I’ve found myself preoccupied lately with the discourse around one issue, among many, in the upcoming election: migration. While I don’t intend this to be a political polemic or recommendation for whom to vote, I want to share a story that may be of interest to all and is, if nothing else, heartrending.
Last year, a young woman from El Salvador, whose name we’ll call Juanita, was traveling with her young 4-year-old daughter on a train — which migrants call “the Beast,” in Spanish “la Bestia” — to, she hoped, the border with the U.S. where she dreamed she could perhaps work and live in peace. Traveling on top of the Beast is common for the migrants, a way to get to the border, they think, in less time than some migrants who walk or hitch rides from willing truckers (too dangerous for women who are often picked up by gangs and trafficked).
To continue with Juanita’s story, she fell from the train as it came through the town of Celaya in Central Mexico. While she clutched her daughter to her chest, her legs slipped under the wheels of the train and in a split second she was an amputee. Just one of the many amputees who end up at Albergue ABBA or what we would call in English “ABBA House,” a shelter for migrants and refugees fleeing gangs, poverty, global climate change and corrupt governments. Fortunately, little Maria survived the fall and when mother and daughter were found in time to get Juanita to the hospital, Maria was taken to the shelter.
After surgery, Juanita finally was reunited with her young daughter and there the two have been receiving care, while Juanita recovers and waits for her prosthesis along with other amputees. There are other migrants there, too, who have been more fortunate and have not lost limbs but are stopping for a few days. Mexican law allows migrants to stay at the shelter for three days, receive meals, warm showers and a bed. The protestant pastor who runs the shelter sees that they get counseling on their rights, by Mexican law, and trauma support as well as new shoes, clothing and backpacks. They often arrive with feet that are aching and covered in sores after walking long distances, choosing not to take the dangerous trains. They may have only a small cotton bag for their personal items.
Why is this on my mind? In 2011, my husband and I decided to take a trip down to Mexico. A few years before that, I had studied Spanish in the beautiful town of San Miguel de Allende, one of the many “pueblo mágicos” (the name given to historic, colonial towns) in Central Mexico. We decided to go back there and then on to Guanajuato, and Merida. We were traveling by bus. Some don’t know that the buses in Mexico are large and luxurious, sometimes even with top “enclosed decks” where one gets a beautiful view of the surroundings. We fell in love with San Miguel and a few years later decided to buy a house there. We would go down in the fall, come back for the holidays with our family in Oregon and then return for the four coldest months, usually coming back to Oregon in late April or early May when spring finally arrives, and the days are warmer.
During our stays in San Miguel we began to see more and more people, mostly young men, with shabby clothing, worn out shoes and sad expressions on their faces. Some would hold up cards asking where they could go for food, to sleep. Having done some humanitarian aid work in Nicaragua in the eighties and later in El Salvador after their civil war had ended, we were familiar with the Central Americans. We worried about where we might send these people who were obviously lost. After asking around churches and other community centers, we learned there were no shelters in San Miguel for migrants.
With some research and asking questions of local authorities, we found ABBA House through the Red Cross. Our first visit was impacting as we saw 20-30 mostly young men, but a few older ones, too, looking both happy to have found a safe haven for at least a few nights and also sad, not knowing quite what might happen next as they sought to escape impossible situations in their home countries, like drug cartels seeking to enlist them, gangs threatening their families and corrupt governments which didn’t offer them help nor a functioning economy which could employ them. Most shocking were the amputees, like Juanita. Often, they are either shoved off by gangs or fall from the fast-moving trains as they try to climb on or get off. Their dreams of a new life are immediately shattered when they lose arms, legs and sometimes more than one limb. Bearing witness to this has been heartbreaking.
After talking to the protestant pastor, who with his family runs the shelter, we knew we wanted to help. We soon learned that their greatest need was to pay the monthly rent for the old colonial house where they set up the shelter of 80 beds, a kitchen and a medical room where a nurse comes each week to examine the temporary residents. After one more visit, we decided we had to do something to make sure this much needed shelter could stay open. We came back to Portland where musician friends helped us put on a concert to raise some funds. The law firm where my daughter is employed helped us establish a 501©(3) nonprofit and Latin American Relief Fund was born. Since that time, we have raised enough with many small donations and some larger to pay the rent, utilities and to provide services for the amputees. The shelter is the only one in Mexico where the Red Cross provides prosthesis. Our NGO also pays for some therapy. LARF’s nine board of directors consist of two medical doctors, two former immigration lawyers and people from other professions who are dedicated to helping the shelter help the migrants and refugees, most of whom now apply for asylum in Mexico.
Most exciting is our new project, the “dream” of the director, Pastor Ignacio Rodriguez-Martinez, to establish a larger shelter where the amputees can learn a trade to sustain themselves and their families — where “they can live in peace” and thrive. This is an ambitious dream which has the support of the UNHCR, the United Nations High Commission for Refugees, and with all the efforts we can muster we are determined to help make this a reality. Already, the mayor and city council have donated the land where new buildings will have to be erected, some for sustainable living and some for workshops in the trades. There’s room, too, for a garden where the migrants can grow much of the food they will need to thrive. Nearby is an elementary school where the children can go.
To help this dream become reality, on Saturday, April 13 we are showing a film by award-winning Canadian film maker, Judy Jackson, entitled “Where Can We Live in Peace?” at Taborspace, 5441 SE Belmont Street, Portland. I hope readers of this article will want to attend. The filmmaker will be there to answer questions. Tickets are available at https://WhereCanWeLiveinPeace.eventbrite.com
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