washingtonpost.com — We were eight Mexican peasants, one smuggler and me -- desperately stretched out in dirt furrows in the night. The Border Patrol helicopter with its huge searchlight kept coming closer. It stopped, hovered and turned the other way.
"Madre," whispered Pablo, who at 17 was the youngest among us.
We took off running, then crawling past a parked Border Patrol jeep that was so close you could hear the patrol officers as they booked a group they had caught. Finally, two hours after squirming under a fence in Tijuana, we were running down empty streets in San Ysidro, Calif., to a safe house and America.
Read Full Article »
Help us spread the word about these important stories...
Bookmark/Search this post with: