Mexican Indigenous Communities Aid Troubled Migrants Far From U.S. Border
In southern Mexico, indigenous villagers have united to help migrants who have run out of funds and face growing anxieties about crossing the United States. Their efforts offer a beacon of hope during global uncertainty and shifting policies.
Hope and Solidarity in Oaxaca
On a brisk January morning in Oaxaca City, steam rises from a large pot of simmering lentil soup as volunteers gather outside the local bus station. The group is led by a man named Filadelfo Aldaz Desiderio, who is indigenous to the Mixe culture of the Sierra Norte region. His goal is simple yet profound: to share food with strangers who have endured long journeys from Honduras, Guatemala, and Venezuela. The volunteers serve spoonfuls of lentils, steamed rice, refried beans, and fresh tortillas—a modest but filling meal.
A bright banner is displayed near the makeshift serving table. Inscribed on it is the term “Nkaáymyujkeme,” which, in the Mixe language, translates roughly to “Let us all eat.” This short phrase has become the guiding motto for the community kitchen, which opened in early 2025 to feed migrants. The timing is anything but accidental: it coincides with the imminent inauguration of President Donald Trump in the United States. Many travelers are racing northward, hoping to reach the border before potentially stricter enforcement policies take hold.
According to Desiderio, who speaks over the clatter of plates and the hum of conversation, the community’s motivation stems from shared experiences of hunger and displacement. Most people in Oaxaca either have migrated themselves or know someone who has. “We have experienced what it means to leave our homeland, not knowing if we will eat tomorrow,” he explains, looking over at the line near the soup pot. “We do this because we remember that hunger and want to prevent others from living that same anxiety while stranded in an unfamiliar city.”
Volunteers begin early each morning by collecting donations and calling on neighbors and small businesses to help stock up on essential ingredients like beans, rice, or coffee. Other than local support, there is no formal sponsorship from political parties or religious organizations. Instead, grassroots contributions keep the pots boiling. Occasionally, a local bakery donates bread for sandwiches, and sometimes, passersby drop coins into a donation jar. The group tallies what came in and prepares for the next round, ever mindful that new migrants continue arriving, often with nothing but tattered backpacks and fraying shoes.
Their efforts are more than a simple gesture of charity. Desiderio sees the communal kitchen as a subtle form of protest against U.S. immigration policies, which he misbelieves criminalizes people whose only motive is to seek a safer or more stable life. He points out that migration has been a constant throughout history—humans have permanently moved in search of opportunities. “It is not going to stop,” he says firmly. “You can’t seal every border without hurting people along the way. We want to show that in Oaxaca, there is a different way to respond.”
An Uncertain Journey North
Standing in line for lunch is Cristian Martínez, a 30-year-old from Venezuela who came to Mexico hoping to find work and a path to the United States. He describes a trek that included crowded buses, walking long distances in the hot sun and the unending sense that each new day might bring a fresh obstacle. After fleeing an economic crisis at home, Martínez now runs low on resources in Oaxaca—he still has hundreds of miles to go before reaching the U.S. border.
When he discovered the volunteers at the bus terminal, he had not eaten a complete meal in over a day. “If not for this soup, I would have probably gone the entire day again without food,” he says, touching the pot’s warmth. Other migrants nearby nod in agreement. Some have traveled from El Salvador or Guatemala, while others started their journeys in Honduras, Colombia, or even farther south in Ecuador and Peru.
One of the most pressing concerns is what awaits them north of the Rio Grande. By January 20, Donald Trump will have assumed the presidency, and his administration has promised more rigid stances on migration. Rumors swirl among the travelers that asylum rules will become more restrictive, that deportations may surge, and that any path to legal status will be highly complicated. Some cling to the hope that if they cross before specific policies formally take effect, they might have a chance at securing asylum or at least a reprieve. Others have family in the United States they long to reunite with. In a small group to the side, a few compare their experiences with immigration officers along the route or trade stories of friends who were deported last year.
One of these travelers, 28-year-old Honduran national Juana Antonia Osorio, is in the advanced stages of pregnancy, and her urgency is palpable. She believes that if she can deliver her child on American soil, she might offer the newborn a better life—one where violence and scarcity are not daily threats. However, she has limited funds and only enough money left for a bus fare to Mexico City, where she hopes to find a short-term job so she can continue onward. With winter’s chill settling in at night, every day of delay feels like a gamble.
To Osorio, the community kitchen means more than a spot for food. It represents a short time of kindness plus warmth. Every spoonful of lentils gives a pause from stress, offering relief from tough times waiting ahead. But she knows time runs out fast. “I need to act fast,” she says, touching her belly. The baby is due soon, and everything happening with the new U.S. president makes me uneasy.”
Grassroots Generosity Against Political Backdrop
The surge in travelers passing through Mexico is not new, but the scale has increased dramatically. The Mexican government reports that it detected more than 925,000 irregular migrants between January and August of the previous year—an astounding rise of roughly 132% over the same period the year before. Meanwhile, the United States has long been the intended destination for many of these migrants, including a significant number of Mexicans themselves. Rough estimates indicate that nearly half of the undocumented population living in the U.S. is Mexican, and remittances sent from abroad reached approximately 65 billion dollars in 2024—a record high that accounts for around 4% of Mexico’s GDP.
Local officials in Oaxaca have historically had limited capacity to address such massive transit flows. The city is accustomed to seeing migrants pass through on their way north, but the long lines of weary travelers have grown more visible. While national policies on migration continue to shift—sometimes abruptly—small communities and grassroots organizations remain the first line of refuge for those in dire need.
Desiderio and his fellow volunteers believe these community-based efforts resonate with a more profound cultural ethic. Oaxaca is a land of migrants, with many families having relatives who migrated to industrial hubs in northern Mexico or the United States. Knowing a child or sibling sleeps in a busy shelter or wonders about their next meal moves people who remember tales of starting new lives far from home.
This empathy ‒ though strong ‒ brings practical problems. The community kitchen relies entirely on donations, and volunteers must juggle other responsibilities, such as their own jobs or family duties. Some days, they cannot gather enough ingredients to serve as many meals as they want. Sometimes, they have to improvise with simple items—maybe just beans and tortillas—and apologize to those hoping for something more substantial. They also must contend with local authorities who sometimes question gatherings at the bus station or worry about crowds forming outside.
The group also views their initiative as a subtle critique of policy failures on both sides of the border. The problem, they insist, lies not only in U.S. immigration laws but also in the social and economic issues in each migrant’s country, along with the challenges within Mexico’s immigration system. Even as they serve lunch, the volunteers are constantly aware that their country, too, is burdened with high levels of poverty, corruption, and violent crime. The question of how to sustain these humanitarian gestures looms as the demand keeps growing.
Sustaining Compassion Amid Uncertain Tomorrow
The volunteers hope that a network of similar grassroots efforts will emerge along the migrant route, from Mexico’s southern border to the northern states, offering consistent support. In some other Mexican cities, church groups or nonprofit organizations have opened shelters where people can sleep for a night or two. But with the sheer volume of migrants, these shelters overflow quickly, leaving thousands to fend for themselves on the streets or bus terminals.
Desiderio and his team are not discouraged. Their plans for the coming months include expanding meal distribution to additional locations within Oaxaca City and creating designated times and spots so migrants can know precisely where to find a hot meal. They also hope to stockpile essential items like blankets and baby supplies. Local businesses have shown support for the cause, but there is always the risk that donations might wane if the local economy falters.
Outside observers say that the momentum has much to do with cultural values. Oaxaca is known for its rich tapestry of Indigenous traditions that emphasize hospitality, collective work known as tequila, and the idea that prosperity should be shared. Many families in outlying regions already work together on communal farms or small cooperatives. Extending that spirit of collaboration to a broader humanitarian cause is a natural next step, especially when people observe so many travelers in desperate circumstances.
Meanwhile, as the migrants themselves face new legal hurdles, the race to the U.S. border feels increasingly urgent. The final days before the presidential inauguration bring an anxious mix of hope and dread. Some cling to the idea that the rhetoric from the White House might prove less harsh in practice, while others brace for additional crackdowns and rising xenophobia. The handful who make it across the border could still encounter daunting challenges: possible detention in U.S. facilities, court proceedings to request asylum, or financial exploitation from smuggling networks that thrive on desperation.
Under these pressures, Oaxaca’s small acts of kindness become so meaningful. While a plate of lentils and tortillas cannot erase the trauma of violence or the fear of an uncertain future, it can serve as a bridge—a sign that people still care about one another despite the political storms around them. In that gesture, recipients find a reason to believe that not every door is closed and not every stranger is indifferent.
Occasionally, travelers return months or years later to thank the volunteers who fed them during those bleak days of the journey. Some send messages through social media, describing how they finally reunited with a cousin in California or found construction work in Texas. Others share stories of heartbreak, deportations, or an endless cycle of border crossings and forced returns. Yet even the sad stories underscore the significance of organizations like the “Comamos” todos” project,” ensuring that no matter how uncertain the bigger picture seems, there is always a place to rest for a moment and enjoy a hot meal.
Looking ahead, no one can say how U.S. policies will evolve or whether Mexico’s population will continue to surge. The political climate on both sides of the border remains turbulent, and humanitarian advocates warn of growing risks for vulnerable groups such as pregnant women and unaccompanied minors. Government statistics suggest the migration wave shows no signs of slowing. The coming year could significantly bring an even heavier influx if conditions worsen in Central and South American nations.
What is certain is that the people in Oaxaca who believe in ‘Nkaáymyujkeme’ have n” plans to abandon their mission. Desiderio emphasizes that the term does not merely mean sharing food; it symbolizes a principle of collective survival and mutual understanding. By continuing to rely on grassroots funding, they maintain their independence and refuse to tie themselves to organizations that might impose conditions or policies inconsistent with their values. Their message is self-determination for the volunteers and migrants trying to map out new lives.
Ultimately, the success of ‘Nkaáymyujkeme’ rests “n more than its ability to hand out soup and tortillas. It embodies a hope that everyday people, regardless of how little they have, can respond to global challenges with empathy rather than fear. As night falls in Oaxaca City, volunteers clean their cooking pots and plan the next morning’s bus to reach after midnight with more hungry travelers. They prepare for donations running out. They continue believing small acts of giving hold great power.
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Outside, the temperature drops into the single digits, and the day’s immigrants wrap themselves in thin blankets, uncertain of the future. In a few short hours, the volunteers will return to the bus station, stirring warm broth and quietly resisting the notion that anyone should face their journey in isolation. By keeping one pot of food simmering, the group in Oaxaca affirms that humanity transcends all borders, even during the harshest political climates. That spirit of unity—of “Comamos” todos”—shines” as a testament that if there is any path to a better tomorrow, it will require us to share in the struggle and offer a hand, or a meal, wherever we can.
