In 2023, a record 3.2 million migrants entered the United States, driven by the hope of a better life. Among them was Lamine Bara, a native of Burkina Faso, who The duty was able to see him again in May in Texas, six months after meeting him in Central America, thousands of kilometers from his destiny. It was a great opportunity to get news of him and his American dream.
It’s hard to say whether, when I met Lamine in Honduras, in the endless line of migrants waiting to be issued a temporary visa, I believed he would make it to Uncle Sam’s country. Under the blazing sun of Danlí, a town located very close to the Nicaraguan border, the American dream seemed far away.
Accompanied by Bilali M’Boni, his “brother” of adventure met in Bolivia, this father from Burkina Faso was barely recovering from his three-day crossing in the jungle of Darién, a dangerous and traumatic passage between Colombia and Panama. “Darién? A catastrophe,” he had recounted, in shock. The muddy and tumultuous waters of the river and the hostile terrain, strewn with waste. Not to mention the threat of bandit attacks and corpses lying across the path.
Despite everything, after arriving in Brazil from Turkey, after walking — sometimes riding by bus — through Bolivia, Peru, Colombia, Panama, Costa Rica, Nicaragua and Honduras, they found that the dream seemed closer. “We still have to cross Guatemala and Mexico, only two countries before arriving in the United States. That’s already a good point,” said his companion, Bilali, full of hope. “We can already see ourselves in the United States.”
Crossing the border
They arrived a month later, at the beginning of December. After a night spent in a camp right next to the border, Lamine made a date with destiny. “I was very afraid of being detained for several months, maybe years. You hear all sorts of things,” he confides. “But I was thinking about my family, who had stayed behind. I had to work for [la] feed. That was all that was in my head.”
After the usual questioning, Customs and Border Protection officials apparently let the two companions in, according to Lamine’s vague account. Bilali had a “brother” in New York who offered him a plane ticket to join him. After weeks of navigating horror and hope together, they said a heartbreaking goodbye.
“It was really hard. He looked at me like that and said, ‘When are we going to see each other again?’ And I told him it would be soon. ‘If we live a long life, we’ll see each other again,’” he says.
The American dream
In Austin, Texas, Lamine Bara lives in a housing complex, a gated communityall clean, adjacent to a chic golf course, the Austin Country Club. He shares a small apartment for $2,000 a month with other members of his family.
Formerly a baker earning $2 a day, he now earns about $500 a week working in the cold storage of a fruit store. The cost of living is high, but he manages to scrape together a few hundred dollars, which he sends to his wife, who gave birth to a brand new baby in June, and their 3-year-old son. And compared to the CFA franc, the dollar is gold. “It pays for care if someone has to go to the hospital, and food and clothes.”
Is the American dream what he had imagined? “No. When we were little, in Africa, we heard that as soon as you arrive in the United States, your life is assured,” he explains. “Now that we have come, we know that it is not that. You have to work hard. And without papers, it is not easy.”
The beginnings were more laborious. Lamine remained precisely 45 days—he counted them—without a job. “It was my brother who did everything for me,” he says, not without a certain embarrassment. “When you call home, in your country, and they ask you: ‘And then? Have you worked?’, people don’t believe you if you tell them you don’t have a job yet. They think you can work the day after you arrive in the United States.”
A culture shock
Sitting comfortably on a large leather sofa in front of a 30-inch screen with the news on non-stop, Lamine Bara talks about the culture shock he experienced. Here, it’s every man for himself. “In Africa, we’re used to big families. There’s noise all the time, we go out, we go everywhere,” he says. “Here, it’s not like that, if you’re not at work, you’re at home watching TV or on the phone.”
The other day, the 3-year-old girl who lives with them was left alone with her uncle and had escaped his vigilance while he was taking a shower. After a while, the police brought the little girl back, probably following a tip from a neighbor. “In Africa, if your child has gone out, your neighbor will simply bring him back to you. We don’t call the police for that,” he says, refusing to see racism in it. “I don’t see much solidarity, but I understand that it’s the way of life here. It’s a little different, and that’s what bothers us a little. Otherwise, we’re quiet. We’re not bothered.”
He admits that there are also all these little everyday things that he has to adapt to, if only the English language, which he does not speak. “It’s difficult to understand each other with people here,” says the man who does not have French as his mother tongue, but who speaks it well. “I should go back to school.”
From one dream to another
Suddenly, it’s as if the American dream has taken on a bittersweet taste. Despite the pride of achievement, there are sacrifices, countless and painful. “My children, my family, I don’t know when I’m going to see them again. That’s the question,” he says, staring into space.
But Lamine Bara, who says he is filled with resilience by force of circumstances, instantly goes from sadness to hope. He has a “brother” in Canada, who speaks of it as the eighth wonder of the world. This brother arrived in Quebec via Roxham Road sometime in 2017. But this passage route outside the border posts was closed in March 2023, when the new Canada-U.S. agreement aimed at preventing irregular crossings came into effect.
The Burkinabé is well aware, but he has also been told that over there, in Canada, immigrants are more respected. “I would have a better chance of bringing my family over there,” says Lamine before letting slip a confidence: “Basically, my dream is not to come here, to the United States. It’s to go to Canada. And I hope they will reopen the border to let us in.”
This report was financed with the support of the Transat International Journalism Fund-The duty.