‘Coming back with nothing': Inside the reverse migration away from the US

Al Jazeera

30-06-2025

Inside the reverse migration away from the US A boat carrying a group of returning migrants arrives at the pier in Necocli [Euan Wallace/Al Jazeera] A boat carrying a group of returning migrants arrives at the pier in Necocli [Euan Wallace/Al Jazeera]
Necocli, Colombia – In the seaside town of Necocli, a white boat eases onto the shore.
From a distance, it is identical to the many tourist skiffs that cruise along Colombia's picturesque Caribbean coast. As the passengers disembark, however, there are no photos and few smiles.
Among them is a 21-year-old from Venezuela named Luis Angel Yagua Parra. It is not his first time passing through this port.
'I arrived at the border, but I couldn't cross,' he said, reflecting on his journey north to reach the United States. A faded blue band, representing his boat ticket, dangles around his wrist.
'So I came back.'
Yagua Parra, along with the more than 50 passengers on board, has retraced his steps backwards across what was once one of the world's most dangerous migration routes.
For years, migrants and asylum seekers travelled north from South America to reach safety and opportunity in the US.
But now, with an immigration crackdown unfolding in the US, there are reports of an inverse trend emerging: wherein migrants are retreating from the US border in search of a new home elsewhere. Luis Angel Yagua Parra, 21, is among those returning to South America after attempting to reach the US [Euan Wallace/Al Jazeera] Luis Angel Yagua Parra, 21, is among those returning to South America after attempting to reach the US [Euan Wallace/Al Jazeera]
The reversal has been stark. Last year alone, more than 302,200 people attempted to travel northwards from South America, according to the United Nations.
However, as President Donald Trump makes asylum all but impossible to obtain in the US, migration northwards has slowed to a trickle.
The Darien Gap — a sliver of untamed forest and steep terrain — used to be the main artery connecting South America to the north. Every year, hundreds of thousands of people would struggle to cross the land bridge on their way to the US.
But not any more. The United Nations notes that, between January and March of this year, only 2,831 people made the dangerous trek. That marks a 98-percent drop compared with the same period in 2024.
Yagua Parra made that journey himself, in his efforts to reach the US. The International Organization for Migration has called the path north to the US the world's deadliest land route for migration.
'The road was tough. Many things happened — kidnappings, everything,' Yagua Parra said, tattoos freckling his young features. 'People are hungry there. It's hard. Ugly things happen.'
When he reached the southern US border, though, he found himself one of the thousands unable to cross.
Upon taking office for a second term in January, President Trump cancelled the CBP One app, the online portal used to schedule asylum appointments.
Anyone who crossed the border without documents was also barred from claiming asylum protections.
Meanwhile, the US increased the military presence on the border, further driving down crossings.
The Trump administration touted those measures as contributing to "historic lows" for border apprehensions. But the migrants unable to cross found themselves stuck in Mexico, stranded in a border region beset by trafficking and exploitation. A young Venezuelan father, 31, cradles his nine-month-old child who was born in the US [Euan Wallace/Al Jazeera] A young Venezuelan father, 31, cradles his nine-month-old child who was born in the US [Euan Wallace/Al Jazeera]
So Yagua Parra came back, leaving Mexico in April. He and the other occupants of their boat paid between $250 and $300 each for a return journey to Colombia.
According to local aid workers, about 100 people are arriving south from Panama each day in Necocli. Other "reverse migration" routes are cropping up on Colombia's Pacific coast.
As sandalled feet clattered to shore in Necocli, a Virgin Mary statue stood sentinel at the pier's edge. Her plastic gaze welcomed the migrants and asylum seekers back to South America.
Many had previously gotten as far north as Mexico. But some even reached the US and decided the political climate had grown too hostile for them to stay.
Leaning against one of the pier's metal barriers, a young Venezuelan father, 31, lifted his daughter into a baby carrier strapped to his chest.
Nine months ago, she was born in the US state of Colorado. But her parents, both of whom asked to remain anonymous, said life in the US had grown untenable.
President Trump's hardline immigration policies and "mass deportation" campaign left them scared that their family would be ripped apart.
'We had to leave [the US] with our child,' said the girl's mother, 29. 'We were afraid they were going to kick us out. I heard so many stories about migrants being separated from their children. I prefer to leave voluntarily.'
Still, the gruelling three-day journey from Panama to Colombia left their baby exhausted.
'She's a gringa,' her father joked, as he bounced his daughter rhythmically in her carrier. A heavy rucksack competed for space on his shoulder. They plan to return to Venezuela. Pastor Jose Luis Ballesta Mendoza sits in the church where he serves lunch to migrants in Necocli, Colombia [Euan Wallace/Al Jazeera] Pastor Jose Luis Ballesta Mendoza sits in the church where he serves lunch to migrants in Necocli, Colombia [Euan Wallace/Al Jazeera]
Those who are able to continue their journey generally hop away on the public buses parked near the pier, while some migrants remain in Necocli, often due to a lack of funds.
Pastor Jose Luis Ballesta Mendoza, 57, helps run a food hall for those who remain in Necocli. His church has provided a hot lunch and psychological care for passing migrants for the last five years.
'The migration that was going northward has changed,' he said. 'They are coming back.'
As he spoke, he forged onward with his work. His fingers fluttered over the keys of a laptop.
'We started the year with a small number of migrants, but this has been increasing," he explained. "Every day, we are attending to around 120 or 130 people.'
In his food hall, families huddle over hot plates brought from the kitchen. Steam curls upwards amid the hungry chatter of knives and forks. A free meal goes a long way, especially for those left destitute from the expense of migration.
'We're returning to the same place that we sold everything to leave,' said one Venezuelan man, 36, who also asked to remain anonymous.
Behind a fringe of dark hair, his eyes moved between his wife, 33, her son, 16, and the busy kitchen. They spent about $1,500 each to travel from their home country to Mexico.
There, they waited nine months to get an asylum appointment with US officials. But the appointment never came. They felt they had no choice but to go back to Venezuela.
'We're coming back with nothing, having to start from zero," he said. Sister Maria Elena Osorio Henao helps distribute supplies to migrants passing through Necocli, Colombia [Euan Wallace/Al Jazeera] Sister Maria Elena Osorio Henao helps distribute supplies to migrants passing through Necocli, Colombia [Euan Wallace/Al Jazeera]
Though the food hall remains, those returning through Necocli are finding a town whose capacity for humanitarian care has been significantly reduced.
Local advocates credit the shift to a decline in foreign aid from the US, as well as the perception of reduced need as migration northward slows.
'Most of the NGOs here have closed,' Pastor Ballesta Mendoza said. 'Before, there were 17 entities working here. Now, there are only seven.'
He fears the lack of funding could force his food hall — the only one still open on weekdays — to close down as early as August.
'Very little support remains,' said Sister Maria Elena Osorio Henao, 59, who for the last 18 months has been working with the nonprofit Fundacion Diocesana Compartir, handing out supply bags to arriving migrants. 'The only one handing out kits is me.'
She believes that the town needs more humanitarian funding in order to meet the growing needs of return migration.
'They arrive hungry and cold. They are living in the street without sufficient clothing,' she said. 'One food hall that provides a lunch and nothing more is not enough.'
Few have felt the lack of shelter more acutely than Venezuelan couple Marisela Bellorin, 47, and her partner Yeral Banegas, 48.
Six months ago, they arrived in Necocli with the intention of crossing the Darien Gap and heading northwards.
'We first came chasing the so-called American dream,' said Bellorin.
But the couple did not have the $1,000 needed to fund their journey. Since then, they have been homeless in Necocli with their two children, 8 and 11. Marisela Bellorin and Yeral Banegas have spent six months homeless in Necocli with their two children [Euan Wallace/Al Jazeera] Marisela Bellorin and Yeral Banegas have spent six months homeless in Necocli with their two children [Euan Wallace/Al Jazeera]
The four of them currently camp beneath the concrete bones of a half-constructed building, with little protection from the elements.
'It's hard — cooking on a wood fire, sleeping badly,' said Banegas. 'I don't sleep here, and neither does she. The children sleep, but we have to watch over them.'
Sunlight fills their makeshift home from empty holes in the ceiling, and tangled plants burst from cracks in the floor. Bellorin apologised for the mess.
'It's normally more orderly,' she said, 'but we're packing to leave.'
Her family has decided to move on. In one day's time, they will begin the long road to Chile.
'If they are going to send us back," Banegas said of the US, "it's better to just go somewhere else.'
The family has already started to gather their belongings in plastic bags for the trip.
Freshly washed clothes, once intended for a long voyage north, hang to dry in the pools of sunlight. The colourful sketches of a child, meanwhile, have been drawn directly on the concrete walls.
One shows four stick figures, each marked with a label: 'Me, Brother, Mummy, Daddy.'
Their crayon smiles watch as the family packs. Marisela Bellorin, Yeral Banegas and their children meet with an aid worker in their makeshift house [Euan Wallace/Al Jazeera] Marisela Bellorin, Yeral Banegas and their children meet with an aid worker in their makeshift house [Euan Wallace/Al Jazeera]