For as long as Sister Norma Pimentel can remember, the shelter she runs in the border city of McAllen, Texas, has been crowded with thousands of migrants fleeing natural disasters, violence, authoritarian governments and poverty.
But ever since President Trump retook the White House and embarked on aggressive immigration enforcement that has all but sealed the U.S. border with Mexico, her shelter, steps away from a bus station, looks quiet.
“We have not seen a single migrant in months,” Sister Pimentel said last month. “We are completely empty.”
She pointed to an vacant kitchen, a deserted children’s play area and a bare floor that less than two years ago was filled with makeshift beds.
At the height of the migrant surge during President Joseph R. Biden Jr.’s administration, shelters along the border quickly became overwhelmed by the flood of migrants, some having received up to 1,000 people a day. At Sister Pimentel’s shelter, the Humanitarian Respite Center, the emptiness was so palpable recently that the voices of the workers and volunteers and a Christmas song echoed throughout the desolate rooms.
The migrant slowdown is happening from Texas to California. The number of individuals seeking to cross the Southwest border has dwindled to an average of 245 a day from a peak of about 10,000 to 12,000 encounters a day during Mr. Biden’s administration, according to government data.
Sister Pimentel is well known globally for migrant advocacy and was included in Time magazine’s 100 Most Influential People in 2020. Her shelter became an epicenter of the immigration debate, and received some backlash for its work.
“The question back then was that some people viewed Catholic Charities as inviting people to come over,” said Javier Villalobos, the mayor of McAllen, a registered Republican. “That’s not necessarily true, but some people viewed it this way.”
With no migrants to house, the staff and volunteers at Sister Pimentel’s shelter have pivoted to help residents of McAllen, one of the poorest cities in America, with a population of about 150,000.
Mr. Villalobos said that he would rather see local organizations help the local population than take in migrants. “It’s not within our parameters to be dealing with immigration issues,” he said.
Now the shelter sometimes offers three meals a day, a change of clothes and assistance in finding government resources to about 50 to 60 people a day, in McAllen. The shelter largely relies on donations. It runs an educational program for low-income pregnant women. (As part of a larger immigration crackdown, the federal government has paused funding for the organization pending a review. Catholic Charities said it was cooperating with federal officials.)
Leo Wolf, 64, said that knowing the place offered food and a place to shower had given him a sense of comfort. “The migrants are no longer coming,” Mr. Wolf said. “But there are a lot of people like me locally who need their help. I hope this place never goes away.”
Sister Pimentel said that the center’s mission had been to offer assistance to anyone who needs it. But in recent years, the migration crisis led an avalanche of families, many of them with young children, to border cities, overwhelming not just shelters, but hospitals, local police departments and other local resources.
In those days, the U.S. Border Patrol processed migrants, most of whom were seeking asylum and released them at the shelter, where they stayed until they got their bearings to reach their destination inland.
“You never know when the situation is going to change — nothing is forever,” Sister Pimentel said. “But for now, this is the new normal.”
Word about the shelter’s new focus has spread in McAllen, where a majority of the population is Latino.
Paloma Garcia, 48, said she now got most of her meals at the shelter. Ms. Garcia said that since she was laid off as a cleaner a few months ago, she has struggled to find a new job and a place to live. She said she used to sleep in her car, until it was towed.
“They have been a lifesaver,” Ms. Garcia said of the shelter, adding, “I’m glad that they stayed open and now help people like me.”
Standing a few feet away, Eduardo Hendricks-Castillo, 60, nodded in agreement as he accepted a sandwich from a volunteer. He said he also had been homeless, until he recently secured housing through a government program.
“I heard they were aiding people like me and so I came over,” he said. “I don’t know what I would do about food if they weren’t around.”
In her office, Sister Pimentel keeps a copy of a portrait she painted in 2015 of a young Honduran mother and her son, during a time when many migrants were coming across the border. She recalled only the boy’s name, Tomasito, which became the title for the portrait.
She said she was haunted by their empty stares. She gave the painting to Pope Saint Francis during a visit to New York.
“I told him to keep it in his church so that he thinks of migrants like them when he prays every day,” she said. “This painting reminds us that migrants will always need our help.”
Edgar Sandoval covers Texas for The Times, with a focus on the Latino community and the border with Mexico. He is based in San Antonio.
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