Migrating under suspicion: Between stigma and preserving one’s own history
When Omar came upon the place in a neighborhood on the outskirts of town, he saw a white rosary hanging over the door and felt a sense of relief. He had been told it was a shelter run by nuns. He had been sleeping poorly for several days and walking in very difficult conditions. His feet were injured, his shoes were torn, and his clothes—which had been wet and had dried on his body over the past two weeks—were terrible. The smell was unbearable.
His wife and two young children had been taken in three days earlier at another location, where they could regain their strength. He, being a man, was not allowed to stay in the same space; that was the safety policy they had explained to him. As an alternative, they gave him a small piece of paper with an address where they might be able to take him in. His initial plan was to wait outside the shelter where his family had found a spot, but his desire to rest, have a hot meal, and get some clothes and shoes was too strong, so he decided to set out.
A young woman greeted him kindly through a small window. She explained that he had to show his ID before entering. Omar had a photo of his passport on his phone; he’d left the original with his wife to keep it safe. Then they asked him to wait there while they ran a check.
The delay at the entrance and the questions that followed seemed to last forever, but he needed to sleep better—at least for one night. From where he stood, he could see a dining hall serving soup and tortillas. Next to it, a sign with a green arrow read: “bathrooms and showers.” For that alone, it was worth the wait.
Fear and a Lot of Information
This Nicaraguan man was asked many seemingly trivial questions, ranging from the municipality where he and his family were from to the full names, ages, and dates of birth of his wife and children. He hesitated but felt he had no way out. He didn’t provide some details accurately—according to him—to minimize the risks. He wondered if he was being paranoid and tried to keep his composure so they wouldn’t think he was lying or hiding anything.
It wasn’t easy to explain that he’d had to flee his native Carazo overnight, after nine months of hiding at an uncle’s house to avoid arrest. The dictatorship’s persecution in his country was ruthless. A year before emigrating, he had been forced to stop broadcasting his radio program. He had already endured too much harassment as a journalist. All doors had been closed to him, and he had no way to support his family. His wife, who was solely responsible for household expenses, had been fired from her teaching job. They had run out of options.
Now Omar stood there, motionless, feeling a mix of fear and exhaustion. The shelter seemed safe, but he was distressed not to know who would have access to the answers he had given or how they might be used. The interviewer was kind; she told him it was for the shelter’s security and for the reports she had to submit to the donors who supported them. She herself felt sorry for him, but insisted that she needed to meet the requirement in order to “be able to help him.” The cold, hunger, and sleepiness kept him from resisting, so after the lengthy questionnaire, he signed a consent form. He didn’t even have his reading glasses with him, so he signed quickly without looking too closely.
That night, he slept under a roof, and dinner felt comforting. The next day, he was told he had to leave after breakfast. He left, thinking about the personal information he’d had to provide and fearing it might affect the asylum application they hoped to file in the United States.
Control vs. Protection
Omar’s story—and his fear of providing information because doing so could put him in danger—is common along many migration routes. When providing personal details is required to receive protection or basic assistance, the ability to refuse is very limited because conditional consent cannot be considered entirely free. Those receiving assistance need to know why certain information is being requested, how it will be used, and what safeguards are in place to ensure the secure handling of the information they share.
The report Privacy in Migratory Movement by the Latin American Coalition #MigrarSinVigilancia recommends that humanitarian and funding agencies refrain from requesting disaggregated information unless it is essential: “Requesting statistics rather than disaggregated data should be sufficient for their purposes” (2024, p. 32).
However, the various practices aimed at collecting sensitive data from forcibly displaced people extend to shelters, humanitarian organizations, airlines, cooperation agencies, and implementing partner organizations in different countries that carry out projects for UNHCR, OMI, UNICEF, among others. This multiplies the number of records and increases the likelihood that large amounts of information will circulate among different actors, sometimes with little oversight or security in their management.
The actions of immigration, military, and police authorities remain the most concerning, given the institutional power they hold and the potential to exercise it in repressive or arbitrary ways; therefore, oversight of these records is a sensitive issue. For example, interviews conducted by Sin Fronteras reveal a profound asymmetry: while the authorities know and store permanent physical characteristics (including biometric data), individuals are unaware of the purpose, destination, and retention periods for their data (Sánchez Sánchez et al., 2023, p. 63). “There is uncertainty among migrants regarding the fate of their fingerprints, photos, and other personal information,” stated a Sin Fronteras collaborator, as quoted in the report (p. 63).
Subjects of Protection or Threats to National Security?
“About four months ago, we encountered a very painful case,” recalls a humanitarian worker on the Costa Rica - Panama border. It involved a young Venezuelan couple with a young daughter; the daughter was in the late stages of pregnancy. Upon entering the country, they decided to apply for asylum, but immigration authorities treated the young man differently. He had visible tattoos on his head, neck, and face. She was allowed to proceed with the application, but he was quickly denied that opportunity without any explanation. “How are we going to live here if I’m the only one who can work? What am I going to do?” Jonathan (not his real name) did not consider leaving them, but he knew he would have to go into hiding and could no longer approach immigration offices.
This case reflects what María Dolores París Pombo asserts about the externalization of borders, which is not limited to physically distancing those seeking asylum but also creates procedures that classify bodies, origins, histories, and ways of communicating. “These practices of ‘borderization’ are based not only on the construction of physical walls but also on the categorization of bodies in motion as legitimate or illegitimate” (2022, p. 103).
This type of categorization also operates through institutionalized practices of simplification. The report Invisibilizadas, by Alboan, Entreculturas, and the Jesuit Service for Migrants (SJM), notes that despite the diversity of their stories, reasons for migration, and the violence some have faced—including sexual violence or trafficking—when they arrive in Spain, women are grouped into a single category: “migrants.” It seems to matter little whether they are asylum seekers, what their administrative status is, or what experiences shaped their journey. “It is a term that pigeonholes, classifies, homogenizes, and normalizes the discrimination perpetrated by a sexist and racist country and society” (Diego Alonso & González Cerdeira, 2023, p. 53).
Furthermore, as the R3D report warns (Sánchez Sánchez et al., 2023), technologies can reproduce the flaws and forms of discrimination present in the information and the systems from which it originates. This is particularly concerning for people—migrants—who are on the move or living in the most precarious conditions. Therefore, the question is not only whether a system identifies people “correctly,” but also whom it forces to continually prove that they deserve to enter, remain, be heard, or receive protection. The study notes that biometric systems are neither neutral nor infallible, and that error rates are higher for people with darker skin tones, women, older adults, and minors. “For an asylum seeker, misidentification can put their life at risk” (p. 68).
It becomes impossible to ignore the influence of stereotypes on how people are monitored and controlled. A person’s geographic and social background can be inferred—without any real basis—from their appearance. Even the way someone behaves or their accent can be enough to pigeonhole and label a person, even before learning their story.
A clergyman who accompanies migrants along the route through Chiapas reports that on the highway between Tapachula and Tuxtla, “there are more than nine immigration checkpoints where all vehicles must stop.” Surveillance does not always rely on sophisticated tools. “Immigration agents check you—not with technology or anything like that; they check your speech, they check your physical appearance.” Sometimes a simple greeting is enough: “They ask you, ‘Good morning, how are you?’, and based on your answer, they’ve got you.” From what he has observed, “there is training to distinguish physical traits and ways of speaking.” Even before checking documents, those initial clues are used to decide whom to view with suspicion.
Toward Technology That Cares, Not Suspects
So, how can we provide support without turning stories of pain into records that amplify the fear and threats faced by people forced to migrate? Perhaps there is no single answer to this question, but a starting point is ensuring the person has the freedom to decide what to share, with whom, for what purpose, and for how long.
A person’s humanity is recognized when they are treated in a way that prioritizes service over paperwork. The information requested must serve a clear, understandable purpose for the person receiving support. Support networks must also be built among organizations to curb funders’ and authorities’ insistence on requesting extensive, disaggregated information.
This does not mean ignoring the dangers faced by those on humanitarian, church-based, or community teams providing assistance. Those providing support also warn that some organizations or shelters may be infiltrated by individuals whose motives conflict with protection—including those linked to organized crime groups that profit from migrants' tragedies and vulnerabilities. It is both fair and necessary to seek ways to mitigate these risks, but collecting personal data is not necessarily the most efficient way to do so.
Finally, digital literacy training for those who support migrants would help foster a more critical perspective on the excesses of data collection, the mechanisms for securely safeguarding the information received, and the limits that must be in place for its dissemination. This would enable clearer decision-making about how such data can be used. Over time, these and other actions could pave the way for technologies to contribute more to care than to surveillance. People are not just numbers. They have dignity and the inalienable right to protect their privacy, regardless of where they are in the world.
References
- Latin American Coalition #MigrarSinVigilancia. (2024).Privacy in Migratory Displacement: An Assessment of Surveillance, Data Protection, and Digital Security in Reception Centers for Migrants in Mexico. Based on testimonies. Access Now. https://www.accessnow.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/12/Privacidad-en-desplazamiento-migratorio-Dic13-2024.pdf
- Diego Alonso, S., and González Cerdeira, Y. (2023).Invisibilized: Migrant Women Crossing Borders. Alboan; Entreculturas; Jesuit Migrant Service. https://www.alboan.org/sites/default/files/2025-03/alboan-invisibilizadas-es-w_0.pdf
- París Pombo, M. D. (2022). Border Externalization and the Blockade of Asylum Seekers in Northern Mexico.REMHU: Revista Interdisciplinar da Mobilidade Humana, 30(64), 101–116.https://doi.org/10.1590/1980-85852503880006407
- Sánchez Sánchez, C., Valenzuela Moreno, K., Núñez Chaim, M., and Narváez Herrasti, S. (2023).Use of digital technologies in migration contexts: needs, opportunities, and risks for the exercise of human rights by migrants, human rights defenders, and journalists.Network in Defense of Digital Rights (R3D).https://r3d.mx/wp-content/uploads/Informe-_-Use-of-Digital-Technologies-in-Migration-Contexts-_-Needs-Opportunities-and-Risks-for-the-Exercise-of-Human-Rights-of-Migrants-Human-Rights-Defenders-and-Journalists-R3D.pdf
Author
Karina Fonseca Vindas is a Costa Rican communications professional and serves as General Coordinator of the Jesuit Network with Migrants in the Americas (RJM) of the Conference of Jesuit Provincials of Latin America and the Caribbean (CPAL). Karina has been involved in various initiatives and processes of the Society of Jesus in Costa Rica, Central America, and other regions for 21 years. Her main area of work is accompanying people experiencing forced displacement and migration, with a particular focus on social advocacy, care, and gender justice.
Cover image credits: Mother with her baby. Photo: Irene Galera. Source: Cover of the report Invisibilizadas, by Alboan, Entreculturas and SJM (2023).
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