In the swiftly gentrifying neighborhood of Juarez in Mexico City, contrasting scenes play out daily. Travelers leisurely roll their suitcases to upscale Airbnbs, while the thumping beats of music fill the air from exclusive pool parties at Soho House, a newly established members-only club. Upscale shops showcase designer underwear, and cafes offer indulgent caviar.
However, amidst this affluence, the streets are lined with tents — home to hundreds of destitute migrants from various corners of the globe.
These migrants, including entire families from countries like Haiti and Venezuela, endure harsh conditions, cooking over open flames, bathing in water from fountains, and lacking access to public restrooms.
For Karenis Álvarez, 36, who has spent three months in this encampment, life here isn't worse than back in Venezuela, where scarcity of food and electricity, along with collapsed education and health systems, are the norm. "We have a place to sleep," Álvarez says, "Even if it’s a tent."
The presence of these tents has sparked protests from locals, who chant "The street is not a shelter," expressing concerns about safety and livability. Humanitarian organizations also call for more protection for these migrants traversing through Mexico.
The phenomenon is not unique to Juarez. In Costa Rica, migrants, mainly from Nicaragua, account for 10% of the population.
In Panama, overwhelmed humanitarian networks are moving hundreds of thousands of migrants north in buses. Colombia has seen nearly 3 million Venezuelans seek refuge in recent years, with another 2 million landing in Ecuador and Peru.
Mexico, too, grapples with the issue, as U.S. policies force many migrants to wait, leading to increased enforcement and deportations. While Mexico City feels safer for migrants than the north, overcrowded shelters have pushed many to improvise, setting up tents in various parts of the city.
Juarez, once known for its historic charm, has rapidly changed, with soaring rents and high-end establishments replacing the old. It's now a hub for tourists and "digital nomads" seeking a lower cost of living.
Among the migrants is Keyla Arriaga, a 23-year-old mother from Guayaquil, Ecuador, fleeing gang violence. She navigates the U.S. asylum process, hoping to protect her family from the dangers she perceives in Mexico.
Marc Arthur Garcon, a Haitian migrant, once considered staying in Mexico but decided against it due to low earnings and increasing hostility. He feels frustrated, seeing no clear path for himself.
Longtime residents like Idelbrano López feel conflicted, wanting to help but concerned about the encampment's impact on their community. Others, like Lorena Perez, see rising costs as the real issue, not the migrants.
Despite the challenges, volunteers like Isaac Contreras work to build bridges, organizing events to foster understanding and community between migrants and locals.
The encampment in Juarez serves as a microcosm of the larger issue of global migration, transforming not only the U.S. border but also nations further south. As these challenges persist, finding solutions that balance compassion and practicality remains an ongoing struggle.