As I sit here, reflecting on the current state of the world, my heart aches for Mexico, the country that has been my second home for so many years. The news of mass deportations feels like a storm on the horizon—one that threatens to deepen divisions, uproot lives, and transform the very essence of a nation.
A video I recently saw struck a nerve. A woman passionately spoke out against those supporting these deportations, calling on them to stop enjoying Mexican food, music, and culture. She went further, addressing Latinos who only embrace their heritage when it’s convenient, a sentiment that cuts deep. It’s a stark reminder of how interconnected—and yet fractured—our world has become.
For over 20 years, I’ve lived and traveled in Mexico, embracing its culture, struggles, and joys. I’ve seen the good, the bad, and everything in between. I raised my daughter to know her heritage, immersing her in Mexico’s vibrant culture. Together, we traveled from town to town, learning, growing, and adopting a family of our own among the locals.
But I’ve also seen the changes—gentrification pushing locals out of their homes, natural disasters devastating communities, and tourism that sometimes feels more exploitative than celebratory. I remember the heartbreaking loss of Gloria, a woman who cherished the sacredness of nudity and worked to preserve the simple life in Zipolite. Her vision was trampled by the influx of sex tourism, a painful reality that’s hard to reconcile with the spiritual and sacred roots of the region.
The fire, the hurricanes, the hookworm, and the constant struggle to make ends meet—all of it connected me deeply to the Mexican people and their resilience. We shared pain and joy, heartbreak and hope. Yet, even amidst these shared experiences, I’ve seen the resentment grow. Foreigners, myself included, are not always seen as allies but as contributors to the problems—overdevelopment, rising costs, and cultural erosion.
And now, with deportations increasing, what will Mexico become? How will the influx of displaced people reshape its communities, its economy, its identity? It’s hard not to worry about the impact on the families left behind, the resources stretched thin, and the inevitable tensions that arise when people are forced into desperate situations.
For those of us who have lived and loved in Mexico, this isn’t just a political issue—it’s personal. I miss my Mexican family deeply. They welcomed me into their lives, made me feel at home, and taught me so much about resilience, love, and community. I’ve always said I’m like a Mexican dog—loyal, finding my family and returning year after year. But this year, I can’t go back.
The Great Divide feels more real than ever. The divisions between North and South, rich and poor, local and foreigner—it’s all becoming sharper, harder to ignore. And yet, my love for Mexico and its people remains unwavering.
I don’t have answers, only questions and reflections. What can we do to bridge these divides? How can we honor the cultures we love without contributing to their exploitation? And how do we stand in solidarity with those who are suffering, whether in Mexico, Canada, or the United States?
These are the questions I carry with me, and I hope they spark something in you, too.
If you’ve ever felt the warmth of a Mexican family, danced to their music, or shared a meal at their table, now is the time to reflect on what that means. Let’s not contribute to the Great Divide. Instead, let’s strive for connection, understanding, and respect—for Mexico and for the world.
