“A mother does what she has to do to care for life,” Camelia told us as she held her baby in her arms, in a conversation that brought us back to the moment she arrived in Nogales more than a year and a half ago.
Camelia is originally from Guerrero. She left her community with her husband and her oldest son after facing threats and persecution from criminal groups. “It was no longer a life. It was living in fear every day.” While pregnant, she made the decision to seek protection for herself and her family.
They tried to request asylum in the United States, searching for a safe place to start over. However, when they crossed the border, they were intercepted by Border Patrol. “From that moment, we realized they saw us as if we weren’t even people. I will never forget their looks of contempt.”
They were detained for several days in very difficult conditions: little food, cold, fear, and deep uncertainty. “With every officer who approached us, we insisted they listen to us and that we could not return to Mexico. Each time, we were silenced and ignored.” The result: they were denied access to an asylum process, denied the chance to be heard, and deported.
That is how Nogales became an unexpected place to stay. Camelia arrived at Kino still pregnant. Between the exhaustion of deportation and the uncertainty of what lay ahead, she began to receive accompaniment. It was here, in the midst of waiting, that her baby was born.
“I never imagined my son would be born here, but I was not alone,” she recalls.
At Kino, Camelia has found more than support—she has found community. She has seen her talents flourish through embroidery and baking workshops, computer courses—spaces where she not only learns, but also shares and rebuilds alongside other women. Her husband works, her oldest son has also begun to find his path, and together they have been sustaining a new life at the border.
Her baby’s first year was celebrated at Kino, surrounded by other families, children, volunteers, and a team that walks alongside them. A simple moment, yet full of meaning: life celebrated in the midst of a journey that has not been easy.
This May, and especially as we celebrate motherhood on Mother’s Day, Camelia’s story invites us to look closely at what it means to mother in contexts of displacement.
For her, being a mother has meant making difficult decisions, crossing borders, enduring uncertainty—and still continuing to care, to hold things together, and to choose life.
If there is one thing we have learned from accompanying women like Camelia, it is that motherhood is also an act of resistance.
“This is not the life I imagined, but here we are. For them,” she tells us.
At Kino, we continue walking alongside mothers who, like Camelia, are rebuilding their lives from the border—recognizing their strength, their dignity, and the ways in which, even in the unexpected, they continue choosing to care for life.
On this day, we celebrate these stories that are not always seen, but that sustain the world every single day.
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