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its-axplore · 4 years ago

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अपराधियों ने माेबाइल से बुलाकर बीसीए के छात्र अरुण यादव की गाेली मारकर हत्या कर दी। बाइक सवार अपराधियों ने रामकृष्णानगर थाना के चांगर माेड़ के पास चार पुलवा के समीप पेट में एक गाेली मारी और फरार हाे गए। गाेली लगने के बाद उसे बड़ी पहाड़ी के पास एक अस्पताल में भर्ती किया जहां इलाज के दाैरान उसकी माैत हाे गई।

26 साल का अरुण, प्राेपर्टी डीलर बड़��ू यादव का बेटा था। बड़कू का परिवार रामकृष्णानगर में रहता है। पिता का दावा है कि मंझले बेटे अरुण की हत्या के लिए किसी ने सुपारी दी है। अपराधी स्थानीय बताए जाते हैं। उसे क्याें मरवाया गया, इसका मुझे पता नहीं है। मेरी या मेरे बेटे की किसी से दुश्मनी नहीं है।

अरुण ने दाे का नाम लिया था अस्पताल में अरुण ने पुलिस काे मरने से पहले बताया था कि घर पर थे। स्थानीय राकेश ने फाेन कर बुलाया। घर से बाइक से निकले। घर से करीब 150 फीट की दूरी पर राकेश खड़ा था। इसी बीच राकेश व बब्ला उर्फ बब्लू ने पकड़ लिया। मारपीट की। जब तक कुछ समझ पाते, राकेश ने पिस्टल निकाला और पेट में गाेली मार दी। उसके बाद दाेनाें बाइक से फरार हाे गए। बड़कू ने बताया कि डाॅक्टर अरुण का ऑपरेशन कर रहे थे।

इसी बीच रात 11 बजे उसकी माैत हाे गई। सूचना मिलने के बाद माैके पर पुलिस पहुंची। मामले की छानबीन की। पुलिस काे अरुण का दाे माेबाइल मिला है। थानेदार मनाेज कुमार ने बताया कि अरुण की इलाज के दाैरान माैत हाे गई। पुलिस उन दाे युवकाें काे गिरफ्तार करने के लिए छापेमारी करने में जुटी है, जिनका नाम अरुण ने मरने से पहले बताया था।

माैत के बाद घर में मचा काेहराम: बड़कू काे तीन बेटा है। बड़ा बेटा अभिमन्यु मुंबई नेवी में क्लर्क है जबकि छाेटा बेटा सतीश पढ़ रहा है। इधर, गाेली लगने के बाद पूरा परिवार अस्पताल पहुंच गया। अरुण की माैत के बाद घर में काेहराम मच गया। मां संजू देवी, पिता का राे-राेकर बुरा हाल था। अरुण की माैत के बाद पास पड़ाेस के लाेग भी उसके घर पहुंच गए। चाराें ओर चीत्कार हाेने से माहाैल गमजदा हाे गया।

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BCA student, who was called from home near Changar Maid in Ramakrishnanagar, was abused and murdered, the father said - someone gave betel

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lindaeckhardt · 8 years ago

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New Post has been published on Everybody Eats News

New Post has been published on https://everybodyeatsnews.com/2017/02/hooray-peg-bowden-started-blog-want-front-row-seat-immigration-sign/

Hooray! Peg Bowden has started up her blog again. You want a front row seat to immigration? Here it is.sign up

BACH AND 45 •February 19, 2017 • 16 Comments by Peg Bowden

The recent Presidential election has me practicing the piano again. Bach is especially helpful. I can’t think about politics or 45 (Trump) when I play the piano, and this is a good thing. When my concentration goes awry, which is often, Bach’s symmetry and elegance go out the window, and my playing is a jumble of notes that fly in all directions. The major chords become minors, and the harmonies are lost. It is like fingernails on a blackboard. Even the dog winces.

I have to be grounded and focused to play Bach. It is my centering meditation. These days Bach is my salvation.

Breakfast at el comedor Yesterday I attended a Green Valley Samaritan meeting at 8 AM, and there were close to one hundred people in attendance. Most had gray hair. All were looking for guidance, phone numbers to call, letters to write, or something tangible to do that would impact the crisis of people crossing our desert trying to reach a loved one.

We heard a report from a Samaritan witness who attends Operation Streamline regularly. Operation Streamline is the court proceeding that attempts to fast-track undocumented migrants through our court system in groups. Migrants have representation by lawyers, and most are encouraged to plead guilty for the crime of crossing into the United States without the proper papers.

The Samaritan told us of a man who explained to the judge that he had been caught by Border Patrol agents somewhere in the desert. He was told to remove his shoes and socks, and was ordered to run across the desert floor barefoot. After a few minutes a Border Patrol agent chased him on an ATV, running him down like a frightened, injured animal. His feet were blooded. The man told this story to the judge on this shameful day in court. The judge shrugged it off. Things happen. A teen’s death in the desert

I cannot get this image out of my mind. It is February, and the mornings and evenings often approach freezing. A man is forced to remove his shoes, and run across the thorny, rocky desert floor while a Border Patrol agent has an adrenaline rush and chases him down. The agent can now claim that the migrant was fleeing the scene.

Struggling with how to impact these atrocities that are occurring close to my home, I sit at the piano and mangle another Bach Invention. I focus on my fingers, the music, and try to get my bifocals just right so I can see the notes. I am a privileged white woman playing the piano, trying to shake off the image of a young brown man running barefoot in the desert, hunted down like a deer.

There is something terribly wrong with America today.

Lucy and the medical team I remember Mr. Trump back in 2015 announcing his candidacy for President of the United States. In his very first speech he labeled the undocumented migrants heading north from Mexico as rapists, thieves and drug smugglers. He railed that they were raising havoc in our cities and countryside. I was stunned back in 2015 when I heard this, and his tone has not wavered. Why does Trump view Latino immigrants as terrorists, tax evaders, criminals and drains on social service networks?

Sleep does not come easy these days. Each morning I do not want to read the morning headlines, and yet I cannot avert my eyes. It is like driving past an auto accident, not wanting to look, and yet I must take a peek at the carnage. I wait for someone to organize another demonstration. I make phone calls to Congressional Senators and Representatives I have never heard of. I spend way too much time on Facebook reading every news breaking story.

Today I went to el comedor, the Kino Border Initiative aid station that feeds and counsels thousands of migrants each year. The mood is tense; the men and women look tired and hungry. It is forty degrees inside the small shelter, and some of the travelers are shivering.

The staff of life A few days ago Guadalupe Garcia de Rayos sat at one of the tables at el comedor surrounded by ten microphones and reporters from all over the world. Brought into the US at age fourteen, she was deported to Nogales, Sonora after twenty-one years of life in Arizona. Living in Phoenix raising her family, and trying her best to work and survive, she did not have the proper papers to stay here legally. Lupe obtained a false social security number in order to get a job, and eleven years ago was caught with this fraudulent identification. As part of her probation, she reported to an ICE office each year. She never missed this yearly visit. Without warning she was picked up and deported to Mexico while making her annual check-in to the ICE office. Looking frightened and bewildered, Lupe sat in front of the array of microphones. Her children spoke eloquently about their mother, and her life centered on family and hard work.

I stare at Lupe in the news photos, her face strained, and her eyes wide with distrust and disbelief. Then I study the faces of Steve Bannon and Stephen Miller, two of 45’s top national security advisors.

Who are the real criminals here?

US Presidential advisors with frequent communication involving Russian intelligence agents about campaign manipulation and policy matters in Ukraine and Crimea, before Trump is even inaugurated? (not to mention business dealings in Russia)

Or a woman eking out a living in Phoenix?

Peg, Ciccio and Matt keeping the faith at el comedor

Why is it so difficult to carve out an immigration policy that treats people with dignity and respect?

And to be honest, I cannot blame Trump totally for the sweeps of the past 3 weeks. Obama’s immigration policies resulted in 2.4 million deportations of undocumented immigrants during his eight year tenure. Most were “non-criminal.” Just like Guadalupe Garcia de Rayos.

Packaging the tortillas Looking over the comedor at the room full of young men, I talk with a migrant and his small son from Honduras. He takes out his cell phone and shows several Samaritans a photo of his slain brother lying on a street in a pool of blood. With a dispassionate face he clicks through the photos on his cell phone. He is fleeing his homeland and faces the same fate as his brother if he returns. His little boy has dark curls and races around the tables chasing after the resident cat. The father is planning to cross into the desert with his young son, seeking safety and work in the USA. The Samaritans are horrified with this plan.

The Honduran is the perfect candidate for political asylum. His brother has been killed in Honduras. This young father cannot return to his home. He has a photo of his murdered brother. He probably knows who killed him. The KBI staff will explain the asylum process to him. Asylum is not without its own perils. Both father and son will most likely spend time in a detention center in the US. Chances are he will be separated from his son. He is a victim without a voice, caught in the crossfire of the politics of 45.

When all else fails, dance

Today is Valentine’s Day, and another Samaritan and myself walk around with a pan of homemade cake with pink frosting dotted with sugar sprinkles, and we serve up this confection on napkins to a waiting group. Samaritan friend, Julie, stayed up half the night baking 4 cakes for the migrant travelers that we serve today. The men are delighted with the gift of sugar and frosting, and wolf down the cake with gusto. A couple of guys try to mooch an extra piece.

It feels good serving these Latino men and women, when so often they are the ones serving me—in restaurants, hospitals, as housekeepers, gardeners, nannies, and farm workers.

Listening to the stories of the travelers’ journey

Later tonight my husband and I will relish strawberries covered with chocolate on this Valentine’s Day. Probably they were picked by a Mexican farmworker bending over in the fields of Minnesota or Oregon. Possibly this farmworker is here today at el comedor after a deportation due to a minor violation—cruising through a stop sign, or driving without a license. I think about his fingers plucking each strawberry in a field a thousand miles away so I can enjoy this chocolate covered Valentine treat.

Sitting down again at the piano, I take some deep breathes and attempt to play some more Bach. The piece demands my full attention. It is a balm for my addled brain.

Holy Angels High School students tour Tumacacori Mission, home of an early traveler, Padre Kino

Peg Bowden has written a book, A Land of Hard Edges, available in most bookstores in southern Arizona, your local library, or Amazon.com.

Please direct comments and thoughts to the “Comments” section of this blog. Peg Bowden can be reached at: [email protected]

If you wish to receive regular postings to this blog, register in the Announcement List space in the right-hand column, and you are automatically on the email blog list.

The Green Valley/Sahuarita Samaritans is a non-profit organization; the mission is to prevent deaths in the desert. Information and contributions can be directed to:

www.gvs-samaritans.org

Kino Border Initiative directs the activities of the comedor in Nogales, Mexico. The mission is to help create a just, humane immigration policy between the United States and Mexico. The website is: www.kinoborderinitiative.org

The Border Community Alliance is an exciting new organization in southern Arizona focusing on the economic, cultural and humanitarian needs of the Arizona borderlands. BCA is now a 501 3(c) nonprofit entity. The website is: www.bordercommunityalliance.org

Posted in Uncategorized THE WOMAN OF WHETSTONE •March 6, 2016 • 22 Comments We are a motley crew of ten as we set out on a sunny February morning, walking north toward the Whetstone Mountains of Arizona. Our leader, Sister Judy, carries her cell phone and her eyes are glued to the GPS, keeping us on track. She is our tracking bloodhound, nose to the ground, and we are the trusting sheep, silently hoping she knows what she is doing. The sun and temperature are rising, and we don’t want to get lost.

We are searching for the exact spot where a young woman’s remains were found in 2012, a woman who has never been identified by the Medical Examiner’s office. She is “no identificada.”

Walking along a migrant trail Walking in the steps of a Latina woman More than 2,000 human remains have been found in the Sonoran desert over the past 15 years. The actual number of bodies is much higher, as many of the lost will never be found.

I think about the official policy of the US Armed Forces, and their “no soldier left behind” code of conduct. This action by our military always seems heroic and somehow holy to me. No soldier’s body will be left on a battlefield. We will find them and bring them home. It is a sacred rule.

The cross with the tuna can sunflower Tom Flemming creates a cross with a tuna can sunflower And yet here we are on this starkly beautiful desert landscape, where thousands of bodies have been left to rot, their bones torn asunder by the wild creatures of this land. Because they didn’t have the correct papers. It is a killing field.

On this journey we are a group of many faiths, many beliefs: an Episcopal priest, a Yaqui holy man, two nuns, a few lapsed Catholics, a non-believer or two, and some social activists. One man carries a cross he has created with the words, “No Identificada” carefully painted on the cross bar. A rusted tuna can painted a colorful yellow looks like a sunflower. The can was most likely dropped by a migrant. It is nailed to the pristine white cross. The tuna can is a talisman of spring.

The mood is upbeat. We are on a mission. We are going to plant this beautiful cross in the desert and acknowledge that this unidentified woman had a life full of meaning, and it tragically ended here on this sacred spot.

Digging into the earth Digging into the earth The conversation bounces from topic to topic. Gabriel, our Yaqui friend, carries a backpack with items to use in the desert ceremony. He asks no one in particular, “I wonder where she came from? I wonder where she was heading?”

We trudge along through the dry grasses dodging cholla and prickly pear cactus. The day is warming up, and I keep my eyes and ears attuned to rattlesnakes coming out of hibernation.

My friend, Trudy, from Buffalo, New York, is slowing down in the desert heat. We stop for a drink of water. She asks, “I wonder how she kept going?”

A prickly pear cactus in bloom A prickly pear cactus in bloom In my conversations with migrants at el comedor in Nogales, they have shared with me how they kept going. This is what they tell me:

“I was lying on the ground and couldn’t go one more step. My water was gone, and so was my last chocolate bar. I looked up and saw a woman beckoning me to get up and keep walking. I think it was the Virgen de Guadalupe. Or maybe an angel.”

Some have said, “I heard my young daughter’s voice. She shouted at me to get up and come home.”

One man told me that when he rose from the desert floor, he saw the Border Patrol in the distance. The vision or angel or whomever it was by his side told him not to worry.

The angel said, “You are invisible to the Border Patrol. You can see them; they cannot see you.”

A desert monument A desert monument Gabriel listens with interest. He said that when he was a child, his mother taught him to “disappear.”

“This is called shifting,” he said, “and it is something that parents teach their children in my culture.” He chuckled, and told me, “When my mother would call us kids in for supper, we would become stones and rocks. She couldn’t find us. We would disappear. We would shift to a different level of reality. We became invisible.”

“Well, maybe you just remained very still, and your mother couldn’t see you.”

“No,” my Yaqui friend responded. “It was more than that.”

Hiking to a sacred place Hiking to a sacred place When we reach the spot where the unknown woman died, we drop our backpacks and set to work. First digging a hole with a post-hole digger, we then collect small rocks and drop them into the cavity along with some cement and water. We carefully place the cross in the shallow pit of cement facing east toward the rising sun.

Standing in a circle around this spot, Gabriel leads us in a simple, profound ceremony of remembrance and hope. He smudges each of us with the smoke of the sweet-smelling sage. We try to focus our thoughts on this moment, and as the blue smoke rises upward enveloping our bodies, we send our prayers to this woman. I have already silently named her the Woman of Whetstone.

Smudging for purification, the Yaqui way Smudging for purification, the Yaqui way I try to imagine what she looked like. She was probably wearing jeans and ill-fitting shoes, and perhaps a jacket from one of the aid stations in Naco or Agua Prieta. Maybe I had handed this woman some shampoo and soap at el comedor in Nogales. We are less than a mile from Kartchner Caverns, and I wonder if this woman was trying to make it to the parking lot where there were people. You can see the trucks and cars moving along a highway from where we stand. There is civilization nearby. What was going on in her mind?

The Woman of Whetstone was probably a mother trying to earn enough money for her family. She risked her life to come to this country so she could feed her kids. Dreaming of a steady salary from Burger King or a housekeeping job, she wanted a warm safe bed for her children and food on the table. I would bet my life on it.

Gabriel leads us in a beautiful meditation to focus our intentions. First we face east; this is where the sun rises along with the birth of a new day and new life. Then we face south; this is where the sun warms the earth and seeds grow. This is where life unfolds and emerges. Next we turn to the west; here the sun sets and old age creeps upon us. Lastly we face the north, where our bodies become cold and life ceases. Here we move on to the next dimension. We raise our faces to the sky and gaze at the heavens; we kneel on the earth and hold the red desert dust.

Setting the cross near the Whetstone mountains Setting the cross near the Whetstone mountains The moment was emotional and transcendent. I think we all felt the presence of the Woman of Whetstone beside us. She was our desert vision, and in a strange way, I felt invisible. No one intruded on our pilgrimage. There were no Border Patrol agents checking us out, no helicopters, no one. We had all entered a different reality out here. The desert will do that.

Just when I felt a bit dizzy from the heat, a small breeze stirred and brought me back to this sacred place. It was the Woman of Whetstone.

Hiking back to our cars, we were all silent.

Our government has failed us; immigration reform has been a dream just beyond our grasp. But this unknown migrant woman taught us humanitarian compassion. She brought a group of ten strangers together in fellowship and mystery.

She was not left behind.

Woman of Whetstone. Presente!

The Whetstone group The Whetstone group

Alvaro Enciso is an artist in Tucson who has made it his mission to construct a cross for every body found in the Sonoran desert. That means he is creating over 2000 crosses. Thank you Alvaro for your dedication and for your beautiful crosses. Tom Smelling lives near Douglas, Arizona, and is also constructing crosses for those bodies found in Cochise County. http://www.gvnews.com/news/at-the-cross-fallen-migrants-remembered-in-the-desert/article_5c930818-db15-11e4-9c42-fb923c8c0ca0.html

Peg Bowden has written a book, A Land of Hard Edges, available in most bookstores in southern Arizona, your local library, or Amazon.com.

Please direct comments and thoughts to the “Comments” section of this blog. Peg Bowden can be reached at: [email protected]

If you wish to receive regular postings to this blog, register in the Announcement List space in the right-hand column, and you are automatically on the email blog list.

The Green Valley/Sahuarita Samaritans is a non-profit organization; the mission is to prevent deaths in the desert. Information and contributions can be directed to: www.gvsamaritans.org

#Arizona-Mexican border #Arroya.org #border report #Everybody Eats News #Peg Bowden

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