Photographs from the U.S.–Mexico border, witnessing movement, waiting, and survival.
In 2022, I spent time in Ciudad Juárez with my good friend, veteran photojournalist Roberto Rosales, documenting what was unfolding along the Rio Bravo at the U.S.–Mexico border.
Juárez felt like a waiting room built out of concrete and light. Families slept under bridges, moved along canals and train tracks, and gathered near shelters and storefronts that offered some kind of help, some kind of hope. People carried everything they owned in backpacks and plastic bags. Children played anyway. Adults stayed alert anyway.
We met many migrants from Venezuela and other places, moving north with whatever strength they had left. Some nights it was a slow walk through the dark, guided by streetlights and rumor. Other times it was the river. I watched parents step into the water holding their kids high. I watched strangers lift wheelchairs by hand. I watched people reach the far bank and keep going, as if stopping would let the fear catch up.
It was tragic to be that close and still powerless. I could not change policy. I could not make the journey safe. So I did what I know how to do. I stayed present. I watched. I made photographs that hold a few seconds of a long, dangerous journey, and the small human moments that survive inside it.