Fleeing abuse in Colombia, Maria hoped Mexico would offer refuge. Instead, she found a landscape where fear, extortion, and survival shape everyday life for migrants trapped in transit
BY FRANCESCA RAPISARDA
Maria arrived in Mexico in November 2024 with her young daughter, leaving behind Colombia in search of safety, stability, and a chance to rebuild her life, but the journey she hoped would offer relief became another battleground.
“I thought I would find stability, but everything was different,” Maria said. “I feel safe sometimes, but fear never fully leaves. The police are not always trustworthy, and money dictates survival. If you can’t pay, your possessions, or worse, can be taken. Every bus ride, every checkpoint, is a risk.”
abuse and ill-treatment suffered by migrants and refugees, in their country of origin and along the
migration route; as well as in different Mexican communities in the country severely punished by
violence. (Credits: Jordi Ruiz Cirera)
Her story is not just about crossing borders; it is about navigating a landscape where violence, corruption, and uncertainty intersect. On the road to Mexico City, Maria faced threats from criminal groups and lived with the constant fear of being kidnapped. “There was a moment I could have been taken. The police and cartels work together. They asked for money to let people pass. If you didn’t pay, you were in danger,” she explained.
This is the invisible migration inside Mexico, a flow of thousands trapped in limbo after U.S. policies tightened under the Trump administration. Migrants who once hoped to reach the United States now remain in Mexico, where informal camps and detention centers swell beyond capacity, and access to health, education, and protection is limited.
Maria’s experience showed the physical and emotional toll of this crisis. She fled Colombia not only for safety but to escape personal trauma. “I came here with a different situation. I was a victim of intimate partner violence. It affected me emotionally and psychologically. I had to work with psychologists just to regulate my feelings a little, to feel some stability,” she said.
Doctors Without Borders and other humanitarian organisations have been a lifeline by providing her with psychological support, medical care, and broad support, helping her manage both the trauma of migration and prior abuse.
“They guided me and helped me regain some stability,” Maria said, though the scars remained. She struggles with fragmented sleep, heightened anxiety, and a persistent sense of insecurity. “I never stop thinking about what could happen next. It is difficult to live with this uncertainty, being here but not being sure about the future.”
The risks extend beyond immediate safety as gender-based violence is a recurring trauma. Maria recounted witnessing a child close to her being hurt because of the actions of traffickers and gangs, a story that haunts her still. “I am alone here with my daughter. That makes it harder. I have seen cases close to me where children were threatened. That fear never leaves you,” she said.
Life in the camps is precarious, informal settlements are overcrowded, resources are scarce, and the presence of criminal organizations is growing. Access to law enforcement offers no guarantee; in fact, collaboration between police and criminal networks leaves migrants in an impossible position. “If you don’t have money for bribes, you can’t even buy a bus ticket safely. Everything is controlled by someone,” Maria said.
The mental health consequences are profound. Jorge Pedro Martin, project coordinator of MSF in Mexico City, working with migrants, noted that over 50% of the population seen by medical teams report symptoms of depression, anxiety, and trauma directly related to experiences of violence, physical, sexual, or psychological.
“The combination of being in transit, facing systemic violence, and having minimal legal protection creates a mental health crisis that is largely invisible to the outside world,” he said.
Maria’s journey underscores a larger systemic failure. The migrant population in Mexico is overwhelmingly from Venezuela and Central America, fleeing violence, poverty, and political instability. Policies designed to deter U.S. border crossings have left them stranded with camps overflowing, health services struggling to keep pace, and women and children remaining particularly vulnerable.
“I came here thinking I would be somewhere safe,” Maria reflected, “but what I found was a system that depends on survival by money, by risk. You learn to navigate fear constantly. Even now, I feel more secure than before, but the threat is always present. The police are sometimes as dangerous as the cartels.”
Yet, between the fear, there is resilience. Maria participates in programs that provide education and support for children, and she continues to seek medical and psychological care. “I am here for my daughter,” she said. “I want her to grow up knowing she can survive, that she can hope for something better. Sharing my story is important so others know they are not alone. The struggle is real and ongoing.”
Her story is a human portrait of a crisis defined by statistics and policy, but lived in real bodies and real fears. Behind the numbers, over 140,000 asylum requests were filed in 2024 alone, only a fraction resolved by the government are women like Maria, navigating violence, bureaucratic barriers, and the precariousness of existence in transit.
Maria’s voice, raw and unwavering, calls for awareness. “People need to understand what happens here,” she said. “We are human beings. We have rights. We have stories. And we need the world to see us.”
*Names have been changed to protect identities.
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