[On the edge of the Rio Grande]
Hay una linda región
[There’s a beautiful region]
Con un pueblito que llevo
[With a little town that I carry]
Muy dentro del corazón
[Deep inside my heart]
—Rigo Tovar, Mexican musician
Rigo Tovar sang about Matamoros, Tamaulipas. Rigo sang about the town I knew before the war against the cartels—the city that lies on the banks of the Rio Grande, where I grew up flying handmade kites made of sticks my grandpa and I collected from the levee. My grandpa and I always prepared thread, scissors, paper, and glue. Ready to run along the levee, feeling the rise of the kites in our hands, feeling the sensation of lightness and freedom that gives you the idea of flying. That is how my infant self remembers Matamoros—how I remember El Bordo—as a place of happiness.
Everything changed with the war. Everything changed with the walls—both part of the same violent metaphor, far away from the kites and the lightness of flying. Rigo and my grandpa knew Matamoros, but they knew it before the violence we live in now. They knew it before the grenades. They knew it before the border walls and before the camps.
This childhood memory shows how life in my home city has changed dramatically in the last 30 years regarding border enforcement, violence, and security. I am not arguing that Matamoros was “violence-free” when I was a child. Still, I claim that the worsening of violence and border enforcement has resulted from a long-term buildup of immigration and security policies on both sides of the border.
The Repercussions of Security to Human Rights
It has been 24 years since my grandpa died and 21 years since the U.S. Department of Homeland Security (DHS) was created. President George W. Bush signed the Homeland Security Act of 2002 into law in response to the September 11 terrorist attacks. The goal was to “make Americans safer” by securing borders and infrastructure. Thus, immigration policies became more restrictive post-9/11, with security taking precedence over human rights. Ultimately, the shift of the U.S. Immigration and Naturalization Service (INS) to the DHS clarified the bureaucracy’s priorities: immigration was declared a matter of “national security.” Since then, multiple restrictive immigration policies have been enacted affecting the southern border, such as the Intelligence Reform and Terrorism Prevention Act of 2004, the Secure Fence Act of 2006, and the Border Security Enforcement Act of 2010. Over the years, the hardening of the U.S.-Mexico border has resulted in violent outcomes for migrants, including redirecting migrant routes into inhospitable areas where migrants are kidnapped, extorted, or forcibly recruited by organized crime.
In April 2018, all ports of entry along the southern border began to implement a protocol known as “metering.” Due to metering, officials from U.S. Customs and Border Protection (CBP) could only receive a certain number of asylum seekers to determine if they qualified for refugee status. In the U.S., following the 1951 Refugee Convention and supplemented by 1967 Protocol, a person requested asylum when they are already in U.S. territory or at a port of entry. However, with metering, CBP officers will physically prevent people from stepping on U.S. soil. Yet, metering did not immediately lead to a buildup of migrants. Instead, it encouraged clandestine crossings, posing significant risks to asylum seekers lives. This situation shifted in 2019 with the introduction of the Migrant Protection Protocols.
Migrant Protection Protocols (MPP) are actions taken by the U.S. government concerning non-Mexican nationals who arrive at the border seeking admission without proper documentation. Individuals subjected to this action may enter the U.S. to attend their immigration court proceedings but must remain in Mexico until their court dates. The Trump administration initially implemented this policy unilaterally, without a prior agreement with Mexico. However, in June 2019, in the context of a series of threats, including possible tariff impositions, the Mexican government accepted the protocols along with the promise of securing Mexico’s southern border to reduce the flow of migration from Central America to the United States.
It is in this context that the Matamoros camp started growing informally in a public plaza. Just a few days after MPP began, the surrounding walkways were full of people, primarily women and children. As the number of homeless migrants increased, people from both sides of the border joined forces to provide food, tents, clothing, and medical services. Most people did not even know where they were being expelled as Miriam, an asylum seeker from Honduras, told me:
“We didn’t know anything. One day they [CBP] called our names. We asked where we were going. Their answer: ‘Right now, we will stand in line.’ Later they put us on a bus. We kept asking where they were taking but nothing. Once in the bridge, they told us we were going to Matamoros. What was Matamoros? Everyone talked about how dangerous the city was and how we should not move. Nobody even wanted to try. I was in a place I did not know, and I was terrified.”
Over time, more people like Miriam were expelled, and the tents continued to expand until the Plaza was entirely covered (Image 1). Eventually the camp was relocated to an immediate area locally known as El Bordo, due to rising discontent among the local population.
Beyond Matamoros
MPP originally aimed to restrict the time spent in Mexico to the duration of the asylum process. However, in 2020, COVID-19 radically changed asylum procedures and the humanitarian crisis across the U.S.-Mexico border. As a result of the pandemic, all asylum hearings were indefinitely suspended by the U.S. government, and migrants started being expelled under a policy known as Title 42, which prevents people from applying for asylum because they would pose a health risk. Expulsions under Title 42 are not based on immigration status and are tracked separately from immigration enforcement actions. Hence, all Title 42 expulsions typically happen without authorities conducting any screenings, which are legally required to avoid expelling people who need protection or are at risk of severe harm. This new measure left thousands of asylum seekers in a limbo. Regardless of the indefinite suspension of MPP hearings, the Trump administration continued placing people into MPP from April 2020 through January 2021.
Three years after Title 42 was implemented, a new administration took over. The morning after Joe Biden’s election, I visited the Matamoros camp. It was a rainy and cold day; everything was frozen. Walking in the icy mud was hard, but the camp was lively. People jumped in excitement. Immediately upon entering office, Biden announced the end of MPP. On February 26, 2021, the first families crossed into the U.S., and by March 8, 2021, the Mexican government began the dismantling of the camp.
Regrettably, violence against asylum seekers extended beyond the closure of the Matamoros camp since migrant families continued to be expelled under Title 42. Multiple camps of different sizes have developed in the area, some holding thousands of people, mainly from Venezuela and Haiti.
A camp in the city of Reynosa, only a 45-minute-drive from Matamoros, was the first informal settlement to pop up after the camp closure. At its peak, the camp had 3,000 people. As an NGO leader attested: “The new encampment in Reynosa is like Matamoros on steroids.” I quote these words to demonstrate how the continuation of restrictive asylum policies, such as Title 42, perpetuates violence at the U.S.-Mexico border, spreading highly detrimental and perilous consequences.
On May 2, 2022, the Reynosa camp was forcibly closed in the middle of the night by the Mexican government. This action strained the existing aid infrastructure and resulted in many families living in the streets and forming multiple camps in remote and dangerous neighborhoods, such as the El Rio camp (Images 2A and 2B), with limited access to water, sanitation, shade, and safety.
In Matamoros and Reynosa, migrants and asylum seekers have endured frequent institutional and cartel violence. These acts of violence have become routine due to factors such as cartel infiltration in migrant camps and shelters, cartel alliances with local governments, and deliberate isolation of migrant camps by the Mexican government. Tragically, these conditions have resulted in numerous cases of rape, disappearances, tents have been put on fire (see Image 3), and several bodies have been found in the river as a message about who is in control of the area and the border crossings.
Because of the harmful effects of MPP and Title 42, migrants are often exploited and harmed by smugglers during their journeys. In Tamaulipas, cartel forces control all smuggling activity. Because immigrant smuggling has become a lucrative business for criminal organizations, migrants have essentially become cartel merchandise. Migrants are now not only profitable but have become disposable, turning them into targets of kidnapping, extortion, and murder.
Continued Erosion of Asylum Protections
This article begins with childhood memories that sharply contrast with the current state of my home city. It is remarkable how memories evolve. The once joyful recollections of El Bordo now evoke images of death, suffering, and violence. While I will cherish the laughter, hope, and children running to hug me, the tragic stories I witnessed will endure.
On May 11, 2023, I visited Matamoros with a group of immigrant advocates to attest the end of Title 42. That day, I was seated on the edge of El Bordo seeing the Matamoros camp, which had fully returned, with approximately 4,000 people living there. We first tried to stand near the port of entry, but Mexican military asked us to vacate the area. A few families were waiting nearby to be allowed to claim asylum, but the order was not to let people across unless they had a valid appointment to request asylum.
Because Title 42 restrictions created a backlog of asylum seekers—and with the awareness that this can lead to an eventual increase in border crossings—the Biden administration is now requiring the use of a mobile device application called CBP Mobile One to request appointments. However, the mobile application has revealed significant flaws, particularly for the most vulnerable families who face the greatest challenges in securing appointments. Typically, these families need to persistently try for several weeks before successfully scheduling an appointment.
Our group of advocates discovered that migrant families were barred from the port of entry, prompting us to enter the camp and observe their response to the end of Title 42. Contrary to my expectations, people were not preparing to leave; instead, they were having dinner near their tents, and children were playing soccer at the camp entrance. Nobody seemed eager to depart, at least not that night. In the subsequent days, a handful of families without appointments attempted to cross, but the majority still strive unsuccessfully to secure appointments through CBP One.
Even when Title 42 was lifted, the status quo did not change much. The Mexican government has agreed to continue to receive migrants from Cuba, Haiti, Nicaragua, and Venezuela, who are turned away at the U.S. border. In addition, DHS is now processing individuals encountered at the border under Title 8, which is legally more punitive than Title 42, leading to harsh consequences, including expedited removals and barring individuals who are removed from re-entry for 5‒25 years.
In addition, DHS and the Department of Justice finalized the federal regulation Circumvention of Lawful Pathways, intended to change how migrants are processed at the southern border. Under this rule, migrants who enter the U.S. without an appointment become ineligible for asylum. The measure also denies asylum to those who fail to seek protection in another country while heading north. This regulation significantly undermines asylum protections, effectively erasing the current asylum system. In the end, scholarly research has shown that people will find other ways to keep crossing, but as policies grow more restrictive, the risks and death toll will keep reaching record highs.
Any opinions expressed in the articles in this publication are those of the author and not the American Sociological Association.
