How a shelter hit by Trump's aid cuts protects LGBTQ migrants in Mexico

TAPACHULA, Mexico (AP) — Ana Esquivel no longer feels like her heart stops every time she sees a police officer.

“We’ve been told that they won’t harass or mistreat us here, but back home, if a male name is spotted on your ID, you could spend the night detained,” said the 50-year-old transgender woman. She fled Cuba fearing for her safety and arrived in Mexico earlier this year.

Esquivel settled in the southern city of Tapachula, hoping to dodge the Trump’s administration crackdown on migration and reach the United States. But unlike many who were turned back after Customs and Border Protection abruptly canceled appointments for people to legally enter the United States, returning home is not an option for LGBTQ+ migrants.

“The LGBT population doesn’t necessarily leave their countries for the same reasons as others,” said Mariana de la Cruz, operations director at Casa Frida, a shelter that supports LGBTQ+ migrants and lost 60% of its funds after President Donald Trump ordered the suspension of foreign assistance programs in January.

“They leave due to discrimination and violence based on their gender identity,” de la Cruz said. “Beyond economic reasons or the American Dream, they leave because they need to survive.”

The flux of migrants at the Southern Mexican border with Guatemala dipped after Trump announced plans to restrict refugees and asylum seekers, contending he wants to stop illegal entry and border crime. The Mexican Commission for Refugee Aid in Tapachula has not updated its public data since December 2024, but the transformation is clear.

Hundreds of migrants no longer flood a public square, waiting for a response to their refugee applications. And though lines still form around the commission’s headquarters, locals say the crowds are smaller.

At a nearby Catholic shelter, administrator Herber Bermúdez said they have hosted up to 1,700 migrants at a time, but it's closer to 300 with the shutdown of CBP One, the U.S. border app that facilitated legal entry into the country.

“The change was substantial,” Bermúdez said. “By Jan. 20, we had around 1,200 people, but as the app stopped working, people started heading back to their countries.”

In contrast, help requests addressed to Casa Frida have not dropped.

"All of the people we support were victims of violence," said Sebastián Rodríguez, who works at the shelter. "They can’t go back."

In Tapachula since 2022, Casa Frida staff review on average 80 applications per month, assessing the most at-risk. According to Rodríguez, nonbinary and transgender migrants are frequently vulnerable to attacks.

The shelter doesn't have enough resources to help everyone, but they bring on about 70 new people monthly and can support up to 200 LGBTQ+ at any given time.

Several migrants recently told The Associated Press they were kidnapped by cartel members as they set foot in Mexico and had to give up their possessions to be released.

LGBTQ+ people face more violence, Rodríguez said. Transgender women often dress as men to avoid mockery and being spotted by criminals. If they are spared and reach a shelter, staff assign them to male dorms. If they leave and try to rent a room elsewhere, landlords seem unhospitable or demand unthinkable fees.

“That’s why programs like ours are needed,” Rodríguez said.

According to the shelter, about 40% of its population was affected by the end of CBP One app and the mass cancellation of appointments.

“Some people feel discouraged and hopeless,” Rodríguez said. “But many have applied for asylum in Mexico.”

Among its services, Casa Frida can provide a roof and meals for up to 12 people for three months. The organization's other programs can help several more migrants by providing legal guidance on remaining in Mexico, advice on finding temporary jobs with inclusive environments, psychological counseling and tips for renting apartments under fair conditions.

“Most people just think of us as a shelter, but providing refuge is only the core of what we do,” Rodríguez said. “Our goal is to reintegrate violence victims into society.”

The shelter operates in three locations: Mexico City, where it was founded in 2020 and mostly supports locals; Tapachula, which mainly receives migrants from Cuba, Honduras, Venezuela, El Salvador, Perú and Haiti; and Monterrey, where those at grave risk are transferred to be safe at an undisclosed address.

Manuel Jiménez, 21, was welcomed at the Mexico City station in February. He arrived from a state near the capital when harassment by family members became unbearable.

Jiménez initially hoped to reach the U.S. and he traveled north in November 2024. All went well until border patrol officers detained him in Arizona and he was deported. But it was dangerous for him to stay in his hometown.

“Someone told me about this shelter because I wanted to find a place where I could feel at peace,” said Jiménez, who identifies as bisexual. “Back home, there were people who wanted to hurt me, verbally and physically.”

Now living at Casa Frida, he started working at a nearby restaurant and hopes to save money that will enable him to find a home of his own.

Back in Tapachula, Esquivel applied for Mexican refugee status. Around 85% of Casa Frida’s migrants get a positive response, so she's optimistic. Maybe one day, she hopes, she could go back to school, land a job and relocate.

“I want to stay here and become part of this country,” Esquivel said. “I want to do it the right way and I’m grateful to Casa Frida for helping me get there.”

She learned about the shelter from another trans woman who also fled Cuba after feeling threatened by police.

“I was nearly arrested,” said Rachel Pérez, 51. “In Cuba, we are discriminated and persecuted. We leave in search for a better life.”

Human rights organizations have denounced continuing intolerance in the Caribbean nation, which does have sexual orientation protections.

According to Esquivel, she was accused of prostitution — which is not illegal under Cuban law — for repeatedly walking alone at night. Police warned her a few times, but she kept going out until she was detained and transferred to a male prison.

“I was raped there,” said Esquivel, who remained imprisoned for a year. “I was only 21 and the inmates abused me. Within time, I learned how to defend myself, but those were very difficult times I won’t forget.”

Staff at Casa Frida constantly updates their protocols to help migrants like Esquivel. But keeping operations running has proved challenging due to the U.S. aid cuts. According to De la Cruz, worrisome notifications popped by Jan. 24, and a few weeks later, 60% of their budget was gone.

“We’ve been looking everywhere to find new sustainability alternatives,” she said. “We are part of a network focused on LGBT mobility in Latin America and the Caribbean — 13 organizations in 10 countries — and at least 50% of them took a hit.”

Funding campaigns and ongoing meetings with European and local leaders might bring a solution, but concerns haven’t ceased and the team could significantly diminish its operations.

“Nothing is written in stone and we don’t know what could happen next,” De la Cruz said.

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