Day 12: The Detention Center

I met a boy a few days ago whose dad had been shot thirteen times in a city in Mexico and then had been transferred to a hospital in the United States. 

The boy managed to cross over the border somehow (maybe with the help of a coyote, maybe by himself) and because unaccompanied minors get passage into the United States under Biden, he was told by his friends and family in Mexico to turn himself into the authorities. 

The moment he crossed over, he found a police officer, who took him directly to a detention facility. He was there for four months. 

When he spoke about his time there, his face clouded over. He said he had 15 minutes to go outside every day, but was mostly in confinement. He barely ate, and was anxious and afraid. 

By the time he was finally sent to Annunciation House, his father had been released from the hospital. His mother and older brother had also successfully crossed and the whole family was reunited. They are staying at our long-term facility until the father fully recovers. 

It's not a fully happy ending, though. Now, the boy's father is dealing with serious health implications. The other day, he was rushed to the hospital in the middle of the night because he was having some sort of an allergic reaction to medication. 

The boy's mother is a wonderful cook, but the boy is so used to not eating that he barely touches her food. When the father makes a complete and full recovery, the family will then have to worry about being deported. The children haven't been to school since the accident this spring. 

The boy is 15 years old. As he told me his story, I couldn't stop thinking about how he is too young to wrap his head around his own trauma. He probably won't for a long time, and he may never fully be able to. 

It makes my heart hurt. 

(At one of our shelters downtown, the names of thousands of people that died in the civil war in El Salvador in the 80s are written on the wall.)