Mexico City bids adiós to monument to Castro and ‘Che' Guevara
Hasta la vista, Che.
Denunciations and accolades greeted the abrupt removal this month of a controversial monument in the Mexican capital commemorating the two revolutionaries, Fidel Castro and Ernesto 'Che' Guevara.
The monument, a pair of bronze, life-sized sculptures of Castro and Guevara chilling on a bench, recalls a consequential moment in both Mexican and Cuban history — the pair's first meeting, which took place in an apartment in Mexico City in June or July 1955, according to historians.
At the time, both were twentysomething militants in the formative stages of their transformation into leftist icons who would inspire a global generation of revolutionaries and activists.
A leftist Mexico City government installed the monument in 2017 in a small park in the capital's Colonia Tabacalera neighborhood, not far from where the storied duo first met in a Cold War encounter that has taken on near-mythical dimensions among many on the left.
In the two sculptures, both men stare straight ahead and are decked out in light combat garb — Guevara in his trademark beret (a look immortalized on T-shirts across the globe) and Castro sporting a fighter's cap. His legs crossed, Castro grasps a cigar in his left hand, and a book on his right. Guevara's right hand secures a pipe.
The sculpture has long sparked polemics: While adherents of the left generally applauded it, and some visitors would leave flowers, critics assailed the artwork as a tasteless shrine to a bloody communist dictatorship.
Spearheading its removal Wednesday was Alessandra Rojo de la Vega, conservative borough president of the capital's central Cuauhtémoc district, where the bench (known as Encuentro or Encounter) was situated.
Her decision, Rojo de la Vega initially explained on social media, was based on legality — not politics. She said there wasn't 'one single paper' authorizing the monument's installation. Its removal, she added, would allow park denizens to stroll in 'liberty and security.'
She posted images of city workers prying out the two figures from the bench and the bronzed Castro and Guevara being ignominiously hauled away in a bulldozer.
But the borough president later pivoted to a more ideological rationale.
'This city cannot ... promote or provide refuge for figures who injured human dignity, be it in Mexico or the rest of the world' Rojo de la Vega told Radio Formula.
As to the fate of the dual bronzes, she said that officials may consider a sale, using the proceeds — likely from lefty purchasers enthralled with the Cuban uprising — for park upkeep.
'If we auction them off, it will mark a first — the communists will use their money, not someone else's,' Rojo de la Vega said. 'If they love them so much, they can put them in their garden, or their patio.'
Not pleased was Mexico's leftist president, Claudia Sheinbaum, who said she would speak to the Mexico City mayor — a political ally — about placing the monument elsewhere.
The question isn't whether one embraces or rejects the views of the two protagonists, Sheinbaum argued to reporters on Thursday. The Castro-Che encounter, the president said, recalled 'a historic moment' that unfolded in Mexico and merited a display of memory.
The contretemps here echoes spats in the United States about monuments glorifying Confederate generals: Critics decry the displays as exalting traitors and white supremacists, while others argue that the statues just reflect history.
In the case of the Castro and Guevara likenesses, Sheinbaum suggested that their removal was partisan payback for her own signature monument-canceling moment — the banishment of one of Mexico's most illustrious landmarks, a virtual symbol of the city.
In her former post, as mayor of Mexico City, Sheinbaum ordered the removal of a soaring bronze of Christopher Columbus, which, for more than a century, graced a pedestal in the capital's elegant Paseo de la Reforma. The stylized tableau depicted Columbus as a noble conqueror: one hand raised to the horizon, the other lifting a veil from a globe.
For years, Indigenous activists and others staged protests at the statue, labeling Columbus and other conquistadores as perpetrators of genocide. In 2020, Sheinbaum finally ordered that the Columbus monument be taken down for renovations; it was never returned to its lofty perch.
Its ejection enraged both Columbus' admirers and others who viewed the monument as an integral marker of the Mexican capital. They accuse Sheinbaum of bowing to political correctness.
The traffic circle where Columbus long lent his presence has now been renamed the Women Who Fight roundabout, a rallying point for Indigenous, feminist and other protesters hoisting handwritten placards.
The grandiose Columbus figure, meantime, remains out of public sight in museum storage.
The Castro-Guevara bench, situated in an easy-to-miss park, didn't compare in size or significance to the towering Columbus of the stylish Paseo de la Reforma. But its removal lit up social media, rekindling historic enmities.
'An intent to erase the symbols of battle, of resistance, of Mexican-Cuban humanity,' César Huerta, a left-wing journalist, wrote on X, blasting the action as 'ideological censorship.'
A radio commentator, José Luis Trueba Lara, bid good riddance, calling Guevara 'an assassin with good press' and Castro a 'bloodcurdling dictator.'
Carlos Bravo Regidor, a columnist, berated the left for being more concerned 'about the retirement of some miserable statues of Fidel and el Che than for the misery suffered by those who live beneath the yoke of the Cuban dictatorship.'
At the time of his 1955 encounter with Guevara, Castro, then 28, was not long out of a Cuban prison for an insurgent attack against the U.S.-backed Cuban dictatorship of Fulgencio Batista.
Guevara, one year younger, was a physician from a middle-class Buenos Aires' upbringing brimming with revolutionary fervor — and a vision of a pan-Latin American socialist union, free of U.S. 'imperialism.' The two young men immediately hit if off, historians say, embarking on a lifelong friendship and collaboration in the revolutionary project.
Both would be among 82 fighters aboard the yacht Granma that, in November 1956, set sail for Cuba from Mexico's Gulf coast. Their voyage, and subsequent guerrilla campaign, would culminate in 1959 in a historic overthrow of Batista and the imposition of a communist government in Havana.
Fidel and el Che are long gone, and the book on the Cold War officially closed more than a quarter-century ago. But, as the fiery debate here about an unassuming bench statue illustrates, the ideological fault lines of the Cold War are far from completely obscured, at least not in Latin America.
Special correspondent Cecilia Sánchez Vidal contributed.
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Chicago Tribune
2 hours ago
- Chicago Tribune
As Trump's raids ramp up, a Texas region's residents stay inside — even when they need medical care
WESLACO, Texas — These days, Juanita says a prayer every time she steps off the driveway of her modest rural home. The 41-year-old mother, who crossed into the United States from Mexico more than two decades ago and married an American carpenter, fears federal agents may be on the hunt for her. As she was about to leave for the pharmacy late last month, her husband called with a frantic warning: Immigration enforcement officers were swarming the store's parking lot. Juanita, who is prediabetic, skipped filling medications that treat her nutrient deficiencies. She also couldn't risk being detained because she has to care for her 17-year-old daughter, who has Down syndrome. ICE arrests increase across Chicago under Trump, many with no convictions, data shows'If I am caught, who's going to help my daughter?' Juanita asks in Spanish, through an interpreter. Some people quoted in this story insisted that The Associated Press publish only their first names because of concerns over their immigration status. As the Trump administration intensifies deportation activity around the country, some immigrants — including many who have lived in Texas's southern tip for decades — are unwilling to leave their homes, even for necessary medical care. Tucked behind the freeway strip malls, roadside taquerias and vast citrus groves that span this 160-mile stretch of the Rio Grande Valley are people like Juanita, who need critical medical care in one of the nation's poorest and unhealthiest regions. For generations, Mexican families have harmoniously settled — some legally, some not — in this predominately Latino community where immigration status was once hardly top of mind. White House officials have directed federal agents to leave no location unchecked, including hospitals and churches, in their drive to remove 1 million immigrants by year's end. Those agents are even combing through the federal government's largest medical record databases to search for immigrants who may be in the United States illegally. Deportations and tougher restrictions will come with consequences, says Mark Krikorian, the director of the Center for Immigration Studies, a think tank that favors restrictive immigration policies. 'We shouldn't have let it get out of hand the way we did,' Krikorian says of the previous administration's immigration policies. 'Some businesses are going to have difficulties. Some communities are going to face difficulties.' Federal agents' raids began reaching deeper into everyday life across the Rio Grande Valley in June, just as the area's 1.4 million residents began their summer ritual of enduring the suffocating heat. This working-class stretch of Texas solidly backed Trump in the 2024 election, despite campaign promises to ruthlessly pursue mass deportations. People here, who once moved regularly from the U.S. to Mexico to visit relatives or get cheap dental care, say they didn't realize his deportation campaign would focus on their neighbors. But in recent weeks, restaurant workers have been escorted out mid-shift and farmers have suddenly lost field workers. Schoolchildren talk openly about friends who lost a parent in raids. More than a dozen were arrested last month at local flea markets, according to local news reports and Border Patrol officials. Immigrants are staying shut inside their mobiles homes and shacks that make up the 'colonias,' zoning-free neighborhoods that sometimes don't have access to running water or electricity, says Sandra de la Cruz-Yarrison, who runs the Holy Family Services, Inc. clinic in Weslaco, Texas. 'People are not going to risk it,' de la Cruz-Yarrison says. 'People are being stripped from their families.' Yet people here are among the most medically needy in the country. Nearly half the population is obese. Women are more likely to be diagnosed with cervical cancer and elderly people are more likely to develop dementia. Bladder cancers can be more aggressive. One out of every four people lives with diabetes. As much as a third of the population doesn't have health insurance to cover those ailments. And a quarter of people live in poverty, more than double the national average. Now, many in this region are on a path to develop worse health outcomes as they skip doctors appointments out of fear, says Dr. Stanley Fisch, a pediatrician who helped open Driscoll Children's Hospital in the region last year. 'We've always had, unfortunately, people who have gone with untreated diabetes for a long time and now it's compounded with these other issues at the moment,' Fisch says. 'This is a very dangerous situation for people. The population is suffering accordingly.' Elvia was the unlucky — and unsuspecting — patient who sat down for the finger prick the clinic offers everyone during its monthly educational meeting for community members. As blood oozed out of her finger, the monitor registered a 194 glucose level, indicating she is prediabetic. She balked at the idea of writing down her address for regular care at Holy Family Services' clinic. Nor did she want to enroll in Medicaid, the federal and state funded program that provides health care coverage to the poorest Americans. Although she is a legal resident, some people living in her house do not have legal status. Fewer people have come to Holy Family Services' clinic with coverage in recent months, says billing coordinator Elizabeth Reta. Over decades, the clinic's midwifery staff has helped birth thousands of babies in bathtubs or on cozy beds in birthing houses situated throughout the campus. But now, Reta says, some parents are too scared to sign those children up for health insurance because they do not want to share too much information with the government. 'Even people I personally know that used to have Medicaid for their children that were born here — that are legally here, but the parents are not — they stopped requesting Medicaid,' Reta says. Their worry is well-founded. An Associated Press investigation last week revealed that U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement officials have gained access to personal health data — including addresses — of the nation's 79 million Medicaid and Children's Health Insurance Program enrollees. The disclosure will allow ICE officials to receive 'identity and location information of aliens,' documents obtained by the AP say. In Texas, the governor started requiring emergency room staff to ask patients about their legal status, a move that doctors have argued will dissuade immigrants from seeking needed care. State officials have said the data will show how much money is spent on care for immigrants who may not be here legally. Federal law requires emergency rooms to treat any patients who come to the doors. Visits to Holy Family Services' mobile clinic have stopped altogether since Trump took office. The van, which once offered checkups at the doorsteps in the colonias, now sits running on idle. Its constant hum is heard throughout the clinic's campus, to keep medical supplies fresh in the 100-degree temperatures. 'These were hard-hit communities that really needed the services,' de la Cruz-Yarrison says. 'People were just not coming after the administration changed.' Immigrants were less likely to seek medical care during Trump's first term, multiple studies concluded. A 2023 study of well-child visits in Boston, Minneapolis and Little Rock, Arkansas, noted a 5% drop for children who were born to immigrant mothers after Trump was elected in 2016. The study also noted declines in visits when news about Trump's plans to tighten immigration rules broke throughout his first term. 'It's a really high-anxiety environment where they're afraid to talk to the pediatrician, go to school or bring their kids to child care,' says Stephanie Ettinger de Cuba, a Boston University researcher who oversaw the study. A delayed trip to the doctor almost cost 82-year-old Maria Isabel de Perez her son this spring. He refused to seek help for his intense and constant stomach pains for weeks, instead popping Tylenol daily so he could still labor in the farm fields of Arkansas, she says. He put off going to the hospital as rumors swirled that immigration enforcement officials were outside of the hospital. 'He waited and waited because he felt the pain but was too scared to go to the hospital,' she explains in Spanish through an interpreter. 'He couldn't go until the appendix exploded.' Her son is still recovering after surgery and has not been able to return to work, she says. Perez is a permanent resident who has lived in the United States for 40 years. But all of her children were born in Mexico, and, because she is a green card holder, she cannot sponsor them for citizenship. Maria, meanwhile, only leaves her house to volunteer at Holy Family Services' food bank. She's skipped work on nearby farms. And after last month's arrests, she won't sell clothes for money at the flea market anymore. So she stuffs cardboard boxes with loaves of bread, potatoes, peppers and beans that will be handed out to the hungry. Before the raids began, about 130 people would drive up to collect a box of food from Maria. But on this sweltering June day, only 68 people show up for food. She brings home a box every week to her children, ages 16, 11 and 4, who are spending the summer shut inside. Her 16-year-old daughter has skipped the checkup she needs to refill her depression medication. The teenager, who checks in on friends whose parents have been arrested in immigration raids through a text group chat, insists she is 'doing OK.' Maria left Mexico years ago because dangerous gangs rule her hometown, she explains. She's married now to an American truck driver. 'We're not bad people,' Maria says from her dining room table, where her 4-year-old son happily eats a lime green popsicle. 'We just want to have a better future for our children.' Juanita, the prediabetic mother who hasn't filled her prescriptions out of fear, was not sure when she would brave the pharmacy again. But with a cross hanging around her neck, the devout Catholic says she will say three invocations before she does. Explains her 15-year-old son, Jose: 'We always pray before we leave.'
San Francisco Chronicle
2 hours ago
- San Francisco Chronicle
As Trump's raids ramp up, a Texas region's residents stay inside — even when they need medical care
These days, Juanita says a prayer every time she steps off the driveway of her modest rural home. The 41-year-old mother, who crossed into the United States from Mexico more than two decades ago and married an American carpenter, fears federal agents may be on the hunt for her. As she was about to leave for the pharmacy late last month, her husband called with a frantic warning: Immigration enforcement officers were swarming the store's parking lot. Juanita, who is prediabetic, skipped filling medications that treat her nutrient deficiencies. She also couldn't risk being detained because she has to care for her 17-year-old daughter, who has Down syndrome. 'If I am caught, who's going to help my daughter?" Juanita asks in Spanish, through an interpreter. Some people quoted in this story insisted that The Associated Press publish only their first names because of concerns over their immigration status. As the Trump administration intensifies deportation activity around the country, some immigrants — including many who have lived in Texas's southern tip for decades — are unwilling to leave their homes, even for necessary medical care. Tucked behind the freeway strip malls, roadside taquerias and vast citrus groves that span this 160-mile stretch of the Rio Grande Valley are people like Juanita, who need critical medical care in one of the nation's poorest and unhealthiest regions. For generations, Mexican families have harmoniously settled — some legally, some not — in this predominately Latino community where immigration status was once hardly top of mind. White House officials have directed federal agents to leave no location unchecked, including hospitals and churches, in their drive to remove 1 million immigrants by year's end. Those agents are even combing through the federal government's largest medical record databases to search for immigrants who may be in the United States illegally. Deportations and tougher restrictions will come with consequences, says Mark Krikorian, the director of the Center for Immigration Studies, a think tank that favors restrictive immigration policies. 'We shouldn't have let it get out of hand the way we did,' Krikorian says of the previous administration's immigration policies. 'Some businesses are going to have difficulties. Some communities are going to face difficulties." Federal agents' raids began reaching deeper into everyday life across the Rio Grande Valley in June, just as the area's 1.4 million residents began their summer ritual of enduring the suffocating heat. This working-class stretch of Texas solidly backed Trump in the 2024 election, despite campaign promises to ruthlessly pursue mass deportations. People here, who once moved regularly from the U.S. to Mexico to visit relatives or get cheap dental care, say they didn't realize his deportation campaign would focus on their neighbors. But in recent weeks, restaurant workers have been escorted out mid-shift and farmers have suddenly lost field workers. Schoolchildren talk openly about friends who lost a parent in raids. More than a dozen were arrested last month at local flea markets, according to local news reports and Border Patrol officials. Immigrants are staying shut inside their mobiles homes and shacks that make up the 'colonias," zoning-free neighborhoods that sometimes don't have access to running water or electricity, says Sandra de la Cruz-Yarrison, who runs the Holy Family Services, Inc. clinic in Weslaco, Texas. 'People are not going to risk it,' de la Cruz-Yarrison says. 'People are being stripped from their families.' Yet people here are among the most medically needy in the country. Nearly half the population is obese. Women are more likely to be diagnosed with cervical cancer and elderly people are more likely to develop dementia. Bladder cancers can be more aggressive. One out of every four people lives with diabetes. As much as a third of the population doesn't have health insurance to cover those ailments. And a quarter of people live in poverty, more than double the national average. Now, many in this region are on a path to develop worse health outcomes as they skip doctors appointments out of fear, says Dr. Stanley Fisch, a pediatrician who helped open Driscoll Children's Hospital in the region last year. 'We've always had, unfortunately, people who have gone with untreated diabetes for a long time and now it's compounded with these other issues at the moment,' Fisch says. 'This is a very dangerous situation for people. The population is suffering accordingly.' Trepidations about going to clinics are spreading Elvia was the unlucky — and unsuspecting — patient who sat down for the finger prick the clinic offers everyone during its monthly educational meeting for community members. As blood oozed out of her finger, the monitor registered a 194 glucose level, indicating she is prediabetic. She balked at the idea of writing down her address for regular care at Holy Family Services' clinic. Nor did she want to enroll in Medicaid, the federal and state funded program that provides health care coverage to the poorest Americans. Although she is a legal resident, some people living in her house do not have legal status. Fewer people have come to Holy Family Services' clinic with coverage in recent months, says billing coordinator Elizabeth Reta. Over decades, the clinic's midwifery staff has helped birth thousands of babies in bathtubs or on cozy beds in birthing houses situated throughout the campus. But now, Reta says, some parents are too scared to sign those children up for health insurance because they do not want to share too much information with the government. 'Even people I personally know that used to have Medicaid for their children that were born here — that are legally here, but the parents are not — they stopped requesting Medicaid," Reta says. Their worry is well-founded. An Associated Press investigation last week revealed that U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement officials have gained access to personal health data — including addresses — of the nation's 79 million Medicaid and Children's Health Insurance Program enrollees. The disclosure will allow ICE officials to receive 'identity and location information of aliens,' documents obtained by the AP say. In Texas, the governor started requiring emergency room staff to ask patients about their legal status, a move that doctors have argued will dissuade immigrants from seeking needed care. State officials have said the data will show how much money is spent on care for immigrants who may not be here legally. Federal law requires emergency rooms to treat any patients who come to the doors. Visits to Holy Family Services' mobile clinic have stopped altogether since Trump took office. The van, which once offered checkups at the doorsteps in the colonias, now sits running on idle. Its constant hum is heard throughout the clinic's campus, to keep medical supplies fresh in the 100-degree temperatures. 'These were hard-hit communities that really needed the services,' de la Cruz-Yarrison says. 'People were just not coming after the administration changed.' A mother almost loses a son. A daughter is too scared to visit the doctor Immigrants were less likely to seek medical care during Trump's first term, multiple studies concluded. A 2023 study of well-child visits in Boston, Minneapolis and Little Rock, Arkansas, noted a 5% drop for children who were born to immigrant mothers after Trump was elected in 2016. The study also noted declines in visits when news about Trump's plans to tighten immigration rules broke throughout his first term. 'It's a really high-anxiety environment where they're afraid to talk to the pediatrician, go to school or bring their kids to child care,' says Stephanie Ettinger de Cuba, a Boston University researcher who oversaw the study. A delayed trip to the doctor almost cost 82-year-old Maria Isabel de Perez her son this spring. He refused to seek help for his intense and constant stomach pains for weeks, instead popping Tylenol daily so he could still labor in the farm fields of Arkansas, she says. He put off going to the hospital as rumors swirled that immigration enforcement officials were outside of the hospital. 'He waited and waited because he felt the pain but was too scared to go to the hospital,' she explains in Spanish through an interpreter. 'He couldn't go until the appendix exploded.' Her son is still recovering after surgery and has not been able to return to work, she says. Perez is a permanent resident who has lived in the United States for 40 years. But all of her children were born in Mexico, and, because she is a green card holder, she cannot sponsor them for citizenship. Maria, meanwhile, only leaves her house to volunteer at Holy Family Services' food bank. She's skipped work on nearby farms. And after last month's arrests, she won't sell clothes for money at the flea market anymore. So she stuffs cardboard boxes with loaves of bread, potatoes, peppers and beans that will be handed out to the hungry. Before the raids began, about 130 people would drive up to collect a box of food from Maria. But on this sweltering June day, only 68 people show up for food. She brings home a box every week to her children, ages 16, 11 and 4, who are spending the summer shut inside. Her 16-year-old daughter has skipped the checkup she needs to refill her depression medication. The teenager, who checks in on friends whose parents have been arrested in immigration raids through a text group chat, insists she is 'doing OK.' Maria left Mexico years ago because dangerous gangs rule her hometown, she explains. She's married now to an American truck driver. 'We're not bad people,' Maria says from her dining room table, where her 4-year-old son happily eats a lime green popsicle. 'We just want to have a better future for our children.' Juanita, the prediabetic mother who hasn't filled her prescriptions out of fear, was not sure when she would brave the pharmacy again. But with a cross hanging around her neck, the devout Catholic says she will say three invocations before she does.
Hamilton Spectator
2 hours ago
- Hamilton Spectator
As Trump's raids ramp up, a Texas region's residents stay inside - even when they need medical care
WESLACO, Texas (AP) — These days, Juanita says a prayer every time she steps off the driveway of her modest rural home. The 41-year-old mother, who crossed into the United States from Mexico more than two decades ago and married an American carpenter, fears federal agents may be on the hunt for her. As she was about to leave for the pharmacy late last month, her husband called with a frantic warning: Immigration enforcement officers were swarming the store's parking lot. Juanita, who is prediabetic, skipped filling medications that treat her nutrient deficiencies. She also couldn't risk being detained because she has to care for her 17-year-old daughter, who has Down syndrome. 'If I am caught, who's going to help my daughter?' Juanita asks in Spanish, through an interpreter. Some people quoted in this story insisted that The Associated Press publish only their first names because of concerns over their immigration status. As the Trump administration intensifies deportation activity around the country, some immigrants — including many who have lived in Texas's southern tip for decades — are unwilling to leave their homes, even for necessary medical care. Tucked behind the freeway strip malls, roadside taquerias and vast citrus groves that span this 160-mile stretch of the Rio Grande Valley are people like Juanita, who need critical medical care in one of the nation's poorest and unhealthiest regions. For generations, Mexican families have harmoniously settled — some legally, some not — in this predominately Latino community where immigration status was once hardly top of mind. A 'very dangerous situation' White House officials have directed federal agents to leave no location unchecked, including hospitals and churches, in their drive to remove 1 million immigrants by year's end . Those agents are even combing through the federal government's largest medical record databases to search for immigrants who may be in the United States illegally. Deportations and tougher restrictions will come with consequences, says Mark Krikorian, the director of the Center for Immigration Studies, a think tank that favors restrictive immigration policies. 'We shouldn't have let it get out of hand the way we did,' Krikorian says of the previous administration's immigration policies. 'Some businesses are going to have difficulties. Some communities are going to face difficulties.' Federal agents' raids began reaching deeper into everyday life across the Rio Grande Valley in June, just as the area's 1.4 million residents began their summer ritual of enduring the suffocating heat. This working-class stretch of Texas solidly backed Trump in the 2024 election, despite campaign promises to ruthlessly pursue mass deportations. People here, who once moved regularly from the U.S. to Mexico to visit relatives or get cheap dental care, say they didn't realize his deportation campaign would focus on their neighbors. But in recent weeks, restaurant workers have been escorted out mid-shift and farmers have suddenly lost field workers. Schoolchildren talk openly about friends who lost a parent in raids. More than a dozen were arrested last month at local flea markets , according to local news reports and Border Patrol officials. Immigrants are staying shut inside their mobiles homes and shacks that make up the 'colonias,' zoning-free neighborhoods that sometimes don't have access to running water or electricity, says Sandra de la Cruz-Yarrison, who runs the Holy Family Services, Inc. clinic in Weslaco, Texas. 'People are not going to risk it,' de la Cruz-Yarrison says. 'People are being stripped from their families.' Yet people here are among the most medically needy in the country. Nearly half the population is obese . Women are more likely to be diagnosed with cervical cancer and elderly people are more likely to develop dementia . Bladder cancers can be more aggressive . One out of every four people lives with diabetes . As much as a third of the population doesn't have health insurance to cover those ailments. And a quarter of people live in poverty, more than double the national average. Now, many in this region are on a path to develop worse health outcomes as they skip doctors appointments out of fear, says Dr. Stanley Fisch, a pediatrician who helped open Driscoll Children's Hospital in the region last year. 'We've always had, unfortunately, people who have gone with untreated diabetes for a long time and now it's compounded with these other issues at the moment,' Fisch says. 'This is a very dangerous situation for people. The population is suffering accordingly.' Trepidations about going to clinics are spreading Elvia was the unlucky — and unsuspecting — patient who sat down for the finger prick the clinic offers everyone during its monthly educational meeting for community members. As blood oozed out of her finger, the monitor registered a 194 glucose level, indicating she is prediabetic. She balked at the idea of writing down her address for regular care at Holy Family Services' clinic. Nor did she want to enroll in Medicaid, the federal and state funded program that provides health care coverage to the poorest Americans. Although she is a legal resident, some people living in her house do not have legal status. Fewer people have come to Holy Family Services' clinic with coverage in recent months, says billing coordinator Elizabeth Reta. Over decades, the clinic's midwifery staff has helped birth thousands of babies in bathtubs or on cozy beds in birthing houses situated throughout the campus. But now, Reta says, some parents are too scared to sign those children up for health insurance because they do not want to share too much information with the government. 'Even people I personally know that used to have Medicaid for their children that were born here — that are legally here, but the parents are not — they stopped requesting Medicaid,' Reta says. Their worry is well-founded. An Associated Press investigation last week revealed that U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement officials have gained access to personal health data — including addresses — of the nation's 79 million Medicaid and Children's Health Insurance Program enrollees. The disclosure will allow ICE officials to receive 'identity and location information of aliens,' documents obtained by the AP say. In Texas, the governor started requiring emergency room staff to ask patients about their legal status, a move that doctors have argued will dissuade immigrants from seeking needed care. State officials have said the data will show how much money is spent on care for immigrants who may not be here legally. Federal law requires emergency rooms to treat any patients who come to the doors. Visits to Holy Family Services' mobile clinic have stopped altogether since Trump took office. The van, which once offered checkups at the doorsteps in the colonias, now sits running on idle. Its constant hum is heard throughout the clinic's campus, to keep medical supplies fresh in the 100-degree temperatures. 'These were hard-hit communities that really needed the services,' de la Cruz-Yarrison says. 'People were just not coming after the administration changed.' A mother almost loses a son. A daughter is too scared to visit the doctor Immigrants were less likely to seek medical care during Trump's first term, multiple studies concluded. A 2023 study of well-child visits in Boston, Minneapolis and Little Rock, Arkansas, noted a 5% drop for children who were born to immigrant mothers after Trump was elected in 2016. The study also noted declines in visits when news about Trump's plans to tighten immigration rules broke throughout his first term. 'It's a really high-anxiety environment where they're afraid to talk to the pediatrician, go to school or bring their kids to child care,' says Stephanie Ettinger de Cuba, a Boston University researcher who oversaw the study. A delayed trip to the doctor almost cost 82-year-old Maria Isabel de Perez her son this spring. He refused to seek help for his intense and constant stomach pains for weeks, instead popping Tylenol daily so he could still labor in the farm fields of Arkansas, she says. He put off going to the hospital as rumors swirled that immigration enforcement officials were outside of the hospital. 'He waited and waited because he felt the pain but was too scared to go to the hospital,' she explains in Spanish through an interpreter. 'He couldn't go until the appendix exploded.' Her son is still recovering after surgery and has not been able to return to work, she says. Perez is a permanent resident who has lived in the United States for 40 years. But all of her children were born in Mexico, and, because she is a green card holder, she cannot sponsor them for citizenship. Maria, meanwhile, only leaves her house to volunteer at Holy Family Services' food bank. She's skipped work on nearby farms. And after last month's arrests, she won't sell clothes for money at the flea market anymore. So she stuffs cardboard boxes with loaves of bread, potatoes, peppers and beans that will be handed out to the hungry. Before the raids began, about 130 people would drive up to collect a box of food from Maria. But on this sweltering June day, only 68 people show up for food. She brings home a box every week to her children, ages 16, 11 and 4, who are spending the summer shut inside. Her 16-year-old daughter has skipped the checkup she needs to refill her depression medication. The teenager, who checks in on friends whose parents have been arrested in immigration raids through a text group chat, insists she is 'doing OK.' Maria left Mexico years ago because dangerous gangs rule her hometown, she explains. She's married now to an American truck driver. 'We're not bad people,' Maria says from her dining room table, where her 4-year-old son happily eats a lime green popsicle. 'We just want to have a better future for our children.' Juanita, the prediabetic mother who hasn't filled her prescriptions out of fear, was not sure when she would brave the pharmacy again. But with a cross hanging around her neck, the devout Catholic says she will say three invocations before she does. Explains her 15-year-old son, Jose: 'We always pray before we leave.' ___ The Associated Press receives support from the National Press Club Journalism Institute's Public Health Reporting Fellowship, funded by the Common Health Coalition. The AP is solely responsible for all content.
