Beyond the Border 鈥� A Diary of Photos
On Aug. 13, 人兽性交 staff writer Liz Vinson visited the U.S.-Mexico border with Deputy Legal Director Mary Bauer to speak with migrants affected by the Trump administration鈥檚 asylum policies. She saw firsthand the human toll of Trump鈥檚 鈥淭urnback Policy,鈥� under which immigration authorities are illegally restricting the number of asylum seekers who are inspected and processed at official ports of entry. The 人兽性交 and its allies are currently challenging this policy in a federal lawsuit.
Liz also visited a shelter for migrants who have been sent back to Mexico following inspection and processing to await their asylum hearings under the 鈥淩emain in Mexico鈥� policy. In addition, the 人兽性交 and its partners are suing the administration to stop this practice of forcing migrants to return to dangerous conditions in Mexican border towns as they wait for their cases to be heard. Since Liz returned, the Trump administration has implemented a rule that renders non-Mexicans who enter the United States through the southern border (including many of the people featured in this photo essay) ineligible for asylum unless they applied for and were denied asylum in at least one transit country. The 人兽性交 and its partners have also sued the administration in an effort to halt the implementation of that rule.
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The migrant center, Day 1
Just outside the migrant center in Ju谩rez, a white board marked with dry erase pen hangs on the wall of an abandoned shack. Cigarettes litter the ground below, and traffic from the city roars by. The message means that August 12, three days before I arrived, was the last day that a number was called for someone to present themselves at a port of entry to seek asylum. Migrants who place their names on the waitlist in Ju谩rez must look to this board to see if their number has been called.听
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A mother and daughter wait on a concrete railing at the migrant center, hoping against hope that their number will be called. The red polish on the little girl鈥檚 tiny toenails has cracked from walking through Ju谩rez鈥檚 dusty streets. The mother鈥檚 ripped jeans hide the scars she suffered at the hands of her abusers in Honduras. 鈥淭engo hambre,鈥� she says. She鈥檚 hungry and hasn鈥檛 eaten in days. All the food she鈥檚 been able to secure, she鈥檚 given to her daughter. Not pictured is the baby bottle the little girl holds in her hands, which are stained brown from dirt.
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As people line up to add their names to the waitlist, a little girl sleeps on the hard, dingy floor of the migrant center, covered only with her mother鈥檚 jacket. As she naps, her mother desperately pleads for help from a pro bono attorney. The night before, the mother says her daughter was viciously kicked by peddlers on the streets of Ju谩rez. The little girl is exhausted, sad and hungry. Besides the formula, she has eaten only a single piece of bread in the last few days. After the 38-hour ride to Ju谩rez, the once-crowded bus arrived in the city with only three other remaining passengers. Most deemed the ride too perilous and got off early. Now that the family is in Ju谩rez, the mother says she doesn鈥檛 know what to do. 鈥淣o puedo estar aqu铆 y no puedo regresar a mi pa铆s.鈥� I can鈥檛 be here, and I can鈥檛 return to my country.听 听 听 听听
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Yet another little girl patiently waits alone while eating a small ham and cheese sandwich. When I ask where her mother is, she tells me that she鈥檚 inside the migrant center. When I ask why, she says, 鈥淧orque mi m谩ma tiene miedo.鈥� Because my mom is scared. Meanwhile, the outside world of Ju谩rez buzzes by, oblivious to those waiting. Just blocks away, restaurants welcome patrons, music filters through the streets, and the smell of tacos from street vendors wafts through the air. But the migrants can鈥檛 afford to eat at a restaurant. They can鈥檛 afford street food.
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When placed on the waitlist, migrants鈥� names are scribbled on paper as small as a Chinese fortune and handed to them by Mexican officials. Migrants must hold onto these little scraps of paper like a lifeline. They鈥檙e the proof they carry that will 鈥� they hope 鈥� get them to a port of entry. Once their number matches that of the number listed on the dry erase board, they can present themselves. Many migrants wait weeks or even months for their number to be called. Today, this family鈥檚 time has come. 听
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More migrants wait on the bridge due to CBP鈥檚 false claim that El Paso no longer has room to accommodate them. Wearing backpacks, they carry what few possessions they have. If CBP relents, many will head straight to a hielera 鈥� an icy waiting room where they will wait for an interview to determine whether their fear of persecution in their home country is sufficient to seek protection in the United States. Most will suffer through the night in frigid temperatures before being sent to an immigrant prison or deported. Some could be sent back to Ju谩rez to await a hearing in immigration court. Not pictured is a little girl who has been told to eat whatever they feed her at the hielera. 鈥淵ou鈥檒l need your strength,鈥� an attorney warns her in Spanish.
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The migrant center, Day 2
Two young girls play on a discarded razor scooter left on the enclosed patio of the migrant shelter. It鈥檚 virtually the only toy they have. Along with their friend, a young boy, they take turns racing down the patio, where they ride past dead cockroaches and dirty laundry scattered on the pavement. The children laugh and smile. They joke with one another. It鈥檚 a tiny patio, but they peddle around in circles, squealing. They may have precious few belongings and little clothing, but it doesn鈥檛 matter. Surrounded by friends they鈥檝e only just met, for the moment, they鈥檙e happy, unaware of why they鈥檙e in Ju谩rez and what that means for them.
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As mothers gather at the kitchen table to share their stories of what led them to Ju谩rez, their children squeeze together on the sofa to watch a cartoon. The sofa doesn鈥檛 fit all the children, so some must sit on the floor. Some appear bored, their faces blank, as if they鈥檝e already watched the cartoon hundreds of times. Others are captivated by its plot, which tells the story of a superhero. The cartoon reminds me of their mothers, whose journeys to escape the violence of their home countries have most certainly been heroic. 听听听
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The older children line up on the metal steps of the shelter, barefoot. They鈥檙e not interested in the cartoon, because they鈥檝e got chores to do. They are to clean the shelter. Their day is structured, which is good. It distracts them from the harsh realities of why they鈥檙e here. 鈥溌onr铆en, por favor!鈥� I ask them to smile, even though I can鈥檛 show their faces. When they do smile, it鈥檚 beautiful.
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The teddy bear rarely leaves the boy鈥檚 arms. Aside from the scooter, this is the only toy I see at the migrant shelter. When I ask him if the stuffed animal is his, he tells me it belongs to everybody. The children take turns sharing it, he says. The boy is all by himself, standing next to a bare table. I remind him that we brought snacks and ask if he鈥檚 hungry. He says he鈥檚 not. When I ask for a picture, he holds the teddy bear close to his chest, as if he doesn鈥檛 want to risk losing it. His words, posture and demeanor give off a sense of vulnerability. He seems scared, worried. I ask him how he is. 鈥淭riste,鈥� he says. Sad.
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A little boy and his older sister hold hands as they roam the patio, never letting go. 鈥淢am谩 dice que vamos a salir de aqu铆,鈥� the girl tells me. Mom says we鈥檙e going to get out of here. The girl doesn鈥檛 know when they鈥檒l leave, or where they鈥檒l go. 鈥溌緾贸mo son los Estados Unidos?鈥� she asks me. She鈥檚 wants to know what the U.S. is like. 鈥淚t鈥檚 nice,鈥� I reply in Spanish, even though I鈥檓 more upset with our government than ever. 鈥溌縈e gustar谩 vivir all谩?鈥� she asks. She wonders if she鈥檒l like living in the U.S. I don鈥檛 have the heart to tell her that I don鈥檛 know. I also don鈥檛 know if that day will ever come. So I tilt my head and shrug with a smile. She holds the hand of her brother and pulls him into the kitchen, where their mother wraps them in a bear hug.
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Before we leave, a few children line up on the patio holding hands. Together, they鈥檙e united. They鈥檙e each other鈥檚 refuge. 鈥溌縏e vas?鈥� a little girl asks me, confused. She wants to know if I鈥檓 leaving. 鈥淪铆,鈥� I respond. 鈥淓spero verte pronto.鈥� I tell her that I hope to see her soon, and then I pat each child鈥檚 head, ruffling their hair. I know the odds are stacked against them 鈥� that they might never set foot on American soil. I know I鈥檒l likely never see them again. But I won鈥檛 forget this moment. A moment caught in time, where it seems as if it鈥檚 them 鈥� the children 鈥� against the world.
