by Elena De La Paz
Creating Christmas tree with migrant kids at Casa Esperanza in Los Chiles, Costa Rica.
“What would possess a parent to make that journey with their child?” It’s a question that is often asked NOT with curiosity, compassion, or mercy, but a tone of indifference condemnation, and shame.
The tone in which a question is asked has everything to do with the presumptions that we hold. Are we asking questions from a posture of curiosity and genuine desire to learn about the experience of another one of our fellow human beings? Or do we ask a question from a posture that desires to confirm our previous bias and remain in my comfort zone?
For the better part of this last year, I have been working with Casa Esperanza, a non-profit organization located at the northern border of Costa Rica, serving the migrant community passing through the small border town. For much of my life, I have lived and been formed in a very wealthy and privileged community in the US, distant (both geographically and socio-politically) from the realities that many of these families are faced with on their migration journey.
I’ve always thought of myself as a very open person — someone who was excited about learning new things and was particularly curious about the cultures and realities of other regions around the world. So, it came as quite a humbling and even painful shock to me when I began living in this border town, working alongside this organization, and I quickly realized that there were many presuppositions that I held about migrants that I had never recognized.
As I began to encounter the stories of young families — parents that were my age (in their early twenties), with infants, toddlers, and young children — I began to experience a conflict inside of me. I began to notice that even though I was asking questions to try and understand more about the push and pull factors that contribute to someone’s decision to migrate — and especially to embark on such a harrowing journey through the Darien Gap, the 70 mile stretch of jungle that connects South America to Central — my questions were still largely influenced by the narratives of the country and context that I grew up in. For as much as I liked to think that I was on the side of justice — accepting of the Scriptures that command us to care for the foreigner among us — I had to recognize that the questions that I sometimes asked the families that I came to meet sprouted up from a posture that was more skeptical and judgmental than curious and compassionate. Why?
The underlying narrative that I was forced to confront is that anyone who might dare to take such a dangerous journey with their child is simply unfit to care for their own child (to put it bluntly, though we tend to dress narratives in pretty language). This narrative had formed my imagination and understanding of migration, even without my knowing. It is the root and simultaneously also the sustenance that perpetuates an immigration system in the US that tears families apart. The system does not provide resources that holistically care for these families, prioritizing their unity. Mothers and their children are separated from the fathers. Or both parents are separated from their children.
Unbeknownst to me, the years of seeing the news stories of the separation of families, particularly at our southern border, had led to a distortion of my imagination for how Scripture guides us to love our neighbors. The result was that a narrative took root that led me to believe that these parents had made a rash and uneducated decision — that they were irresponsible and perhaps not the best people to care for their own children.
But as I listened to mothers from Venezuela, Ecuador, Peru, Haiti, Afghanistan and beyond, recounting their stories of abuse, violence, extortion, trafficking, and instability that they were fleeing from, I began to realize that it was me who was uneducated and deeply lacking in compassion. Their stories have taught me that we need better systems that support whole families — together. Systems that also prioritize the needs of parents so that they are able to show up fully for their kids. They have made the brave decision to leave their country, because their imaginations guide them to envision lives of health, wholeness, and flourishing for their children.
Especially when we are convinced that we understand something, or that we are particularly holy and righteous in our way of thinking or acting in connection to this something, it is even more important to pause and consider that our questions might spring up from a narrative that is not true. As Christians, we are tasked with giving ourselves to the continual process of the renewing of our minds. If we choose to believe that we have “arrived” and already know the answers, we are in danger. Beyond the answers, we must also consider that we must evaluate the postures from which we ask questions as well.
It is a harder and more painful, refining work to open ourselves to the Spirit and ask that any posture or attitude that has taken form in us because of what has been modeled in the world around us be removed. It was easy for me to believe that because I was trying to listen to these parent’s stories by asking them questions that there was not a deeper narrative to be uprooted in me — a narrative that condemned these parents for a decision that they felt they were forced to make in search of life.
As a good friend once told me, “our words create worlds.” We must remember that our postures behinds these words form these worlds too.
We must continue to ask ourselves, what is the posture from which I am asking questions of my brothers and sisters right now? May we give ourselves honestly to this important reflective work and actively make changes to dismantle these narratives within ourselves so that we can, in turn, participate in this work in the world.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Elena De La Paz is a Colorado native, but is currently based in Costa Rica, working with the non-profit, Association Casa Adobe. Much of her work throughout this last year has been with the migrant community at Casa Esperanza, a dining hall and shelter, located at the northern border of Costa Rica. Inspired by these brothers and sisters in their migrant journey, Elena is passionate about storytelling that challenges the “othering” of people -- aiming to reveal our shared humanity.
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