The main room in the El Buen Samaritano shelter in Ciudad Juarez, a city along the US-Mexico border, is quiet for most of the day.
Rows of bunk beds stretch from wall to wall, each separated by thin curtains or hanging sheets. The mismatched mattresses are occupied by men, women, and children – all migrants who intended to reach the United States but haven’t completed their journey.
It’s the mid-morning of a cold Tuesday, most are resting or scrolling through their phones, the only noises in the room come from sporadic coughs, two children playing, and the subtle sounds from a video playing on a phone. The scene feels like a loop.
At around 1 o’clock, Lucymar Polanco, a 32-year-old Venezuelan woman, checks her watch.
“Kids, guys, it’s almost lunchtime,” she yells as she gets up and puts on a coat. They’re indoors but the walls are penetrated by the winter cold.
“Everyone up, let’s get ready,” she says.
Her husband, her three kids, and five other relatives, all start getting ready enthusiastically. Soon after, a shelter worker announces the food is ready to be served.
“I’m hungry, finally!” her 9-year-old son Abel Jesus, says.
Polanco and the other nine members of her family are among thousands of asylum-seekers who were stopped in their tracks by US President Donald Trump’s January 20 decision to cancel all CBP One appointments for people seeking asylum from violence or persecution.
Their appointment had been set for January 21. Now, they are stranded in the shelter in Juarez with no money and full of uncertainty. From here, they can see across the border into the US – but they have no idea where to go now.
For the moment, the only thing they know is that it’s time to eat.
‘We laugh to keep from crying’
After lining up, the family – whose members range in age from 5 to 40 – head to the shelter’s dining hall. They sit together and occupy most of a communal table.
As soon as they sit, they seem to put all their problems aside and focus on one another, on talking and enjoying the warm meal. The day’s menu: chicken soup and a small dish of rice and beans with canned tuna.
“The most delicious soup does exist,” 9-year-old Abel Jesus says with his mouth half-full and soup dripping from the edge of his mouth.
The adults chat and mostly talk about rumors they’ve heard about the CBP One app.
“I heard appointments until January 30 will be reinstated,” Luis Alfonso Polanco, 30, says of a rumor that later proved to be untrue. “That’s what a friend in the US told me.”
On the other side of the table, his partner Yelitza Olivero talks to two other migrants from Ecuador and shares the rumor about the app with them.
At times, the family’s border chatter turns into laughter and jokes about one another.
“We try to make jokes about each other, it’s a way of distracting from the news we received on January 20, it was very sad,” Lucymar’s cousin, 18-year-old Estiven Castillo, says.
Surviving the Darien gap and the cartels
Lucymar and her family say they fled the Venezuelan state of Lara due to political persecution from authoritarian President Nicolas Maduro’s government.
“We were part of an opposing political party,” she says. “My family, my parents, everyone there, and the government knew that, and we’d constantly be threatened.”
“I was set to receive a house from a program run by the government but after they found out who I voted for in prior elections, they took that benefit away from me,” she says holding back tears.
Prior to leaving Venezuela, both Lucymar and her brother, Luis Alfonso, worked in the beauty industry. “I was a barber in Venezuela, but things were so bad that at times I cut hair in exchange for food,” Luis Alfonso says.
Lucymar’s husband, Jesus Caruci, 40, worked as a mechanic, and Yelitza, who’s married to Luis Alfonso, worked in sales. The rest of the traveling family, all young adults or children, were in school before leaving the country.
Their journey began a little over two years ago. They spent a few months in neighboring Colombia to later trek through several countries. They crossed the treacherous Darien Gap safely – but were kidnapped by a cartel after arriving in southern Mexico.
“When we entered Tapachula, they were waiting for us,” Luis Alfonso recalls.
“They tricked us, they forced us into a vehicle and said they were taking us to a safe place (…) but they took us to a farm and held us there for six days.”
Luis Alfonso says the criminal group only released after they paid $900 – all that they were carrying.
“Ever since we’ve survived with some money our family has sent us or that we’ve had to borrow,” he says.
‘Trump, take our country and call it Venezuela of America’
After sobremesa, the family goes to the shelter’s patio to get some sun and continue to chat. They gather several plastic chairs that are spread out through the uneven and cracked shelter pavement and form a circle. The little kids decide to run around and play in an outdoor playset.
“I understand Trump,” says 19-year-old Beyker Sosa as the family stays quiet.
“There have been crimes done by illegal migrants, I understand the measures, they are meant to keep the country safe,” he adds. “But we aren’t criminals, I wish he (Trump) would have compassion, we are humans just like him.”
“We never considered entering illegally, we never want to hide from authorities, we wanted to be able to walk free,” Beyker says. “It’s very sad to have done things right, the legal way, only to have Trump shut the app down, but I guess God doesn’t want us there.”
The family says their smartphones and conversation are their only form of entertainment in the shelter. “We can’t even go out, we were warned that migrants are targeted in this area, so we just stay in, especially after already being kidnapped,” Lucymar says.
Still, with kids to entertain, snacks are a must. Luis Alfonso and Estiven go to a store around the corner to buy cookies and soda.
As they return, they rejoin the conversation and start passing around Oreos and a plastic cup with orange soda.
“Trump should clean up Venezuela, we are good people, but he should up take out the bad ones, especially those in the government, take them out, Trump, and then take our country and call it Venezuela of America,” Beyker jokes as he refers to Trump’s bid to rename the Gulf of Mexico to the Gulf of America.
Nearly two hours later, the family is back in the main room of the shelter with each settling into their beds again.
“This is all we do, we are either in our beds, on our phones, we wonder what could’ve been,” Lucymar says.