TAPACHULA, Mexico (AP) — Ana Esquivel no longer feels her heart race every time she spots a police officer.
“We’ve been told they won’t harass or mistreat us here, but back home, if a male name appears on your ID, you could end up detained overnight,” said the 50-year-old transgender woman, who fled Cuba out of fear for her safety and arrived in Mexico earlier this year.
Esquivel settled in the southern city of Tapachula, hoping to avoid the Trump administration’s harsh migration policies and eventually reach the United States. But unlike many who turned back after their Border Patrol appointments were canceled, returning home is not an option for LGBTQ migrants.
“The LGBT population doesn’t always leave their countries for the same reasons as others,” said Mariana de la Cruz, operations director at Casa Frida, a shelter supporting LGBTQ migrants that lost 60% of its funding after President Donald Trump ordered the suspension of foreign aid programs in January.
“They leave because of discrimination and violence due to their gender identity,” de la Cruz explained. “It’s not just about economic factors or the American Dream—they leave because they need to survive.”
The flow of migrants at the southern Mexican border with Guatemala slowed after Trump announced plans to restrict refugees and asylum seekers, claiming it was necessary to curb illegal entry and border crime. Although the Mexican Commission for Refugee Aid in Tapachula has not updated its public data since December 2024, the shift is evident.
Hundreds of migrants no longer crowd a public square, waiting for a response to their refugee applications. While lines still form outside the commission’s headquarters, locals say the crowds have shrunk.
At a nearby Catholic shelter, administrator Herber Bermúdez said they’ve hosted up to 1,700 migrants at once, but now it’s closer to 300, following the shutdown of CBP One, the U.S. border app that facilitated legal entry.
“The change was significant,” Bermúdez said. “By January 20, we had about 1,200 people, but as the app stopped working, many began returning to their home countries.”
In contrast, requests for help at Casa Frida have remained steady.
“All the people we support have been victims of violence,” said Sebastián Rodríguez, who works at the shelter. “They can’t go back.”
Since opening in Tapachula in 2022, Casa Frida staff review an average of 80 applications per month, focusing on those most at risk. According to Rodríguez, nonbinary and transgender migrants are often especially vulnerable to attacks.
The shelter lacks the resources to assist everyone, but they admit about 70 new people each month and can support up to 200 LGBTQ individuals at any given time.
Several migrants recently shared with The Associated Press that they were kidnapped by cartel members as they entered Mexico and were forced to surrender their belongings in exchange for their release.
LGBTQ individuals face heightened violence, Rodríguez said. Transgender women often disguise themselves as men to avoid ridicule and being targeted by criminals. If they manage to reach a shelter, staff place them in male dorms for safety. However, when they try to rent a room elsewhere, landlords are often unwelcoming or demand exorbitant fees.
“That’s why programs like ours are essential,” Rodríguez explained.
The shelter estimates that about 40% of its population has been impacted by the closure of the CBP One app and the widespread cancellation of appointments.
“Some people feel discouraged and hopeless,” Rodríguez said. “But many have applied for asylum in Mexico.”
Casa Frida offers shelter and meals for up to 12 people for three months. The organization’s other services assist more migrants by providing legal guidance on staying in Mexico, advice on finding inclusive temporary jobs, psychological counseling, and support in securing fair apartment rentals.
“Most people think of us just as a shelter, but providing refuge is only the core of what we do,” Rodríguez said. “Our goal is to help reintegrate victims of violence into society.”
The shelter operates in three locations: Mexico City, where it was founded in 2020 and primarily supports local residents; Tapachula, which mainly hosts migrants from Cuba, Honduras, Venezuela, El Salvador, Peru, and Haiti; and Monterrey, where those facing severe risks are relocated to a secure, undisclosed address.
Manuel Jiménez, 21, arrived at the Mexico City shelter in February after leaving his home state near the capital, where harassment from family members became unbearable.
Initially, Jiménez aimed to reach the U.S. and traveled north in November 2024. His journey was going smoothly until he was detained by border patrol officers in Arizona and deported. However, staying in his hometown was unsafe for him.
“Someone told me about this shelter because I was looking for a place where I could feel at peace,” said Jiménez, who identifies as bisexual. “Back home, there were people who wanted to hurt me, both verbally and physically.”
Now living at Casa Frida, he’s working at a nearby restaurant and hopes to save enough money to eventually find his own place.
In Tapachula, Esquivel applied for Mexican refugee status. With 85% of Casa Frida’s applicants receiving a positive response, she remains hopeful. One day, she dreams of going back to school, finding a job, and possibly relocating.
“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.”
Esquivel learned about the shelter from another transgender woman who fled Cuba after being threatened by police.
“I was nearly arrested,” said Rachel Pérez, 51. “In Cuba, we are discriminated against and persecuted. We leave in search of a better life.”
Human rights organizations have condemned the ongoing intolerance in Cuba, despite the country’s legal protections for sexual orientation and gender identity.
Esquivel was accused of prostitution — which is not illegal in Cuba — for walking alone at night. Police issued several warnings before she was detained and sent to a male prison.
“I was raped there,” said Esquivel, who was imprisoned for a year. “I was only 21, and the inmates abused me. Over time, I learned how to defend myself, but those were very difficult times I’ll never forget.”
Casa Frida’s staff constantly updates their protocols to assist migrants like Esquivel, but keeping the shelter running has become increasingly difficult due to U.S. aid cuts. According to De la Cruz, concerning notifications began arriving by January 24, and a few weeks later, 60% of their budget was gone.
“We’ve been searching everywhere for new sustainability options,” she said. “We’re part of a network focused on LGBT mobility across Latin America and the Caribbean—13 organizations in 10 countries—and at least 50% of them took a hit.”
Funding campaigns and ongoing talks with European and local leaders may provide a solution, but the team remains worried and may have to significantly scale back operations.
“Nothing is set in stone, and we don’t know what will happen next,” De la Cruz said.
