Latin American migrants mourn Pope Francis as champion of migrant rights

Migrants across Latin America remember Pope Francis for his compassion and outspoken support amid hardships and border crackdowns.

A religious woman (left) visits the Mexico–U.S. border at Playas de Tijuana in Baja California State, Mexico, on April 21, 2025. Photo by Guillermo Arias/AFP

By Anna Fadiah and Hayu Andini

In towns along the U.S.-Mexico border and shelters scattered across Latin America, migrants are mourning the death of Pope Francis, who they saw as one of the few global leaders willing to champion their cause. Known for his empathy and outspoken criticism of anti-immigration policies, particularly during the presidency of Donald Trump, Francis earned a deep and lasting respect among migrant communities facing the perils of displacement.

The Argentine pope, who died on Monday at age 88, was remembered from Ciudad Juarez to Caracas not only as the first Latin American pontiff but also as a spiritual ally during the darkest moments of countless journeys. For many migrants, his papacy was a source of strength and moral support in the face of poverty, violence, and political exclusion.

A spiritual voice for the voiceless

At a church-run soup kitchen in Ciudad Juarez, Yulieth Cuellar, a 28-year-old migrant from Colombia, struggled to hold back tears. “He prayed a lot for us migrants,” she said, describing Pope Francis as a “great pope” whose words gave hope to people like her, stuck in limbo due to stringent immigration policies.

His support, she added, “touched us to the core.” Cuellar, like many others, was stranded in Mexico after the Trump administration tightened border rules, leaving thousands in precarious conditions.

Ciudad Juarez holds special significance in Pope Francis’s legacy. During his 2016 visit, he climbed a platform overlooking the Rio Grande river, the stark natural divider between Mexico and the United States. With crowds of migrants watching from both sides, he laid flowers beneath a black cross symbolizing those who perished during their journeys and offered blessings.

“He wanted to see the border barrier for himself,” said Jose Guadalupe Torres, bishop of Ciudad Juarez. “When he saw it, he said: ‘I have seen the promised land where neither milk nor honey flows.’”

That visit deeply resonated with the local Catholic community and remains one of the most poignant moments in Francis’s papacy when addressing migrant rights.

Harsh realities, hopeful memories

Just months before his death, the region again witnessed tragedy. In March 2023, a fire broke out at a migrant detention center in Ciudad Juarez, killing 40 people. It was a haunting reminder of the risks migrants face and the systems that fail them.

Even before the tragedy, Pope Francis had consistently highlighted what he described as the “human tragedy” and “humanitarian crisis” of migration. He condemned policies that criminalized migrants or treated them as political pawns rather than people fleeing danger and deprivation.

“He was a wonderful person,” said 35-year-old Venezuelan Ericxon Serrano from a shelter in Honduras. Serrano had abandoned his dream of reaching the U.S. and was returning to Caracas with his family. “The Pope gave us hope when no one else did,” he said, recalling Francis’s vocal opposition to Trump's anti-immigrant rhetoric.

A clash with power

Francis’s advocacy frequently brought him into conflict with political leaders. He publicly rebuked Donald Trump’s plan to build a wall along the southern U.S. border, stating in 2016, “Anyone, whoever he is, who only wants to build walls and not bridges is not a Christian.”

His remarks drew criticism from Trump, but for many migrants, they were validating. In February, Francis addressed U.S. bishops in a letter, calling the Trump administration’s deportation strategies a “calamity” and urging a more humane response.

“The dignified treatment that all people deserve, especially the poorest and most marginalized,” the pope wrote, should be at the heart of immigration policies.

Those words resonated with Marisela Guerrero, a 45-year-old Venezuelan who resettled in Chile. “His words encouraged all of us who left our countries. He made us feel like we mattered.”

A call for continuity

Pope Francis's death has sparked calls from clergy and laypeople alike to continue his work. Father Francisco Calvillo, who ran a shelter in Ciudad Juarez during the pontiff’s visit, said the pope restored his faith in the Church.

“It’s very sad that this angel who defended migrants has passed away,” Calvillo said. “But I hope he’s asking God to send us more leaders like him—popes, bishops, priests, and even ordinary people—who are sensitive to this reality.”

Cristina Coronado, who manages the local soup kitchen where many migrants find meals and shelter, called him a “living saint.” For her, Pope Francis wasn’t just a church leader but a transformative figure who reconnected many disillusioned Catholics with their faith through compassion and courage.

A Latin American legacy

The pope’s death has struck a particularly deep chord across Latin America, a region where millions have been forced to migrate due to political instability, economic hardship, and violence.

From Venezuelan shelters to Honduran refugee stops and Mexican border towns, the reaction to his passing has been united in grief and gratitude.

Pope Francis, the son of Italian immigrants in Argentina, had always emphasized the human stories behind the migration crisis. His personal history lent him credibility and empathy that few world leaders could match.

Though he is gone, many believe his influence will endure through the communities he touched and the global shift in how religious institutions approach migration. His legacy is already shaping debates around border policy, asylum procedures, and the treatment of vulnerable populations.

The road ahead for migrants and the Church

As the Catholic Church prepares to choose a new pope, the challenge of continuing Francis’s mission looms large. Advocates hope his successor will embrace the same commitment to dignity, solidarity, and justice that defined his leadership.

Until then, migrants like Cuellar, Serrano, and Guerrero will continue their journeys with Francis’s words echoing in their hearts.

“We do not feel alone,” said Guerrero. “He made sure we were seen.”

As the borderlands and shelters light candles in mourning, the question now is whether global leaders—religious and political—will carry forward his message. For many migrants, it is a matter not only of faith but of survival.