Title 8

A collection of stories in the U.S. - Mexico border. By Wayan Barre

“Hey! I’m in California. I was in detention for six days. I am on my way to Los Angeles alone, but free, and you?”

Getting ready

A few months ago, the idea of going to the U.S.-Mexico border to document the situation of migrants grew in me. As I told someone about it, an acquaintance in Louisiana, her eyes started to roll around:

“Beware, these people can be dangerous. They have nothing to lose.” 

This thought haunted me. The more I talked about it, the more I felt fear or incomprehension around me. Where does this propaganda come from? More than 40 million people living in the U.S. today were born in another country, accounting for about one-fifth of the world’s migrants. Food for thought…

Back to the initial reason for this trip. The Trump administration issued Title 42 at the beginning of the COVID-19 pandemic. This order allowed border authorities to swiftly turn away migrants encountered at the U.S.-Mexico border, often depriving migrants of the chance to claim asylum and dramatically cutting down on border processing time. But the order also carried almost no legal consequences for migrants crossing, meaning if they were pushed back, they could try to cross again multiple times. Since May 11, 2023, Title 42 has been lifted and the US government is returning to a decades-old US code known as Title 8. Migrants apprehended may now face a swift deportation process, known as “expedited removal”, and a ban on reentry for at least five years. Title 8 also allows migrants to seek asylum, which can be a lengthy and drawn-out process that begins with what is called a credible-fear screening.

Another novelty, migrants in northern and central Mexico can use a new government phone app, “CBP One” and try to secure an appointment with border ports of entry: Calexico and San Isidro in California, Nogales in Arizona, Brownsville, Eagle Pass, Hidalgo and El Paso in Texas. The app is offering roughly 1,450 appointments per day, though an appointment does not guarantee entry, and the determination of admissibility is made on a case-by-case basis.

How has it impacted life at the border? What is the current state of mind? I had to go and see.

Piedras Negras, Mexico

After 15 hours of Texan radio, driving west and stopping multiple times along the border, I land in Eagle Pass. The city is quiet. I decide to take the international bridge to reach Piedras Negras, its twin city on the other side of the Rio Grande, the physical border between the U.S. and Mexico. From the wall overlooking the river, I observe a group of fishermen on the rocks of the bank, a school trip and a few onlookers. After my arrival, I am surprised to see a group of men, women, children and babies quietly approaching. A man ahead, wearing a flashy lifejacket, walks on the narrow water, makes a few circles and calls the group. They cross, carefully studying the slippery bottom of the river. On the other side, a line of concertina wire and containers obstructs the passage. On top, two silhouettes start to make friendly gestures at one of the families. I squint: U.S. Border Patrol agents are giving them directions to get to an opening where they will be received by the U.S. immigration service. This scene is repeated again and again in front of me.

I decide to get closer to one of the groups. “Cuidado, se desliza” I tell them, to show that I am on their side. Bryan and his family already tried crossing at Piedras Negras a few months ago but were thrown out and went back to Venezuela. He and other migrants have been expelled more than 2.8 million times since March 2020 under Title 42 authority.

“This is our second attempt. We sold everything and crossed nine countries to get there: Venezuela, Colombia, Panama, Costa Rica, Nicaragua, Honduras, Guatemala and Mexico. It is a big moment…”

Faces are inscrutable, I feel the heaviness of what is at stake. I notice a man, bare-chested, staring at us. As he comes closer, his dilated pupils scare me. “I don’t know him. He’s been following us for a while,” Bryan says, detached. After the man says something inaudible, one of Bryan’s relatives offers the leftovers of a snack. The man declines. Then, she takes one of her sister’s earrings and gives them to the man, who seems satisfied. As he hooks it to his ear, he coldly brings the family to a specific spot along the river. This coyote (smuggler) is about to help them cross the Rio Grande in full sight of the Mexican police and the U.S. Border Patrol. I watch them take a deep breath and draw away from me, toward the U.S. side of the river. One week later, Bryan sends me a message:

“Hey! I’m in California. I was in detention for six days. I am on my way to Los Angeles alone, but free, and you?” 

A few feet further, two workers from the non-profit “Médicos sin Fronteras” (MSF) are watching the groups of migrants come one after the other and progress along the difficult banks of the river. They give me the address of a shelter.

Casa del Migrante - Frontera Digna

I knock on the bulky metallic door of the shelter, perched on the heights of the Rio Grande a few miles south of Piedras Negras. A man answers. If I want to take photographs, I’ll have to ask the mujer. The place is flawlessly run by the Franciscan Sisters of Mary Immaculate. “Venga a mi oficina,” she tells me. My project seems to connect with her.

“Ask permission before taking a picture of anyone. Some migrants are wanted by very bad people.”

I am now in the courtyard. Everybody is staring at me, the gringo in the room. Time to put my camera away, talk to people and become part of the decor. 

Rigoberto, a Honduran, deliberately comes to me, curious about my presence. His joy and smile transport me. Next to him, P. is also Honduran. I ask if I can take his portrait. “You want me to get my head cut?” He explains that all his family members have been murdered, and he was a witness. They do not like witnesses. His lack of emotion throws me off balance. 

Milagros (meaning miracles in Spanish) is pregnant. She traveled from Colombia with her husband, Carlos, and her five sons who are playing in front of us. “If I’m accepted in the U.S., we’ll go to Houston, next to my brother. I want to learn social sciences and start a new career. I want my sons to study too.”

J.G. is Honduran. He never went to school. He made the terrible sacrifice to leave his wife and two boys so he can support them from abroad. He proudly shows me a photo of them and some of the love messages he sent to his wife. “Hey, I want to learn English. Can you teach me?” For half an hour he listens religiously and repeats. We laugh.

Manuel is Ecuadorian. Through the gate that divides the shelter, he explains that he arrived two days ago and is now waiting for a spot to open. “I need a phone.” Phones play a critical role here. It is not only the bridge with the family members who stayed but also the ultimate chance to get an appointment with the U.S. immigration services. “The mandatory use of the CBP One mobile application as the sole means of entering the United States to seek international protection is a clear violation of international human rights law,” Amnesty International stated on May 8, 2023. During my stay, a lot of migrants will tell me the app doesn’t work properly, sometimes not at all.

A man screams something across the courtyard. Lunchtime, first service, women, elders and children only. Inside the packed but silent canteen, an eloquent woman says a prayer. Everyone waits in line for a ladle of soup. A young girl looks at the plates and pulls a face at her mother. A few others insist on offering me a part of their meal. The room is festive.

Nobody can truly understand the difficulty and danger these men and women go through to get here. Later, as I play with a kid outside, I hear a big bang! A chair rolls on the floor, and two men start to fight. Everything moves fast. Blood starts to flow from one’s head. They are pulled apart, and the two mujeres appear. This place is a refuge for them to recover and carry their emotional and physical load as they continue on their way to the U.S. To make it work, the Franciscan Sisters of Mary Immaculate apply a zero-tolerance rule. The air is heavy. Everybody watches the scene with attention. While the victim gets stitches, the other starts to pack his belongings and embraces his friends, before leaving. 

The pressure goes down, I look around. A corner transformed into a hairdressing salon, kids and adults playing soccer (South American heritage!), kids squabbling, people listening to music, a man reading the news. The shelter is at its maximum capacity. Life seems to always do its best to resurface. All these scenes, sounds and people milling around warm me. 

At dusk, the gate opens. All the migrants who spent the day at the entrance walk into the courtyard to borrow yoga mats and carpets. A man comes to me:

“Hey. Here is a mattress. You can sleep here tonight.”

A bed is waiting for me in Piedras Negras. I look at him, but no word could get out of my mouth. I take the mattress to stay polite. I will never forget this moment.

For some, the night is going to be long. I see P. in front of the shelter, one of the Hondurans I was talking to earlier. He was just here for the day. Tonight, he will take his chance and try to sneak into the U.S. Will he get caught?

As I drive along the Rio Grande plunged into darkness, I question this lottery system of appointments. I think about these people submitting their applications every day, without any clue about their chances. Some have been here for a month. Others got an appointment in days.

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To go further on the topic of the migrant trail, I recommend the book “The Beast” by Salvadoran journalist Oscar Martinez. Written in 2010, some facts might be out of date, but the stories are still relevant.

Thanks to Kayla Green for her help and priceless feedback when writing this story, and Corrie Boudreaux and Luis Torres for their help and support.

Photos and text: Wayan Barre.