Mexicans flood the caravan with kindness – and tarpaulins, tortillas and medicines

PIJIJIAPAN, Mexico – All that Pedro Osmin Ulloa wore, black felt shoes with golden buckles and a brilliant blue button, was as new to him as to Mexico.

The 30-year-old Honduran maize farmer staying furiously in the migrant caravan was dressed in a dungeon way. His 3-year-old son, Alexander, played with donated toys. And the rest of the family – his wife, two brothers and a cousin – sat on the sidewalk eating beef stew and tortillas rented for them by the people of this bustling city in southern Mexico.

"These people have been beautiful," he said. "Everyone helps us."

Who finances the caravan? There is no trace of George Soros or Russians. Instead, the responsibility to feed, clothe and house several thousand migrants has been assumed by small Mexican cities along the road, with residents going on the assault of charity as if they were reacting to a natural disaster. It was difficult to walk a block through this city without seeing crates of free bottles of water, tables filled with ham and cheese tortas or emergency stations filled with community-provided medical supplies. to help the inhabitants of this grueling march.

"We are 100% supportive," said Rafael Trinidad, an employee of the municipality, while distributing sandwiches to migrants arriving by the main road. "At least here, they can feel good."

While President Trump is looking for ways to block the caravan at the US border, Mexicans are mobilizing to facilitate the travel of travelers. Residents along the route say they are motivated by the Catholic tradition of charity, a common familiarity with migration to the United States, and a sense of solidarity with Trump's anti-immigration rhetoric. They recognize that the caravan could be a problem if it persists, but many do not seem to worry about a brief stopover.

[Why travel with the caravan? To avoid one of the world’s most dangerous smuggling routes.]

In addition to the family hardware store, 57-year-old Coqui Cortez set up a table to feed the lemon and stew-smoked migrants with meat from her son's butcher shop, while her daughter donated fruits to her family. the street.

"My family was very blessed," Cortez said. "And we know that we are all brothers. What God gives us, we should share it.

"But we do it with a lot of love," she added.

For cities like Pijijiapan, not far from the border between Mexico and Guatemala, migration is second nature. For decades, people took the streets and took the train to head north. Many people here say they have parents in the United States or have migrated themselves. Migration from Central America to southern Mexico has caused tensions in recent years as their numbers have increased, but people here understand the poverty and violence that migrants are fleeing.

"Today, it's them. Tomorrow, that could be us, "said Lesbia Cinco Ley, 70, who volunteered for the church in town to distribute food.

Officials from the city of Pijijiapan said that they had begun to prepare for the arrival of the caravan on Monday, holding meetings to outline a strategy to assist the migrants. Thursday, before dawn, Cinco Ley and several others began cooking, in order to prepare giant bowls of ham and eggs, along with 14,000 sandwiches. Between the municipality, churches and citizens, city officials estimated that Pijijiapan had spent nearly $ 8,000 for a day of food.

"It's a poor city, but we still did it all," said Guadalupe Rodriguez, 48, a city councilor.

When the caravan arrives in town, it brings much more than migrants. It has evolved into a traveling exhibition of humanitarian workers, refugees, religious volunteers, government officials, police and immigration officials, as well as a large part of Mexico's foreign media corps. . He does not surprise anyone. On Tonala radio, a town 50 km north of Pijijiapan, public service announcements were broadcast on the radio on Thursday before the caravan arrived, telling people where to donate and how to help.

Migrants are resting Thursday in Pijijiapan, where the caravan has received the help of many locals. (Rebecca Blackwell / AP)

Mexican nuns who volunteered during earthquakes, tsunamis and floods came from Guadalajara to join the caravan. They treat migrants against severe sunburn and swollen, swollen feet.

"Mexicans still unite in this kind of situation," said Virginia Hernandez, one of the 32-year-old sisters. "Our Honduran brothers are in need."

The government of President Enrique Peña Nieto wavered on the caravan. A first violent clash with the federal police in riot gear took place on the southern border of Mexico, but the group was finally allowed to pass.

Local governments of the state of Chiapas have so far been more hospitable. The newly elected mayor of Pijijiapan, Hector Meneses Marcelino, belongs to the Morena party, as does the new Mexican president, Andrés Manuel López Obrador, who campaigned for migrants to be treated less as criminals than as human beings who have rights to defend. Meneses said he spent a morning this week defusing a situation in which federal immigration officials wanted to arrest Mexicans who were picking up migrant hitchhikers.

As hundreds of migrants filled the city square on Thursday, crammed under tarpaulins in the shadow of the afternoon sun, city employees and the police rallied to assist them. US officials have distributed pamphlets on Mexican laws on asylum. On the balcony of the Town Hall, a man with a microphone called the names of migrants separated from their loved ones by the mob.

It has been difficult to obtain a reliable estimate of the number of people in the caravan for several reasons: it is now scattered among the cities located along the Chiapas highway; more than 1,000 migrants have abandoned to seek asylum in Mexico; Meneses, the mayor of the city, said that 7,500 migrants had gone to the city, while US staff traveling with the caravan estimated that there were 3,000 migrants.

Nevertheless, for some small Mexican cities, the arrival of a few thousand people is a major event. As the migrants entered the city on foot and hitched up in cars and trucks, 43-year-old Gabriel Gonzalez, a city official, greeted them on the main street, directing them to various assembly points. emergency stations.

"We have already seen migrants here, but never so much," he said. "It looks like all Honduras is coming."

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