ARTICLES

I’m writing this while sitting in the corner of a large cafeteria in Los Chiles, Costa Rica, a town on the border with Nicaragua. The place is called Casa Esperanza (House of Hope) and serves the population of people who are in movement.

In the first months of Russia’s invasion of Ukraine, thousands of moms carried their babies and their bags through Przemysl train station in Poland.

The stories we tell ourselves form the world we think we live in. Among the myths that have been told and retold across generations, “the threat at the border” has reemerged to prominence.

Since taking office, the new administration has pursued an “America First” agenda. As Vice President J.D. Vance argued, “you love your fellow citizens in your own country, and then after that, you can focus [on] and prioritize the rest of the world” – that is, the U.S. can only care for its own citizens through restrictive immigration policies.

In 2022, José and his pregnant wife, María, fled gang violence in El Salvador, hoping to request asylum in the U.S. María was allowed into the country, but José was sent back to El Salvador. In the U.S., María gave birth to their second child, whom José has yet to meet.

In our current culture, the United States and Mexico border is only depicted as a political battleground — a place defined by division and strife. Yet, when we take into consideration the perspective of those who live and minister there on a day to day basis, we see that the border is also a space where the divine meets humanity.