In late June, I traveled to Harlingen, Texas, to witness firsthand the ongoing human rights crisis at the border, particularly in McAllen and Brownsville. I anticipated feelings of sadness and anger, but nothing could have prepared me for the overwhelming sense of despair I experienced. The reality was even grimmer than I had envisioned. How could it be that in the United States—often celebrated as a beacon of freedom—we are treating human beings, including children, with such disregard? How can I convey the gravity of this situation to my family, friends, and colleagues who have witnessed some of the world’s most severe humanitarian crises?
During my visit, a group that included leaders from prominent children’s organizations was denied access to an Office of Refugee Resettlement (ORR) facility—commonly referred to as detention centers—despite having submitted all necessary paperwork. The explanation provided was that the tours were distressing for the children. However, the harrowing stories shared by lawyers and healthcare professionals we met at the border painted a much bleaker picture.
I learned about a 13-year-old girl who was pregnant as a result of rape while detained. A 1-year-old boy was inconsolable when offered a banana by his lawyer—having only been given a bologna sandwich hours earlier because detention centers lack “snacks.” Then there was a woman who, having lost her 8-year-old daughter and been kidnapped by drug cartels, was kept in detention without adequate medical care for months, resorting to makeshift bandages with sanitary pads until she was finally evacuated to a hospital.
These children have spent more time in detention than in the outside world, learning to walk and talk behind bars. An 8-year-old girl had regressed to the point of asking to be breastfed. One mother shared her heartbreaking story of losing her 3-year-old son, who fell from a raft during their treacherous journey to the U.S. She watched helplessly as he drowned in the Rio Grande while she clutched her two surviving babies. “No one puts their children in a boat unless the water is safer than the land,” reflects the words of poet Warsan Shire, resonating deeply in this context. Parents do not embark on such perilous journeys unless they are fleeing something far worse.
Upon reaching the border, these families, exhausted and traumatized, approached the Reynosa Bridge seeking asylum, only to be met by U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) agents who offered no assistance. For instance, Maria and her 5-year-old son from Honduras were left disoriented until our small group formed a protective circle around them, despite ICE’s insistence that we keep moving.
In juvenile immigration court, I observed proceedings involving 11 unaccompanied minors; only two had legal representation. One of the minors was a charming 9-year-old girl with big brown eyes and a pink ribbon in her hair, who had shown up twice without a lawyer. The judge even offered her an additional court date on the condition that she secured representation. The most alarming case was a 16-year-old boy who, without legal counsel, asked to voluntarily return to Guatemala—essentially abandoning his asylum claim. Despite his mother urging him to come home, he admitted he did not feel safe returning.
These children, still so young, are navigating the complex and frightening legal system alone. I could not help but think of how scared I was when I attended court at 22, with my father by my side.
What I witnessed were human beings—mothers, fathers, children—suffering because they did not get to choose where they were born. A local civil rights attorney described their treatment as “an avalanche of punishments.” They are labeled as illegals, aliens, and bad hombres, facing endless hardships.
We must recognize Maria and others as the human beings they are and ensure every child has access to legal representation. Supporting organizations like the CARA Pro Bono Project, which operates as the “legal version of the emergency room” for families at the South Texas Family Residential Center, is crucial. The cost of Alternatives to Detention programs is significantly lower—$36 a day for a family compared to $300 for detention and $775 for a separated child. With nearly 12,000 children currently detained, we must act to free these families and allow children to take their first steps outside of confinement.
Let’s provide pregnant women with the opportunity to choose healthcare providers who prioritize their well-being. We also need to address the root causes of this crisis—violence, poverty, and abuse—that drive families to our borders. At the very least, we should teach our children about compassion and action, encouraging them to imagine, “What if this were my family?”
For more information about home insemination, you can explore this At Home Insemination Kit, which provides valuable resources. Also, for a deeper understanding of fertility options, visit In Vitro Fertilization.
In summary, the crisis at our borders is a complex and heartbreaking issue that demands our attention and action. It’s essential to recognize the humanity of those affected and support initiatives that provide legal assistance and care.
Keyphrase: border human rights crisis
Tags: [“home insemination kit”, “home insemination syringe”, “self insemination”]