I’ve been stateside nearly seven months now after three years in Mexico (two coordinating the Casa de la Paz in Chiapas). And though the initial tidal waves of rage and despair have quieted somewhat, I can’t say that I’m any closer to embracing my new lifestyle. I’ve moved to the desert, Florence, Arizona, to work for an organization that defends the legal and human rights of detained immigrants. It was a pretty logical transition after my time experiencing first hand the context and motivations for which Mexicans, Guatemalans, Hondurans, El Salvadorans and Nicaraguans are migrating. There’s no food, there’s no options, I get it, I’ve seen it, I’ve felt it; the desperation that drives millions to risk their lives and families, risk everything to look for work on the other side. But even witnessing the extreme poverty of rural Chiapas, the hopelessness and decay of urban Mexico, the disintegrating social fabric thanks to global economic policies, militarization, “development,” could not prepare me for the inherent injustice and pain I see everyday in the Department of Homeland Security Detention Center.

I used to live across the street from a death row maximum security prison. Every morning I woke up to the yard megaphone, calling inmates in to chow. I then drive 3 miles, past 7 other AZ state prisons and 2 strip malls. By 7:30 am I’m in Department of Homeland Security Immigration Court (attached to the DHS detention facility) standing in front of 5-45 detained immigrants explaining their legal options for their first court. The majority choose deportation rather than months in detention fighting their cases. The people who choose “more time,” and who can’t afford lawyers (people are not provided with legal counsel for immigration proceedings, so 90% represent themselves) are the people we try to assist, investigating their cases, preparing them, contacting their families.

I suppose on some level I always knew the day was coming; it was inevitable that at some point I would run into a familiar face in that morning Know Your Rights Presentation.

I didn’t know Juan personally, but I know his story well. And after a month of intense legal training, “baptism by fire” at the detention centers, culture shock; after more or less getting my footing; hearing Juan’s story was like getting hit by a bucket of cold water.

There was a hurricane, he says, and my heart sinks.

You are from Guatemala, I say, glancing at the court list. I too was in that hurricane.

We lost everything, the house was washed away, the coffee plants... I only have the clothes I arrived in, I borrowed the money for the coyote. I can’t go back. There is nothing left.

I know, I say. I saw your house, I think. I saw the water that wouldn’t cease, I saw the mountains consume entire populations, I saw the landslides, the devastation. And I know, that for Juan, there was no other option other than perilous journey north. His feet are bandaged and he limps due burns and blisters from crossing the desert.

Hurricane Stan struck Chiapas and Guatemala a year and a half ago and the devastation to the poorest of the poor is still tangible today.