Relatives of Cubans Missing in Mexico Speak Out
By Loraije Morales Pino (El Toque)
HAVANA TIMES – The connection wavered. On the screen, six women tried to fit into the frame while a firm voice broke the silence: “We are the Regional Network of Migrant Families, a collective made up of families of people who have disappeared in this country… foreign migrants. There are families from Guatemala, Honduras, Nicaragua, El Salvador, Peru, Colombia, Ecuador, now Cuba… and we fear more will join.”
Since October 15, 2021, the collective has provided support to families of Central American migrants who have disappeared in Mexico; it also offers legal and psychosocial accompaniment, tracks search processes, files complaints, and ensures rights are upheld before Mexican authorities.
During a press conference on October 25, 2025, the organization’s spokesperson—a Mexican woman coordinating the meeting remotely—remarked: “The network wishes it did not have to exist (…). However, as the years pass, more and more people come to this collective.”
On the other side of the screen, blurred by the poor connection, sit the Cuban mothers. They share a room, each wearing a white T-shirt with photos of their missing loved ones and the phrase “Until we find you.” They wait their turn to read from the statements they wrote beforehand to make sure nothing was left unsaid.
The tone begins calmly, but each word carries the weight of a living statistic. Before us appears a group of mothers, grandmothers, and sisters bound by the same abyss contained in a single question: Where are they?
San José El Hueyate, Chiapas, Mexico. December 21, 2024, 7:45 a.m.
On December 21, 2024, Meiling Avarez Bravo, 40, and her 14-year-old son, Samei Armando Reyes Alvarez, together with Dairanis Tan Ramos, Elianis de la Caridad Morejon Perez, Jorge Alejandro Lozada Santos, and Lorena Rozabal Guevara were waiting their turn in the municipality of San Jose El Hueyate, in the Mexican state of Chiapas, to continue on toward the US border.
Meiling and Samei left Cuba on December 12. They flew to Nicaragua and began the land journey to Mexico’s southern border. On December 18, they crossed into Mexican territory.
In Tapachula, Chiapas, they made contact with a human smuggler. The plan was to cross part of Mexico by river to Juchitan, Oaxaca, in order to avoid checkpoints by the National Migration Institute (INM). For that transport, Meiling and her son paid between 1,000 and 2,000 USD.
The meeting point was said to be a house near Hidalgo Park in Tapachula, where the coyote would pick up the group. However, another version suggests they were heading to Tonala, also in Chiapas. In any case, no one has heard from them since that morning.
Alicia Santos Torres, mother of Jorge Alejandro Lozada Santos—whom she lovingly calls “gordito”—explains that “they all arrived through different routes,” even though their destination was the same.
The mothers recount that their children and the other migrants had met without knowing each other, planning to continue together toward Juchitan de Zaragoza. They were supposed to cross by boat and then travel by road to Mexico City.
Honduran woman Lilian Hernandez explains that her brother, Ricardo Hernandez, another of the disappeared migrants, boarded a boat that morning from San Jose El Hueyate along with at least 40 people. The route, as so often happens, swallowed them without witnesses.
No one ever heard from them again. “We don’t know what happened to them, we don’t know if they’re alive or dead; from that moment on our nightmare began,” the mothers say.
In their voices blend faith and exhaustion. “Imagine what it means for a mother not to know where her child is. Imagine the anguish of siblings, grandmothers, small children growing up without their parents.”
Alicia reads the last messages from Jorge: “Mom, Lorena and I left among the last 20”; from Eliani: “Mom, take care of Lulu, my dog”; from Dairanis: “Mom, everything’s fine, I’m waiting”; and from Meilín: “Mom, we’re going to have breakfast to see if we can leave this place already.”
Since then, silence.
How the authorities handled it
In Mexico, the search began immediately. The family called several migrant detention centers—such as Siglo XXI and Huixtla—without success. A complaint was filed with the Attorney General’s Office of the State of Chiapas.
They also tried to obtain information directly from the coyote. From Nebraska, another daughter of Margarita managed to contact him. The smuggler’s responses were inconsistent: at one point he suggested the group had been detained by the National Guard; at another, that they were being held by the National Migration Institute. He even hinted they may have been kidnapped by criminal groups. Later, he stopped responding. His last comment was that the family was “ruining his business.”
With no answers, Margarita Bravo went to the Cuban Consulate in Mexico. There, she received only “words of waiting.” Meanwhile, she shared the story on social media and in the press, hoping for information. Any clue, she recalls, could be vital.
Graciela Ramos, mother of Dairanis Tan Ramos, speaks next, her tone turning sharper. “Our calls have been ignored. Our case files sleep in some corner of the offices. Where is the empathy? Does a migrant’s life have no value in Mexico?”
She recalls how on January 27, 2025, a month after the disappearance, they notified the Cuban Consulate and the Chiapas Prosecutor’s Office. Since then, she repeats, silence has been the only constant.
“Since the moment we reported our children missing, we relatives have heard senseless excuses and seen total inaction. Our calls have been ignored, our questions unanswered. And our files languishing in some forgotten corner,” says Graciela.
Nearly a year after the disappearance, the mothers still have no case number nor concrete information about the progress of the investigation. They say the Prosecutor’s Office has shown no initiative to contact them. Distance and technological precariousness make it worse: many can only communicate through WhatsApp because they lack phone credit for international calls.
“There is a lack of guidance from authorities in Mexico and Cuba for taking swift action when our relatives disappear,” they denounce. That negligence, they say, not only prevents finding them, but perpetuates impunity, allowing injustices to repeat and those responsible to continue operating freely. “It seems the life of a migrant doesn’t matter,” Graciela concludes. “Their disappearance does not deserve investigation.”
In Cuba, their first step was to contact the Cuban Ministry of Foreign Affairs and the island’s Consulate in Mexico.
“The first thing we did in my son’s case, and for the whole group, was try to communicate with Cuban authorities in Mexico,” Alicia recounts. “We reached the consul on January 27; we filed a kind of complaint, she asked for the information, and we told her about the five families who, at that moment, had six missing relatives.”
They trusted that this diplomatic channel would open the path to truth. What they received, however, was bureaucracy. “She explained that she would pass all this information to Mexican authorities, to the Migrant Prosecutor’s Office in Chiapas, and that they should give a case number, but that she could not file a complaint herself. She had to wait for Mexican authorities to get back to her with news about our children.”
The mothers received no calls, no emails, no reports. They decided to seek answers directly in Cuba.
Alicia went to the Cuban Foreign Ministry (Minrex): “We left the files, the complaint we had filed in Mexico, and the document submitted to the UN—all at Minrex, with the official in charge of Latin America and consular matters.”
Since April 26, 2025, the Cuban mothers brought the case to the Mexican Foreign Ministry’s office in Cuba. “They told us they were already aware of what was happening,” because the Cuban consul in Mexico had contacted them. But that supposed communication never translated into concrete results: not a single lead, not a single new action, not even an official meeting for the families.
They exhausted all possible avenues: diplomatic, institutional, consular. In the end, they found only the echo of their own efforts. “We did everything in our hands,” one mother said softly. “We have no one else to turn to. We gave them all the information, and all we received was silence.”
That silence—the same one now forcing them to look outside their country and raise their voices before international organizations—has become their only official response.
By mid-October 2025, they achieved a small breakthrough: thanks to pressure from the Regional Network of Migrant Families, communication was opened with the Attorney General’s Office. The mothers celebrate this but warn that trust is not given freely. They demand immediate investigation, transparency, and coordination among the Prosecutor’s Offices of Mexico, Cuba, and Honduras.
Their demands: Where are they? Who is responsible? What happened to our children? Why did we lose contact with them? What happened that day in San Jose El Hueyate?
The bare minimum becomes a program: “We need clarity regarding the investigation. We ask that the disappearance of our relatives be handled by the migrant unit of the Federal Attorney General’s Office. Clear communication and immediate, transparent investigations with the Chiapas Prosecutor’s Office.” And one step further: “That authorities of Mexico, Honduras, Cuba, and all relevant countries coordinate to ensure immediate, thorough, and transparent investigations.”
“We will not allow their dreams to become forgotten statistics,” warns Lilian Hernández.
Support from civil society and the UN
Elizabeth Guevara speaks in a calmer tone: “After our children disappeared, we faced a wall of silence and negligence from Mexican authorities. For months we felt alone, abandoned, and desperate. That’s when we understood that we had to seek external help, join forces with others who shared our pain and thirst for justice.”
Faced with official indifference, civil society becomes both bridge and megaphone. They managed to file a formal complaint on April 9, 2025, meet with the Mexican National Search Commission, and bring the cases into public view.
“Thanks to the foundation, our story was published in El País. It was the first time we felt someone was listening outside Cuba and Mexico,” Elizabeth says. “We call on the international community to continue supporting our struggle and to pressure Mexican and Cuban authorities to fulfill their obligations.”
They also mention support from journalists and human-rights defenders who became bridges between the families and the world. “They told us we were not alone. That we could demand justice even if we were poor, even if we were migrants,” adds Isis Caridad Perez Ramos, mother of Elianis Caridad Morejon Perez.
When she took the floor, Ana Enamorado, founder of the Regional Network of Migrant Families, explained that the search is also a right, even if few governments treat it as such. Ana did not speak from theory but experience: her son, Oscar Antonio Lopez Enamorado, also disappeared in Mexico more than 14 years ago.
Ana reminded the families that the right to search is not exercised alone, but by being officially recognized as victims by the Executive Commission for Victim Assistance. Only then, she explained, are federal prosecutors and the Unit for Crimes Against Migrants required to handle the cases, and search commissions must work in coordination: “Foreign ministries, consulates, and federal, local, and home-country authorities must coordinate so that mothers can exercise their right to search.”
The activist also spoke of the network’s support: “From the Regional Network of Migrant Families we will accompany you. We hope with all our hearts that your children appear soon; but in the meantime, we will help you along the way, because it is the right of families who are searching.”
Families of missing persons can request visas to Mexico in order to search on the ground. However, this is the same bureaucratic trap that caused many disappearances in the first place: “If your children had to take clandestine routes, it’s because Mexico doesn’t allow them to transit. They are forced to travel through complicated, dangerous, difficult paths.”
The network of support also enabled the San Jose El Hueyate case to reach the United Nations. Julia Margarita Bravo, mother of Meiling and grandmother of Samei, recounts that they decided to take the case to the UN not “out of revenge, but because we had no other option (…). We want them to pressure Mexican and Cuban authorities to fulfill their international obligations.”
The decision to involve the UN was due to “the slowness of Mexican authorities” in handling the case, said Alicia. The UN responded almost immediately, recognized the gravity of the situation, and asked for more information on the missing.
“The UN contacted Margarita right away, and we began to work (…). We learned that the UN is very interested in demanding from Mexico and Cuba what actions they have taken regarding the missing Cubans, Hondurans, who are there now in Mexico,” Alicia explained.
The contact was made by a UN official named Jesus, who asked for victims’ data to open a formal case file. Julia Margarita explained that she only had the names of five Cubans, one Honduran, and one Ecuadorian.
Even with that partial information, the response was immediate: the United Nations would follow the case and pressure both governments to report on the actions taken in the search. That communication—which the mothers described as “a small light in the middle of the tunnel”—did not resolve the mystery of their children’s whereabouts, but it marked a change in tone.
For the first time, an international institution acknowledged their cause, gave them a case number, and promised ongoing contact. They now await the next message.
How the families feel
Alicia Santos explains that in their desperation, the families published their phone numbers on social media and in support groups, asking for any information about their children. That exposure was exploited by people posing as intermediaries or witnesses, who began contacting them asking for money in exchange for supposed information.
“The coyotes stopped responding, and the extortion calls began—people who found our posts in the midst of our desperation. They began calling and intimidating us, saying they knew where our children were and that if we paid a certain amount, they would hand them over.”
One of the cruelest cases was a Cuban living in Mexico who claimed to know the whereabouts of the disappeared. He promised they were “going to negotiate” and “didn’t want ransom, only forced labor.” The families, desperate, saw a glimmer of hope. “This man kept communicating with each of us, saying everything was fine, but a week later, he disappeared,” Alicia recounted. “It was another lie, another cruel deception we were subjected to.”
Since then, the families live between fear and doubt: they do not know whether people who contact them through social media or phone calls do so in good faith or to take advantage of their vulnerability. In their words: “uncertainty tortures us every second,” and every unknown call is a mix of hope and terror.
In the midst of uncertainty, families quickly learn that desperation has a price. Specialists insist that reports should be made only to competent authorities: the National Search Commission and the corresponding Prosecutor’s Offices. They should not respond to unknown callers, messages, or offers of information in exchange for money.
For safety, they are advised to maintain direct contact with consulates and recognized humanitarian organizations (such as the Red Cross), which can offer support and accompaniment during the search. Extortion networks thrive on others’ pain and exploit urgency; for that reason, no personal data—such as phone numbers, emails, or home addresses—should be shared with strangers.
Every attempted scam must be documented and reported. Saving messages, recording phone numbers, seeking legal advice or support from human-rights organizations can make the difference between falling into a trap or keeping the search safe. Because in a context where hope is costly, caution becomes a form of protection.
Isis recalls how, at the beginning, they didn’t know whom to turn to. “We were completely alone. We would call, and no one answered. Four months like that—until we met a lawyer from a foundation and were able to file a complaint. But we are still the same: no response, no progress, only silence.”
Her voice breaks but does not fade. “We ask the prosecutors that this case not go unpunished. To international organizations, to people of goodwill: help us. A mother never stops searching.”
Lazara Isabel Fernandez Sosa, paternal grandmother of 14-year-old Samei Armando Reyes Alvarez, feels his absence with double pain: “Today, with deep sorrow and a wound that bleeds from the deepest part of my heart, I raise my voice as the grandmother of the only memory I have of my son Santiago Reyes Fernandez, who died three years and five months ago.”
For her, Samei’s absence is the loss of her tangible memory of her son. That is why she cannot speak without tears cutting her voice.
Support among the mothers
None of these women knew each other before the horror. It was the names of their children—repeated in Facebook posts, messaging groups, voice notes—that brought them together. “It was a unique experience,” Alicia recounted, a faint smile escaping through the pain. “We learned there were more families, that we were not alone, and we decided to unite.”
The bond was born from fear and necessity. At first, fathers, boyfriends, sisters, and wives tried to carry the weight of the search. “They tried to shield us, the mothers, so we wouldn’t worry,” Alicia recalls. But the mothers, with that stubbornness only love gives, ended up taking the lead. “You know how we are,” she says. “We always end up stepping in because we believe it’s better in our hands.”
When I ask what it meant to them to meet and accompany each other in this search, Graciela responds with a torrent of words and breaks down crying, as if holding the tears for months. “All the families are united, we met, we’ve shared with each other, we love each other, we help each other, we care for one another. But it’s such a deep pain that no one can understand (…). We must be strong, support one another, and know that the truth is out there. We must search for our children. The Mexican government must do something!”
She cries uncontrollably but keeps speaking: “Cuba is a very poor country, we are very far from the city. With my daughter, I traveled over 20 hours to get here, leaving my home and family not knowing whether they eat or don’t eat, only to come support the other mothers.”ç
Her testimony ends with a stark portrait of the place from which she speaks: “We are here from Cuba, we are blocked by everyone. We barely have electricity, we barely have food, we have no supplies…”
The route is not a single one, and each path has its price
The events in San Jose El Hueyate—which left 40 people unaccounted for—are not isolated. A report from Milenio notes that “Mexico now reaches nearly 133,000 disappeared persons, according to the National Search Commission”; of these, 10 percent were reported between October 1, 2024, and September 22, 2025. The figure becomes more alarming considering that under the current government the daily average of disappearances has risen to 40 cases, a 16 percent increase compared to 2024.
Throughout Mexico, irregular migration routes have become the backdrop for thousands of disappearances. Between 2014 and 2024 alone, the project “Migrating: A Life-and-Death Decision” reports at least 856 Cuban migrants disappeared in the region, 70 of whom were last seen in Mexico.
The worsening conditions of life in Cuba—deepened by economic, political, and energy crises—have increased migratory outflows to the north. After the elimination of the visa requirement to travel to Nicaragua in 2021, a land corridor opened connecting Cuban migrants to Mexico’s southern border and eventually the United States.
This opening at the point of exit brought a new set of risks along the journey. The lack of legal pathways for transit forces hundreds of people to rely on informal networks and human smuggling, where abuse, kidnapping, extortion, and disappearance have become common currency.
Migration routes vary widely. Some migrants enter Mexico by air with visas, supported by academic scholarships, relatives, or other means. Others must cross on foot or via informal transport from Nicaragua, Honduras, or Guatemala, facing extreme conditions. Many must evade illegal checkpoints, walk at night, endure threats, robberies, and arbitrary detentions. Some report sleeping on the streets, going hungry, and being scammed by people posing as coyotes or facilitators.
Hiring a “guide” offers no guarantees. On the contrary, according to testimonies in the study “New Migratory Flows of Cubans, Venezuelans, and Salvadorans in Mexico,” from the project “New Migratory Waves in the Americas,” this strategy exposes migrants to new risks. Prices for these services range from 4,000 to 10,000 USD per person without guaranteeing successful arrival in the US. In many cases, coyotes abandon groups before reaching the destination or turn them over to authorities. Some people are detained after having paid for a supposedly safe route.
Migratory transit through Mexico is shaped by a control system known as the “vertical border”: a network of operations, checkpoints, and migrant stations across the country, especially concentrated in the south. This forces people to take more dangerous routes, exposing them to organized crime, harsh terrain, and trafficking networks.
Instead of diminishing, irregular transit has become more dangerous. Deployment of the National Guard, suspension of humanitarian visas, and other containment mechanisms have not stopped the flow but have increased migrants’ vulnerability. In many cases, migrants report being treated with negligence or discrimination.
One of the most serious findings of the cited study is the normalization of extortion during transit. Migrants are forced to pay bribes to police, migration agents, and even bus-station employees. They also face illegal charges imposed by criminal actors who control regions of the country and demand “fees” for passage. Some are forced into labor or extorted under threats.
“With police we did have encounters a few times when we were going up from Tapachula to Mexico City. They stopped us at some points and twice demanded money. They said they wouldn’t let us pass if we didn’t pay and that they would send us back to Cuba,” explains one migrant interviewed for the study.
The migrant profile has also changed. It’s no longer mainly young men traveling alone. The number of women, unaccompanied minors, and entire families is increasing. This raises exposure to sexual violence, forced family separation, and psychological stress. Some families have been split during detentions and sent to different cities.
The northern border is not always the end of the journey. Many migrants remain stranded in cities like Tapachula or Tijuana, trapped by lack of resources and pending immigration processes. There, dangers persist: discrimination, criminalization, overcrowded conditions, and constant risk of arbitrary deportation.
Waiting can last months. During that time, migrants cannot work legally or access basic services, creating new forms of precariousness and dependence, often supported only by informal networks or civil-society organizations.
Migrating through Mexico has become a decision burdened with uncertainty and danger. The routes are filled with threats—natural, institutional, and criminal—that turn each stretch into a test of endurance. Without regular migration pathways, migrants must navigate a system that prioritizes containment over protection.
Until there is a clear, sustainable policy securing safe, legal routes, migrant transit will continue to leave unfinished stories. Like those of Meiling, Samei, Dairanis, Elianis, Jorge, and Lorena. For their families, the only certainty is absence. Their whereabouts remain unknown. Their life story—suspended.
First published in Spanish by El Toque and translated and posted in English by Havana Times.