Life in El Progreso

Katie D.

July 10, 2011 - 5:34 PM

Greetings from the tiny village "The ex-camp for the Banana Plantations: The Flowers" half an hour outside of El Progreso, Yoro, Honduras, Central America. It's a hot and rainy evening, and I have a lot of stories to catch up with!

I am staying here with a wonderful woman named Doña Nelly, whose life work is with COFAMIPRO, and organization that works with and supports the families of migrants who have disappeared, as well as supporting migrants who have returned with physical disabilities. Essentially, what I have seen here in the El Progreso area is like nothing I've encountered before in my migration studies. Changes in the economy here mean that most families are supported by a single wage earner, often someone in the United States. There isn't work for most other people: the new palm plantations require little labor, and the local economy only supports a limited number of small businesses. Many women commute to work in the international factories, but this work tends to be transient and poorly paid. For many, many families in this 85 family town, if their family member was not in the United States, they would be left with nothing.

I try to avoid coming down strongly on a side of the immigration debate, because I am not well-informed enough for a big-picture strategy. But here is the truth as I see it, overlooking this tiny patch of Honduras: there are no other options for the people here. It is migrate, or slowly starve.

And for many, the choice to migrate is a deadly one.

I feel surrounded by tragedy here. In the next few days, I will be joining Doña Nelly to visit men she knows who lost limbs to their journey North: as they rode the trains through Mexico they suffered accidents or assaults, resulting in horrific injuries. Today, I met a woman who has not heard from her son in five years, since his last call from LA. I spent over half an hour searching US prison and immigration detention sites, hoping and dreading I would find her son's name, and I would be able to give her information. I found nothing. Tomorrow I will try again, broadening my search. But what will I tell that woman when I call?

In addition to witnessing hardship and heartbreak, I am also amazed to hear stories of healing and hope. Each year, a group of women, called the "Caravan of Mothers," follows the migrant route north, looking for missing migrant family members. Another woman involved with CONFAMIPRO, Doña Emeteria, found her daughter who had been out of contact for twenty years. Imagine: twenty years of missing your child, and then you pass through a village in Mexico, speaking your child's name and holding out a picture. And there she is.

There is such a strange dynamic here. For the families that live in this little village, there is no work, and no options. Some migrate to the cities, but many are hesitant to do so because of the high rates of violence and gang activity. So they go north, risking life, limb, or disappearance. Or they are left behind by migrant family members. Those who are still here live mostly quiet lives from what I see: they shop in the neighborhood convenience stores and they play soccer. They talk about dreams of studying at a university, or of having a family with a job to support the children. And always, they talk of the possibility of the journey north: the dangers and the opportunities: the way of breaking through the stagnancy of life here, and of making a new life in pursuit of the American Dream.

I am a witness to all of this, and an occasional participant. I speak of what I know: of the difficulty of life in the United States, and the trails in Arizona. I speak to American jobs, but also American rent prices, and the ever-present threat of deportation. I answer questions about racism and discrimination, about language and customs. I talk about American food and American culture.

And over and over I think, "I hope I don't find this young man on the trail during a spring break with No More Deaths." "I hope this girl's mother won't leave her for the states."

And I wonder, again and again, what can be done to change the course of things here? What would it take to allow space for Honduran migrants to have safe and dignified lives here, in their homes?

And, as a note to close this blog and my evening here in El Ex-Campamiento, what will I say to that mother tomorrow, about her missing child?

I don't expect I will sleep well tonight. Neither, I imagine, will she.