• Escape-BoundJuana Luz Tobar Ortega's Fugitive Poetics
• Barbara Sostaita (bio)

photographs by Alex Morelli

juana luz tobar ortega's garden lies just beyond St. Barnabas Episcopal Church's tree-lined gravel driveway, past a weather-worn statue of Jesus and a vacant parking lot where birds rest in large flocks. You have to look to find it. But here, sun-warmed tomatoes twine around a trellis. A wheelbarrow rests next to a raised garden bed, where fuchsia zinnias and rosemary bushes bloom without restraint. This plot of land offers my friend respite from the confines of sanctuary, where she has lived in exile and away from her family since 2017. Patiently, she tends the soil—uprooting and unearthing alternatives to incarcerated life. Juana's fragrant herbs and lush shrubs offer her a sanctuary away from sanctuary, a haven where she can momentarily escape the psychological and emotional violence of the present.

For years, Juana was protected by the Obama administration's "felons, not families" policy, which empowered immigration agents to use discretion when processing long-term residents without criminal records. Yet, during an annual check-in with US Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ice) in April 2017, the Guatemalteca received a deportation order along with instructions to evacuate her home in thirty days, a practice that activists refer to as "silent raids." Instead of obeying the government's directive, Juana fled to St. Barnabas Episcopal Church in Greensboro, North Carolina—participating in a long-standing tradition of seeking refuge in houses of worship.

In anticipation of her arrival, family members and parishioners repurposed a cinder block nursery into a bedroom and installed a shower in one of the church bathrooms, fashioning a home out of wooden pews and stained glass. Juana's granddaughters decorated the concrete walls of her cramped space with posters and drawings that profess their love. One stands out: [End Page 42]

Juana tends her garden. All photographs at St. Barnabas Episcopal Church, Greensboro, North Carolina, August 2020.

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View from the road.

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a winking watermelon on a square of blue construction paper with the message "usa is a free country." Juana spends her days within sight of her makeshift bedroom accompanied by volunteers who come in six-hour shifts, though the covid-19 pandemic has limited visits to family members. She has trained her body to wake up at 6:00 a.m. because idling in bed often leads to depressive thoughts. Restricted to the grounds of the church, her absence has been felt at graduations, holidays, and even the birth of a grandchild. She has gained weight as a result of her confined lifestyle. The bulky ankle bracelet gripping her right foot is a visceral reminder that sanctuary is not synonymous with safety. Juana is surveilled at all times. Though she is protected from deportation, the state quite literally still has a hold over her.

I befriended Juana in 2019, months before travelling to the Sonora-Arizona borderlands to complete dissertation fieldwork. Interested in the Sanctuary movement that emerged in Tucson in the 1980s, I wondered about the woman living on sacred grounds in my own backyard. I sought out sanctuary because I idealized this tradition as one of resistance and refusal, a practice that could defy the violence of the state. I went searching for a garden that grows despite the Trump administration's strategies to destroy and disappear migrant bodies. I found a church repurposed into a home. I encountered a congregation-turned-conspiracy against a deportation machine. And yet, I also found a woman who is restless and eager to escape. Juana experiences sanctuary as both safety and captivity, both refuge and confinement.

Juana was the first undocumented migrant in North Carolina to enter sanctuary following the election of President Trump. Since then, she has been followed by Minerva Cisneros Garcia, Samuel Oliver Bruno, Jose Chicas, Eliseo Jimenez, Oscar Canales, and Rosa Ortez-Cruz. The latter, who lived at the Church of Reconciliation in Chapel Hill for two years before a court of appeals withdrew her deportation order, revealed the quotidian violence...

• 逃生胡安娜·鲁兹·托巴尔·奥尔特加的逃亡诗学
• 芭芭拉·索斯塔塔（生物）

亚历克斯·莫雷利的照片

juana luz tobar ortega的花园就位于圣巴纳巴​​斯主教教堂绿树成荫的碎石车道旁，经过一座破旧的耶稣雕像和一个空旷的停车场，鸟儿成群结队地休息。您必须寻找找到它。但是在这里，被太阳加热的西红柿缠绕在一个格子上。独轮车停在高架的花园床旁，紫红色的百日草和迷迭香灌木丛无拘无束地盛开。自从2017年以来，她的土地一直流放并远离家人，这片土地为我的朋友提供了庇护之所。在庇护所中，她耐心地耕种土壤，将被囚禁的生活连根拔起和发掘。胡安娜（Juana）芬芳的香草和茂盛的灌木丛为她提供了一个避难所，远离避难所，避难所可以让她暂时摆脱当下的心理和情感暴力。

多年来，胡安娜一直受到奥巴马政府“重罪而不是家庭”政策的保护，该政策授权移民代理人在处理没有犯罪记录的长期居民时使用酌处权。然而，在2017年4月美国移民与海关执法局（ICE）的年度检查中，危地马拉收到驱逐令，并要求在30天内撤离她的家，这种做法被激进分子称为“无声袭击”。胡安娜没有遵守政府的指示，而是逃往了北卡罗来纳州格林斯伯勒的圣巴纳巴斯主教教堂，这是一种长期以来在朝拜教堂避难的传统。

为了预见她的到来，家庭成员和教区居民将煤渣砌成的苗圃改用于一间卧室，并在教堂的一间浴室里安装了淋浴，用木皮凳子和彩色玻璃建造了一个房屋。胡安娜（Juana）的孙女用表示自己爱意的海报和素描装饰了她狭窄的空间的混凝土墙。一个脱颖而出：[结束第42页]

胡安娜照顾她的花园。2020年8月在北卡罗来纳州格林斯伯勒的圣巴拿巴主教教堂拍摄的所有照片。

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从这条路的视图。

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一个蓝色的建筑用纸上闪烁的西瓜，上面写着“美国是一个自由的国家”。胡安娜（Juana）在自己的临时卧室里度过了自己的日子，他们的志愿者陪同他们轮班工作六小时，尽管covid-19大流行对家庭成员的访问有限。她已训练自己的身体在早上6:00醒来，这是因为躺在床上空转通常会导致沮丧的想法。由于受到教会的限制，在毕业，假期甚至孙子出生时都感到她的缺席。由于她的局限性生活方式，她的体重增加了。笨重的脚踝手镯紧紧抓住了她的右脚，这在内心地提醒我们，庇护所并不是安全的代名词。Juana随时受到监视。尽管她受到驱逐出境的保护，但国家实际上仍然控制着她。

我在2019年成为了Juana的朋友，这是在前往索诺拉-亚利桑那州边疆地区完成论文实地考察之前的几个月。我对1980年代在图森（Tucson）出现的圣所运动感兴趣，我想知道这位妇女住在我自己后院的神圣土地上。我之所以寻求庇护，是因为我将这一传统理想化为抵抗和拒绝的一种，这种做法可以抵制国家的暴力行为。尽管特朗普政府采取了摧毁和消失移民尸体的战略，但我仍在寻找一个可以生长的花园。我发现一座教堂改建为房屋。我遇到了一群被驱逐出境的密谋。然而，我还发现了一个躁动不安，渴望逃脱的女人。胡安娜既安全又被囚禁，避难和禁闭都经历了庇护。

胡安娜是在北卡罗莱纳州的第一无证移民特朗普总统选举后进入避难所。从那时起，她一直紧随其后的是密涅瓦·西斯内罗斯·加西亚（Minerva Cisneros Garcia），塞缪尔·奥利弗·布鲁诺（Samuel Oliver Bruno），何塞·奇卡斯（Jose Chicas），Eliseo Jimenez，奥斯卡·卡纳莱斯（Oscar Canales）和罗莎·奥尔特斯·克鲁兹（Rosa Ortez-Cruz）。后者曾在教堂山和解教堂生活了两年，然后上诉法院撤回了她的驱逐令，但后者透露了quotidian暴力。