The Railway to White Picket Fences

I awoke to blinding lights beaming through my window. The whole floor shook, something like an earthquake. When the train passed through, there was no ignoring it. The howling of the rails and the chatter of voices filled the night. I looked at my watch: 3 am. 

I jumped out of bed and peered out as a long chain of freight cars slowed before the gate. Each car was completely covered by human bodies. People were tightly packed together, gripping onto whatever they could. Some dangled off the sides of ladders, while others were tucked between the cars, ready to jump off as soon as the train stopped its movement. It all came to a screeching halt, and suddenly a crowd of new faces flowed through the gate. 

This was life at the migrant shelter in Ixtepec, Oaxaca. “Hermanos en el Camino”, which translates to “Brothers on the Road”, is a refuge built along the railway. It is one of many lining the tracks through Guatemala and Mexico. To those on the long and treacherous journey from Central America to the United States, the shelters offer a place to rest, wash up, and eat. 

It was also home to me, for three months: a very brief amount of time in hindsight. I worked in a volunteer position that I quite accidentally stumbled upon. By accidentally, I mean that I didn’t really know what I was getting into. But to be clear, this story is not to say, “Look what I did”. My time spent in Ixtepec was no contribution, but it was eye opening to a perspective that stuck with me and some insights that I’d like to share. 

So, let’s get back to the real story. Back to the train, arriving at odd hours of the night. Back to the people it carried across countries. The cargo train, never meant to carry humans, carries about 300 people every trip north. It begins the journey in Guatemala, and those coming from father south often travel by foot until they reach the tracks. I met many people from Honduras, El Salvador, Nicaragua, Panama, even a man from Guyana once. The train runs all the way up to the border of the United states and that’s exactly where everyone is headed. Many are seeking refuge from gang violence or prosecution in their home countries. There are also lots of people looking to earn the money needed to support a family. They hope to find the nice paying jobs that the US is said to offer. Some are in search of family members who’ve already made the trip. And then there were those looking for adventure. In fact, during my time at the shelter, I met a lot of other 19-year-olds, and 20-somethings. People, pretty much just like me, leaving home for the first time in search of something that wasn’t available where they were coming from. 

But the railway north is far from safe. It’s not uncommon for people to fall off, for one, especially when tired and hungry after days on the cars. But more dangerous is the fact that while migrating, a person becomes vulnerable. They’re far away from home, carrying everything they own on their backs, drawing attention to the railway. The trains have become a target for Mexican gangs and drug cartels. This means, unfortunately, the most gruesome details you can imagine. People are killed, raped, or robbed of everything they have. The shelters attempt to discourage the violence and protect the people, providing a place of security. 

Each shelter through Mexico runs off of both the generosity of the surrounding towns, as well as the help provided by volunteers, who are mostly Mexican university students, nuns, and sometimes migrants themselves. Donations come from nearby markets, fruits and vegetables gone bad, that no one would be able to sell. Volunteers in the kitchen would spend hours sorting through it all. Cutting the mould off tomatoes, peeling black layers off the onions, salvaging what could still be eaten. Those food donations could last a week. But often there were so many people coming through that food had to be rationed to one serving per person. These same nights, sleeping mats would be lacking and the dormitories would be full. The courtyard would be overflowing with people curled up to sleep. Still, week after week the train would arrive and new people would jump off. They would eat a few meals, have a night’s rest, and then jump back on when the trained passed again. 

            “It’s hard for me to believe all of these people want to go to America,” I commented one night, as people jumped off the train. I often thought this, but never said anything. A friend I was working with didn’t understand this comment. Why wouldn’t someone want to go to America? 

“I don’t understand why you want to be here,” she laughed. 

Before the shelter, I can admit to being quite ignorant to the conditions of the US-Mexican border, and the vast amounts of people fleeing their home countries for an American life. Perhaps being Canadian, I had been considerably sheltered from these realities.

It was odd. Here I was, escaping the culture of North America, wishing I could live in Mexico forever meanwhile thousands of people were risking their lives on a journey to the US. Six years ago, about half of those people would not have actually made it across the border, and that statistic is only increasing. In 2019, 69% of people seeking asylum were denied. Immigration laws were strict even back then, and are much worse now. To simply get a tourist visa is near impossible, especially if you are poor. I’m from Canada, and I can travel wherever I want to. They are from Central America and they cannot. 

Born in Canada we have the very taken for granted privilege of moving throughout the world without a second thought. We can go to almost any country, with the purchase of a plane ticket, and maybe a visa. Not everyone has this luxury of seeing the world; of moving about freely. Awaiting us in each foreign country is a community of other travellers, businesses that cater to the English-speaking, and hotels that mimic home. We have the choice to travel if we want to, and the privilege to do so with ease. Most of the world lives without this reality. 

Since my time at the shelter, the rate of immigration has increased by more than 50%. And since the election of Trump, conflicting feelings on the matter have horrifically risen to the surface. It’s right-wing nationalism at its finest. Headlines that read about tear gassing at the border, or children dying in border custody strike me. It’s an “immigration crisis”, as they call it. I want us to understand it for what it is. For this is a result of hundreds of years of manipulation of governments and the exploitation of whole nations. This is the outcome of banana republics and collapsed economies. There is a reason that people leave their homes, and both the US and Canada do not stand anywhere close to innocent, in the upbringing of the poverty existing further south. 

It really is a dangerous road, that thousands of people travel, chasing the American dream. America said, “Life is better here.” And that message was heard loud and clear by the rest of the world. A message so convincing that a person is willing to risk their lives for what possibly awaits on the other side. And there I stand, at one stop on the railway, knowing the grass does not grow greener around white picket fences, but smiling, handing plates of rice and beans over the counter, trying to wrap my mind around how it all came to be this way.