Some 80 migrants are anxiously following Donald Trump’s policy of closing and militarizing the border from their nylon homes, increasingly seeing a future that has been denied them with the cancellation of the One Appointment System for obtaining the humanitarian visa that will allow them to cross into the United States
~ Patricia Labrador Gracia, El Salto ~
It’s hard to sleep in a tent, in a shelter. They’re lucky to have a roof, even if it’s a partial shed that doesn’t protect them from the cold. It’s nighttime, and the incessant crying of a baby defies the silence.
Her name is Sofía, and she’s the youngest migrant at the Movimiento Juventud 2000 shelter. She was born 40 days ago in Tijuana. Her mother, María Orellana, is 28 years old and originally from Honduras. She walks with Sofía at night, rocking her with brief taps on her back to check for colic. When dawn breaks, the two of them are in the chairs set up for breakfast, and Sofía is finally asleep.
María Orellana, 28 years old, Honduras
María left in October, fleeing organized crime after receiving death threats. She was six months pregnant. “It was very difficult. Imagine crossing so many countries practically on foot. I was robbed twice,” she recounts through tears. “The first time, they pulled me off the bus and took my money, it was near Tuxtla Gutiérrez. They looked like police. I had to cross Mexico very pregnant and without money.” Sofía cries again, as if she understood her mother’s pain.
“The worst thing was that when I arrived here at the border, they assaulted me again and took the little I had left. They left me alone and lying in the street, eight months pregnant,” she continues, merging with the baby between cries that are in sync. “The reason I’m here is because of her. I wanted to give her a future in the United States. I think she’s going to be a very strong woman. Look at her, she’s had a tough time since she was born”. The two waited at the shelter for an appointment that never came to request humanitarian asylum. “Now I have no hope. Trump canceled CBP One. What are we going to do”?
It’s the question that hangs in the air. It’s the conversation at breakfast. After a brief prayer, Margarita (this is the name she has chosen to preserve her anonymity) exclaims, “God, help us, please”.
Margarita and Madeleine, 31 and 33 years old, Venezuela
Her visa appointment was due just 24 hours after Trump took office. She’s Venezuelan and remembers that returning isn’t an option: “They’d accuse us of treason and put us in jail”. She asked to turn off the television after they reported live how Trump deactivated the app that had dynamited her future plans. “We’ve been visualizing that moment since January 2nd, watching us cross. I pray to God to help us, to reschedule our appointment, and to not forget about us, please. We’re still waiting here”, she pleaded with a worried expression.
Sitting next to her is Madeleine (her chosen name), also Venezuelan. She helps clear away the remaining coffee and the plates of quickbread. “I asked to help out in the kitchen to keep my mind occupied”, she admits. “It’s terrible that they did this to us. After everything we’ve been through, we wanted to do it right, cross legally. We already had our appointment. They’ve robbed us of our future”, she says.
As the tables are cleared, she explains what she’s been through. “I remember crossing the Darién jungle as particularly hard; it’s a steep hill. We saw bodies on the ground, skulls… That could have been the end of us,” she exclaims. They are a group of ten people. They are located in the first two tents in the corridor. “There are five of us in each tent; sometimes we can’t stretch our legs. Our children were very brave on the journey”, she says proudly. They are between six and thirteen years old. They go out to play with the other children in the shelter, oblivious to the drama unfolding there.
Alex Láinez, 20 years old, Nicaragua
At the back of the shelter, after wandering through about five rows of tents, there’s a group of people, one of them holding a notebook. His name is Álex Láinez, and he’s in charge of assigning the day’s showers. He’s 20 years old and from Nicaragua. He’s been at the shelter for only 24 hours and says it’s been like joining a big family. He only has his aunt there. After organizing shower shifts and informing Marisela, who’s in charge of cleaning them today, he puts down his notebook and calls Selena. He sits her in a chair and begins to comb her hair. A makeshift beauty salon where two boxer braids might be the best treatment.
His story is woven into her friend’s hair. “I left Nicaragua in May 2024; I’ll never forget that date. It took us a month to walk to Mexico, and this is where everything started to get complicated. Seven months to cross this country with all kinds of dangers”, he says. “My appointment to apply for a humanitarian visa came on January 3, with all the uncertainty because the Trump era was approaching. My appointment was January 23, and I was never able to process it. For me, it was something of a big bang . I have aunts in Los Angeles, and my wish was to live there with them, in freedom,” he says with a look of despair.
“Now I look back, and if I could go back in time, maybe I wouldn’t have come out. That’s what I was telling my grandmother the other day. But my life was in danger. I suffered constant bullying starting in school because I started transitioning too early. I let my hair grow and started wearing makeup,” she confesses, her voice breaking as she stops her hairstyling. “I couldn’t even go out; they beat me up. Nicaragua is not a safe country for transgender people. They shouted in front of me, ‘There goes the freak, stay away.’ And the worst part is, they almost raped me.” The two remain silent and hug. “I visualized my future in the United States, where I could live without threats or attacks, and now it’s been stolen from me.”
Rosaura, Venezuela, 28 years old
Behind the hair salon, there’s a small laundromat with a washer and dryer. Rosaura is coordinating the laundry—that’s not her real name either. She chats with other migrant women, and they congratulate each other on the blankets they’ve used to brave the cold at night. They’re from Venezuela. They left in March of last year and arrived in Mexico on April 19. Their long-awaited visa appointment was the day after Trump’s inauguration. “We were staring at this border blockade in the face, and it hurts, it hurts a lot, feeling so close yet so far away. Think that in this city we can see San Diego on the horizon, which now, suddenly, and without any information, they’re denying us access to,” she protests. “We were already on the cusp of it; it’s tremendous, very painful.”
Tijuana has become an eternal waiting room, accumulating many more Venezuelans who, like her, are hoping for a miracle. “The worst thing is looking back. You can’t even imagine what we’ve been through, especially in Mexico. The cartels wanted to extort us, they wouldn’t let us get on the buses, and many people we met in Tapachula were kidnapped. We never heard from them again,” she says. “We were so scared. My sister-in-law and I were traveling alone, with our children, ages 6, 12, and 16. How do we explain to them all this they’ve had to live through? It’s something I don’t recommend to anyone. I wish Trump could see what I saw, to see if that gives him the desire to continue calling us criminals.”
Feeding hopelessness
The sound of the metal door at the entrance announces the arrival of the food. Several trays arrive from the NGO Tijuana Sin Hambre (Tijuana Without Hunger). Verónica is their cook and helps place the food on the tables, which are already being prepared for lunch. “You can see they have no spirit, no energy. Many arrive here malnourished, and the worst are the children. We can’t solve their paperwork problem, but at least they should have a full stomach,” she says excitedly.
Today they brought several trays of chicken in sauce, beans, and rice. They also went to points like the El Chaparral customs office to deliver breakfast and lunch to the migrants who remain there, waiting for an explanation.
At the door, also, a group of four men are smoking, and one is talking on his cell phone. After hanging up, he shares his concern: “There’s no work this week.” They chat among themselves; all four are Mexican, and José explains that they’re trying to work while they wait for that visa that never comes. “Right here, two blocks from the first block, they’re building a large bridge to cross from one side of the city to the other. They usually count on us for these jobs, but right now there are a lot of people looking. We won’t be able to go this week,” he says. “Work is also a good way to keep your mind occupied,” Mario adds. “The good thing about this city is the maquiladoras. I spent several months working for a television factory and it went very well, but they didn’t call me back,” he notes.
When they enter, the tables are already set, and a small group forms in the middle of the dining room around Chema García Lara, the shelter director. He coordinates all the tasks with a responsible person. He has been in Tijuana since 1985 and has seen how the migrant population has tried to make a living. He began advising them and soon after bought the land that now houses the shelter, which can house about 120 people.
In 2016, when they suffered the massive influx of people from Haiti, they had to refurbish and expand it, adding a roof and walls. “When I arrived here from Puebla, I also felt like a stranger in my own land. That’s why I try to help and raise awareness among the population that we have to be inclusive. They come here to generate income and work,” he proclaims. “Migrants here are abused and mistreated. I’ve seen many of them robbed of the little they bring; it’s unfair.”
The seeds of the future
He’s about to open the door. They’re the volunteers from ‘Creative Seedbeds,’ who organize workshops for the children who live there. It’s not a herbalist’s workshop; “We love the name; these children are the seeds of the future; we have to work hard with them. We encourage them to open up and verbalize how they feel. We also do crafts; it’s the closest thing they’ll have to a school here, but with a more playful feel; for them, it’s a game,” says the social worker. He organizes the cutouts, which are joined by around a dozen children. They were eagerly awaiting his arrival.
Half an hour later, they receive a visit from Diana Arenas, from the NGO Alliance for the Health of Migrants. She joins the group of children who are doing their best to keep their crayons within the limits of their drawings. She comes to participate in a health brigade and takes the opportunity to chat with the children and their mothers. “We are very concerned about the children’s situation. They are very sensitive to their mothers’ suffering; they have had to leave their homes, and many don’t understand what is happening. Christmas was especially dramatic. They asked us why they weren’t having dinner at home with their grandmothers,” she says. “And many mothers and fathers are undergoing treatment, especially in recent weeks with the uncertainty surrounding Trump’s threats. We have seen everything from panic attacks to eating disorders, and we are having to prescribe more and more people medication for anxiety and sleep.”
Francisco Bobadilla, the drama of coming and going
As his workshops come to a close, Chema helps gather the materials and gives some instructions to a man who has spent most of the afternoon under his visor, which reads “security,” on the small table by the door. His name is Francisco Bobadilla, and what he has experienced in his 68 years of life allows him to empathize with most of the stories encountered at the shelter.
He also lives there, in one of the first tents at the entrance. Francisco crossed that now impassable fence in 1986. He crossed along the sea. He didn’t know how to swim. “It was a horrible situation; one false step and I would have fallen. It was January 6th. It was very cold, and it was early in the morning. I remember taking off my clothes and when the water started to reach my chest, I was very scared. My brother was waiting for me on the other side,” he says.
Thus began his journey as an irregular migrant in the United States. He settled in neighboring San Diego with his brother. “I quickly obtained tacky, fake documentation. With that, I was able to get odd jobs. I started with plumbing, gardening, and after a few months, I managed to get hired at a restaurant. The English issue was very tough. I also had to be careful with payments; my rent was in checks, and they charged me commission at the small store where I would collect. They paid me much less than the minimum wage at the time; many employers took advantage because they realized we needed to work like this, however we could,” he says.
“I think this is still happening. They take advantage of you whenever they can, pay you less, ask for more hours. It’s something we had to put up with. You didn’t have enough to save, but at least for the 31 years I was there, I could live from day to day,” he says. “I eventually found a partner there, and my brother’s circle welcomed me right away. I had a life there, and one day, out of the blue, the police came into my house and arrested me. I guess someone ratted me out. At that moment, you feel like you’ve been ripped away from the life you know for the second time,” he notes emotionally behind his mask. “Of course, I never saw my partner again.”
He was detained for nearly two months and deported to Tijuana in 2017. It’s back to square one. He emphasizes that he entered the US at 30 and was sent back to the United States at 61, having spent more than half his life there and at a difficult age to find work. “I remember when I crossed the fence back in, I can’t explain it. You feel like a total failure, like going back to square one. I met a homeless man who realized when he saw me that I was one of the deportees. We went to some tacos, the ones on the corner. He told me that this shelter offered accommodation and help. And I’ve been here ever since. I help out where I can; right now I’m in charge of security. And since I’m Mexican, these past few years I’ve been able to work here in construction and in an appliance factory. The maquila industry has saved us,” he explains.
Asked if he hasn’t thought about applying for some kind of regularization process, he’s crystal clear. “I don’t want to know anything. I think about going back, and it hurts when they kicked me out. I don’t trust anymore. I don’t aspire to anything other than living my last few years as peacefully as possible. I haven’t even gotten a passport with permission to visit my brother. I don’t feel capable of setting foot there,” he says, overcome with the pain he describes as having been evicted from that American dream.
María Elena, 26 years old, El Salvador
Those listening can’t believe it. María Elena (not her real name) is there, wondering if the same thing could happen to her and her son. She preferred to be there listening to Francisco’s story rather than sitting down to eat the soup they’d use to warm themselves up before bed. She left El Salvador in April with her 14-year-old son and her barely two-year-old baby. Her appointment was also scheduled for January 23rd. “We’re confused; no one’s telling us anything. We’ve even asked the journalists who come. A friend of a friend who’s already in California told her they were rescheduling, but it’s all rumors, you know? We’re without information, in this place that’s like no man’s land,” she criticizes.
María Elena fled organized crime in her country, which wanted to recruit her son into one of the gangs. She feared for her life and fled with nothing. She crossed into Guatemala with a warrant because her ex-partner—from whom she was separating due to domestic violence—reported her. “My son’s father is involved with gangs; it’s a very dangerous world. They want to get the children into the gang, and my little one’s life was in danger. So I ran away with him and my one-and-a-half-year-old baby. I was robbed in Tapachula. Several people in uniforms and with National Migration Institute ID cards came and asked us for two thousand dollars to expedite the visa. That was practically all my mother and aunt could give me to escape. I was left with no money. It was very difficult to cross the country because no truck would pick us up. I remember my daughter arrived here in a state of malnutrition. Thanks to local NGOs, they were able to hospitalize her, and she’s fine now,” she recounts, still reeling from what she experienced. She goes to hug her children. They are clearing away the dominoes and tables to get ready for bed.
Francisco announces that the lights will be out in fifteen minutes, and a pilgrimage to the restroom begins. Many go, toothbrushes in hand. They also go to the door of the tent and spread out the blankets and few coats they’ve been lent once they arrive. At the bathroom door, Álex smiles, holding his cell phone. “Don’t worry, Grandma, I’m fine. They’re taking care of us here.” His grandmother says goodbye with a: “Don’t forget that I love you, Alexandra, with all my heart.” Her expression lights up in front of that screen, now dark.
The dimmed lights reveal a strange landscape of tents, with cell phone flashes illuminating like fireflies from inside these temporary houses that are now their home, in the uncertain wait for a future. Because it’s difficult to sleep in a tent, in a shelter. They are lucky to have a roof, even if it’s a partial shed that doesn’t protect them from the cold. It’s nighttime, and the incessant crying of a baby defies the silence.
Machine translation. Top image: A street in Tijuana. Photo: Álvaro Minguito
