Dear Thinker:  Let's see if you're as smart as I think you are.  Regarding the migrant caravans from Central America, why do you think the female migrants want to come to the United States?

a)  Because they want to see the Grand Canyon.

b)  Because they want to honeymoon at Niagara Falls.

c)  Because they adore Donald Trump and want to visit him at the White House.

d)  Because they want to escape the poverty and violence in their home countries.

The surprising answer is "d."  Well, it must've been surprising to the Wall Street Journal, for it had reporter Juan Montes interview three out of thousands of female migrants, and then it published the story befitting a college journalism class that is pasted below my signature.  As you know, I've been complimenting the Journal on its journalism, especially its stories on the horrible violence and near-dystopia in much of Latin America.  Then, for whatever reason, it published the pointless piece in question--a piece that does nothing to explain the root causes of the socioeconomic problems in Latin America and what the USA can do to help without being overwhelmed by millions of immigrants.  I'm writing this as a proponent of planned and orderly immigration, as someone who once lived in the barrio of San Antonio, and as a current resident of Tucson, Arizona, which has some of the highest poverty and crime rates in the nation, and where the biggest industry seems to be security bars on doors and windows.  Immigration looks different here than it does in such wealthy, hip, urban enclaves as Manhattan, D.C., Boston, and Seattle.

Cheers,

Mencken's Ghost

Fleeing Poverty and Violence, Central American Women Explain Why They Join Caravans 

By

Juan Montes,

Nadège Mazars,

Nadia Shira Cohen and

Erin Siegal McIntyre

Dec. 4, 2018 1:21 p.m. ET

For the past seven weeks, migrant caravans formed by thousands of U.S. asylum seekers have stirred tensions among the U.S., Mexico and Central America.

An estimated 8,000 migrants, most of them Honduran, have crossed into Mexico since the first caravan left in early October from San Pedro Sula, Honduras. Most of them are now waiting in the border cities of Tijuana and Mexicali, across from California. Many say they fled their countries to escape poverty, unemployment and violence.

Central America is one of the deadliest regions in the world for women. Many say they joined the caravans, accompanied by their children, because it is cheaper and safer for them to travel in large groups. Most traveled with husbands or relatives, but others were single mothers. Over the past month The Wall Street Journal spoke to women traveling toward the border about their journey.

"I'm dirty, and I'm tired. I spent all day yesterday walking here and catching rides with my son from Mexicali to get here," said Lilian, of Comayagua, Honduras. The pair traveled for more than a month to reach the U.S. border. "Lots of bad things happened along the way. They assaulted us, they robbed the little money that we had, and they took my phone. They left us without anything," said Lilian, who didn't want to give her last name.

Lilian and her son had already been making their way north when they encountered the caravan and decided to unite with it for safety. Now, they are stuck at the border, with no way to communicate and no plan. They are staying at the Benito Juárez sports complex, which has been transformed into a vast migrant shelter. The food barely suffices for the more than 5,700 migrants staying there, she said, and the mood is anxious. Space is also tight. "It's really full," she explained. "And there isn't shelter. We're wet from the rain."

Lilian isn't sure what to do next, now that the U.S. is within sight. "We don't know…," she trailed off. "I don't know if they'll give me asylum because I have my son with me."

After a week in Tijuana, Gloria left the Benito Juárez shelter to join a group of migrants who had made their way to the gates of the San Ysidro port of entry. There, a row of Tijuana's municipal police stood, outfitted with shields and riot gear. "I don't really know what's going on," she said.

Gloria, who didn't want to give her last name, left Honduras along with a cousin and neighbor after hearing about the migrant caravan on TV. "Life in Honduras, well, it's so-so," she said, noting that it took about a month and a half to arrive at the border. "I don't know what's happening next, if we will be allowed to cross or what will occur."

"I don't know where I'm going to go, or what I'm going to do," said Ilsi Ramirez, sitting on a dirty curb in Tijuana's central zone. For more than a week, Ms. Ramirez and her 3-year-old son, Kevin Josue, have been sleeping on thin foam pads inside the city's makeshift shelter.

With evening temperatures slipping to the low 50s, the two have become cold and sick. Kevin Josue tossed plastic coffee stirrers into a brown puddle. "I'd like to ask for asylum," Ms. Ramirez said, noting that, like countless others, she wasn't sure how the U.S. immigration system worked.

More than a month earlier, Ms. Ramirez had left San Pedro Sula. Her son's father had been murdered. After hearing about the caravan, she quickly decided to join. She left her older daughter behind.

Along the way, Ms. Ramirez and her son have caught rides on buses when possible, but they also have traveled on foot. "I walked hundreds of miles, mostly carrying my son," Ms. Ramirez recalled. "It was difficult. But there was no way to stay in Honduras….It's impossible to live. And there is no work."

One Honduran mother began having breathing problems and fainted when too many people crowded onto a truck bed at a toll booth in Jalisco state. The woman's daughter, a young child, began wailing. The truck was about to continue its journey until people realized that the child belonged with the ailing woman. The child, pictured top, was lowered from the truck at the last minute, and a nun from Angeles en el Camino cared for her.

Mayra Hernandez carries all her belongings in a bag on her head and in a backpack. The trip has taken a toll on the 36-year-old mother from Tegucigalpa—she has battled infection and a high fever. Ms. Hernandez used to rise at 4 a.m. daily to make and sell tortillas in the country's capital, but keeping up with extortion payments to the gangs had become too difficult. She could no longer afford her daughter's textbook and school-uniform fees. "I can't raise my daughter in a place like that," she said.

Sarahi Castillo, pictured with a rose, hadn't expected to find love when she set out from her home in Tegucigalpa. Her mother was being threatened and extorted by gangs, and Ms. Castillo wanted a better life for herself. Traveling through southern Mexico, she met Israel Lopez, pictured sitting with her, originally from Guatemala and a member of the rights group Pueblo Sin Fronteras. Although she had wanted to go to the U.S., she now plans to marry Mr. Lopez in Tijuana, where they hope to stay for now.

Alejandra Córdova, center, left her two children with their grandmother in El Salvador in search of a job that pays better. "They are 3 and 6 years old. I hugged them strongly and told them: 'Soon, I'll come back for you,'" she said as she sat on a curb along a dirty road in Tecún Umán, a Guatemalan town along the Mexican border. She plans to work in Mexico City for some time and save enough money to bring her children north and, eventually, attempt a safe crossing to the U.S. "You feel you lose your soul, your life. But we'll be together soon, God willing," she said.

When asked about the future, 15-year-old Belindre Granados's face brightens. She wants to be a flight attendant. Or a physician. She wants to study in the U.S. because she says the education is bad in Honduras. Along with her older sister, 27-year-old Luzwin, they want to get to Houston, Texas, where their aunt is waiting for them. They had learned through social media that a new migrant caravan was forming in Honduras 10 days earlier. They left the next day.

Mariela, who declined to give her surname, stands out among the crowd of Salvadorans. A whistle hangs from her neck. She left El Salvador with her son and a brother, and she says the crowd of migrants can be tricky. "When I don't know where they are, I whistle hard," Mariela said. She and her relatives are camping in Tecún Umán's main square. She said she decided to migrate after she received death threats when she started to investigate her brother's murder in a gang killing. "Our lives are in danger. The situation in El Salvador is worse than during the war in the 1980s. Back then, you knew who was who. Nowadays, you can get killed by anyone for any reason," she said.

Carla Rubio, a Honduran, carries a bag filled with documents and copies of paperwork that she hopes will help her attain asylum in the U.S. The bag is her most valuable asset. She has three children: Rebecca, a girl born in Honduras; Cjay, a boy born in Mexico; and Cody, 11, the eldest and born in the U.S., where Carla lived illegally for a while. When Cody's father, a Salvadoran, was deported from the U.S., Carla returned to Central America. While Cody is an American, his passport has expired and Carla can't renew it. She said she is having trouble with Honduran authorities because the children's papers aren't in order. "I fled from Honduras because they threatened to take my children away from me, and I'm afraid," she said.

Esmeralda González, a smiling woman with long black hair, and her family began their journey in mid-October. They took a bus to Tecún Umán, where they joined a migrant caravan and crossed into Mexico. "There are no jobs in my country," said Ms. González, breastfeeding her 11-month-old daughter. Her husband, Miguel Cáceres, pushed a baby carriage that holds the family's baggage and held the hand of their 5-year-old son, Angel.

Alejandra Córdova, center, left her two children with their grandmother in El Salvador in search of a job that pays better. "They are 3 and 6 years old. I hugged them strongly and told them: 'Soon, I'll come back for you,'" she said as she sat on a curb along a dirty road in Tecún Umán, a Guatemalan town along the Mexican border. She plans to work in Mexico City for some time and save enough money to bring her children north and, eventually, attempt a safe crossing to the U.S. "You feel you lose your soul, your life. But we'll be together soon, God willing," she said.

When asked about the future, 15-year-old Belindre Granados's face brightens. She wants to be a flight attendant. Or a physician. She wants to study in the U.S. because she says the education is bad in Honduras. Along with her older sister, 27-year-old Luzwin, they want to get to Houston, Texas, where their aunt is waiting for them. They had learned through social media that a new migrant caravan was forming in Honduras 10 days earlier. They left the next day.

Mariela, who declined to give her surname, stands out among the crowd of Salvadorans. A whistle hangs from her neck. She left El Salvador with her son and a brother, and she says the crowd of migrants can be tricky. "When I don't know where they are, I whistle hard," Mariela said. She and her relatives are camping in Tecún Umán's main square. She said she decided to migrate after she received death threats when she started to investigate her brother's murder in a gang killing. "Our lives are in danger. The situation in El Salvador is worse than during the war in the 1980s. Back then, you knew who was who. Nowadays, you can get killed by anyone for any reason," she said.

Carla Rubio, a Honduran, carries a bag filled with documents and copies of paperwork that she hopes will help her attain asylum in the U.S. The bag is her most valuable asset. She has three children: Rebecca, a girl born in Honduras; Cjay, a boy born in Mexico; and Cody, 11, the eldest and born in the U.S., where Carla lived illegally for a while. When Cody's father, a Salvadoran, was deported from the U.S., Carla returned to Central America. While Cody is an American, his passport has expired and Carla can't renew it. She said she is having trouble with Honduran authorities because the children's papers aren't in order. "I fled from Honduras because they threatened to take my children away from me, and I'm afraid," she said.

Esmeralda González, a smiling woman with long black hair, and her family began their journey in mid-October. They took a bus to Tecún Umán, where they joined a migrant caravan and crossed into Mexico. "There are no jobs in my country," said Ms. González, breastfeeding her 11-month-old daughter. Her husband, Miguel Cáceres, pushed a baby carriage that holds the family's baggage and held the hand of their 5-year-old son, Angel.