Survivors of mass shootings fueled by racial hatred are facing slow progress after border closures, a pandemic and financial hardship.
The toy brought back memories of the day he was shot by a hateful white man. It has been more than four years since the 39-year-old nearly lost her life in a massacre that killed 23 people and injured more than 20 at a Walmart across the border from her home in northern Mexico. .
On August 3, 2019, Muñoz Puente lost feeling in his lower left leg after a racist assault in El Paso, a city that shares a multicultural heritage with Ciudad Juárez.
El Paso residents light candles and hold a commemorative ceremony every year on this day. Patrick Crusius, the gunman who wrote a screed supporting white supremacist ideology, is not going to get out of prison alive. And he faces the possibility of the death penalty in his upcoming state trial.
But for Mexican nationals, who make up nearly half of the survivors injured in mass shootings, the scars of the deadliest assault on Latinos in U.S. history continue to blister. The Walmart store where the shooting took place has long been a popular gathering spot for people on both sides of the border, but now it has become a reminder of that tragic day.
These survivors said they have struggled to secure financial stability and other resources needed to heal since the shootings. Many have applied for U.S. visas, hoping to gain access to the type of care available to some American victims but out of reach.
Their recovery is hampered by border politics that divide the region. Backlog and annual cap on U visas designed for nonimmigrant crime victims who assist U.S. law enforcement officials in their investigations seek legal status absent intervention from federal immigration officials or lawmakers in Washington Experts said it could leave many people in limbo for decades. Said.
When U.S. authorities shut down border bridges across the Rio Grande during the pandemic, they also cut off survivors’ access to free medical and mental health services in El Paso that are not available at home. Closures have become more frequent over the past year, making it more difficult for survivors to attend court or access services.
“Mexican citizens have been denied access to all of the services that El Pasoans receive from federal and state government agencies,” said Eric Pearson, president and CEO of the El Paso Community Foundation. “That’s unfortunate, because the level of trauma that they witnessed doesn’t change based on where they live or where they come from.”
U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services said in a statement that it does not comment on individual cases. Congress has limited the number of U visas issued each fiscal year to 10,000, but USCIS is working to reduce processing times, the agency said in a statement.
Muñoz-Puente was among those who applied for a U visa, which she said could help her receive the specialized physical therapy she needs to regain function in her lower limbs. While such care is financially unaffordable for her in Juarez, it is free to some survivors in the United States.
What her family urgently needs is a trauma-informed therapist, she said.
“It feels like it’s going to explode,” Muñoz Puente said. She also suffers from severe anxiety and depression.
Trauma for survivors of El Paso shooting
None of the survivors are the people they once were.
Asylum seeker Ana Vitela said her nightmares were so disturbing that she wet her bed. Her 9-year-old son dragged her to safety as she lost consciousness during the shooting.
Josefina Jimenez, 55, a resident of Juarez, became a widow two days before the shooting. She was meeting with her relatives at Walmart that Saturday to make funeral arrangements for her. Now, she says, she rarely leaves the house because her panic attacks are constant.
That morning, Muñoz Puente urged his aunt, Maria Catalina Muñoz, to go with him to buy school supplies that could be resold in Mexico.
They drove through the border crossing, parked in downtown El Paso, and took a bus to the Walmart in Cielo Vista Mall, five miles away. After the two paid for their shopping, they stopped at the restroom. They knew it would take a long time to get back to Mexico through the bridge.
Then they heard gunshots.
Store staff helped the women escape through an emergency door located between the two front doors.
But when Muñoz Puente passed through the doorway pushing a shopping cart, she spotted him. She yelled at her aunt to stand her ground, but her brain struggled to figure out how to do the same to herself, she said. As she ducked, the killer aimed his rifle and fired.
The bullet entered the back of the young woman’s left knee, destroying her quadriceps. She saw her blood, but all she felt was warmth. She tried to stand up, but she couldn’t. So she lay on her stomach, twisted her arm, pretended to be dead, and waited. The mother of two saw the boots her gunman walked by and said she expected the gunman to kill her.
Since the shooting, Muñoz Puente’s aunt has struggled to escape the vivid images that haunt her. Blood gushing from her niece’s leg. Another victim’s brain was splattered in front of her eyes. The killer’s wavy brown hair fell apart behind his ear flaps. But the worst thing for her is trying to understand why her bullet hurt her niece and not her.
“I was praying for God to save me, but Lili got shot,” said Munoz, 55. “I felt so guilty.”
Four years later, Muñoz is losing parts of herself and her short-term memory. She has a bookbag filled with new underwear for her to sell, but she has a hard time leaving the couch. When Mexican authorities briefly opened a resource center for survivors, she reached out to a psychologist. But after a few months, Munoz could no longer afford the antidepressants prescribed to help her sleep. During the pandemic, all aid stopped for her.
El Paso authorities provided some medical and mental health services free of charge to survivors of the mass shooting. Although some services ended years ago, the El Paso United Family Resiliency Center, which connects people affected by shootings to counseling and other treatment services, continues to hear from victims who need help. I keep listening.
El Paso United Way CEO Deborah Zuloaga said the Family Resiliency Center works closely with the Consulate General of Mexico in El Paso, sharing information about the services the center provides. Ta.
“Sadly, the onset of COVID-19 right after that tragedy has created a domino effect of challenges for the community,” she said, adding that the center will have another year to provide post-shoot services. He added that there are funds available. “We are still consistently serving families and even serving new families.”
Access to US visas is restricted
The Las Americas immigration advocacy group represents about 50 survivors of mass shootings who are seeking visas that would give them legal status in the United States.
Many of the survivors have applied for U visas to cooperate with U.S. law enforcement. The El Paso County Attorney’s Office has so far certified 38 U visa applications stemming from the shooting.
In the months following the 2019 mass shooting, none of Las Americas’ 47 clients received a response from Immigration and Immigration Services after filing petitions seeking expedited applications on humanitarian grounds. Only one company did. None of them, including several who have since moved to Texas, are eligible for work permits. That way, they can live in the United States and support themselves without worrying about being prioritized for removal by immigration authorities while they wait for their visas to be issued.
“What I believe is happening now is [USCIS] Cristina Garcia, a former Las Americas staff member who filed the application on behalf of the family, said she does not consider mental health trauma to be a sufficient reason to expedite.
USCIS officials said they are staffing new virtual service centers to move all visa applications through more quickly. In response to questions from The Washington Post, USCIS officials said visa applications are processed in the order they are received.
According to the agency, it has set strict criteria for cases of extreme hardship, such as illness or medical treatment, that could serve as grounds for accelerating the process.
But Congress still limits visas to 10,000 per year. Official records show there are more than 330,000 people on the waiting list, and Muñoz’s lawyers said it took 30 years for Muñoz and his niece to secure visas and legal status in the United States. I’m worried that it will take years.
Liliana Muñoz Puente doesn’t see El Paso the way she used to. Both of her sons are U.S. citizens. Her mother and her sister live in Texas. She said she considered the United States to be different from the scenes of violence seen daily in Juarez, and that she always kept her back straight as she crossed the border bridge to head north. She now trembles when she enters the house during visits, she says.
Muñoz Puente gave witness statements and helped police piece together the route the gunman took that day. She hopes her visa will help her access mental health care for herself and her children, who have also been traumatized by her experience.
“I’m thinking about my children’s future and their access to opportunities that they don’t have here,” Muñoz Puente said.
Muñoz Puente doesn’t know when he started referring to shootings as “accidents.” This is her casual way of ending her inquisitive questioning about her limp lower left leg without inviting further questions. If she presented the problem as the result of an accident, she reasoned, there was no need for explanation.
The shooting changed her life. The nerve damage from her gunshot wound was so severe that Muñoz-Puente could barely use her left leg or the muscles below her left knee. She underwent physical therapy in El Paso for three months until she and her sons could no longer bear the separation from her husband. Although she supports her left side with a leg brace and a cane, she cannot sit or stand for more than 20 minutes without feeling pain.
Once an active dancer and usually the first to respond to invitations to her family’s quinceañeras and pachangas, she is now socially withdrawn.
“She doesn’t think she’s beautiful anymore. Her self-esteem is so low that she thinks it’s sad that I’m still with her,” said her husband, Salvador Herrera. Ta.
The couple’s bedroom is on the second floor of their home, but Muñoz Puente keeps a mattress in the living room for days when she can’t climb the stairs. There are stools and old chairs near the kitchen that she uses when she has enough time to cook or wash the dishes.
“I get lost in my ‘capa de fumo,’” Muñoz Puente said, describing the mental fog that enveloped her. “If we can’t do things the way we used to, I don’t want to do it. I’ll boycott myself.”
Although her grief has eased, she said she has gradually realized that her entire family needs help.
This winter, Muñoz’s youngest son, David, was assigned an art project at school to make a Christmas card. Each child was supposed to write what he wanted for the holiday.
A 7-year-old boy wrote that he wishes his mother would become the person she was.