- The caravan of Central American migrants traveling through southern Mexico has increased from 2,000 to聽7,000 people, nearly all Hondurans.
- While they commonly cite the same core reasons for migrating 鈥� poverty, violence 鈥� their stories are deeply personal
HUIXTLA, Mexico: A deportee from the United States trying to get back to the life he spent more than a decade building. A woman whose soldier husband already is in the US with their 4-year-old son. A teenager desperate to earn money to support his diabetic mother back home.
The caravan of Central American migrants traveling through southern Mexico 鈥� estimated at around 7,000 people, nearly all Hondurans 鈥� has attracted headlines in the United States less than two weeks before Nov. 6 midterm elections.
But most of those walking through blistering tropical temperatures, sleeping on the ground in town squares and relying on donated food from local residents are unaware of US political concerns or even that there鈥檚 a vote coming up.
While they commonly cite the same core reasons for migrating 鈥� poverty, violence 鈥� their stories are deeply personal.
鈥淢y record is clean鈥�
David Polanco Lopez, 42, is a former anti-narcotics officer from Progreso, Honduras. He鈥檚 traveling north in the caravan with his daughter Jenifer, 19, and his 3-year-old granddaughter, Victoria, whom the adults take turns pushing in a stroller.
Polanco came to the United States 13 years ago and applied for asylum after he was threatened by drug traffickers over his police work. He was given a court date, but he acknowledges he never showed up 鈥� in part because he didn鈥檛 understand the court document鈥檚 instructions, which were in English.
Polanco put down roots in Arizona: He married, and got a home. He thought that as long as he stayed out of trouble, he鈥檇 be fine.
鈥淚f they catch me committing a felony, then go ahead and kick me out,鈥� Polanco said. 鈥淏ut my record is clean.鈥�
He came to the attention of US immigration authorities three months ago when he caught a ride to work with a friend and Arizona police stopped them. Immigration officers later visited his home, he said, asked him to come outside and arrested him.
After being deported, he immediately turned around and headed back toward the United States with the caravan in hopes of rejoining his wife, who is from Mexico.
鈥淚 came (to the United States) fleeing the drug traffickers. The US police know that. They told me I qualified for asylum. But they didn鈥檛 give it to me,鈥� Polanco said as he rested in the shade of a gas station in the far southern Mexican state of Chiapas. 鈥淚 can鈥檛 live in Honduras because my life is in danger.鈥�
Polanco said he will never give up on trying to return to the US That鈥檚 where his home, his family, his land are. He said he鈥檚 been paying US taxes for 13 years and never invested a cent in Honduras because 鈥渋t鈥檚 unlivable, dangerous.鈥�
鈥淚f they deport me I鈥檒l just come back,鈥� Polanco said, 鈥渂ecause my place is there.鈥�
鈥淚t's too much鈥�
It鈥檚 been seven months since Alba Rosa Chinchilla Ortiz, a 23-year-old from Amapala in Honduras鈥� Valle department, has seen her 4-year-old son.
The boy鈥檚 father is an ex-soldier who 鈥� like Polanco 鈥� received death threats because of his job. Three times he survived attempts to kill him, Chinchilla said. He has applied for asylum in the United States and she鈥檚 trying to join him and their son.
Life on the road has been demanding. At one point, Chinchilla worried she was too exhausted to go any farther. She鈥檚 still moving forward, but fears dangers that may lie ahead 鈥� such as Mexican cartels, which have been known to kidnap, hold for ransom and kill migrants.
The separation has been almost more than she can bear.
鈥淭he desire to see my son is too much,鈥� she said, speaking in the Mexican city of Huixtla, surrounded by dozens of fellow migrants and Mexican Red Cross workers.
Breaking into sobs, she wiped tears from her eyes with her thumb and forefinger.
鈥淚t鈥檚 the only thing that drives me,鈥� Chinchilla said, 鈥渕y son.鈥�
鈥橳reatment for my mother鈥�
Reuniting with family in the US is something those on the road north frequently speak of. Marel Antonio Murillo Santos is doing the opposite 鈥� leaving his loved ones behind in Copan, Honduras.
After his parents separated five years ago, Murillo became the primary breadwinner for the family at age 13. His mom is diabetic, leaving her weak and missing a toe on each foot.
Dressed in a brown V-neck T-shirt, Murillo said he left with just 500 lempiras (about $20) in his pocket, a bit of clothing and a spare pair of shoes. He heard about the caravan from a friend, and decided on the spot to take off for the United States where he hopes to spend five years working and saving.
鈥淲hat I want more than anything is to pay for treatment my mother needs for her health,鈥� Murillo said. 鈥淏uild a home for her, have a bit of money in the bank and also, if I鈥檓 able, invest in something or start a business for my mother to run.鈥�
Mile after mile, this baby-faced young man, now 18 with a whispy black chin-beard, is constantly thinking of home and his mom and 5-year-old brother.
鈥淲hen I go to eat, I wonder if they have eaten, where they are, if they are in good health,鈥� Murillo said. 鈥淚 spend all day thinking about them, until I close my eyes and sleep.鈥�
鈥橳hey're going to kill you鈥�
If there鈥檚 any doubt about Honduras being a dangerous place, one need only talk to Joshua Belisario Sanchez Perez, a soft-spoken young man who worked odd jobs in the capital, Tegucigalpa. Back home, he had the misfortune of living in one of the most dangerous neighborhoods in a city full of them.
He spoke with The Associated Press in an interview this week that aired on TV back home, and afterward gang members showed up at his mother鈥檚 home angry that he had talked about the violence that forced him to flee.
鈥淏ecause I had talked about all the gangs, and all the crime,鈥� Sanchez said.
鈥淢y mother said, 鈥楾hey came to the house and they saw you on the news,鈥欌€� he continued. 鈥溾€橧f you come back they鈥檙e going to kill you.鈥欌€�