Renita Bermudez

The dust settles on the street outside the shelter, kicked up by restless feet. People come and go, looking for answers no one has. I sit on the thin mattress they gave me, listening to the low murmur of conversations, the occasional sobs muffled against tired hands. My son is outside, trying to find work—any work. I tell him not to take risks, not to trust strangers, but what choice do we have?

I am fifty-two years old, and I have never felt this uncertain before. Back home in Venezuela, everything crumbled—money became worthless, food became scarce, safety became a dream. My eldest managed to cross into the United States two years ago. He builds houses for people who will never know his name, sends us what he can. He tells me to be patient, that we will find a way.

When we first arrived in Tijuana, hope still flickered in me. There were shelters, legal aid groups, whispers of a system that, though slow, might eventually let us through. Then Trump returned, and with him, the crushing weight of policies meant to erase us. The CBP One app was our last hope—an appointment that could have changed our fate. Now it’s gone. The shelters fill up with more people like us.

We hear rumors every day. Some say Mexico will send us back to Venezuela, that Sheinbaum will make deals to avoid conflict with Washington. Others say the cartels have started preying on migrants even more, knowing we have nowhere to go. Every night, I hear stories of kidnappings, of families torn apart. I hold my son close, pray he doesn’t become a target.

The Mexican president tells us to stay calm, that negotiations will take time. But time is something we don’t have. Deportations are coming, mass raids, people rounded up and pushed back. And yet, I hesitate. Do we turn back? Face the same hunger, the same fear? Or do we wait here, in this in-between, hoping for a mercy that may never come?

I watch my son return, his shoulders slumped, his hands empty. Another day with no work. Another day of waiting. I pull him into an embrace, whispering words I barely believe myself.

“We will find a way.”

Because we must.