“Please, ma’am, for my baby,” implores the teenager standing before me, no older than 16 or 17, cradling what appears to be a one-year-old. Sweat mingles with sunscreen on my forehead, stinging my eyes as it drips down. The four packets of Pedialyte I’m holding are starting to feel burdensome.
“¡Buenos días! How old is this little one?” I ask in Spanish.
“She’s two and a half,” the teenager replies. My mind races with questions: (1) how is this tiny child two and a half years old? (answer: malnutrition) (2) how is this teen raising a toddler? (answer: likely due to trauma) and (3) how do I explain that the Pedialyte is meant for younger infants? (answer: I won’t — I discreetly hand her the packets, hoping other volunteers don’t see).
It’s noon on a scorching Tuesday at the Gateway International Bridge in Matamoros, Mexico, right by the Rio Grande. Frustrated by the constant headlines surrounding the border crisis, my mother and I decided to witness the situation firsthand. I left my own kids back in Seattle with my husband, and we trekked to Texas intending to volunteer at shelters. However, the Trump Administration’s “Remain in Mexico” policy has forced thousands of migrants to live in perilous and squalid tent camps mere feet from our border.
In simple terms, this means there are mountains of donated supplies — diapers, clothes, and hygiene items — along with medical and legal assistance just a few miles away in shelters on the U.S. side. Yet, families in need can’t reach them. I find myself watching birds soar freely over the border fence, wishing I could send these children to safety with them.
On this particular Tuesday, my mother and I join a group from Texas Impact’s Courts and Ports program. We park near the bus station in Brownsville and cross the bridge into Matamoros, only allowed to carry what we can manage. Our bags overflow with supplies to distribute. As we reach the base of the bridge, I’m struck by the sprawling tent city that stretches out before me.
Stepping into this epicenter of an international humanitarian crisis leaves me unprepared. The acrid scent of unwashed bodies and human waste hits me as I’m engulfed by crowds of children clamoring for whatever they can get from our backpacks. The vacant expressions of parents reveal desperation; around 2,000 people reside in this encampment, with about 100 newcomers arriving daily. There is little to no organized support, no food or water available other than what volunteers bring from Brownsville (often from Team Brownsville). Imagine the frustration of dealing with an unfathomably complex system where survival hinges on your ability to maneuver through obstacles while grappling with exhaustion, trauma, and a foreign language. Even the thought of it is overwhelming.
Yet, amidst the despair, mothers are doing what mothers do best. One mom snatches her toddler from the path of oncoming traffic, another beats clothes against a rock in the Rio Grande, and others stand in line for small portions of food. A young mother sings softly to her sweaty baby while an abuelita shares a piece of fruit with her grandson. A sick baby rests motionless in his mother’s arms as she lovingly strokes his hair. A pregnant woman searches for shade, and another mother helps her kids bathe in the river. I notice a young indigenous woman nursing her baby, swaddled in a makeshift carrier.
Consider the desperation that led these mothers to embark on such a perilous journey to a country that often imprisons migrants, sometimes separating parents from their children (yes, this still happens). Yet, their actions are not illegal — they are seeking asylum, a legal right. These refugees understand the value of living in a nation governed by the rule of law more than many Americans do. One mom fled Cuba after being jailed for refusing to remove her son’s birthday decorations. Another left Honduras after gang members killed her son for not joining them. Yet another carried her daughter with cerebral palsy from El Salvador after gangs burned their home. For these mothers, the United States represents a chance for a life free from violence and fear.
However, what I observed at the border is not the rule of law but further victimization of the vulnerable. Migrants are forced to endure life in one of the most dangerous cities in the world: Matamoros, designated as “Level 4 – Do Not Travel,” akin to Syria and North Korea. We learn that a seven-year-old girl was recently kidnapped from the encampment by a cartel, only to be returned after being assaulted. Violence and kidnappings are rampant, and the irony of fleeing extreme danger only to find oneself in greater peril is not lost on these families. Their camp is overshadowed by a large sign that cheerfully reads “Feliz Viaje,” wishing safe travels to those fortunate enough to cross over into the U.S.
In the midst of this chaos, I witness acts of profound kindness from mothers who possess the means to cross the border. Our volunteer team includes a pediatrician from Oregon who dedicates her week to providing care to children and adults in the camp. With her scrubs on, she patiently attends to every individual, purchasing necessary medications from nearby pharmacies. There are lawyer moms who tirelessly advocate for asylum seekers through organizations such as Lawyers for Good Government’s Project Corazon and Al Otro Lado, while fighting for an asylum process that aligns with our constitutional values. A retired teacher from Michigan has come to help in memory of her late daughter. These women have become role models for me, showing that hospitality can serve as a form of resistance, welcoming and shielding those in need.
Regardless of which side of the Rio Grande they’re on, these mothers share a fierce love for their children. This undeniable truth is both comforting and inconvenient: if their love mirrors mine, then the suffering I witnessed becomes deeply personal. With the demands of parenting, work, and everything in between, I realize I’ve been avoiding taking action. But by allowing myself to witness the border experience with vulnerability and empathy, I’ve found a new energy that enables me to transform passive feelings into concrete actions.
Mothers seeking refuge at the border navigate an intricate web of systems designed to break them down, all in pursuit of a better life for their children — one characterized by democracy, freedom of speech, and justice. Heart-wrenching? Absolutely. Inspirational? Beyond doubt.
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Summary:
In a deeply personal account, Emily Carter reflects on her experience volunteering at the border in Matamoros, Mexico. Confronted with the stark realities of migrant life, she witnesses both the dire situations that mothers endure and the resilience they display in caring for their children amidst chaos. The article emphasizes the legality of their asylum-seeking actions while highlighting the urgent need for compassion and support for these families.
Keyphrase: border humanitarian crisis
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