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Who’s Helping Asylum Seekers?
On a recent summer morning, Venezuela native Evelin Mariño sews decorative flowers onto a plain cotton tote bag, while her 6-year-old boy, Aaron, huddles with other children nearby. Mother and son are among other migrants who gather at a workshop just south of the United States–Mexico border to practice a craft that can sustain them while they wait for a chance to apply for asylum in the U.S.
Those chances diminished in early June, when a allowing border authorities to stop processing cases of asylum seekers once a certain threshold is met. For many migrants like Mariño, the Biden administration’s latest asylum restrictions are as unfamiliar as the Mexican border cities where they are forced to engage in an unpredictable waiting game.
In Nogales, Sonora, a Mexican town that borders Arizona, migrants find support from nonprofits and various other advocates. While they wait for appointments in the U.S., migrants can access temporary shelter, meals, legal workshops, and opportunities to earn some money for living expenses.
“This is a big help,” says Mariño, holding up the tote bag she decorated. “With my last earnings I was able to buy groceries for the week.”
The assistance has been invaluable for Mariño and her children, Aaron and his 8-year-old sister, Lluviana. They often stop in for a family meal at the dining hall of the , a Jesuit immigrant rights advocacy group located just a few yards from a U.S. port of entry. In early 2020, the organization opened its migrant outreach center, which also includes classrooms and shelter space.
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At least twice a week, Mariño attends workshops run by Kino volunteers in a small building across the street, where the group’s volunteers for years served meals to migrants expelled from the U.S. for crossing the border unlawfully.
Mariño, 24, arrived in Nogales on June 6. Weeks later, she was still perturbed by what she says was a harrowing two-month journey north from Ecuador during which she and her children survived two kidnappings.
Lucrecia Almada Leyva, a Kino volunteer, says stories like Mariño’s are not unusual among the migrants at workshops where adults can sew, embroider, or bake goods to sell while their children play. “People share their experiences with one another,” she says. “It helps them to show solidarity and know that they’re not alone.”
The gatherings serve not only to help migrants forge connections with each other, but also aid them financially, explains Angela Meixell, another volunteer. Supplies are donated and migrants keep the proceeds from finished products.
The workshops keep migrants busy, which Almada Leyva says can help them endure long waits for an appointment to apply for asylum. “She’s been here nine months,” says the volunteer, pointing to a woman focused on her sewing. “Another lady who comes in has waited seven months.”
All around are migrants sewing at tables, talking among themselves, or playing with their children. Some landed in Nogales after being displaced by drug-trafficking violence in certain Mexican states. Many are too afraid to share their reasons for migrating.
Workshop volunteers say they find it rewarding to lend a helping hand to asylum seekers who are far from their homeland and in need. “I feel a great empathy for them because they leave their families behind,” Almada Leyva says of the migrants she has met. “They leave many things behind and it is out of necessity.”
When they arrive in Nogales, most migrants are unaware that in June the U.S. halted asylum processing at the border when arrests for illegal entries reach an average of 2,500 a day in a seven-day period. The rule is the latest in a series of restrictive policies that the Biden and Trump administrations have implemented in recent years to curb an unprecedented number of asylum seekers. In an election year, the border influx has become a political liability for Democrats. Meanwhile, Republicans have taken even harsher aim at immigrants, as outlined in the now-infamous plan by the Heritage Foundation.
Chelsea Sachau, an attorney with the in Arizona, explains that the new rule halts asylum until average daily arrests for illegal entries drop below 1,500 for seven consecutive days and stays at such levels for two weeks.
But, she says, asylum seekers generally don’t know that entering the U.S. between ports of entry could have long-lasting legal consequences—such as being barred from the U.S. for a number of years—potentially hurting their immigration cases. When the rule is in effect, more people are “highly likely going to be disqualified outright for asylum just because of how they access territory and sought help,” Sachau says.
Sachau is managing attorney for the program’s , which provides pro bono legal services to migrants in Nogales. She and her colleagues hold workshops at the Kino outreach center two or three times a week to inform migrants of the deterrence policy before they cross the border, but many migrants learn of it only after they’ve already been deported. They also hear from attorneys that the government wants migrants to apply for asylum through a special phone app, after which they must wait to be assigned an appointment to cross the border through an official entry point.
“Most people are shocked by what the rules are or what the process is until it’s too late, when they’re already kind of ensnared in these really harmful processes that are very hard to navigate,” Sachau says.
Attorney Francisco Loureiro, director of the San Juan Bosco migrant shelter in Nogales, says there’s been a noticeable increase in migrants removed from the U.S. since the asylum rules were tightened. Besides a bed to rest, migrants also get three meals a day at the shelter and legal counseling about Mexican laws. While many of those staying there now are Mexican citizens, migrants from various other countries continue to arrive, he says.
“On a daily basis we shelter men, women, and children accompanied by their parents, regardless of their nationality and legal status in Mexico,” Loureiro says.
Volunteers also are on hand at the migrant shelter to provide medical assistance and even psychological care to those who need it. “It’s very difficult to see a huge number of children who have no place to stay, no place to eat, no food,” Loureiro says. “They are sick children, dehydrated children, children with gastrointestinal problems. They need our continuing support.”
The support Mariño has received in Nogales has helped her adapt to life in a new city. She left Venezuela in 2018 for Ecuador and then left Ecuador for the U.S. border in late March of 2024 to escape what she described as economic turmoil and rising crime. She currently rents a room in a house with five migrant families.
She has become familiar with the intricacies of asylum—including the fact that applicants must prove they have a fear of persecution in their homeland—by attending legal workshops. She already knew about the phone app, which schedules appointments randomly, because her partner used it in the fall and he is now in Chicago. Mariño expected they’d be together by now, but her journey was fraught with setbacks, including two traumatic kidnapping experiences.
When she first entered southern Mexico from neighboring Guatemala, her family and other arriving migrants from Central and South America were taken to a chicken coop and held there until they paid a nominal fee for their freedom.
After their release, Mariño and her children walked, accepted rides from good Samaritans, and rode buses to Mexico City, where she applied for an asylum appointment on her phone app daily. She secured an appointment after several days while in the border city of Nuevo Laredo, Tamaulipas, she says. However, when she arrived there with her children and was about to take a cab, several men pushed them into a car and drove them to an abandoned house crowded with other kidnapped migrants.
It was a distressing time, recalls the young mother, who feared for the safety of her family since she had no money to pay ransom. She pleaded with her captors for their release and on the fifth day, Marino and her children were freed alongside another family without explanation. They headed to Nogales but had already lost the initial asylum appointment while in captivity.
“I believe this is a process of change that I have to live with,” Marino says. “It is a process that God chose for me and I just have to learn from it.”
So the young mother waits patiently. She checks her phone app daily in hopes of snagging one more asylum appointment. And when another day goes by without one, she finds comfort in the support around her.
Lourdes Medrano
is an independent journalist in southern Arizona, where she writes about immigration, underserved communities, the environment and other matters of importance in both the U.S. and neighboring Mexico. A 2020-21 Knight Science Journalism fellow at MIT, she has written for various publications, including the Washington Post, Undark Magazine, The Atlantic and Audubon Magazine. She speaks English and Spanish. Reach her via X/Twitter direct message or LinkedIn.
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