Early Sunday morning, I walked with Joy to get a coffee before the unbearable heat set in. I walked past the neighbor’s garden, rich with color and vibrant beauty. The grass was freshly cut, and as green as it was at the peak of spring. The rising sun cast an orange haze against the gray, empty pavement and row of seemingly deserted buildings. No cars lined up for blocks past the corner intersection. There was no crowd across the street waiting impatiently for the New York City bus to take them into work. I didn’t even have to wait to order my coffee at Dunkin Doughnuts. I smiled at the thought. Living in the most densely populated area in the country, right next to the city that never sleeps, I saw that maybe on Sunday, it at least rests.
My mind is so full of information that I want to share with you all from my week in Tijuana. This post will be just that, information. Factual and first hand. Witnessed and experienced by me. Thousands of migrants from all over the world, mainly from Central America, have traveled to Tijuana’s west U.S. port of entry seeking safety, better economic conditions, and/or to be with family already in the U.S. My motivation for taking this volunteer trip was to help the families in the extreme asylum-seeking cases - those who live in terror and fear both IN their home country and FROM their home country. Gangs and governments work hand in hand to target and terrorize families for their own personal interests. There is a list. The list has numbers on it. Asylum seekers want to get a number from this list and they want their number to be called. Like a deli. I was incapable of finding answers as to who creates this list, who decides how many numbers are on the list, and basically any ot...
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