It Could Happen Here - They Don’t Care About Us: What Migrants Leave Behind

Episode Date: October 30, 2024

In part three of his series on the Darién Gap, James talks about what drives Venezuelan and African migrants to make the journey through the Darién Gap. Sources: https://www.notiparole.com https://www.instagram.com/p/DAaDkSwh1Jk/?igsh=bmgyanBteW10czd5 https://www.nytimes.com/1964/09/20/archives/a-new-canaldug-by-atom-bombs-nuclear-energy-is-the-key-to-replacing.html https://www.themanual.com/outdoors/darien-gap-feature/ https://www.theguardian.com/global-development/2024/apr/18/panama-darien-gap-jose-raul-mulino https://americasquarterly.org/article/the-darien-gaps-fearsome-reputation-has-been-centuries-in-the-making/ https://www.aljazeera.com/opinions/2022/10/27/the-darien-gap-a-deadly-extension-of-the-us-border https://www.hrw.org/sites/default/files/supporting_resources/jmhs.pdf https://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/2022/06/20/snakes-swamps-whisky-british-explorers-went-ultimate-boys-adventure/ https://www.strausscenter.org/publications/asylum-processing-at-the-u-s-mexico-border-august-2024/ https://www.gob.mx/inm/prensa/el-gobierno-mexicano-y-el-inm-articulan-corredor-emergente-de-movilidad-segura-para-el-traslado-de-personas-extranjeras-con-cita-cbp-one https://english.elpais.com/international/2024-03-23/kidnapping-and-escape-of-95-ecuadorian-migrants-in-chiapas-if-you-continue-informing-we-will-return-them-in-bags.html https://humanrightsfirst.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/02/Asylum-Policies-Harm-Black-Asylum-Seekers-FACTSHEET-formatted.pdf https://respondcrisistranslation.org/en/newsb/cbp-ones-obscene-language-errors-create-more-barriers-for-asylum-seekers https://www.msf.org/lack-action-sees-sharp-rise-sexual-violence-people-transiting-darien-gap-panamaSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

On Thanksgiving Day, 1999, five-year-old Cuban boy Elian Gonzalez was found off the coast of Florida. And the question was, should the boy go back to his father in Cuba? Mr. Gonzalez wanted to go home, and he wanted to take his son with him. Or stay with his relatives in Miami? Imagine that your mother died trying to get you to freedom. Listen to Chess Peace, the Elian Gonzalez story on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Hey, I'm Jacqueline Thomas,

the host of a brand new Black Effect original series, Black Lit, the podcast for diving deep into the rich world of Black literature. Black Lit is for the page turners, for those who listen to audiobooks while running errands or at the end of a busy day. From thought-provoking novels to powerful poetry, we'll explore the stories that shape our culture. Listen to Black Lit on the Black Effect Podcast Network, iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. AT&T. Connecting changes everything. I found out I was related to the guy that I was dating.

I don't feel emotions correctly. I collect my roommate's toenails and fingernails. Those were some callers from my call-in podcast, Therapy Gecko. It's a show where I take phone calls from anonymous strangers as a fake gecko therapist and try to learn a little bit about their lives. I know that's a weird concept, but I promise it's very interesting. Check it out for yourself by searching for Therapy Gecko on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts.

Curious about queer sexuality, cruising, and expanding your horizons? Hit play on the sex-positive and deeply entertaining podcast, Sniffy's Cruising Confessions. Join hosts Gabe Gonzalez and Chris Patterson Rosso as they explore queer sex, cruising, relationships, and culture in the new iHeart podcast, Sniffy's Cruising Confessions. Sniffy's Cruising Confessions will broaden minds and help you pursue your true goals. You can listen to Sniffy's Cruising Confessions, sponsored by Gilead, now on the iHeartRadio app

or wherever you get your podcasts. New episodes every Thursday. Welcome to Gracias Come Again, a podcast by Honey German, where we get real and dive straight into todo lo actual y viral. We're talking música, los premios, el chisme, and all things trending in my cultura. I'm bringing you all the latest happening in our entertainment world and some fun and impactful interviews with your favorite Latin artists, comedians, actors, and influencers.

Each week, we get deep and raw life stories, combos on the issues that matter to us, and it's all packed with gems, fun, straight-up comedia, and that's a song that only Nuestra Gente can sprinkle. Listen to Gracias Come Again on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. It's me, James, and before we listen to this episode today, I just did want to make you aware that I conducted these interviews in French and Spanish, mostly Spanish, and then transcribed and translated them. So what you're hearing is a translated interview that's been edited for brevity and content. I hope you enjoy

the episode. Yeah, the journey is dangerous, but what can we do? We can't stay in a country where the economy is getting worse and worse. With a salary of $3 a month, you can't survive. Like my friend said, if you have a job in other countries, maybe you can invest some money. But where are you going to get the money to invest if before you had a salary that fed you, paid for your car, your house, and your children to enjoy it all with, and now you can't even afford to put gas in the car? So it's true, yeah, the Darien is dangerous, but nothing is impossible.

We walk hand in hand with God and with the faith that we will get there. But that doesn't mean it isn't difficult. But I'll say it again, it's not impossible. We walk hand in hand with God and with the faith that we will get there, but that doesn't mean it isn't difficult. But I'll say it again, it's not impossible. You suffer, you cry, you go hungry, cold, but thank God we made it through. All around the Tuquesa River, the jungle rumbles quietly as you pass by on your boat. Insects, frogs and birds all combine to make a sort of deep throbbing that emanates from the darkness between the trees. It seems at once to be calling you in and wanting you to stay away.

I've been in the jungle before, in the Rwanda-Congo borderlands, and in Venezuela. But I've never really felt the sense of foreboding I did as we rode down the river, protected only by our hollow log, looking into the triple canopy forest, and knowing that if I walked long enough in the shadows, I'd be confronted with the remains of people I might have interviewed if I hadn't been for a rolled ankle, a slippery rock, or a desperate sip of water. To understand what drives people to enter the jungle, with their children and their dreams, I think we water. To understand what drives people to enter the jungle, with their children and their dreams, I think we also have to understand what drives them to leave wherever they're living.

And that's what I want to talk about today. The story of migrants crossing the Dalian Gap is an American one. It's impossible to disentangle the people making this dangerous journey from the history of support for dictatorship, sanctions, and imperial plunder that ties the United States to its American brothers and sisters in the South. Sometimes, I play a game with myself at the border where I try and meet people from all the countries named in Washington bullets in a single day. Since Biden bungled the Afghanistan withdrawal, it's become a lot easier. But Tibet can be hard. For 200 years since President Monroe gave his State of the Union address, in December 1823,

the US has seen the Western Hemisphere as its sphere of influence. While it opposed old-fashioned colonialism, it has used less overt methods of control, as well as overt military force across the hemisphere. For much of the last century, it supported and installed dictators, who would prevent what it saw as a threat of state socialism in its sphere of influence, and allowed them to create economic and political climates that were unsurvivable for the majority and extremely profitable for US-based corporations. The direct result of this policy has been economic insecurity, political instability, and state violence across South and Central America, resulting in people making the very natural human decision to flee to somewhere safer.

As in so many other empires, they've made the choice to leave the destabilized colonial periphery and seek safety and stability in the metropole. For more than a century, money and goods have been able to travel seamlessly up and down the continent, but people have not. The banana I ate for breakfast this morning made the journey in a few days. But people take months if not years, pay thousands of dollars, climb mountains, ford rivers and risk their lives on trains and buses that cost a lot more than the flights I took to Panama but offer considerably less comfort and safety. As climate change has ever greater impacts more and more people are forced to leave their homes as their livelihoods become less sustainable. The Guna, the indigenous people

of the Panamanian coast in an area called Gunayala, are having to withdraw from some of their islands because of sea level rise right now. Agriculture across the world is increasingly threatened by extreme weather and rising temperatures, and our oceans are less able to sustain life than they once were due to pollution and overfishing. Forced to leave their homes, as people have been for millennia by weather patterns changing, people head to places that have at once caused much of the issue and tried to insulate themselves from its consequences. Their American dreams are modest. To overcome the crippling low pay they received at home. To bring their children up in a place where they have a good chance of surviving their 20s, to work and get paid enough to get by.

They want to be able to protest and not get shot, and to look forward to the future and not fear it. These aren't guaranteed in the USA, and as many of you listening will know, it can be hard for us to make ends meet here as well. But, despite what you see on social and legacy media, things are unlikely to become as bad here as they are in Venezuela, Cameroon, or Iran anytime soon. I've lived in Venezuela, specifically in the formerly Chavista neighborhood of La Pastora in Caracas, and I've seen how hard it is for my friends who still live there. Even for people with

no other disadvantages, making rent and feeding your family can be a challenge. And that's part of why Venezuelan people make up the majority of the folks I met in the Darien. So much so, that I slipped back into using Venezuelan slang in Spanish. And after a few days of seeing the same people, engaging in the kind of friendly mockery and banter that I remember well from Caracas. Mostly, this took the form of asking them why they crossed the Darien gap in Man United shirts, or worse yet, in a Chelsea shirt. It's important to steal moments of humour in these difficult times. To laugh a little among all the suffering. And that's something people in Venezuela have done very well for a very long time. But despite their humor, I could tell the journey had a serious impact on the people I spoke to. You have to go through a lot, a lot of jungle,

a lot of hills. There are people, there are dead people on the road. So it's something you cannot really explain. It's complicated because everything can be explained in a fashion, but it's not the same as living it. It's insanity. Three, four days without food and nothing. One thing is to live it. Explaining it, talking about it, that's different.

It's hard to put into words. This interview is one i conducted with one group of venezuelan migrants with my voice recorder in the chest pocket of my shirt and whatever bags they'd let me carry in my hands we walked along the last part of the trail discussing what they'd seen for a while we joked a little one guy had crossed in a man united shirt i talked to him about the team and the universal dislike non-ManU fans have for ManU fans. Then, after a while, they opened up more about their experiences. They had, they said,

seen dead bodies, and they couldn't stop thinking about what would happen if they'd fallen. And they wanted to know how, or when, or if the dead people's family would ever find out. The family waits for that person to come out, to hear that they made it. Because if not, who's going to let you know?

There's no signal. And nobody's going to grab the body and you're not going to carry them out. The person stays there and eventually years and years go by and the family won't know where they are or how they died. Those are the sort of things that one doesn't expect to see. And it makes you just want to hurry past, not that you wouldn't want to get the documentation from the body and deliver it and tell them how this person had passed away,

but how dare you just go grabbing a dead body. Venezuelan elections were held on the 28th of July this year. Venezuelan presidents have a six-year term, and the incumbent, Nicolás Maduro, has been in office since 2013. I let the Venezuelan people I met introduce themselves and explain the result of the election. Now, there's a bit of background noise here, but that's because we're walking along the trails, and it's hard to avoid. I am coming from Venezuela, migrating through the jungle for a better future for me and my children. I'll tell you it's hard, but it's not impossible. No, that was electoral fraud. And I tell you what, one day you just have to leave.

Maduro was opposed by Eduardo Gonzalez, an opposition candidate who represented a wide coalition, including groups on the left and right. While Maduro might have support among Western socialists and even communists, the actual Venezuelan Communist Party's youth organization formed part of the popular democratic front that opposed him. Despite poll watchers tallying a massive victory for the opposition, Maduro controls the National Election Council and proclaimed himself the victor. People protested and Maduro responded with bullets. González fled to the Dutch and then the Spanish embassy, and later claimed asylum in Spain, where his family lived.

But for regular working-class Venezuelans, there's no option to hop on a flight to safety. Instead, they have to begin the long walk north. As many Venezuelans I spoke to told me, in addition to the electoral fraud, Venezuela is undergoing an economic collapse. At least under Chávez, they said, most people could eat. When I lived in La Pastora, I was able to access medical care from Cuban doctors.

Now, they say, things have become unsurvivable. very strong everything many dangers but you can do it you can do it well I would say that Venezuela well I would say that Venezuela you know yeah you can live but not on a minimum wage I would say that for example working independently

in an independent business maybe you can live. Good. But working and surviving for a minimum wage, no. The truth is that it doesn't work. And that's serious. Things are still bad with the new elections and the new government. Everything is ugly, yeah?

The streets of Caracas are full of protests every day. People went out to protest. Sometimes they shoot people. The government mistreats people, but if you can live with it, you can live with it. But it's ugly. Well, that is why we left there, for a better future. We will keep moving onward.

Onward. This group were young men, traveling in advance with their families, hoping to earn some money, save it up, and send it home. They knew what they were getting into when they got to the USA, that migrants were often underpaid and might struggle to make ends meet. But they still thought it was better than staying home and watching your children's future disappear. If you don't have papers, you don't have a work permit. You have to work for what

they want to pay you, not for what you demand or anything. I met lots of Venezuelan families with children who had different illnesses or disabilities. Things they couldn't obtain or afford treatment for in Venezuela. They were traveling to the US in the hopes of finding a better future for their kids, or any future at all. I met young men who left their children behind, but carried the children of strangers, even those with whom they didn't share a language. children behind, but carried the children of strangers, even those with whom they didn't share a language. Christian, who we heard from earlier, showed me how he'd carried someone else's child on his shoulders until he fell and hurt his knee. We all help. I put little children up here on my shoulders to carry them, but it isn't easy. In the jungle, they'd form chains using their arms to cross rivers and carried little children on those who couldn't swim. In Bajiquito, I saw a

group of men from Angola receiving hugs from Venezuelan women they'd helped in the jungle. Without the help of the Angolans, they said, their children wouldn't have made it. One slip or a loss of grip, they told me, would be fatal. And the remains of those who had done just that served as a grisly reminder. Later, little boys, maybe eight or ten years old,

gleefully recounted seeing a dead body on which the head had, quote, exploded, while their parents winced in recollection. I wanted to understand a bit more of what they were fleeing that made it worth going through all this. Well, I left Venezuela because I worked in fishing. But right now in Venezuela, despite the fact that it is a country rich in oil, there's not enough gasoline for the fishermen to go fishing. And since I did not have the ability to even buy basic things such as food, the situation was, well, it was a little complicated.

I had to immigrate. I had nothing else to do. They didn't rob me. Well, they were going to rob me because I didn't have anything to steal. We passed by and the group that was behind us got robbed. They didn't rob me. Well, they were going to rob me because I didn't have anything to steal. We passed by and the group that was behind us got robbed. They raped women in that group.

Almost every Venezuelan migrant I spoke to shared a similar story. One said he'd installed security cameras, but nobody could afford them now. As they had to choose between rent and groceries or medical procedures that they needed but couldn't afford. Overwhelmingly, they said the same thing. No hay futuro. There's no future. One group said to me that they couldn't wait for their country to become like Cuba, as decades of embargoes took their toll on the population. But others reminded me and them that at least the Cubans seem to have doctors.

Venezuela has an 80% poverty rate now. And though it sits on one of the largest oil reserves of any country on Earth, it's been plagued by plummeting oil prices and years of hyperinflation, which got so bad at one point that shops stopped putting price tags on things and relied on staff to give up to the minute prices. Today, alongside a regime that lacks legitimacy, a state that readily uses horrific violence against its people, and an election that was essentially ignored, Venezuelans must also deal with shortages of basic goods, poverty, and malnutrition. Unlike Cubans, who have a relatively good political lobby in the USA, Venezuelans coming to the USA do not benefit from special laws. Cubans, under the Cuban Adjustment

Act, have a path to citizenship and permanence once they set foot on US soil. Venezuelans do not. They're covered by something called a temporary protected status. But this does not afford them much in the way of stability, protection, or a secure future. His Erica Pinheiro of Alotrolado, an incredible organization, does valuable work with migrant legal aid, advocacy, and humanitarian relief,

explaining just how temporary a TPS is. So temporary protected status is, it's basically a form of protecting individuals who are already in the United States when their countries have experienced a natural disaster, they are in war, there's some kind of situation going on that makes it difficult for them to return. And so temporary protected status was first created in 1990. And the first individuals who received the status were from El Salvador. And since then, I think there's been a few dozen countries that have been designated. But basically, the way it works is they designate a

country. And so if you were in the United States before that designation date, you can apply for temporary protected status within a designated time period. And you get a work permit. It's valid for 6, 12, or 18 months. And then two months before it expires, the secretary of the Department of Homeland Security has to say whether or not they're going to reauthorize gps so there's like 860 000 people in the u.s who have temporary protected status and it's not a path to citizenship so basically people are just in limbo sometimes for decades you know they just have to reapply for this work permit every 18 months so i have quite a few salvadoran friends who've been in the united states since the

90s they have kids some of them have current kids or u.s citizens and they can't become permanent residents or have a path to citizenship unless they leave the country and either come back with another type of parole or you know apply through a consulate which many of them are just not willing to take that risk. What makes things even more complicated for the Venezuelans is that many of them are traveling without documents. It costs 300 bucks to get a passport they told me and the wait's considerable. This makes their journeys even harder as every country they enter has to approve them to enter without a passport. Getting a visa, they said, would be nearly impossible,

and just trying might result in the government coming after them. Such things, they said, are reserved for the wealthier citizens. People like Gonzalez, whose asylum claim and stays at the Dutch and Spanish embassies, and whose right to join his family in exile, are all luxuries that most of his country people can't expect. Instead, most Venezuelans must ride buses through Colombia, then walk north through the jungle, then ride buses,

stowaway on trains, or walk again all the way to the border. They all lamented the Darien crossing, and said they wouldn't advise it. Without other options, they all made it anyway. It's a journey that I literally wouldn't recommend. Yes, it's true. It's difficult. It's difficult. They all made it anyway. Because unfortunately, we don't have much in our country. You don't have another option when you're dying of hunger and you don't have a future.

You can't even study. So yeah, it's worth it the economic situation is dire in venezuela many families can't make ends meet their currency is almost worthless and the maduro government seems to have successfully installed itself for the foreseeable future this will mean a continuation of embargoes and sanctions which will harm the people more than the regime sadly, economic hardship is not a criteria for which one could be granted asylum in the USA. Here's Erica again. So severe economic deprivation can be persecution

if it's linked to one of the other protected grounds. So race, religion, nationality, political opinion, or membership in a particular social group. So for example, if someone participated in anti-Maduro political activity and then were blocked from getting a job or just denied economic opportunities to the point where they're starving, the economic deprivation could count as persecution, but it's a very difficult case to make in the United States. In Mexico, you can get protection based on generalized conditions in your country.

And so, you know, Venezuelans fleeing economic collapse or even Central Americans fleeing extreme violence have a much easier time getting protection in Mexico than they would in the United States because of that kind of extra category of protection in Mexico. The issue with Mexico is just the very limited capacity of the asylum system overall and the very dangerous conditions in which people are forced to wait while their cases are adjudicated. Going forward from the Darién, they'll face an enormously difficult journey. The U.S. does have a program for Cubans, Venezuelans, Haitians, and Nicaraguans that in theory allows them to apply, be pre-approved, and fly straight to the USA. But it's so delayed and broken,

it's just not an option for people who barely have enough money for food, let alone a plane ticket. Their HNV program is for Cubans, Haitians, Nicaraguans, Venezuelans who have not crossed into Panama or Mexico in the past few years. You do not qualify if you've done that or have not been entered at sea if they're Haitian or Cuban. You have to have a sponsor in the United States who have some kind of legal status. You have to be able to pay for the flight. have some kind of legal status. You have to be able to pay for the flight. You have to have a passport. And you have to be able to wait for however long it takes for your application to be approved. And the Department of Homeland Security just announced that they are not renewing parole for people who are already in the United States. So people from those four countries who were in

the U.S. had up to two years of humanitarian parole, which is not being States. So people from those four countries who were in the U.S. had up to two years of humanitarian parole, which is not being renewed. So they either would need to apply for something else or go back to their country or just, I guess, stay in the United States undocumented until they're caught. I found out I was related to the guy that I was dating. I don't feel emotions correctly. I am talking to a felon right now, and I cannot decide if I like him or not. Those were some callers from my call-in podcast, Therapy Gecko. It's a show where I take real phone calls from anonymous strangers all over the world

as a fake gecko therapist and try to dig into their brains and learn a little bit about their lives. I know that's a weird concept, but I promise it's pretty interesting if you give it a shot. Matter of fact, here's a few more examples of the kinds of calls we get on this show. I live with my boyfriend and I found his piss jar in our apartment. I collect my roommate's toenails and fingernails. I have very overbearing parents. Even at the age of 29, they won't let me move out of their house. So if you want an excuse to get out of your own head and see what's going on in someone else's head,

search for Therapy Gecko on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. It's the one with the green guy on it. Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. It's the one with the green guy on it. Hey, I'm Jack Peace Thomas, the host of a brand new Black Effect original series, Black Lit. The podcast for diving deep into the rich world of Black literature. I'm Jack Peace Thomas, and I'm inviting you to join me and a vibrant community of literary enthusiasts dedicated to protecting and celebrating our stories. Black Lit is for the page turners, for those who listen to audiobooks while commuting or

running errands, for those who find themselves seeking solace, wisdom, and refuge between the chapters. From thought-provoking novels to powerful poetry, we'll explore the stories that shape our culture. Together, we'll dissect classics and contemporary works while uncovering the stories of the brilliant writers behind them. Blacklit is here to amplify the voices of Black writers and to bring their words to life. Listen to Blacklit on the iHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Hola mi gente, it's Honey German and I'm bringing you Gracias, Come Again, the podcast where we dive deep into the world of Latin culture, musica, peliculas, and entertainment with some of the biggest

names in the game. If you love hearing real conversations with your favorite Latin celebrities, artists, and culture shifters, this is the podcast for you. We're talking real conversations with our Latin stars, from actors and artists to musicians and creators, sharing their stories, struggles, and successes. You know it's going to be filled with chisme laughs and all the vibes that you love. Each week, we'll explore everything from music and pop culture to deeper topics like identity, community, and breaking down barriers in all sorts of industries. Don't miss out on the fun, el té caliente, and life stories. Join me for Gracias Come Again,

a podcast by Honey German, where we get into todo lo actual y viral. Listen to Gracias Come Again on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Hi, I'm Ed Zitron, host of the Better Offline podcast, and we're kicking off our second season digging into how Tex's elite has turned Silicon Valley into a playground for billionaires.

From the chaotic world of generative AI to the destruction of Google search, Better Offline is your unvarnished and at times unhinged look at the underbelly of tech from an industry veteran with nothing to lose. lose. This season I'm going to be joined by everyone from Nobel-winning economists to the leading journalists in the field, and I'll be digging into why the products you love keep getting worse, and naming and shaming those responsible. Don't get me wrong though, I love technology. I just hate the people in charge and want them to get back to building things that actually do things to help real people. I swear to God things can change if we're loud enough, so join me every week to understand what's happening in the tech industry and what could be done to make things better. Listen to Better Offline on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, wherever else you get your podcasts. Check out betteroffline.com. On Thanksgiving Day 1999, a five-year-old boy floated alone in the ocean. He had lost his mother trying to

reach Florida from Cuba. He looked like a little angel. I mean, he looked so fresh. And his name, Elian Gonzalez, will make headlines everywhere. Elian Gonzalez. Elian. Elian. Elian. Elian. Elian Gonzalez. At the heart of the story is a young boy and the question of who he belongs with. His father in Cuba. Mr. Gonzales wanted to go home and he wanted to take his son with him. Or his relatives in Miami. Imagine that your mother died trying to get you to freedom. At the heart of it all is still this painful family separation.

Something that as a Cuban, I know all too well. Listen to Chess Peace, the Elian Gonzalez story, as part of the My Cultura podcast network, available on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. I heard the same story hundreds of times that week, sometimes off mic and sometimes on mic, sometimes holding my voice recorder and notebook, sometimes just sitting on the ground or walking on the trail

or enjoying a bottle of cold water in Bajo Chiquito. Crippling poverty and bad governance in their country made it difficult to see a future there. They wanted better for their children, so they brought them across the mountains and risked their lives in the jungle to give them a chance in life. I prepared a lot for this trip, and I tried to search for everything I might experience on the internet, but one thing I really didn't expect to learn in the jungle is just how much it's possible for parents to love their kids. I watched exhausted mothers hoist their babies onto their shoulders to keep walking

and somehow come up with a story that made the whole thing an adventure, not a tragedy. Then do the same thing again the next day without sleeping or eating. I watched fathers carefully lay out their sleeping mat so their children could rest while they tried to do the same on the dirt or hardwood floors. Every day, as their savings grew lower and their outlook more bleak, I watched parents try to smile for their kids. The sacrifices I saw them make, starving for days to give their kids something to eat, or spending their last remaining dollar on clean clothes for their kids while they walked barefoot and couldn't afford shoes, really brought home for me the desire these families had for a better future and the sacrifices they were willing to make for one another.

Weeks later, it's still hard for me to accept that I am home safely, and they are still in as much danger, if not more. Our walk lasted five days. Thank God I was always strong enough and able to get back up when I fell, because if I fell and my children had to see me fall and not get up, imagine how bad that would be. My children want more in the future, but they despaired in the jungle. They said, tell me, mommy, when are we going to get there, mommy? What could I say to them?

My dear, we have to have patience because we have to make the crossing. We have to move forward. If not, we can't get out of here. Even among such difficult times, the Venezuelans always greeted me with a laugh and a smile, especially after a few days of running into each other. When I used Venezuelan slang or my accent slowly reverted to the Spanish I learned in Caracas nearly two decades ago,

they'd laugh at me. As they noted, at that time Caracas had attracted plenty of migrants of its own. Some of them, like me, didn't stay, but we came because we wanted to see a revolution in the flesh, and they welcomed us. For a while in Caracas, I lived in a social centre in La Pastora. I didn't pay rent, but there was a small empty room and no one seemed to mind. Every day I'd talk to strangers, make friends, and try and learn something new. The situation there wasn't ideal for one thing we didn't really have showers

and also I got robbed at gunpoint so for most of my time in the country I stayed with the Chilean family I'd met they welcomed me, a more or less total stranger into their homes and lives in the evenings we'd spend hours talking and they'd tell me stories about how they'd suffered under Pinochet the hopes they'd had for their country and how they'd had to flee to Caracas like tens of thousands of their fellow Chileans. They introduced me to Victor Jara and Jolly Pan. I introduced them to Chamba Wamba,

and we shared an affection for George Orwell. The song you heard after the adverts was not in fact Chamba Wamba, but Chilean leftist folk musician Victor Jara. He's playing El derecho de vivir en paz, the right to live in peace in English, and it's one of his most famous songs. It confronts the US war in Vietnam. Later, after Jara was tortured and murdered by the Pinochet regime, it became an anthem of protest in the country. Jara and his friend Pablo Neruda were both symbols of the cultural power of the Chilean people and the brutality of the Pinochet regime who broke the hands he used to play his guitar before they killed him. Jara and Neruda both moved in the same revolutionary artistic circles

as my Chilean hosts in Venezuela. At night, they'd tell me stories about the time they spent together. We'd have to speak loudly, as the man who'd adopted me as a sort of surrogate grandson had permanent hearing damage from the torture he'd endured under the same regime. Luckily, he'd been able to flee with his wife to Venezuela, where they were welcomed. They never returned to Chile,

and happily lived out the rest of their lives listening to their Victor Jara records in Caracas, and living the ideals that had seen them persecuted. Their kindness to me, a 19-year-old stranger with terrible Spanish for nowhere to sleep at night, reflected the kindness they'd received, and I've tried to reflect it in turn ever since. I never once heard any children crying in Las Blancas or Baja Chiquito. Well, not until the deportations took their parents away on my last day there.

Most of the time, the kids entertain themselves. One day in Las Blancas, where migrants can wait and spend weeks or months if they don't have the funds to move forward with their journey, I left my fixture while she made a call and bumped into some little children playing a game where they throw water bottle caps into half a breeze block from various distances, each of them counting how many they could land. I sat down next to them, put my recorder on the ground and asked nicely if I could join them. Gracias. Tengo un montón aquí. Supongo que sí.

Like a tiny pit boss, one of the kids bought me a pile of bottle tops, and I chatted with them as we threw our bottle caps at a broken piece of concrete. What was it like in America, they asked. They also had a lot of questions about Africa, having probably met African kids in the casita just across the way. Do they have big buildings in Africa? Does it rain there? How long does it take to get there in a bus?

Then they tested my Venezuelan legitimacy by drawing me a repo in my notebook and asking if I knew what it was. Once I passed the test, they asked me how to say some things in English, and they showed me the toys they bought with them, which were very few. One of them had a small plastic cow,

of which he was very proud. Una vac while, they asked what I was doing, and I showed them how I record interviews. At which point, they began recording themselves and each other, and wildly stabbing at the buttons on my recorder, which I will admit scared the crap out of me. But I didn't have the heart to take it off them. They stroked the fluffy wind protector I use on my microphone, and told me it was like a tiny teddy bear. Eventually, I was able to trade my recorder for several small wooden animals I'd bought with me as gifts, which seemed to be a deal that left all of us feelings if we'd come out ahead. They seemed unbothered by the suffering around them, but Las Blancas is no place for children. They should be in school, learning the English phrases they kept repeating to me every time I saw them. But for a chance to use their

English, they first had to endure a month more danger and deprivation. Some slightly older children made the journey alone, or almost alone. They were accompanied by a Spaniard called Chanel. I saw a few Chihuahuas people had carried wisdom through the Darien Gap, but to my knowledge this is the first Spaniard that has made the treacherous crossing. I'm from Venezuela. I'm from Venezuela. I'm from Venezuela. Like everyone else, they had terrible memories from the jungle.

The truth is you have to fight a lot to be able to get out of there, because not everyone gets out of that jungle, and it's even more difficult with small children. There are times when one goes without food and it's very stressful because all around us, all we saw was the jungle and we never saw the way out. But it is complicated. The truth is that it is very hard. The jungle. Well, I would really recommend that people never go there. All our feet are hurting. We can't walk properly. Our whole bodies hurt. We went days without eating. They were traveling, they said, to join their parents. And because in Venezuela, they told me, they were always hungry. They saw people sleeping on the streets and worried that would be their only option one day if they didn't leave.

I want to see mom. I haven't seen her in three years, and I want to have my American dream too. I want to see my dad, my aunt, and my uncle. I haven't seen them for three years either. Despite the hardship, they didn't blame their parents for leaving. We know that we made it because of them. They are the ones who sent us money for the things we need. We were able to get a few things, not everything we needed. But it's all thanks to them. The end of their interview.

As I always do, I ask them if there's anything else that they wanted to share. I don't know. But our parents, we love them a lot and hope we can see them soon. I found out I was related to the guy that I was dating. I don't feel emotions correctly. I am talking to a felon right now, and I cannot decide if I like him or not. Those were some callers from my call-in podcast, Therapy Gecko. It's a show where I take real phone calls from anonymous strangers all over the world

as a fake gecko therapist and try to dig into their brains and learn a little bit about their lives. I know that's a weird concept, but I promise it's pretty interesting if you give it a shot. Matter of fact, here's a few more examples of the kinds of calls we get on this show. I live with my boyfriend, and I found his piss jar in our apartment. I collect my roommate's toenails and fingernails. I have very overbearing parents. Even at the age of 29, they won't let me move out of their house. So if you want an excuse to get out of your own head and see what's going on in someone else's

head, search for Therapy Gecko on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. It's the one with the green guy on it hey i'm jack peace thomas the host of a brand new black effect original series black lit the podcast for diving deep into the rich world of black literature i'm jack peace thomas and i'm inviting you to join me and a vibrant community of literary enthusiasts dedicated to protecting and celebrating our stories. Black Lit is for the page turners, for those who listen to audiobooks while commuting or running errands, for those who find themselves seeking solace, wisdom, and refuge between the chapters. From thought-provoking novels to powerful poetry, we'll explore the stories that shape our culture. Together,

we'll dissect classics and contemporary works while uncovering the stories of the brilliant writers behind them. Blacklit is here to amplify the voices of Black writers and to bring their words to life. Listen to Blacklit on the iHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Hola mi gente, it's Honey, and I'm bringing you Gracias, Come Again, the podcast where we dive deep into the world of Latin culture, música, películas, and entertainment with some of the biggest names in the game. If you love hearing real conversations with your favorite Latin celebrities, artists, and culture shifters, this is the podcast for you.

We're talking real conversations with our Latin stars, from actors and artists to musicians and creators sharing their stories struggles and successes you know it's going to be filled with chisme laughs and all the vibes that you love each week we'll explore everything from music and pop culture to deeper topics like identity community and breaking down barriers in all sorts of industries don't miss miss out on the fun, el té caliente and life stories. Join me for Gracias Come Again, a podcast by Honey German, where we get into todo lo actual y viral. Listen to Gracias Come Again on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts.

Hi, I'm Ed Zitron, host of the Better Offline podcast, and we're kicking off our second season digging into how tech's elite has turned Silicon Valley into a playground for billionaires. From the chaotic world of generative AI to the destruction of Google search, Better Offline is your unvarnished and at times unhinged look at the underbelly of tech from an industry veteran with nothing to lose. This season, I'm going to be joined by everyone from Nobel-winning economists to leading journalists in the field, and I'll be digging into why the products you love keep getting worse and naming and shaming those responsible. Don't get me wrong, though.

I love technology. I just hate the people in charge and want them to get back to building things that actually do things to help real people. I swear to God things can change if we're loud enough. So join me every week to understand what's happening in the tech industry and what could be done to make things better. Listen to Better Offline on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, wherever else you get your podcasts. Check out betteroffline.com. On Thanksgiving Day 1999, a five-year-old boy floated alone in the ocean. He had lost his mother trying to reach Florida from Cuba. He looked like a little angel. I mean, he looked so fresh.

And his name, Elian Gonzalez, will make headlines everywhere. Elian Gonzalez. Elian Gonzalez. Elian. Elian. Elian Gonzalez. At the heart of the story is a young boy and the question of who he belongs with. His father in Cuba.

Mr. Gonzalez wanted to go home and he wanted to take his son with him. Or his relatives in Miami. Imagine that your mother died trying to get you to freedom. At the heart of it all is still this painful family separation. Something that as a Cuban, I know all too well. Listen to Chess Peace, the Elian Gonzalez story, as part of the My Cultura podcast network, available on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. you get your podcasts. Like many of the Valenzuelans I spoke to, their American dreams were pretty modest. For most of them, though, they'll be unachievable in the current immigration system. They'll end up stuck in Mexico, in Mexico City perhaps, or further south,

perhaps in Tijuana, or Juarez, waiting to cross the border if they're lucky. But if they cry to cross between ports of entry or get caught traveling without registering in Mexico, they'll risk being deported or relocated back to southern Mexico. Here's Erika explaining that process. The Mexican National Guard has been detaining people who are trying to cross the U.S.-Mexico border and they had been sending them south to Mexico City

and Chiapas to Tapachula. Now there's been this huge effort to stop people from waiting not only at the U.S.-Mexico border, but even in Mexico City. So we're seeing Mexican Immigration and National Guard doing sweeps of migrant camps, of apartment buildings. It doesn't matter if the person has a CBP-1 appointment. camps of apartment buildings doesn't matter if the person has a cbp1 appointment sometimes they'll just send themselves to either chiapas and increasingly to vasco so the hermosa which is where people are arriving in to vasco has one shelter and i think the capacity is around two 250 300 people and earlier this year they were sending 20,000 migrants a month there and then they posted the military up so that people can't leave and it's very dangerous there it's a drug trafficking area

so it's you know not only are people sleeping in the streets but they're sleeping on the streets of some of the most dangerous cities in Mexico with very few services there to help them even get their next meal. This of course didn't happen without the influence of the United States. In many ways, Joe Biden has done exactly what Donald Trump promised to do. Not only has he built more wall, he's also forced Mexico to pay for a significant amount of the U.S.'s immigration enforcement. But when people are sent back to the south of Mexico, they'll just make their way north again, only this time with fewer resources and even greater risk. They're all proud of where they're from. About half the groups I saw had Venezuelan flags on their caps or backpacks. But they're also very aware of the betrayal they get as Venezuelans

in the US media. And many of them made the very valid point that if Americans are afraid of Venezuelan gangs, they ought to consider how much more afraid people are in a country where they actually exist. much more afraid people are in a country where they actually exist. I'm 13. Please don't believe that because one person from Venezuela does crime, that all Venezuelans do crime. But at least they get a portrayal in the US media. Many African migrants don't even get that. Of course, that doesn't mean they don't know about the USA. Here's Powers and her Anglophone Cameroonian group again,

talking about their impressions of America, where they'd like to live when they arrive here. You know, America is a very beautiful country, and America has human rights. They care about the citizens. In fact, they care about humanity. I, for one, I have a friend that I'm going to stay with for the meantime, then I get to myself. That's great. That helps a lot.

Do you know which city your friend lives in? She's in Maryland. Oh, Maryland. OK, yeah. So if I may ask, if you don't mind me asking, what do Americans, how do they treat or how do they see immigrants? Well, my friend, it's changing a lot. African migrants in particular will struggle with a lack of resources, the absence of solidarity structures,

and obvious anti-blackness along the journey. Along with this, people they meet along the way simply lack context for their journeys, why they're leaving, and what they're fleeing. Language barriers may exclude many of them from using CBP1, which is only offered in English, Spanish, and Hait they're fleeing. Language barriers may exclude many of them from using CBP1, which is only offered in English, Spanish, and Haitian Creole. Less than 15% of asylum cases are conducted in English, but the app ignores huge swaths of the world outside the Western Hemisphere. In Barra de Quito, I used French to speak to migrants who didn't speak English,

and began to notice the complete absence of signage in anything other than Spanish, and sometimes English and Creole. This is likely an issue throughout their long journeys. Here's one migrant from Angola. And I should probably note at this point that Angolan people tend to speak Portuguese as their national language, but French was the language I shared with some of them, as I don't speak Portuguese. It was too much, very complicated. Like me, I did a week in Brazil.

I left Brazil and for Peru. Peru to Nicolclis, then here. I did, we did four days, four days walking. There are many mountains, many risks. There are many animals along the route. You have to follow the path for four days, and there's no food. But we are glad to arrive today. This is the first group.

There is the second, third, fourth, fifth group. They are still on the road. I am very proud of the fact that we made it, despite the suffering. But God was with us. That is what is important. There are numerous instances of French-speaking migrants trying to approach the border near me in San Isidro and being turned away for not having an appointment on an app that's not available in a language they can understand.

These language barriers might stop the migrants getting information, but they don't stop them helping one another. Here's Powers' group describing the isolation they felt, but also the kindness they experienced. Do you think people on the trip treat African people differently? Yes, they do. They treat differently. Differently.

They don't even communicate. They are just by themselves. They don't associate. They look at us differently. Yeah. I had someone who supported me. Yeah. I saw how kind the person was.

Because of their obvious foreignness and perceived inability to communicate, African migrants are often targeted for crime in Mexico. Since leaving Panama, I've heard from migrants who were raped, kidnapped, ransomed, and I even heard about one who was killed. Because of their difficulties accessing the CBP1 app, many face longer waits in Mexico, which may in turn leave them open to extortion or see them decide to cross the border between ports of entry.

I've met hundreds of migrants, mainly Mauritanians and Guineans, who have made this difficult choice since Biden's asylum ban came into force. Due to the distance, African migrants also face a longer, more expensive and more dangerous journey. Here's Primrose from Zimbabwe, describing her journey just to get to Bajo Chiquito. The situation for me, it was tough. I just ran away to South Africa,

and South Africa was not safe. Sonophobia. And they almost killed me and my boyfriend. Oh, no. And even my baby father, he was abusive, too much abusive. Because of the politics. I'm an opposition party, so it was difficult for me to live. Yeah, there's a lot of repression.

Even in South Africa, I was not safe at all. Because those people, they were like following me and my daughter. So I spent three months on the road coming here. I leave South Africa, I think, 4th of July. Till now, I'm in Panama. I'm still walking, using buses. Jesus. How did you get off from Africa to America?

Did you fly or take a boat? The thing is, I fly from Johannesburg to Brazil. Then I seek asylum in Brazil. Then I wanted to stay in Brazil. So people said, no, you're in Brazil. You can't because of language. Yeah, Portuguese. Yeah, Portuguese. Yeah, Portuguese.

So I started also using people's route, like let's take this bus from point A to point B. So we take a bus from Brazil to Bolivia, then from Bolivia to Peru, Peru to Ecuador, Ecuador, Colombia. Then we start walking using Darwin Gap to here in Panama. African migrants will end up in different shelters that are more remote or have less connectivity, again making their asylum process harder. Unlike migrants from the Western Hemisphere, they might struggle to find solidarity networks even inside the USA. Without a significant diaspora,

many of the migrants who met the jungle have struggled to find sponsors. Lots of the people I spoke to here here including primrose and her daughter are still looking for someone to give them a helping hand as they start their new life we spoke a lot over the week i was there and we've spoken most days since it's heartbreaking for me to see her daughter going for months without education or even a safe place to sleep i've seen photos of them sleeping on the street they've ridden crowded buses north and i've heard their frustrated attempts to comply with education or even a safe place to sleep. I've seen photos of them sleeping on the street. They've ridden crowded buses north and I've heard their frustrated attempts to comply with the arcane and complicated restrictions on their right to come here and ask for help. And it's been really hard since I got home to reconcile this with a national discussion that seems to see migration

as a number that we have to decrease and migrants are something other than people who want to come here for all the same reasons I do and live happily and peaceably as our neighbours. Now that they've come this far, migrants from outside the Western Hemisphere have to keep going. They can't even file their claims on CBP1 until they make it to Tapachula, which is hundreds of dollars and thousands of kilometres from Panama. They likely don't have the funds to go back home even if they want to, and they are far more likely to be robbed or kidnapped along the way. However, their stories often aren't told. Reporting on the border still largely focuses on Spanish-speaking migrants, with some space for Chinese or Haitians. But migrants from Africa rarely get much care or attention in the media.

In part, this has helped them avoid the demonization that Venezuelan migrants are all too aware of, but in part, it also leads to a lack of concern for their needs. I want to end today with Gabriel from Equatorial Guinea, sharing his message for Americans. Yeah, a lot of people get this confused. Africa is not a country. A lot of them think when they see you and you're a black person, they say, are you African? And it's like there are lots of countries in Africa, Ghana, Nigeria. You got Guinea. You got the Mauritanian people.

There are loads of countries. I wish people would know, how do I say this? I wish they'd take us into account because really they don't consider us when they say Africa is a country. They don't care about us the way we care about them. And this is the way of seeing things which doesn't consider us as human, not the same as them. Do you understand? They see us as Africans or animals, something like that. It Could Happen Here is a production of Cool Zone Media. For more podcasts from Cool Zone Media, visit our website, coolzonemedia.com.

Or check us out on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you listen to podcasts. You can now find sources for It Could Happen Here listed directly in episode descriptions. Thanks for listening. On Thanksgiving Day, 1999, five-year-old Cuban boy, Elian Gonzalez, was found off the coast of Florida. And the question was, should the boy go back to his father in Cuba? Mr. Gonzalez wanted to go home and he wanted to take his son with him. Or stay with his relatives in Miami? Imagine that your mother died trying to get you to freedom. Listen to Chess Peace, the Elian Gonzalez story, on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts.

Hey, I'm Jacqueline Thomas, the host of a brand new Black Effect original series, Black Lit, the podcast for diving deep into the rich world of Black literature. Black Lit is for the page turners, for those who listen to audiobooks while running errands or at the end of a busy day. From thought-provoking novels to powerful poetry, we'll explore the stories that shape our culture. Listen to Black Lit on the Black Effect Podcast Network, iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. AT&T. Connecting changes everything. I found out I was related to the guy that I was dating. I don't feel emotions correctly.

I collect my roommate's toenails and fingernails. Those were some callers from my call-in podcast, Therapy Gecko. It's a show where I take phone calls from anonymous strangers as a fake gecko therapist and try to learn a little bit about their lives. I know that's a weird concept, but I promise it's very interesting. Check it out for yourself by searching for Therapy Gecko on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts,

or wherever you get your podcasts. Curious about queer sexuality, cruising, and expanding your horizons? Hit play on the sex-positive and deeply entertaining podcast, Sniffy's Cruising Confessions. Join hosts Gabe Gonzalez and Chris Patterson Rosso as they explore queer sex, cruising, relationships, and culture in the new iHeart podcast, Sniffy's Cruising Confessions.

Sniffy's Cruising Confessions will broaden minds and help you pursue your true goals. You can listen to Sniffy's Cruising Confessions, sponsored by Gilead, now on the iHeartRadio app or wherever you get your podcasts. New episodes every Thursday. Welcome to Gracias Come Again, a podcast by Honey German, where we get real and dive straight into todo lo actual y viral. We're talking música, los premios, el chisme, and all things trending in my cultura. I'm bringing you all the latest happening in our entertainment world and some fun and impactful interviews

with your favorite Latin artists, comedians, actors, and influencers. Each week, we get deep and raw life stories,

combos on the issues that matter to us, and it's all packed with gems, fun, straight up comedia, and that's a song that only nuestra gente

can sprinkle. Listen to Gracias Come Again on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts.