On Saturday, we ventured into the desert to witness firsthand the migrant trails. To call them “trails” is a misnomer; they are treacherous and unmarked paths through deadly terrain. It was there that we met two women, los Samaritanos, who dedicate their time to leaving water and supplies for those they encounter. Their work embodies an ethic of care in the midst of cruelty, offering hope and dignity to those crossing the desert.
As a person of faith, this experience stirred within me deep theological reflections. What does it mean to love our neighbors when our societies erect walls to keep them out? When Jesus tells us to love our neighbors as ourselves, the Gospel doesn't make distinctions based on nationality, legality, or geography. The woman we met at dinner, who had fled Venezuela with her two children, was my neighbor. On this trip, I witnessed modern-day Samaritans, the women who leave water in the desert for migrants crossing dangerous terrain. They represent a radical love for one's neighbor—a love that transcends borders and boundaries.
For those of us committed to living out our faith, the border becomes a theological space, not just a political one. It forces us to confront the uncomfortable truth of how we draw boundaries between "us" and "them." Standing at the border, I felt convicted by the ways in which our society, and even the church at times, has failed to truly live out Jesus's command to welcome the stranger. The story of the Good Samaritan calls us to see the suffering of our neighbor and respond with compassion, even when it's costly, even when it crosses social and political boundaries. This is what it means to follow Jesus in spaces of division.
The experience of walking through this liminal space—the borderlands—has stayed with me. It’s changed the way I read the news, the way I understand borders, and the way I see the church’s role in these conversations. As the election approaches, I hope to carry these stories with me and to share them in a way that humanizes the people who are often reduced to statistics or political talking points. These are real lives, real struggles, and real hope.
As I reflect on the privilege of having this experience fully funded and organized by HELM, I am filled with gratitude. The opportunity to stand in these spaces, meet these people, and end my time in the program with such a meaningful and transformative experience is a gift I won’t take for granted. This retreat didn’t just mark the end of my journey as a HELM Leadership Fellow—it deepened my understanding of justice, community, and the power of shared stories.
Since returning to Holland, I have been struggling a little to readapt to the busyness of the semester after hearing the immense suffering and pain present in Southern Arizona. Sharing the experience through my newsletter felt like a helpful way for me to both process what I saw and share what I learned with a wider audience.
With the election just nine days away, regardless of the outcome, what will it mean to love our neighbors—even those who voted differently? How do we stay committed to faith and justice across the divides that shape our lives?
Sincerely,
Anna Whittle
P.S. This is my actual last trip of 2024 so no more spontaneous travel reflections planned for my blog. Thanks for following along still if you read all of this! If you want to chat more about this with me, I’m more than happy to have coffee or chat over the phone about my experience. Email me, text me, call me and I’ll find time to share more.
Thanks for sharing such valuable insights, Anna. Sounds like a powerful trip/experience and an opportunity to use your voice to make a difference for our neighbors 🫶🏼