But Torres says that after four days in Border Patrol custody, he was sent back to Juarez on Thursday night, the last few hours that Title 42 was in effect. His wife was released, given a notice to appear in immigration court, and planned to fly from El Paso to Miami to reunite with relatives. He and his wife were detained at the border in El Paso last week, he said. “I can’t afford to make a mistake,” he added. The situation after Title 42 is “much more complicated,” he said. Meanwhile, in Ciudad Juarez, Mexico, Juan Manuel Torres León, a 40-year-old chef from Venezuela, also faced uncertainty about his odds of getting an appointment through the mobile app. Immigration judges have argued, for example, that gang violence doesn’t meet the standard for humanitarian protection.Īt the shelter, decorated sparingly but for a shrine to the Virgin Mary, a sign in English offers words of hope: “With God, all things are possible.” But for someone from one of those countries, it is often difficult to actually receive it. The end of Title 42 reopened the possibility for migrants from El Salvador, Guatemala, Honduras and Mexico, who made up most of the expulsions under the rule, to again apply for asylum in the U.S.
But it’s bittersweet: Now it’s the other women at the shelter, all of them Mexican or Central American, who are wondering when they’ll get their turn. She started thinking, “Why, God, why are we still here?”Īmaya and her family are scheduled for appointments in the U.S. A few people got lucky, mostly single adults or single mothers with one child. After all, they’d seen its graffiti all over town.Īt Casa del Migrante, Amaya spent time over the months she was there helping other migrants register for appointments. Local residents helped them escape, but the incident left her wondering whether the gang had caught up to her.
They obtained humanitarian visas in Mexico and applied for asylum there.įeeling safer, Amaya and her 4-year-old son were on their way to a playground one day when two men in a white truck attempted to kidnap them, she said. In Chiapas, Mexico, they were helped by a church. They fled last year with their young son and her husband’s parents, and $105 in their pockets. The effort was futile: After extortion came death threats, she said. Unable to afford the payments and their bills, Amaya and her husband decided to tell the police. Juan Manuel Torres León, 40-year-old chef from Venezuelaįirst it was extortion: They were forced to pay $35 a month, then $60 and $100. During the experience, she said, a Border Patrol agent threw her family’s documents to the ground and stomped on them. once, presenting themselves to border agents - who detained them for a few days and then returned them to Mexico.īut Title 42 was still in effect then, blocking migrants from requesting asylum. While there was generally no consequence for being expelled multiple times under Title 42, being deported now can have life-altering ramifications, including being banned for years from reentering the United States.īefore the CBP One app’s release, Amaya and her family attempted to enter the U.S. The expiration of Title 42, a policy implemented amid the COVID-19 pandemic that prevented many asylum seekers from entering the U.S., has presented a dilemma for tens of thousands of U.S.-bound migrants stranded in Mexico. The app was intended to reduce the number of crossings between ports of entry.
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Just 1,000 appointments are granted daily through the app, but some migrants say they’ve recently noticed fewer glitches and more appointments being granted to those who have been waiting the longest, part of an update the Department of Homeland Security had promised. “We got it.”Īmaya’s experience remains the exception to the rule.
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