How one border community shows goodwill toward migrants this holiday season
| Nogales, Mexico
Nativity pageants reenacting the centuries-old story of Mary and Joseph looking for shelter before the birth of Jesus have been central to Christmas season celebrations for generations. In Mexico and other parts of Latin America, the tradition is known as a “posada,” in which friends and neighbors walk door to door asking if there’s room at the “inn.” They’re turned away until finally welcomed inside.
At the U.S. southern border, this year’s posada turned into a present-day parable of charity and acceptance.
Why We Wrote This
A story focused onIn Mexico, attitudes toward migration have not been overwhelmingly polarizing. But some worry that acceptance could wane amid a wave of deportations.
In the lead-up to President-elect Donald Trump’s second term, in which he’s promised mass deportations and new restrictions on asylum, the welcome and the embrace of the stranger are being put to the test. A cross-border humanitarian group used this year’s posada to shore up goodwill toward refugees and those rejected from the United States who have been labeled criminals and murderers.
The posada “allows us to put ourselves in the shoes of a migrant,” says Maria Eugenio Mendoza, whose daughter dressed as Mary for the event. “We’re not so different in what we hold close and cherish and what they are seeking by migrating.”
The angels were among the first to arrive at the U.S.-Mexico border crossing, decked out with their glittering halos and long white gowns.
By the time the sound system was set up under a beating sun in the desert foothills and the shepherds were accounted for, the procession had grown to about 150 revelers.
Nativity pageants reenacting the story of Mary and Joseph seeking shelter in Bethlehem and finding rejection, until being welcomed in a stable for the birth of Jesus, have been central to religious Christmas seasons for generations. In Mexico, the tradition is called a “posada,” when friends and neighbors go door-to-door in their communities asking if there’s room at the “inn.” They’re turned away repeatedly until arriving at their final destination, where they’re welcomed inside to piñatas, tamales, and caroling.
Why We Wrote This
A story focused onIn Mexico, attitudes toward migration have not been overwhelmingly polarizing. But some worry that acceptance could wane amid a wave of deportations.
Here at the U.S. southern border, this year’s posada turned into a present-day parable of charity and acceptance in a political climate where the welcome and embrace of the stranger is about to be tested.
Donald Trump takes office Jan. 20, and amid the incoming president’s promise of mass deportations and new restrictions on asylum, a cross-border humanitarian aid group used the event to shore up goodwill toward refugees and those ejected from the United States who have been labeled murderers, rapists, and drug dealers.
The Saturday before Christmas, a crowd of not only Mexican and American citizens, but also of Nicaraguans, Cubans, Jordanians, and others walked west together along the rust-colored border wall in a binational posada that sought to point out the parallels between biblical characters and the modern-day plight faced by migrants and refugees.
“We’re trying to promote an attitude of hospitality in Nogales,” says Joanna Williams, executive director of the Kino Border Initiative. Nogales is the name of the towns on both sides of the border crossing – the one in Sonora, Mexico, regularly receiving buses of deportees. “We want to make sure people understand those coming here aren’t ‘criminals.’ Because then they are not only deported from the U.S. but also excluded from society in Mexico.”
“So real it hurts”
Each stop of the posada is marked by a small stand or poster set up on or near the border wall. During the 1.5-hour enactment, the crowd hears testimony from a migrant or deportee describing their experiences – robberies or months waiting to request asylum in the U.S. – and their pleas for respect and dignity for those driven to leave home.
At one stop “pilgrims” sing out: “We seek a dignified life, why do you treat us like this?” The “innkeepers” respond: “I’ll treat you how I want; I’m the one in charge here.”
Maria Eugenio Mendoza, whose teenage daughter was performing in the nativity, lives a typical Nogales existence: she works and resides in Mexico but sends her children to school daily in the U.S. She has participated in traditional Christmas posadas her entire life, but usually they are “happy.”
Listening to the migrants’ stories this year is “so real it hurts,” she says, standing in the middle of the street. Nearby, migrants among the group are invited to leave their handprint in paint on a cardboard cross attached to the border wall, razor wire visible through the fence posts. This “allows us to put ourselves in the shoes of a migrant,” says Ms. Mendoza. “We’re not so different in what we hold close and cherish and what they are seeking by migrating.”
Marta Luisa, from the southern Mexican state of Guerrero, just left home due to growing violence and threats from organized crime. Like all migrants, she only provided her first name for her safety. “I never really thought about Mary and Joseph as migrants,” she says, bouncing her toddler daughter on her hip. But now that she is seeking asylum in the U.S., “It makes me feel closer to this story,” she says. “Faith is the last thing you lose.”
A place to rest
According to the Bible, Mary and Joseph were returning to Bethlehem, for a mandatory census before Jesus’ birth. Because everyone under the Roman Empire’s rule was heading to their villages of origin for the count, inns along the way were at capacity, says Bob Solis, a Catholic deacon who came from the Phoenix area to volunteer at the posada. The couple was also very poor, and likely had few options to begin with, he adds.
“To me, migration is part of the message of Christmas. Many say, ‘No, no, it’s the arrival of Jesus,’ but both aspects are intertwined,” he says. Jesus lived much of his life as a refugee, Mr. Solis adds, his family forced to flee death threats by moving to Egypt.
The processional wends its way across town led by a pickup truck that drags an open trailer full of musicians strumming guitars and leading the crowd in song. The starts and stops of the procession block traffic on the narrow road, but nobody honks. By the time it reaches its final stop, the front gate of the Kino group’s building, pilgrims plead to be let in. “There is space for everyone,” the innkeepers finally sing to them.
For Issa, a Christian Jordanian who fled his country eight months ago, the climax of the posada mirrors the relief he feels in his own experience. When he first arrived at the U.S. border, he says he was robbed and harassed by criminals who prey on migrants before finally finding Kino.
As he walked into the organization’s dining hall for the celebration, his face lights up. Rows of tables are filled with revelers, exhausted from the hot walk through town and digging into bean, chicken, and carnitas tacos. A seven-piece Mariachi band plays “Feliz Navidad.”
He recently received an appointment to meet with U.S. immigration officers. The holiday party coincides with his goodbye.
“Everything we lacked, we found here,” he says. This space was his posada for the past six months. In the coming days, he would be knocking on the United States’ proverbial door asking for the ultimate refuge: asylum.
