海角大神

Sam Schultz: A heart for service on the US-Mexico border

A year ago, Sam Schultz was enjoying retirement in this remote, high-desert community that hugs California鈥檚 border with Mexico.

He, his wife, Gabrielle, and their two adult sons, nine dogs, multiple听cats, chickens, and peacocks live on a compound that includes a 1923 landmark stone monument, the. Mr. Schultz, a skilled carpenter, likes fixing stuff on the property, where he helps his brother,听who also lives there,听run the tower as a funky Airbnb with a听stunning mountain听vista.

But then migrants poured听through gaps in the border barrier, just down from the compound. The human stream surged last May, ebbed, and then flowed into a river starting in September, churning up national headlines.

Mr. Schultz, known as a can-do relief worker, sprang into action. He organized volunteers to set up tents in three open-air encampments.听His team supplied听food, water,听firewood, and multilingual information sheets听as hundreds of听migrants, including children, waited days for the overwhelmed Border Patrol to pick them up and process them. A GoFundMe page helped. So did a legal services group, Al Otro Lado, which pitched in with workers and equipment.

听鈥淚 cooked for 450-plus a day, 60 days straight,鈥� says Mr. Schultz, his wispy, white ponytail sticking out from a gray field cap. 鈥淭he Red Cross isn鈥檛 going to come. I鈥檓 living听next door.鈥�

Quaker roots fuel acts of service

For the past year, this retiree has been at the center of America鈥檚 fraught border situation, which changes daily. The tiny town of Jacumba Hot Springs is divided over his humanitarian work 鈥� some supporting it, others seeing it as aiding and abetting illegal immigration, and some wanting to stay out of the debate.

Squalid camp conditions spurred a lawsuit in February, with advocacy groups demanding enforcement of the Flores agreement, which sets standards for treatment of children in immigration custody. On April 3, a federal judge in San Diego ordered the federal government to move 鈥渆xpeditiously鈥� to safely house minors entering the country unlawfully.

Mr. Schultz, a Quaker, says he doesn鈥檛 care about immigration politics or policy. 鈥淚鈥檓 just helping people.鈥� It鈥檚 an outlook stemming from his religious, pacifist roots and his childhood in San Diego followed by years on Bali in Indonesia.

On Bali, he earned a living as a contractor building luxury villas and hotels. That supported his young family 鈥� and his parallel life as a humanitarian relief worker. In that life, he organized aid deliveries to the beaches of East Timor during the violent crisis of 1999; assisted in the overloaded morgue during the 2002 Bali terrorist bombings; and set up triage stations after an 8.5 earthquake flattened a Jakarta hospital in 2007.

The Monitor first met Mr. Schultz shortly after a 2004 tsunami killed nearly 230,000 people, many in Indonesia. It was the deadliest disaster of the 21st century so far. Reporter Daniel B. Wood rode with this 鈥渞egular guy鈥� as he helmed a cargo boat loaded with supplies for those impacted by the tsunami on Sumatra鈥檚 denuded coast.

Mr. Schultz saw the news on TV and didn鈥檛 wait around for 鈥渢he clipboard men鈥� at giant aid organizations to get underway. Instead, he found a boat and a crew, then used his own money to help fund听his delivery runs听of doctors, nurses, tools, cook pots, and rice. He also built 14 fishing boats to help villagers resume their livelihoods.

鈥淭he Quakers鈥� real name is Society of Friends,鈥� he told the Monitor reporter 20 years ago, 鈥渁nd we treat everyone we deal with as if they are our friend. My friends are in trouble. That鈥檚 it.鈥�

This is Moon Camp

It鈥檚 the first week in April, and not sun, but snow is forecast for Jacumba. Mr. Schultz, his son John, and two young volunteers are pulling a tarp over the skeleton of a large tent structure. This seasoned aid leader lugs sandbags to help secure the sides of the tent. 鈥淚n relief work, you lift a lot of heavy stuff,鈥� he remarks.

This is Moon Camp, at the base of rugged mountains on old Highway 80. It鈥檚 a desolate, open stretch of hard dirt where temperatures can fluctuate wildly and winds whip. The camp includes听four portable toilets, a water tank, and an industrial-sized dumpster.

Migrants leave trash strewn about 鈥� transit documents, itineraries listing hotels and car rentals, clothes, empty water bottles. The detritus is global: a Russian pouch of dry milk, good for infants ages 6 to 12 months; a Chinese towelette; Mexican pesos. But the relief workers run a clean camp, filling countless trash bags and tossing dirty blankets into the dumpster. The good ones they spray with disinfectant听for reuse.

In the middle of the camp is parked Mr. Schultz鈥檚 Ford F-150 Lightning pickup truck. The bed of the all-electric vehicle is loaded with bottles of water and lunch bags. Each contains a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and an orange.听In recent weeks, about 100 to 200 migrants have arrived each day 鈥� about half from South America and the rest a mix听of Turks, Africans, Indians, Chinese, and others, says Mr. Schultz.

Not far from the camp, down a dirt track, the steel-slat border wall abruptly ends at huge boulders 鈥� the base of a steep, mountainous area. Migrants cross over a mountain, descending听on a trail in large groups. Border Patrol agents听direct them to Moon Camp.听After migrants eat their sandwiches, the Border Patrol separates the parents and children from the rest, and takes them to a facility for fingerprinting, background checks, a medical screening, food,听and questioning.

A group of about 50 men, women, and children from countries such as Brazil, Colombia, and El Salvador, wear hoodies, jeans, and running shoes as well as looks of fatigue 鈥� and elation.听鈥淲oo-hoo,鈥�听yells one young man, on learning he is in the United States. 鈥淕racias,鈥� says another, hands pressed together in thanks. 鈥淚鈥檓 very tired,鈥� says one woman, holding the hand of her husband.

Back in town at the library, Mitch, a resident who did not want his last name used, expresses frustration with illegal immigration under the Biden administration. He is also unhappy with Mr. Schultz鈥檚 relief work. 鈥淚t鈥檚 a magnet.鈥�

But the Schultz family isn鈥檛 buying it. 鈥淟ike somehow people in China heard about our world-class PB&Js, and they鈥檙e like, 鈥榊eah, that鈥檚 the reason we gotta come to the United States,鈥欌�� says the younger Schultz, as he rakes out a tent floor.

Constant change on the border

Things can change quickly on the border. After an avalanche of media coverage and a trip by Secretary of State Antony Blinken to Mexico in late December, Mexico pitched its own tent camps and put guards on the opposite side of the fence from two camps that Mr. Schultz organized. The Mexicans鈥� gleaming white tents stand unoccupied; a gap in the border fence, unused. If migrants show up, the Mexicans will deport them听further south.

That change eased things considerably for Mr. Schultz, his son, and his wife, who helps out. When the Monitor visited earlier this month, only the Moon Camp was operating. But migrants are still coming, says Mr. Schultz. They are being pushed west to a dangerous area in the Otay Mountain Wilderness 鈥� too far for the Schultz family to go. He says that volunteers who helped in Jacumba have since gone to San Diego to help orient migrants after the Border Patrol has processed them and dropped them at a public transit station.听

After the听April 3 ruling, the Border Patrol stopped directing migrants to Moon Camp, taking them into detention as soon as they walk down the mountain trail. That lasted about a week.

The migrant stream is again surging, and this past Monday, about 400 migrants passed through the camp. Some听were facing their third night there, waiting for agents to pick them up. The water tank supplied by the Border Patrol was dry, prompting fights as Mr. Schultz scrambled to find more water 鈥� and slap together more PB&J sandwiches.

鈥淚t鈥檚 been a really long day,鈥� he says in a phone update. 鈥淚t鈥檚 a confusing time.鈥�