Juan Ortíz has been making his way through intense heat along the U.S.-Mexico border, carrying a backpack filled with water bottles that he planned to leave for migrants crossing the treacherous terrain.
However, recently, the number of migrants he encounters has dwindled significantly.
Ortíz, who initiated water drops nearly two years ago in this perilous desert area near El Paso, used to see dozens of individuals attempting to reach the United States almost every afternoon.
Now, the desert is eerily quiet, with Ortíz noting, “Migrants no longer have any hope.”
As border crossings experienced a sharp decline towards the end of President Biden’s tenure and subsequently plunged under President Donald Trump, the changes in the region have been stark.
Once bustling with migrants pursuing the American dream, the borderlands around El Paso have transformed.
In the past, migrants navigated these areas by the tens of thousands each year, sometimes after eluding federal agents and at other times seeking them out to apply for asylum.
However, Trump’s extensive immigration policies, including a complete asylum ban, a mass deportation campaign, and unparalleled border militarization, have drastically altered life in this region.
On the Mexican side of the border, Ciudad Juárez, which lies across from El Paso, used to be vibrant, filled with the sounds of migrants sharing meals and planning their journeys to the United States.
Today, the shelters are largely deserted, housing only those already stranded when Trump assumed office and others who opted to leave the U.S. due to fear-inducing policies.
At 22 years old, Maikold Zapata was one of the fortunate few who successfully entered the U.S. last year using CBP One, a government app that facilitated asylum appointments for over 900,000 migrants at ports of entry.
While in El Paso, Zapata worked as a landscaper and sent most of his earnings to support his family back in Venezuela, while occasionally treating himself to indulgences such as steak dinners or trips to a water park with friends.
Despite his progress, he was kept awake at night by anxiety over his immigration court date.
Since Trump took office, he had heard reports of federal agents detaining individuals during even routine immigration hearings, leaving him fearful of being arrested and sent to a detention facility like the notorious Alligator Alcatraz in Florida or deported to distant countries like El Salvador or South Sudan.
“Imagine arriving in Africa with no documents and no money,” Zapata expressed, highlighting his dire concerns.
Missing his early July court date was not an option for him, as the electronic bracelet on his wrist tracked his location, ensuring he could not evade immigration agents.
Ultimately, Zapata gathered his few belongings into a backpack and crossed back over the U.S.-Mexico border, abandoning his asylum claim and the aspirations he had fought to secure over two continents.
His plan now is to return to South America, likely to Colombia, where his mother currently resides. “I’ll go back, working the whole way again,” he stated wistfully.
For the time being, he is residing at Oasis de Migrante, a modest shelter located in downtown Juárez, where he has formed connections with another Venezuelan who made a similar choice to leave the U.S.
Richard Osorio, a 35-year-old migrant, also departed the U.S. after his husband was placed in immigration detention.
Employed in home care for the elderly, Osorio felt that immigration agents would soon apprehend him as well amid the heightened fears.
He remains hopeful for his partner’s case, trusting that the attorney can convince the U.S. to deport him to Mexico, allowing the two to rebuild their lives there together.
The overwhelming majority of migrants attempting to reach the U.S. have not made it across the border successfully.
Eddy Lalvay, a 17-year-old from Ecuador, arrived in Juárez last year with his 5-year-old nephew, Gael, attempting to reach New Jersey to reunite with Gael’s mother.
Unfortunately, before they could cross, they were detained by Mexican authorities and placed in a government shelter designed for minors.
Upon turning 18, Lalvay was released, yet Gael remains in custody, having recently celebrated his sixth birthday, with officials confirming that he can only be released to a parent or grandparent.
“I’m trying to be strong, but I feel awful,” Lalvay said despondently during an afternoon at a shelter located in a working-class area surrounded by vast industrial parks.
Francisco González Palacios, a Christian pastor who oversees the shelter and leads a network of faith-based facilities, revealed that the number of migrants serviced by his organization has dropped sharply, from 1,400 to just 250 in recent months.
“Nobody is coming from the south,” he lamented, highlighting the stark reality of the current situation.
The shift in migration levels is compelling some shelters and nonprofit groups that assist migrants to consider closure, particularly those that relied on funding from the U.S. Agency for International Development, which was closed down under Trump’s administration.
González Palacios advises the migrants at his shelter to reevaluate their aspirations now that a life in the U.S. seems unattainable.
“Look for a plan B,” he suggests, encouraging them to stay for a while and seek employment, with a belief that “God will help you” in their quest for stability.
However, many of Trump’s policies are simultaneously contributing to economic decline in the region, which further restricts opportunities available to migrants.
Juárez has historically attracted Mexicans from impoverished regions seeking work in its factories, which prospered under the North American Free Trade Agreement, producing auto parts and other goods for export to the U.S.
Nevertheless, Trump’s frequent threats of tariffs on Mexican goods have left the industry in Juárez grappling with uncertainty, leading to widespread layoffs across various factories.
According to María Teresa Delgado Zarate, vice president of INDEX Juárez, about 308,000 workers are currently employed in the factories—a sharp decline from 340,000 just a few years prior.
Recently, Juan Bustos, a 52-year-old Mexican man, lost his job on an assembly line manufacturing auto parts.
Each morning, he finds himself lining up at 6 a.m. outside factories promising employment, hoping to secure new work to support his family.
“It’s not easy like it was before,” Bustos admitted, marking the substantial shift in the employment landscape.
Life in Juárez has become increasingly dependent on decisions made in Washington, DC.
Bustos remarked on Trump, saying, “He changes his mind minute to minute. We’re at his mercy.”
American industries are feeling the repercussions of the ongoing tariff unpredictability as well.
Jerry Pacheco, who manages an industrial park in Santa Teresa, New Mexico, just a few miles from El Paso, shared that several companies intending to initiate new projects in the area have withdrawn since Trump took office.
His industrial park lies adjacent to a new militarized zone extending 200 miles across a vast tract of New Mexico, while another 63-mile zone has been implemented along the Texas border.
As part of Trump’s directive to enhance the military’s role in reducing migrant crossings, the Pentagon has deployed around 9,000 active-duty troops to the border.
Migrants who breach these new “national defense” zones while attempting to cross the border may now be detained by U.S. troops, charged with trespassing, and referred to immigration authorities.
This military militarization of immigration enforcement has grown significantly in the region.
U-2 spy planes are conducting surveillance missions in the sky, and at the nearby Ft. Bliss army base, U.S. authorities are constructing a new detention facility capable of housing 5,000 immigrants.
The U.S. has also put pressure on Mexico to hinder migrants from reaching Juárez and other border cities, resulting in increased enforcement measures from Mexican military forces in recent years.
Migrant advocates believe these stringent policies contributed to a tragic incident in 2023, where a fire at a detention center in Juárez led to the deaths of 40 migrants and injuries to 27 others.
Once a prominent figure traversing the area designated as a national defense zone, Ortíz now finds himself restricted due to the escalating presence of Border Patrol agents.
While monitoring a water tank on a recent occasion, he was intercepted by agents who warned him that he was trespassing on military land.
Ortíz asserts that the increase in troops along the border, combined with Trump’s revisions to the asylum system, have effectively rendered migrant crossings nearly impossible.
In June, the number of Border Patrol encounters with migrants was reported to be lower than any month on record according to the White House, revealing just 137 apprehensions across the 2,000-mile border on the day with the least activity.
Despite the current decline in migration, Ortíz remains optimistic that these levels won’t persist indefinitely.
With numerous jobs vacant in the U.S. and an ongoing cycle of poverty and violence plaguing countries to the south, he believes there will always be a demand for migration.
Historically, this area has served as a migration corridor since pre-colonial times, with El Paso—a name meaning “the pass”—originally established by Spanish explorers in the late 16th century as a trade route connecting Mexico City to Santa Fe.
Ortíz states, “You will never be able to fully stop human migration. You never have and you never will.”
He anticipates that those most desperate to cross will eventually find a way, likely resorting to smugglers and riskier routes in their pursuit of a better life.
image source from：latimes
