Walking in the Shoes of A Migrant
I came to El Salvador at the tail end of August 2005 as part of the brand-new Catholic Relief Services Volunteer Program. I had been to El Salvador once before — for a week in the summer of 2001 after the devastating earthquakes that year. But living there for 18 months would be a completely different experience for me.
Central American Resource Center staff, left, distributes human rights pamphlets.
While in El Salvador as a CRS volunteer, I accompanied a CRS partner organization called Central American Resource Center, which helps Salvadorans understand their rights if they decide to migrate to the United States. The Center also works with communities in El Salvador, using some of the remittances (money sent by Salvadorans in the United States to their families in El Salvador) for community projects. With the Central American Resource Center, I aided those Salvadorans who are working hard to educate the public about the human rights of migrants. That way, those who do decide to go to the United States will know the basics and may be better protected. I also accompanied Salvadorans into communities for human rights education workshops and helped people locate family members who had already made the trip to the United States.
I decided to travel by land from El Salvador to Mexico, not as a tourist, but as an engaged person of faith, open to the unknown that I might encounter. As I grew to love El Salvador and her people, their struggles also became a part of my heart. For me, the decision to leave El Salvador by land through Mexico (the way most Salvadorans do), became a spiritual pilgrimage in the making.
The United Nations estimates that 700 Salvadorans leave their homes each day and begin traveling north, mainly to the Unites States, to search for jobs so they can support their families back in El Salvador. While CRS is working to improve economic conditions in El Salvador, poverty remains prevalent and wealth inequality between the richest and poorest is increasing in the country. Many of the poor of this small Central American country struggle to provide for their families and lead their lives with dignity.
For many, migration becomes a necessity, and the phenomenon of increasing migration is a direct result of poverty. Nevertheless, with this mass migration comes serious repercussions for the people left behind. With so many Salvadorans leaving every single day, keeping track of citizens is tough work. Finding those who have died or disappeared in transit is like looking for a needle in a haystack. Meanwhile, there are children who are growing up without one or both of their parents.
With 30 percent of the country's population living abroad, every Salvadoran is touched personally by migration, and one can only imagine how the future will look for this country. Everyone has a story to tell and something to say about this international phenomenon. As the immigration debate has heated up in the United States within the last few years, I realized that my experience in El Salvador was not only very timely but yet another calling in my life: to accompany the people of Latin America in their country, in my country and in the places in between.
My friend Tom, who accompanied me on this journey, works with a program called La Casa de Solidaridad (House of Solidarity). It's a study-abroad program for university students in the United States. They take classes in El Salvador while spending time in an impoverished community. Just to get a clear idea of the popular migrant routes and stops, Tom and I prepared for months, mapping out a route, calling people, sending e-mails, speaking to those who have already made the trip and praying for guidance. The following is a collection of some of my thoughts about the journey and a glimpse into what the life of a migrant is like.
Leaving El Salvador
It was February 3. The New Year had come and gone and I was on a 6 a.m. bus headed for Mexico. I wasn't particularly sure I wanted to leave El Salvador in the first place. As far as I was concerned, my life was in El Salvador. As a volunteer, I built community there, engaged in social issues and wrestled with my faith. El Salvador had become my home and the thought of going back to the United States again was heart-wrenching. I didn't want to leave. There were women crying in the bus terminal and I wondered, were they crying because they were leaving El Salvador for a long time as well? I wonder what people think when they get on that first bus to leave their country not knowng when they will make it back.
One of the disappeared migrants of El Salvador.
By 7:42, the bus had already been stopped by Salvadoran immigration officials, who were checking to make sure everyone had documents and looking for unaccompanied minors, who are usually around age 15, but sometimes as young as 8. They pulled one kid off the bus and talked to him for a bit. There was no way that boy was 18, but they let him back on anyway. I guess they thought he could pass. Typically, these minors are leaving so that they can be reunited with family already in the United States. However, some young people are the most able-bodied individuals in their family, so migrating to the United States is a family decision that rests on the shoulders of these youthful migrants. Many of these undocumented children not only fall through the cracks of border security, but are also virtually unacknowledged in immigration policy and debate.
Later that afternoon, the bus stopped at the border in Tecún Umán, Guatemala. About six people got off the bus, including the boy. Those are the migrants. They are the ones who will be crossing over into Mexico on foot and not on a comfortable bus. They will cross in the places where migration officials don't go. They cross through the rivers and jungles, and over the mountains. They cross in the areas where they can remain unseen.
Central Americans are allowed to travel through countries within this region without a visa. But it is very difficult for low-income Central Americans to obtain the required visas to enter Mexico, so their real journey begins at Mexico's southern border with Guatemala. There, they face a militarized zone of various types of police (federal, state, migration) who will stop every bus and "foreign-looking person."
Our bus continued on to Tapachula, Mexico. The Mexican military went through my bags as we crossed into Mexico, and only 20 minutes down the road, the bus was stopped again by immigration officials. Experiencing the militarization of Mexico's southern border makes me wonder what the United States border will be like.
By day two, Tom and I decided to go to one of the migrant shelters, called Albergue Belén, in Tapachula. It's a place where migrants can go to rest, get a meal, clean up a bit and exchange ideas on how to go further north. I was surprised, but people there opened up and talked to us. We met Nicaraguans, Hondurans, Guatemalans and Salvadorans, including two men who had just arrived at the shelter after a two-day trek from El Salvador to Mexico on their bicycles. I was astonished and sad that they rode a bike while I was on a bus.
Day three started early in the morning as we took a bus northwest to Ixtepec, where we had heard about a priest doing some great work with migrants who travel through there on the cargo trains. We were dropped off right at the train tracks after a long bus ride, and there was Padre Alejandro, surrounded by men and women who wanted to talk to him. He greeted us warmly with hugs and welcomed us into his life as if we belonged there. That night we fed hundreds of migrants at the train tracks. We talked to them about their experiences of riding the train and the dangers they have encountered. We prayed with them, hoping that God would protect them on their journey, and then we waved goodbye as the train took off late in the night. Padre Alejandro estimated that there were 1,500 people from the Ixtepec stop who got on that train. We spoke about the plight of the poor with him, asking why people make the decision to migrate knowing there is such danger. He said, "They really have nothing. They come here completely destitute and desperate. They are the poorest of the poor."
Padre Alejandro calls the migrants his brothers and sisters, and it is with that same love that he continues his ministry day in and day out. As we left Padre Alejandro a day later, I couldn't help wanting to stay longer and keep lending a hand in Ixtepec. Clearly, I had seen the face of Christ there.
Sister Alma, right, takes the names of migrants as they arrive at the shelter in Coatzacoalcos, Mexico.
Another long bus ride brought us to Oaxaca city, where there had been civil unrest for many months before. Now the tourists are coming back slowly, yet the people still struggle for equality and justice. We spent time with some Maryknoll lay missioners there. With genuine hospitality, they shared their lives with us. It was in Oaxaca that we met Maria at the migrant shelter. She told us that she and her family were robbed by Guatemalan police close to the border and, later, stopped and humiliated by federal police in Mexico. Maria said that the men were ordered to strip so that the Mexican officials could find their money. Although Maria was asked to strip as well, she said that she refused, though she knew that was a dangerous move. Maria trembled as she delivered her account, explaining that her mother is taking care of Maria's two children in Guatemala while she and her husband go to the United States to work for a while. I didn't want to ask if it was worth it — clearly, Maria felt that at this point migrating was her only option to help her family.
Unfortunately, Maria's story was not unique. We continued to hear countless stories about the dangers of southern Mexico for migrants. People spoke of the "mafia officials," that is, the network of Mexican authorities that detain migrants, rob them, rape the women and then leave them all on the roadside to either continue north or turn around and go home.
On the morning of February 9, Tom and I arrived in Coatzacoalcos, Mexico, a hot and humid coastal town resting on the Gulf of Mexico. There, migrants can get off the train that passes through and stop at one of the migrant shelters in town. There is a group of women religious in town who manage one of the shelters, where we met Juan.
Juan is a young, joyful man in his 20s. He came to the shelter with nothing, only a few weeks before our arrival. He was running from the gangs in El Salvador. Juan lived in a small town in the department of La Paz. In Juan's town, the gangs have complete control. On one particular day, back in El Salvador, Juan and a friend crossed the invisible line into a neighborhood run by the gangs. Juan's friend was killed for this offense, and now Juan was on the run. The shelter provided rest for Juan just when he needed it most, and because he had nothing, the sisters agreed to let him stay at the shelter if he agreed to watch over the place when they were not around. Today, Juan is the first person that migrants meet when they come to the shelter. He greets them with a smile, helps them find a bed, washes their clothing and prepares their food. Juan knows what it's like to be a migrant, but he also knows that someday he will leave the shelter and continue on in his journey to the United States because returning back to El Salvador could cost him his life.
