Día de Muertos // Death

I’ve now been at La 72 – Hogar Refugio Para Personas Migrantes for over a week. Last week, we celebrated Día de Muertos with a host of activities, ranging from fun and silly (e.g. face-painting, a La Catrina costume/dance competition, and more) to somber (a traditional alter to remember loved ones, and a pensive speech from Fray Tomás, the Franciscan friar at the helm of the shelter).

As Fray Tomás reminded us, paradoxically, many migrants have died seeking a better life. The shelter itself, La 72, is named in memory of the 72 Central and South American migrants who were kidnapped and then killed by a cartel in San Fernando, Tamaulipas, in 2010.

Adding notes to loved ones who have passed on, in the shelter’s chapel. There are 72 crosses on the wall, honoring the victims of the 2010 Tamaulipas massacre. 

Every person who comes to stay at La 72 completes a “registration,” and one of my key duties as a volunteer here is to do these intake interviews. Yesterday, I interviewed a man who has a young son still living in Honduras. This young man is hoping to find work in the U.S. so he can send money back home to his son and aging parents. One of the questions we ask at the intake interview is whether the person can return to their home country (to see whether they might be eligible for asylum). This man told me that he feared for his life if he returned to Honduras – like many people here, he has received threats from gangs – but that he would return if he needed to: “for my son, I would give my life.”

I also hear about robberies and assaults on the path – both by local people preying on migrants, and by police and immigration authorities in Mexico and Guatemala. One man I interviewed recently was returning to La 72 after a hospital stay. He had left the shelter by catching a ride on top of “La Bestia,” the cargo train that heads north every few days, and jumped off the moving train to escape a band of men with machetes who were robbing and assaulting the migrants sitting atop the train. He suffered a broken leg, hobbled several hours to the hospital, and is now back at La 72 before trying to head north again. Those who don’t jump sometimes face even worse fates – kidnapping, sexual violence, death. Even with all of its risks, many people prefer La Bestia to buses or “combis,” which come with a high likelihood of being stopped by Immigration agents.

Over the past several months, I’ve been thinking a lot about what I would die for. Several of my friends were at the scene in Charlottesville when a man drove a car into the crowd, killing a woman and injuring others. And while I feel very safe and comfortable at La 72 now that I’m here, before arriving I read about the death threats Fray Tomás routinely receives for doing the simple yet radical work of publicly denouncing injustices and abuses of power, and welcoming every human being who walks through these doors, unconditionally.

Famed Uruguayan writer Eduardo Galeano once said, “it’s worthwhile to die for things without which it’s not worthwhile to live.” I’m now surrounded by people who have faced this question – “what would I die for?” – in a very tangible way. People migrate for a variety of reasons; here, 80% of the population is from Honduras, and most are fleeing violence and/or escaping poverty and a lack of job opportunities. Whatever the motive, this dangerous journey is not undertaken lightly. And Fray Tomás, while certainly planning to live out a long life of service and solidarity, is willing to risk his own life for the lives, human rights, and dignity of all people.

While this blog post is on the morbid side – and plenty of time here is spent discussing human rights abuses, tending to blisters, and handing out scarce soap and clothing – there is also an amazing amount of resilience and joy. So, I’ll leave you with this picture of the La Catrina costume and dance competition, featuring one of the contestants dancing in full drag. (Everyone ended up “winning” and getting pan dulce, as it should be!)