This shelter home for people on the move is one of the few remaining in the area following the re-election of Donald Trump and his anti-migration policies.
They have gone from hosting 500 people to just 70. Major humanitarian organizations such as the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR) have left the area due to cuts in funding from the United States. The shelter itself has also stopped receiving support from many of the organizations that once collaborated with it. Among the few that remain is the TAU Foundation. Despite everything, “La 72” continues to stand on the outskirts of the small town of Tenosique de Pino Suárez, because it knows that this place—just one hour from the Guatemalan border in southeastern Mexico—is a key stop for those migrating or seeking refuge.
“La 72” consists of small, single-story buildings painted in bright colors and decorated with drawings that give the place a special warmth. The volunteer area is called “The Resistance”; the medical clinic, “Che Guevara”; the module for women and children, “Tender Fury”; and the sports, where a football match is played every day, is “Dignity Square.”
On one of the walls of the shelter, with an intense green background and an image of migrants leaving Latin America and trying to reach a walled United States led by its current president, one can read: “Trump, you will be the one who ignites the fire of the people’s resistance.”
This Franciscan shelter opens its doors to those seeking asylum in Mexico, but also to those passing through in search of the American dream. These individuals have the right to sleep for three days in the chapel, a large space that has gone from hosting religious services to housing people on simple mattresses on the floor. At the entrance to the chapel, which now shelters people in transit staying for short periods, the main wall displays 72 crosses bearing the names and flags of the migrants massacred in San Fernando in 2010 by the Los Zetas cartel after refusing to “work” for them. This tragedy gave the shelter its name. Some of the crosses hang blank, belonging to those who could not be identified in the mass graves that were found. A year later, this center was established under the coordination of Franciscan friars, although they had already been assisting migrants and refugees for years in the Tenosique Fraternity and Parish.
But the profile of these people has changed dramatically since Trump’s arrival. “It’s as if we’ve gone back 20 years. After COVID, entire families began arriving—children, elderly people, people with disabilities… Now most of those who arrive are men traveling alone, because families are too afraid to take the risk or be deported,” summarizes Friar Ricardo, until recently in charge of the center.
Friar Ricardo Alberto Roque, the director of the center, denounces that for these people “there is no such thing as free transit. Throughout their entire migration route, including Mexico, they suffer extortion from police, from coyotes (human traffickers), from robbers along the الطريق who are capable of beating and robbing those who don’t even have money for a soft drink. They also face forced disappearances, human trafficking, being recruited by organized crime as drug mules, physical and psychological abuse… the list is long and very harsh,” he says.
Reverse migration has also increased, as in the case of Juan Carlos, a 25-year-old Honduran. The young man was deported to Mexico while his wife and baby—less than a year old—managed to remain in the United States. Now he is trying to obtain asylum in this country while watching his child grow up through daily video calls. In addition, some entire families have begun passing through “La 72” in the opposite direction, returning from the U.S. to their home countries, tired of living under daily pressure and in irregular conditions.
Despite everything, some women still make this journey alone, like Katerine, a 36-year-old Venezuelan who fled her country, leaving behind her two daughters, aged 17 and 15. “They’re angry with me. They don’t understand it right now, but I did it for them. In my country, without money, you can’t study. Working is only enough to eat, and I want them to go to university because they are very good students,” she says proudly, although her expression changes when recalling parts of her journey.
She crossed the river at the Tapachula border (Chiapas), one of the most violent, and upon arriving in Mexico she was kidnapped by several armed men who took her, along with 16 others, to what looked like a ranch. “They put us into three lines. One for those who had money, another for those who could call their families to pay and were given three days to get it, and the last for those who had nothing. It almost sounds absurd now—there was even a secretary collecting payments,” she recounts with a sad half-smile.
“They stripped the last group. Some were found to have money and were taken away. Those are the ones who later often appear dismembered in the news as a warning to other migrants. Those who had nothing were also killed—they were considered useless. Some women were taken as prostitutes,” she laments, looking down. “Many screamed in panic attacks. I couldn’t scream—I felt a kind of adrenaline, like nerves… Those of us who had money managed to get out.” Katerine was close to requesting self-deportation until someone told her about “La 72.” Now she is trying to regularize her status in the country.
However, the vast majority of those arriving now are men or young Hondurans fleeing poverty or gang violence. One of the most striking cases is that of Jefferson David Ramírez, a 19-year-old from that country who broke the strict rules of the shelter two months after arriving and was expelled. Marco, one of the guards, decided to give him a chance on his ranch, and today he is part of the family: “I was the one who kicked him out, and I was the one who adopted him,” he says, laughing. “I think anger got the better of him. We all have our limits. Now he’s adapted—he helps me on the ranch, my 4- and 5-year-old children love him like a brother, and he calls us mom and dad. It never even crossed my mind to grow the family, but we’re very happy,” he adds.
Even so, Jefferson’s future remains uncertain. While waiting for his asylum papers, if they are denied, he will be deported or remain in an irregular situation.
The Darién jungle, between Colombia and Panama, is another hotspot on the migration route. Camila and Thiago, along with their 5- and 2-year-old children, left Peru due to insecurity. “For some time now, there have been foreign gangs capable of killing for a mobile phone. And if you start a business, they extort you for money,” Thiago explains. They saw on social media that crossing the Darién jungle was “very easy,” but what they experienced was “traumatic.” The coyote (the person who “guides” migrants along the route) abandoned them along with others in the middle of the jungle. For several days they thought they would die—they ran out of food and saw human remains. Eventually, they managed to escape that hell.
“La 72” also has a space for the LGTBI community. There rests Keshua Smith, a 26-year-old Guatemalan who fled due to the strong discrimination faced by this community in his country. “My parents passed away, and the rest of my family said I was abominable just because of the way I love,” he recalls emotionally. “In Guatemala, the gay community is highly stigmatized. We have a hard time. One day I was holding my partner’s hand and from a car, a gang insulted us and pointed a gun at us. Many people call us ‘huecos,’ which is very derogatory and painful. The only fun days are Saturdays, when we go to a nightclub attended by people from the community, where we can truly be ourselves.”
Keshua has already applied for asylum in Mexico and dreams of one day having a ranch where he can live peacefully.
Meanwhile, despite the sharp decline in the number of people in transit and the closure of various shelters, those at “La 72” remain resolute. “During COVID, people stopped coming—there are always cycles. But migration is unstoppable. People will come again, and we will be here as long as even one person needs a place to find shelter,” concludes Friar Ricardo.
Isabel Egiguren: freelance journalist
