WASHINGTON: Melania Trump lit up when a 3-year-old boy darted out of “Family Unit 8” at a migrant center in Tucson, Arizona.
“Hello!” said the first lady, brightening amid the semicircle of eight cells in a short-term holding center for migrants. “How are you?“
Mrs. Trump, an immigrant and a mother herself, wanted to find out more about how her husband’s strict immigration policy was playing out on the ground, especially among families that have been separated at the border. Two tours of migrant detention centers in a week gave her a sometimes grim view.
Now the question is what she does with that knowledge — and how she meshes it with her dislike for dividing up families and a concurrent belief in strong borders.
Spokeswoman Stephanie Grisham says more border visits or talks with lawmakers are possible, but it’s not clear what lessons the first lady took from her visits and what she’ll communicate to her husband.
“She cares about children deeply,” Grisham said. “She also believes in strong border laws and treating everybody equally.”
The first lady has given her husband her views on controversial political issues throughout his presidency, but never in such a public way as with the issue of immigrant children.
Before her husband reversed himself and put a halt to separations at the border, Mrs. Trump’s office put out a statement saying the first lady “hates” to see families separated and expressing hope that “both sides of the aisle” can reform the nation’s immigration laws. She did not say whether she supports the president’s “zero tolerance” policy for criminally prosecuting those who cross the border illegally.
“This is a complex issue,” Grisham said. “She recognizes that.”
The sights and sounds of Mrs. Trump’s visits to border facilities in Texas and Arizona amounted to a hard-to-forget information file about the 2,000 children separated from their families nationally.
Thursday’s visits to a migrant center and a school provided Mrs. Trump with indelible images and facts on the perils for families crossing the desert, the challenges for law enforcement and what happens to illegal border crossers and their children when they are caught.
Despite the camera-ready nature of the events, some of the images were bleak: a cell block, doors open at the time, where minors are sorted into “Families,” “Males” and “Processed” and “Unprocessed.” Six expressionless teenage boys seated on a bench outside their cell. A daycare for children under 2 and a few mothers — also minors.
At a Tucson roundtable with law enforcement officials responsible for hundreds of miles of border, the first lady asked how many children cross the desert alone. One official told her a 16-year-old was raped on her journey into the US and gave birth in federal custody.
Rodolpho Karisch, chief patrol agent for the Tucson Sector Border Patrol, showed Mrs. Trump a picture that appeared to take her aback. He said it represented a 6-year-old boy crossing the desert alone with a soda bottle and a note. Reporters later learned that the boy is alive.
The first lady at times deliberately leaves her message unclear.
On her first trip to the border, her choice of clothing left everyone scratching their heads, with the inscription on the back of her jacket that read, “I really don’t care, do u?“
On her second visit, her wardrobe was understated. But Mrs. Trump didn’t expound on her view of her husband’s immigration policy.
That didn’t stop critics of the Trump administration from lumping her in with her husband.
In Phoenix, as the first lady’s motorcade approached a sprawling Southwest Key migrant facility, protesters lined the sidewalk amid a big inflatable likeness of her husband, dressed in a white robe and holding a hood reminiscent of the Ku Klux Klan.
“Melania Trump is guilty, guilty, guilty!” the protesters chanted of the first lady, who is from Slovenia and came to the United States on a special visa during her modeling career.
Inside, she stopped at an air-conditioned trailer marked No. 4 that held 10 boys and girls around 5 years old.
“Do you like it here with some friends?” Mrs. Trump asked.
“Si,” said one girl.
A few protesters screamed from a nearby balcony that overlooked the compound’s playground as Mrs. Trump’s retinue shifted buildings.
Then came perhaps the most sobering stop, to another cooled room containing nine babies and toddlers, and four of their moms.
Mrs. Trump stepped onto the carpet in her sneakered feet and squatted down to get closer to the children, still sleepy from recent naps. She glanced up toward the women standing nearby and asked, “Who are the moms?” One woman from Honduras raised a hand. “Where is your baby?” the first lady asked. A translator helped the young woman point out a boy, 14 months old. An official traveling with Mrs. Trump said there were 121 children there and their average stay was 48 days.
The balcony was empty by the time Mrs. Trump departed.
At the gates of the compound, some protesters tried briefly to jog alongside the first lady’s motorcade as it sped, lights flashing, toward the airport and the four-hour flight back to Washington.
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Melania Trump weighs migrant visits with husband’s policy
Melania Trump weighs migrant visits with husband’s policy
- Melania Trump wanted to find out more about how her husband’s strict immigration policy was playing out on the ground
- Now the question is what she does with that knowledge — and how she meshes it with her dislike for dividing up families
Refugee firefighters in Mauritania battle bushfires to give back to the community that took them in
MBERA: The men move in rhythm, swaying in line and beating the ground with spindly tree branches as the sun sets over the barren and hostile Mauritanian desert. The crack of the wood against dry grass lands in unison, a technique perfected by more than a decade of fighting bushfires.
There is no fire today but the men — volunteer firefighters backed by the UN refugee agency — keep on training.
In this region of West Africa, bushfires are deadly. They can break out in the blink of an eye and last for days. The impoverished, vast territory is shared by Mauritanians and more than 250,000 refugees from neighboring Mali, who rely on the scarce vegetation to feed their livestock.
For the refugee firefighters, battling the blazes is a way of giving back to the community that took them in when they fled violence and instability at home in Mali.
Newcomers with an old tradition
Hantam Ag Ahmedou was 11 years old when his family left Mali in 2012 to settle in the Mbera refugee camp in Mauritania, 48 kilometers (30 miles) from the Malian border. Like most refugees and locals, his family are herders and once in Mbera, they saw how quickly bushfires spread and how devastating they can be.
“We said to ourselves: There is this amazing generosity of the host community. These people share with us everything they have,” he told The Associated Press. “We needed to do something to lessen the burden.”
His father started organizing volunteer firefighters, at the time around 200 refugees. The Mauritanians had been fighting bushfires for decades, Ag Ahmedou said, but the Malian refugees brought know-how that gave them an advantage.
“You cannot stop bushfires with water,” Ag Ahmedou said. “That’s impossible, fires sometimes break out a hundred kilometers from the nearest water source.”
Instead they use tree branches, he said, to smother the fire.
“That’s the only way to do it,” he said.
The volunteer ‘brigade’
Since 2018, the firefighters have been under the patronage of the UNHCR. The European Union finances their training and equipment, as well as the clearing of firebreak strips to stop the fires from spreading. The volunteers today count over 360 refugees who work with the region’s authorities and firefighters.
When a bushfire breaks out and the alert comes in, the firefighters jump into their pickup trucks and drive out. Once at the site of a fire, a 20-member team spreads out and starts pounding the ground at the edge of the blaze with acacia branches — a rare tree that has a high resistance to heat.
Usually, three other teams stand by in case the first team needs replacing.
Ag Ahmedou started going out with the firefighters when he was 13, carrying water and food supplies for the men. He helped put out his first fire when he was 18, and has since beaten hundreds of blazes.
He knows how dangerous the task is but he doesn’t let the fear control him.
“Someone has to do it,” he said. “If the fire is not stopped, it can penetrate the refugee camp and the villages, kill animals, kill humans, and devastate the economy of the whole region.”
A climate-vulnerable nation
About 90 percent of Mauritania is covered by the Sahara Desert. Climate change has accelerated desertification and increased the pressure on natural resources, especially water, experts say. The United Nations says tensions between locals and refugees over grazing areas is a key threat to peace.
Tayyar Sukru Cansizoglu, the UNHCR chief in Mauritania, said that with the effects of climate change, even Mauritanians in the area cannot find enough grazing land for their own cows and goats — so a “single bushfire” becomes life-threatening for everyone.
When the first refugees arrived in 2012, authorities cleared a large chunk of land for the Mbera camp, which today has more than 150,000 Malian refugees. Another 150,000 live in villages scattered across the vast territory, sometimes outnumbering the locals 10 to one.
Chejna Abdallah, the mayor of the border town of Fassala, said because of “high pressure on natural resources, especially access to water,” tensions are rising between the locals and the Malians.
Giving back
Abderrahmane Maiga, a 52-year-old member of the “Mbera Fire Brigade,” as the firefighters call themselves, presses soil around a young seedling and carefully pours water at its base.
To make up for the vegetation losses, the firefighters have started setting up tree and plant nurseries across the desert — including acacias. This year, they also planted the first lemon and mango trees.
“It’s only right that we stand up to help people,” Maiga said.
He recalls one of the worst fires he faced in 2014, which dozens of men — both refugees and host community members — spent 48 hours battling. By the time it was over, some of the volunteers had collapsed from exhaustion.
Ag Ahmedou said he was aware of the tensions, especially as violence in Mali intensifies and going back is not an option for most of the refugees.
He said this was the life he was born into — a life in the desert, a life of food scarcity and “degraded land” — and that there is nowhere else for him to go. Fighting for survival is the only option.
“We cannot go to Europe and abandon our home,” he said. “So we have to resist. We have to fight.”
There is no fire today but the men — volunteer firefighters backed by the UN refugee agency — keep on training.
In this region of West Africa, bushfires are deadly. They can break out in the blink of an eye and last for days. The impoverished, vast territory is shared by Mauritanians and more than 250,000 refugees from neighboring Mali, who rely on the scarce vegetation to feed their livestock.
For the refugee firefighters, battling the blazes is a way of giving back to the community that took them in when they fled violence and instability at home in Mali.
Newcomers with an old tradition
Hantam Ag Ahmedou was 11 years old when his family left Mali in 2012 to settle in the Mbera refugee camp in Mauritania, 48 kilometers (30 miles) from the Malian border. Like most refugees and locals, his family are herders and once in Mbera, they saw how quickly bushfires spread and how devastating they can be.
“We said to ourselves: There is this amazing generosity of the host community. These people share with us everything they have,” he told The Associated Press. “We needed to do something to lessen the burden.”
His father started organizing volunteer firefighters, at the time around 200 refugees. The Mauritanians had been fighting bushfires for decades, Ag Ahmedou said, but the Malian refugees brought know-how that gave them an advantage.
“You cannot stop bushfires with water,” Ag Ahmedou said. “That’s impossible, fires sometimes break out a hundred kilometers from the nearest water source.”
Instead they use tree branches, he said, to smother the fire.
“That’s the only way to do it,” he said.
The volunteer ‘brigade’
Since 2018, the firefighters have been under the patronage of the UNHCR. The European Union finances their training and equipment, as well as the clearing of firebreak strips to stop the fires from spreading. The volunteers today count over 360 refugees who work with the region’s authorities and firefighters.
When a bushfire breaks out and the alert comes in, the firefighters jump into their pickup trucks and drive out. Once at the site of a fire, a 20-member team spreads out and starts pounding the ground at the edge of the blaze with acacia branches — a rare tree that has a high resistance to heat.
Usually, three other teams stand by in case the first team needs replacing.
Ag Ahmedou started going out with the firefighters when he was 13, carrying water and food supplies for the men. He helped put out his first fire when he was 18, and has since beaten hundreds of blazes.
He knows how dangerous the task is but he doesn’t let the fear control him.
“Someone has to do it,” he said. “If the fire is not stopped, it can penetrate the refugee camp and the villages, kill animals, kill humans, and devastate the economy of the whole region.”
A climate-vulnerable nation
About 90 percent of Mauritania is covered by the Sahara Desert. Climate change has accelerated desertification and increased the pressure on natural resources, especially water, experts say. The United Nations says tensions between locals and refugees over grazing areas is a key threat to peace.
Tayyar Sukru Cansizoglu, the UNHCR chief in Mauritania, said that with the effects of climate change, even Mauritanians in the area cannot find enough grazing land for their own cows and goats — so a “single bushfire” becomes life-threatening for everyone.
When the first refugees arrived in 2012, authorities cleared a large chunk of land for the Mbera camp, which today has more than 150,000 Malian refugees. Another 150,000 live in villages scattered across the vast territory, sometimes outnumbering the locals 10 to one.
Chejna Abdallah, the mayor of the border town of Fassala, said because of “high pressure on natural resources, especially access to water,” tensions are rising between the locals and the Malians.
Giving back
Abderrahmane Maiga, a 52-year-old member of the “Mbera Fire Brigade,” as the firefighters call themselves, presses soil around a young seedling and carefully pours water at its base.
To make up for the vegetation losses, the firefighters have started setting up tree and plant nurseries across the desert — including acacias. This year, they also planted the first lemon and mango trees.
“It’s only right that we stand up to help people,” Maiga said.
He recalls one of the worst fires he faced in 2014, which dozens of men — both refugees and host community members — spent 48 hours battling. By the time it was over, some of the volunteers had collapsed from exhaustion.
Ag Ahmedou said he was aware of the tensions, especially as violence in Mali intensifies and going back is not an option for most of the refugees.
He said this was the life he was born into — a life in the desert, a life of food scarcity and “degraded land” — and that there is nowhere else for him to go. Fighting for survival is the only option.
“We cannot go to Europe and abandon our home,” he said. “So we have to resist. We have to fight.”
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