Driving into Jacumba Hot Springs, a town eighty miles east of San Diego, California, an imposing stretch of the border wall emerges, slicing through the rugged desert terrain. Visible along the town’s main street, the thirty-foot-tall steel wall’s long shadow looms over its roughly 600 residents.
But as we approach the wall, an embodiment of U.S. immigration policy, cracks become apparent. Karen Parker, a long-time resident known affectionately as Tia or “Aunt Bunny,” points to a small gap next to a tangle of barbed wire. Tens of thousands of people from Latin America, Africa, and Asia have crossed through this gap and others like it, as families or alone, into the United States seeking to claim asylum.
Since September, San Diego Border Patrol agents have held these asylum seekers in makeshift camps in the desert, or in between two border walls, for days at a time without access to adequate food, water, shelter, sanitation facilities, or medical services.
Almost overnight, this remote pocket of the California borderlands has become a juncture in the largest global displacement of people fleeing conflict since World War II, straining local infrastructure, exacerbating tensions, and feeding sensationalist sound bites for pundits thousands of miles away.
Lacking support from local and federal officials, a network of nonprofits, mutual aid groups, and volunteers delivers critical assistance to asylum seekers at these unofficial open-air detention sites, which these groups refer to as OADS. Despite their limited resources and facing hostility from Border Patrol agents, this collective effort has sought to welcome migrants and asylum seekers to the United States with dignity.
Claudia Villalona
A volunteer leaves humanitarian aid for migrants during a water drop hike in the Otay Mountain Wilderness, San Diego County, California.
The situation in San Diego County is part of a broken system in which border enforcement funding is prioritized above building the necessary infrastructure to humanely process a historic number of asylum seekers.
As one of the largest federal law enforcement agencies, U.S. Customs and Border Protection (CBP) has seen its massive budget nearly triple over the past two decades. President Joe Biden’s willingness to “shut down” the border reveals how the federal government continues to pursue the same, failed strategy of criminalizing the internationally protected right to asylum while pouring billions of dollars into an increasingly militarized border.
Far-removed politicians and pundits fail to take into account the desperate circumstances in which people are willing to risk everything—from the deadly migrant route to the possibility of rejection by U.S. authorities—to seek protection at our borders.
In 2023, an estimated 2.5 million arrivals at the U.S.-Mexico border marked the third consecutive record-setting year, surpassing the previous record of 2.3 million in 2022, according to CBP data. The demographics of asylum seekers in recent years have shifted, with an increase in South American, Chinese, and African migrants traveling in families or as unaccompanied minors. In May 2023, the Biden Administration replaced Title 42, a section of U.S. Code used by former President Donald Trump to enforce pandemic-era restrictions on asylum, with a set of policies that immigration experts say amount to another asylum ban.
In addition to forcing migrants to vie for an extremely limited number of appointments in Mexico through a glitchy and inaccessible app, the administration has also moved to block asylum for anyone who attempts to enter the country between designated ports of entry. Legal experts say this violates both federal law and international treaties safeguarding the right to asylum.
Nicole Ramos, an immigration attorney and director of Al Otro Lado’s Border Rights Project in Tijuana, Mexico, provides legal support to migrants and refugees navigating the United States’ complex immigration and asylum policies. Over the past decade, increasing restrictions on asylum, including limiting “access to the port of entry,” Ramos says, “has led to the buildup and bottleneck of people” at the border.
As avenues for individuals seeking asylum or lawful entry become more limited, many have resorted to crossing between ports of entry, including through Jacumba and San Ysidro, from Tijuana. Once across, migrants often turn themselves in with the intention of claiming asylum. They are then detained by Border Patrol agents along the border wall under conditions that violate the agency’s own standards for detention.
After Title 42 expired, surges at the border spiked in May 2023 and have remained at similar or higher levels since last September. December’s reported border crossings broke previous monthly records with more than 300,000, or an average of 10,000 arrivals per day. Ramos and other immigrant rights advocates allege that the Biden Administration and the CBP anticipated this surge but failed to prepare to humanely accommodate asylum seekers. “The U.S. government,” Ramos says, “has anticipated that we would be facing high levels of migration as far back as fifteen years ago.”
Those who make it to U.S. soil are processed and either deported, detained, or released with a court date to determine their eligibility for asylum. Due to a significant backlog in the system, court dates are being scheduled for years, and in some cases, up to a decade, into the future.
A haphazard collection of deserted tents, tarps, extinguished fire pits, blankets, and belongings scatter the dirt clearing along the wall near Jacumba’s main road. A handful of volunteers trickle in with garbage bags to begin cleaning up. Earlier that morning, Border Patrol agents had picked up the nearly twenty asylum seekers who had stayed there the night before.
Just a week earlier, all three camps in the Jacumba area held an average of 800, and up to 1,200, asylum seekers; in December, volunteers estimated 13,000 people moved through San Diego County’s seven open-air detention sites.
Claudia Villalona
Jacumba resident and volunteer Karen Parker, known as “Aunt Bunny,” sits in the community donation center near the open-air detention camps in east San Diego County, California.
As the camps empty out, Aunt Bunny and other volunteers in Jacumba have noticed an increased presence of Mexican National Guard agents on the other side of the wall—a rarity here, according to longtime residents. Crossings along the U.S.-Mexico border dropped by nearly 40 percent from December to January. While immigration experts note a January drop is fairly typical, it also comes as the Biden Administration pressures Mexican authorities to ramp up enforcement.
Jacqueline Arellano, the director of U.S. programs for Border Kindness, a nonprofit border rights organization, surveys the nearly deserted camp. “I give it two weeks for numbers to pick up again,” she says. The flow of arrivals is unpredictable, “like a magic eight ball,” adds Aunt Bunny. Nonetheless, the eerie lull has brought a sense of cautious relief following months of chaos. “I haven’t had a day off in over three months,” Aunt Bunny continues, as she beckons a group of migrants to the coffee dispenser resting on the open trunk of her SUV. She pulls out a cigarette while motioning the pack toward them. The eldest man accepts.
Arellano discovered the Border Patrol’s first camp in May, shortly after Title 42 expired. She was appalled to find thousands of asylum seekers stuck in the open desert for days without any necessities. “I had never seen anything like it in ten years doing this work,” she recalls, noting that numbers have fluctuated in Jacumba and San Ysidro. “It’s been nonstop since September.”
A white and green Border Patrol van pulls into the clearing, kicking up a trail of dust. Two agents step out. Their expressions are impenetrable, hidden behind dark sunglasses. The group of migrants rushes for their belongings—limited to one backpack per person. Pickups are unpredictable, and migrants must be ready to depart at a moment’s notice or risk being left behind.
The men assemble in a line to be patted down by the officers. The agents instruct them to shed all but two layers of clothing before boarding the van. That explains the discarded jackets, children’s toys, and other miscellaneous personal items that pepper the makeshift camp.
The asylum seekers are now “officially” under CBP custody, headed for processing facilities known among migrants as the dreaded hieleras, or “iceboxes,” for the freezing temperatures and semi-frozen burritos they provide.
CBP has refused to acknowledge the existence of the open-air detention camps, instead referring to them as “gathering sites.” By claiming that asylum seekers are not technically detained or under their custody, the agency attempts to sidestep its stated minimum standards of detention, which include guaranteeing access to food, water, adequate shelter and hygiene facilities, reasonable accommodations for at-risk individuals, and medical attention, if needed. Under the agency’s guidelines, CBP cannot detain migrants for more than seventy-two hours. Border Patrol agents, however, frequently intimidate asylum seekers into staying for up to six days, threatening deportation for anyone who leaves the site before processing—even to seek emergency medical care.
In response to a request for comment, a CPB spokesperson emailed this statement to The Progressive: “CBP is leveraging all available resources and partnerships to efficiently vet and process migrants consistent with law. The agency continues to surge personnel, transportation, processing, and humanitarian resources to the most active and arduous areas throughout San Diego County’s border region, where migrants are callously placed by for-profit smuggling organizations, often without proper preparation.”
The emerging coalition of nonprofits, mutual aid groups, and community organizations providing border aid on the ground lobbied local officials for emergency humanitarian funding to counter the agency’s negligence.
In late September, San Diego County declared the lack of resources for asylum seekers to be a humanitarian crisis, allocating a $3 million grant to SBCS, a local nonprofit tasked with providing orientation and travel assistance to asylum seekers released after CBP processing. Despite vocal concerns over transparency and misuse of funds, the county awarded SBCS another $3 million in December. San Diego County and the board of supervisors have not recognized the existence of the seven camps in any official capacity. As a result, none of the $6 million in funding was allocated directly to the OADS or to any of the organizations delivering aid on the ground.
Without any support from the local, state, or federal government, volunteers and nonprofits like Border Kindness have been the only source of relief for asylum seekers trapped at these sites. Everything, from food and tents to clothing and Band-Aids, is sourced exclusively through donations and grassroots fundraising efforts.
While Aunt Bunny has faced resistance from neighbors, she believes Jacumba has risen to the occasion. “The desert is like an island, but we’ve rolled out [the welcome mat] here,” she says.
Others from San Diego and surrounding communities trek to Jacumba to volunteer their free time. Some volunteers have even quit their jobs to temporarily relocate to the town. “We’re preventing chaos to meet basic needs as much as possible,” Arellano says.
Asylum seekers—including babies, unaccompanied children, pregnant women, seniors, and individuals with disabilities and health problems—arrive malnourished and exhausted from months of a grueling and perilous journey only to endure the extreme conditions of the desert.
Adriana Jasso/American Friends Service Committee
A four-day-old newborn with her mother waits between border walls in San Diego, California.
From May to September, daytime temperatures can reach 110 degrees. In the winter months, temperatures plummet at night and can drop to below freezing. Sudden winter storms threaten wind and freezing rain.
Erika Pinheiro, executive director of Al Otro Lado, is exhausted and frustrated. “We are running a massive humanitarian disaster response on a shoestring budget,” she told The Guardian in October. Arellano constantly worries that the necessary resources to provide life-sustaining support will run out. “We’re so incredibly strained, and more people are going to die,” she says.
Many asylum seekers are forced to sleep on the ground without protection from the elements, as they often outnumber the spaces available in the donated tents and makeshift shelters built from tarps and surrounding vegetation.
Medical professionals have repeatedly warned that placing vulnerable people, including those with chronic health conditions such as asthma and diabetes, in these hostile conditions substantially increases the risk of medical emergencies.
Aunt Bunny, who is a retired social worker with first-aid training, has come across sustained trauma injuries, such as broken bones, infected open wounds, burns, and gangrene. She treats those she can with donated supplies and sends people that require more attention to medical professionals.
The remote town’s emergency medical system has been overwhelmed and unable to meet the sudden demand in 911 calls. When volunteers escalate medical emergencies, due to severe dehydration, hypothermia, seizures, heart attacks, and pregnancy complications, they encounter major delays and even hostile personnel. Migrants at OADS have also refused urgent medical care to avoid being separated from their families or out of fear that medical care may jeopardize their asylum claim.
According to Aunt Bunny and Arellano, local EMS providers refuse to enter camps without the Border Patrol’s explicit approval, forcing migrants seeking treatment to “walk up to the pavement” on the highway, nearly fifty yards away.
In late December, Aunt Bunny encountered an Egyptian man suffering heart attack symptoms. He miraculously survived after she and other volunteers used a defibrillator while waiting for an ambulance. In November, another volunteer performed CPR to resuscitate a minor. In both instances, it took more than an hour for emergency services to arrive. “If volunteers weren’t present, there would have been more deaths,” Arellano says.
In San Ysidro, just a few miles south of downtown San Diego, four more open-air detention camps hold asylum seekers between a set of thirty-foot-tall border walls. Despite asylum seekers being physically detained at these sites, CBP claims that they are not formally under the agency’s custody.
Since September, local aid organizations and volunteers, including the Free Stuff Collective and the American Friends Service Committee, have distributed food, water, and basic necessities, such as first-aid kits, portable phone chargers, diapers, and blankets, through the wall’s steel slats.
While the detention camps in San Ysidro are closer to hospitals and medical services, emergencies are even more common than in Jacumba. Volunteers encounter a higher rate of trauma injuries, including severe cuts, concussions, and fractures. Border wall-related injuries and falls resulting in injury or death have increased sevenfold in San Diego since 2019.
The camps in San Ysidro are also prone to flash flooding from winter storms and flooding of the nearby Tijuana River. During a flash flood storm earlier this year, hundreds of migrants trapped between the border walls waited for more than ten hours with little to no protection. Two children, who sought shelter from the storm in overflowing porta-potties, were transported to the local hospital to receive treatment for hypothermia.
In October, after several medical emergencies and weeks of warnings from aid workers, a twenty-nine-year-old Guinean woman fell unconscious and later died at one of the detention camps in San Ysidro. Several weeks later, a thirteen-year-old boy suffered severe injuries in a vehicle crash while attempting to cross into Jacumba. He died at the hospital later that day. Theresa Cheng, an emergency medicine professor and Border Kindness board member, called the crisis “a mass casualty event waiting to happen.”