Sometimes reporting can be lonely work, especially when you’re a print journalist with no companion other than a notebook. Just look at the byline. How many names do you see on there? 

About a year ago, I received an early morning phone call from Regina, a chaplain who had been ministering to the homeless in Los Angeles for more than 20 years. 

“Sophia, I found someone you should meet, and you won’t believe who,” she said. “She’s a supermodel!”

When I immigrated to the United States, people told me stories about America that scared the socks off of me.

“Guns are legal and criminals will shoot you in the streets if you go out after 9 p.m.,” someone said. “Just read the news about street gangs and mass shootings!”

“Kids there are over-sexualized and will pressure you to have sex and use drugs,” another said. “Even little girls wear makeup and bikinis.”

When I first started reading about the thousands of migrants traveling from Central America through Mexico to seek asylum in the United States, I (like many fellow Americans) asked this logical question: Why aren’t these migrants staying in Mexico instead, especially since the Mexican government is offering them asylum and work permits? Wouldn’t they adjust better in Mexico, with its language and culture similar to their own? Why would people still insist on applying for U.S. asylum, some even crossing the border illegally to do so? 

The drive to Holtville, Calif., a tiny desert city near the U.S.-Mexican border, runs on an asphalt ribbon winding through the forbidden Southwest wilderness: A white sun beats down on cactuses and sand. Granite rocks sit stacked on each other like blobs of baked dough. Shrubs sprout from dusty hills like an old man’s unbrushed hair. Blankets of snow and blustery winds hint at freezing nighttime temperatures. And all throughout that drive between mountains and deserts, I thought about the thousands of migrants who have died in these valleys.

Two weeks ago, WORLD Magazine published my story about the clash between NIMBYs and YIMBYs. A NIMBY—short for “Not in My Backyard”—is a person who opposes development projects such as homeless shelters in his neighborhood. A YIMBY—“Yes in My Backyard”—is a person who supports such local projects.

Kenny Yanes and his wife Ezequiel lived in a gang-infested, poverty-wrecked barrio in El Salvador. A full day’s labor in the fields earned them $7 each. “There’s no freedom,” Kenny told me. “The gangs watch every move you make. What kind of life is that? Forget about finding a job. Forget about living life. That alone should make anyone want to leave the country.”