Behind Every Number is a Human Face

Here’s something you might not have known: every day more than a thousand people are rounded up and sent away from this country, back to where they came from. In many cases, that turns out to be Mexico. And many of the deportees settle for a time in Tijuana, near the California border and the land that most of them have called home for quite some time.

A lot of them stay for a while at the Casa del Migrante in Tijuana, a church-run institution that does its best to offer a level of hope and encouragement. It’s often a tough sell, though. When you’ve been barred for good from the United States, separated from the family you’ve raised here, the future can look bleak indeed.

Katie Hyde and the staff of The Leaven, the Kansas City (Kansas) archdiocesan newspaper, outlined the problem with a personal visit to Tijuana and a four-page special report last year. It might not change many minds, but the feeling here is that many readers will look at the question in an entirely new light.

You can have your pick of statistics in the story--about two million deportations by the time the current administration is ended; 220,000 hosted by Casa del Migrante alone in more than 25 years--but it never lets you forget that statistics are made up of individuals, of people.

People like Angel, for example. He had been in the U.S. for 20 years when a checkpoint stop showed him with no license. Police then confiscated his truck, and as a result his business failed. He rapidly ran out of money to take care of two young daughters and pay the rent, and so made the terrible decision to steal baby formula from a local store--and was caught. Sentenced to four years, he served two before being deported to Mexico. “This is what happens,” the judge told him, “when people like you come into my country and steal.”

Or like Victor, 49, who was stopped and arrested--and then deported--while running an errand. “At least let me see my kid,” he begged. “They didn’t let me. I feel so helpless.”

Angel, Victor and perhaps 100 others come each day to the Casa del Migrante in Tijuana, where they can find food, medical attention and shelter--and an encouraging word. It’s presided over by Father Pat Murphy, C.S., a New Yorker who’s a veteran of Hispanic ministry and who speaks flawless Spanish.

“What most people don’t understand is that most everyone would like to cross legally,” he said, “but the line for any form of legalization is 15 years long. Their families would starve if they waited that long.

“We need to move away from thinking about this issue just in numbers,” he added. “Behind every number is a human face. Families torn apart. Kids left behind. We need to understand things in a different light.”

That’s the attitude at Casa del Migrante, which is staffed by a handful of workers and many volunteers, from all over the world. The number of deportations, and the possibility of immigration reform, have kept all of them busy. Especially Father Pat, who sees the house as one of hope, but recognizes its frustrations as well.

Angel addresses that well, talking about his children as he faces an uncertain future. “I can’t just leave them,” he says. “They are my babies.”

(This essay is a recent “Light One Candle” column, written by Jerry Costello, of The Christophers; it is one of a series of weekly columns that deal with a variety of topics and current events.)

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The Christophers