I don’t often write articles — I draw them. As the Graphics Editor for the Sun, my job is to break down politics into digestible pieces using satirical and political commentary as my form of visual journalism. But today, I find myself sitting in front of my laptop grappling with a deep, gnawing fear that I do not wish upon anyone.

I live at the border. McAllen, Texas — 30 minutes away from the Hidalgo International Bridge — is the place I call home. My whole life has always been surrounded by immigrants: my friends, my family, my community. Our roots stretch across the Rio Grande to Reynosa, Tamaulipas, a city of over 700,000.

For years, the border has been a place of crisis. Toward the end of the first Trump administration, a flurry of Haitian immigrants had concentrated at the US-Mexico border, alongside asylum seekers from Central America and Cuba. With the Remain in Mexico program in full effect, most of these immigrants were forced to create tent encampments in Plaza de la Republica, facing violence, separation and an inevitable diaspora. They are still there. And you, dear reader, have no idea.

As a Mexican-American student activist, I have long felt the weight of speaking out about the fear that permeates the small region I call home. Most people will hear about New York City, Boston or Chicago, but few ever hear about the atrocities occurring in the Rio Grande Valley (or RGV). And even fewer still understand the violence, dehumanization and constant surveillance that define daily life there.

I have experienced........

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