“Welcome to America,” to belong once again

The author’s name has been withheld to protect her immigration status.

“Welcome to America,” an immigration officer told us at the Fort Lauderdale-Miami Airport. With those words, he stamped our papers, confirming that everything was in order with our process and that, finally, we could enter the country. He had no way of knowing the profound commotion his words had caused within me.

That “Welcome to America” lingered, echoing in my ears as we walked down a narrow hallway toward the exit of the crowded airport. With one hand I pulled a small suitcase, and with the other, I held my daughter, who looked just as disoriented as I felt. A few steps ahead walked my husband, quickening his pace alongside our youngest son. I felt a whirlwind of emotions: peace, disbelief, confusion, fear, joy, solace, gratitude, and nostalgia.

That day at the airport, the United States of America seemed to me like the most beautiful place in the world, simply because, by stepping onto this soil, I was reclaiming hope for my family. In my country, I spent many sleepless nights wondering what would become of my children if their father or I were imprisoned. My daughter is autistic, and my youngest son was barely five years old. Hearing those words meant we had escaped the dictatorship. We would no longer suffer persecution; we had arrived safely.

The dark night

I never planned to live in another country; I believe that someone’s greatest achievement in life is to remain close to the people to whom they belong—and my family and I belonged to our Central American land. But in a radical and unexpected turn of events, events we once believed impossible, we were forced to close the doors of our home with no reopening in sight. We had to hit pause on those warm weekend afternoons surrounded by my mother, father, siblings, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, and friends. On April 13, 2024, we were forced into exile.

We became migrants because we were victims of political and religious persecution. My husband, a lawyer, and I, a journalist, became involved in defending a relative who was unjustly imprisoned and sentenced to 26 years in jail, without ever having a trial, access to a defense attorney, or the right to appeal. His crime: “treason to the homeland,” a fabrication invented by the regime to incarcerate dissidents.

Defending our relative’s rights and speaking out for his release was the reason we, too, became targets. In my country, under the dictatorship, political prisoners have suffered physical and psychological torture, and some have died in national prisons due to violence and the deprivation of food and medicine, as the United Nations (UN) has confirmed in its reports.

A lawyer and a journalist persecuted by a dictatorship: it is perverse that the very professions vital to the balance of power and access to justice become the targets of a manhunt. But in my homeland, there are no journalists left. It is the only country in the Western Hemisphere where not a single printed newspaper remains in circulation. They were wiped out.

And so arrived the dark night when we had to pack our bags. We gathered our children’s most cherished toys, organized our essential documents, and drove toward the border in the early hours of the morning. We told the children we were going on a very long trip and that, for this journey, we did not have a return date.

The balm of the north

The beautiful Leelanau County before my eyes for the first time, embraced by a majestic nature, was like a balm for the wound of displacement. All migration is painful, but exile strikes you like an assault that robs you of everything you have. That is why contemplating this northern landscape, with its brilliant lights and infinite trees, brought us a healing peace.

Here we were, in a paradise of vibrant blossoms, cherry trees in full bloom, towering pines, and majestic sand dunes where the sky and the water become one. It was a sensory delight to walk along the trails for the first time, feeling like explorers discovering lakes, creeks, and streams. Life in those first few weeks was a duality between the perfection of Leelanau and the memory we carried of all our accumulated suffering.

The most valuable thing—as if arriving in this beautiful place were not already a gift—has been the people. Against all my expectations, my family immediately found affection, solidarity, friendship, connection, and empathy. We have been surrounded by so many good people that I can only say we are blessed to be part of this place. Upon our arrival, we found many awakened hearts, people who did not look at our vulnerability with antipathy, but instead set out to make us strong once more.

In this county, we found friends who watched over our material and emotional needs with a deeply moving constancy. It was not a fleeting gesture of pity; we were never viewed as lesser, but as equals. Our friends truly welcomed us into their lives. They are our neighbors, our co-workers, our priests, and the wonderful school our children attend.

They look after my children, sometimes take them to the beach, learn to dance Latin rhythms with me, help me improve my English, help us repair our car or my son’s gaming console, welcome us into their homes, share their stories and worries with us, call us on a Saturday to offer a warm afternoon together, or bring me soup when I have the flu. One moment—is all of this not belonging once again?

With its warmth, this community has made me relearn what it means to belong. Where do we belong? To the place where we are born, or to the place where we build our bonds? I still ask myself many questions from my identity as a migrant, but one thing is clear to me: every displaced family deserves a place to find a home again.

In April, the waters of Lake Michigan flash shades of blue that contrast with the gray reflection of the sky, but in summer, their transparency and turquoise colors dazzle the eyes of even the most experienced traveler. During our first summer, while we were enjoying those warm waters, an older woman who heard us speaking in Spanish gently approached us.

“Hola,” she said to me.

I returned her greeting and smiled. She mentioned that it was rare to see Latin Americans choosing to live through northern Michigan winters. I replied that we had arrived in the country less than two months ago and that we didn’t yet know what real cold was.

She let out a somewhat ironic laugh—now that I have lived through two winters, I understand why. But before saying goodbye, she wished us luck and said the very same words that, at the airport, had sealed our arrival:

“Welcome to America!”

AI was used to assist in translating this story from Spanish to English.