With Haitian migration growing, a Mexico City family of doctors is helping out

Last year, the Hernández Pacheco family began to notice a number of Haitians arriving at an apartment across the street from their medical clinic on the outskirts of Mexico City.

Their two-story, mint-green office sits on a small street in working class Ciudad Nezahualcoyotl. The Haitians stood out among the tamal vendors and street merchants, sitting out in the sun to warm up in the chilled high-elevation air.

One day, Dr. Sarahí Hernández Pacheco, who speaks French, approached a 15-year-old Haitian boy who often looked sad and bored. “I have two nephews, do you want to play with them?” she asked.

Nearly a year later, Haitian migrants make up a good portion of the medical practice of the clinic, which is staffed by Hernández Pacheco and her mother and two of her siblings who are also doctors.

The Bassuary clinic offers free consultations, and the family also began giving food to the Haitians, and eventually helped some find work, including at the clinic.

Hernández Pacheco wants the clinic to be a safe haven for Haitian migrants whether they are planning to stay in Mexico or continue the journey north to the U.S. border.

“I can’t even imagine what it must be like to be in another country where there are so many limitations,” she said. “My clinic’s doors are open to help them in everything we can. Not just as a doctor, but as a friend.”

One of these patients, Bellantta Lubin, 23, originally came to the doctor when she had stomach pain.

Shortly after, Lubin came back looking for work. She told the doctor and her sister, Dr. Hosanna Berenice Hernández Pacheco, that she was struggling. She didn’t speak Spanish, so no one would hire her. They offered her a job cleaning at the clinic three times a week.

Using a mix of Spanish, French and Creole, Lubin and the doctors have engaged in a dance of dialects the last eight months.

“We became very close. She started teaching me words in Creole and she says we’re friends,” said Berenice. “She’s really opened up to me.”

Political unrest and natural disasters have led to periods of migration through Mexico over the last decade. Many Haitians initially emigrated to South America, including Brazil, and then moved north after economies struggled through the COVID-19 pandemic.

Surging gang violence in Haiti has displaced nearly 580,000 Haitians internally since March, according to a recent report from the U.N. migration agency.

A recent clearing of migrant camps in Mexico City as well as stepped up efforts to intercept migrants in Mexico before they can reach the U.S. border have alarmed Haitians in the capital. Those fears were compounded by new restrictions on seeking asylum at the border announced by the Biden administration last month.

More migrants like Lubin have been stuck in Mexico for months waiting for asylum appointments through U.S. Customs and Border Protection’s online app, CBP One.

The Hernández Pacheco sisters are following in the footsteps of their parents, who both came from poor backgrounds and were the first doctors to practice medicine in the rural neighborhood. They opened the family’s first clinic in 1963.

Sarahí Hernández Pacheco, who studied medicine at the National Autonomous University of Mexico, opened her own private clinic in 2014 to provide free medical care for the low-income residents of her community. It's across the street from her parents’ practice, still open today. A brother, Marco Antonio, currently treats patients there.

The private clinic is not funded or subsidized by any institution. They sometimes receive donations from non-governmental organizations and work to keep their costs low for patients in the area.

Her 83-year-old mother, younger sister Berenice and brother also work as doctors at the Bassuary clinic. Two nieces assist as nurses.

Over time, they have noticed a number of health issues common to their Haitian patients.

“They had lower back problems because most of them sleep on the floor. Dealing with the cold was difficult for them,” Berenice said. “They also had stomach issues because their diet was completely different from the Mexican (diet).”

One of their patients, Gabriel Toussaint, 50, was one of the Haitians living in the small apartment across the street. Originally from the Haitian town of Dessalines, Toussaint was a school principal and history teacher for 28 years.

He made the difficult decision of leaving his four children with relatives to try to join his wife in Florida. He crossed Nicaragua, Honduras and Guatemala to reach Mexico.

After arriving in Mexico City, he got by thanks to his studies in Spanish back home. He came to the clinic for treatment of high blood pressure and pain in his eyes.

“I really like Mexico, but there’s a bit of a problem here,” he said. “There’s no work, and the pay is bad.”

Mexico’s humanitarian visa can give Haitians benefits like work authorization. Last year Haitians were the highest among all nationalities to request these visas, at over 37,000, according to the International Organization for Migration. In the first five months of this year, however, Mexico received fewer than 4,000 requests from Haitians for humanitarian visas.

“Since December 2023, the National Immigration Institute has restricted the distribution of this document,” said Alejandra Carrillo of the U.N. High Commissioner for Refugees in Mexico.

“Now we’re seeing a significant number of Haitians working in the informal economy, with all the risks involved,” she added.

Consequently, many Haitians like Toussaint struggle while waiting months for a humanitarian visa in Mexico or a CBP One appointment in the United States.

He had gigs in a factory and as a mechanic, but nothing consistent. Finally, after eight months, Toussaint and three of his roommates secured CBP One appointments.

For Dr. Sarahí Hernández Pacheco, their departure on June 20 was cause for celebration. Before their trip she invited the men over for a farewell meal. She prepared burgers and fries, their favorite.

“You should eat more than one!” she exclaimed as they crowded around a table in the clinic’s courtyard. “It’s a long journey."

“This is la famille,” Toussaint said, motioning to the doctors and the other three Haitian men around him during their meal. “This is a family.”

For others, like Lubin, the wait continues.

She arrived in Mexico last year fleeing violence in Port-Au-Prince, taking a flight to Nicaragua then crossing through Honduras and Guatemala to reach Mexico.

“My family has been a victim of insecurity,” she said. “Bandits seized our home and my mother’s cars. I really suffered because of that."

As the eldest in her family she left behind three siblings and her parents, as well as her dream to attend medical school in Haiti.

Now she works at the clinic along with another young Haitian woman, Phenia. They live in a small room a five-minute walk away.

“It’s safe here and that makes me feel comfortable,” Lubin said. “At the clinic, I’ve made very, very, deep friendships.”

Sarahí Hernández Pacheco says Haitians deserve more from the international community.

“What I’m doing is just a grain of sand," she said. "I would ask the government what they could do to speed up their procedures and get them where they feel safe.”

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