A Cuban relates his experience of the orderly admission of migrants on the border between Mexico and Texas
14ymedio, Lorey Saman, Eagle Pass (Texas), November 24, 2024 — “What is your date of birth?” the American officer with Latin features and in Spanish mixed with English, a legacy of her Hispanic family, asked firmly. “I don’t know,” the Guatemalan whispered, barely understanding what she was asking. “You don’t know the date you were born?” the woman asked. “No. It’s what my document says there.” The man tried to save himself but could not dodge the successive questions of the agent, who arranged her glasses to take a good look at him.
That was the first scare I experienced when, after five in the morning on November 5, I crossed the bridge that divides Mexico and the United States between Piedras Negras and Eagle Pass (Texas) to enter the U.S. with an appointment from CBP One (Customs and Border Protection Office). Below, the Rio Bravo [‘Rio Grande’ in the US] roars between the whirlpools, illuminated from shore to shore. In one part, you can cross freely; in the other, a fence with barbed wire forms other whirlpools and prevents passage. It’s needless to say which side is in the south and which is in the north.
I arrived in Piedras Negras two days before my appointment. I was worried about the rumors of drug trafficking around the border. Luckily, I got one of the quietest points, according to what I read and heard on networks and from acquaintances. However, some migrants did not have the same good luck.
A Venezuelan was robbed in the middle of the street, before arriving at the hotel where most of the applicants were staying, and a Honduran was assaulted and lost all the documents that would prove to the Mexican authorities that he had an appointment for that day in Eagle Pass. It was striking that they let him through, but not without first warning him that if he did not appear on the CBP list, he would be returned and prosecuted for fraud. It was not necessary: he was one of the first to be called by the U.S. authorities.
We formed a line after 3:00 am in front of the Mexico Customs parking lot in Piedras Negras
We formed a line after 3:00 am in front of the Mexico Customs parking lot in Piedras Negras. There were supposed to be 30 migrants, and only 26 arrived, including seven children. In Eagle Pass they do not process more than 60 appointments per day. Half enter at 5:00 am and the rest at 1:00 pm.
We had to bring five pesos to go through the turnstile on the Mexican side. We began to walk on the right side of the avenue that connects the two countries; that stretch of sidewalk was fenced. From there I could see the Rio Bravo. A very long, slow freight train passed on the railway bridge that was seen in many videos during the exodus of 2021 and 2022. The migrants crossed there, they said, because the water wasn’t as deep. In the middle of the Rio Bravo you could see a small islet, a piece of land where migrants stopped to pluck up their courage to continue their fearful steps toward the American dream.
The CBP agents arrived punctually at the dividing line. We were lined up in the order in which we were called, and, without delaying the process, they took us to their facilities 600 meters away. At that moment we already had our cell phones inside our luggage and couldn’t use them. In the building they took a photo, DNA samples and examined us in an infirmary. We went to another room for another photo and fingerprints. Those who were being processed had to state their date of birth in “the chronological order that is used in the United States,” clarified the CBP agent, which made the Guatemalan nervous: “Here in the United States we say month, day and year,” explained the woman, about 28 years old and who, apparently, was in a bad mood.
Finally, the Guatemalan’s fingerprints were taken, and he was sent to the next room, as happened with everyone. We sat in groups at three tables. At mine there were three Cubans (along with me, a couple from Holguín), the Venezuelan who was robbed as soon as he arrived in Piedras Negras, a Honduran who helped the Venezuelan after being assaulted, a Salvadoran and two Guatemalans. We filled out a form to confirm our data and put down the reason for entering the United States. Many wrote a paragraph; I put only two words: “political asylum.”
The man from El Salvador was my age, 40 years old. Since we were face to face, he was the one I talked to the most. He told me about Nayib Bukele, whom he supported at first but now hates, because, he says, he is a dictator and a white-collar thief. All of the Salvadorian’s brothers are in the U.S., and two of them have gone to the border to receive him. Of all of present, he showed the least concern. He dressed very differently from the rest of the migrants; he had a place to go; he felt confident; and he spoke very good English, he told me.
A 32-year-old Guatemalan mother, exhausted, sat on my left; everything she had experienced in her life made her appear 45. She spent the whole year working outside her home in Guatemala City. Her daughter, just six years old, is being raised by her parents, and she sacrificed herself for the little one. Every time she mentioned her girl, whom she wants to bring to the U.S. when she can, her eyes lit up. I know that look well: it’s one of emigration and pain for departure, for being away from loved ones.
To the right of the Salvadoran, in front of me, was the other Guatemalan, who intended to work cleaning houses or at whatever job he could do to get ahead. He is 28 years old. He left his parents, his brothers and an adored cat that is now in the care of his a niece. He did not miss a chance to mention God, pray and tell me that in the migrant camp in Guadalajara, where he arrived after a long trek from the south, he spent 36 days with a group that had CBP appointments. This was the same number of days it took for my appointment to arrive. The young woman confided that they all fasted and asked a lot from God; then she began to pray and we all shut up.
I could not talk to the Cuban couple, the Venezuelan and the Honduran. They called them apart and processed them in the first room; they were the last to be called. The CBP agents who processed us next were nicer. There were seven, and each one attended from three to seven migrants; families were processed by a single officer.
After three hours they offered us a small breakfast: a burrito, candy and water. By then four of the seven children who accompanied the group were sleeping on mats in the living room. Tired, many put their heads on the tables and even snored. They again called the Guatemalan who couldn’t read. They asked him several questions. We all got nervous; nobody could understand what he was saying. More agents surrounded him, saying it was to help. The man had misplaced the address at which he was supposed to arrive in the United States, and due to his illiterate condition, he was actually being aided by the staff. Finally they called him for some signatures and in 15 minutes gave him his file. He was the first to leave those desperate walls. He said goodbye to everyone shortly after 10 in the morning
They didn’t ask anyone present about “credible fear” during the interviews. The agent who attended me, along with the Salvadoran and another Honduran, asked me only what I did for work in Mexico and how long I had been there. We were all called little by little, and before 12 pm we were out with our respective paroles. From the Cuban couple, the first to come out was the girl, who was given an entry permit for one year and a month; the husband received a permit for two years and two months. I got a one-year parole. The three of us were relieved: it’s enough time to invoke the Cuban Adjustment Law.
Some of us, without planning it, got together outside the CBP property to blow off some steam]]
Some of us, without planning it, got together outside the CBP building to blow off some steam, and then we began to walk towards a shelter that was a kilometer away to try to spend the night and see what they could offer us. We didn’t make it. On the way we were approached by a Mexican woman who was advising migrants. She took us to her office and charged 50 dollars each for an employee to transport the group to San Antonio. That city has the closest airport to Eagle Pass, and we had to get there to fly to our final destinations, except the Salvadoran who was picked up by his brothers and remained in Texas.
On the way to San Antonio I was able to talk to the Cuban couple. They spent six months in Mexico and were going to Florida just like me. She was 30 years old; he was 34, and they were now overtaken with fatigue. They left us at a shelter in San Antonio around five in the afternoon. My flight was at 10 am the next day, and theirs was at 2 pm. We met several times at that air terminal and also at Dallas-Fort Worth International Airport, where the three of us made a stopover for a few hours. We told each other our stories, laughed and were silent remembering what we had left behind. They called many relatives in Cuba and friends who stayed in Mexico in the hope of entering before Donald Trump assumes the Presidency next January. At 7 pm, I took a plane to my final destination. It was my first flight within this country, and, surely, it will not be my last.
Translated by Regina Anavy
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