Mexico The Final Destination for Hondurans who no Longer Dream of Reaching the U.S.
In southern Mexico, amid uncertainty and exhaustion, many Hondurans decided to stop fleeing and start over, even if it’s not where they dreamed of.
When José David left San Pedro Sula in January, he did so with a clear goal: to cross into the United States and reunite with his mother in Houston .
Today, three months later, his address is different: a dusty street in Tenosique , Tabasco , where he shares a makeshift house with six other Hondurans.
“You arrive with the idea of crossing, but you can’t anymore. We’re staying here because there’s nowhere else to go,” says the Honduran who is trapped in Mexico.
José is one of the many Hondurans whose migration route is cut short by a combination of politics, economics, and institutional neglect.
From the cancellation of appointments scheduled through the CBP One app to the rising costs of smugglers promising to take them north, the doors are closing one by one.
From bridge to destination
Luis Alfredo Arriola Vega , a researcher at the Colegio de la Frontera Sur, explains it bluntly: “ Mexico is no longer just a bridge. Now it’s also a place of settlement.”
This reality is evident in the numbers. In March 2025, the shelter in Palenque, Chiapas, received only 107 migrants, down from 387 in 2024, a 48% drop.
But this decline is not because they stopped coming, but because many were already there… and decided to stay.
Tapachula , in southern Chiapas, and Tenosique, in Tabasco, are experiencing a silent transformation.
Entire neighborhoods are now inhabited by Hondurans and Haitians who are no longer trying to cross, but rather to survive.
They sell food, fix motorcycles, and do whatever they can find. They live in limbo: undocumented, without full rights, but with the exhaustion of those who can no longer escape.
Deported to the south, trapped in the center
Between February 20 and March 20, 2025, Tapachula received at least 1,500 people, including Mexicans and foreigners deported from the United States.
In parallel, Villahermosa , the capital of Tabasco, is the arrival point for weekly flights with returning migrants.
The figures don’t just reflect movements: they portray truncated stories. Many deported Hondurans refuse to return to their country, where poverty or violence await them.
Others, after trying once, know that another attempt could cost them their lives or thousands of dollars they don’t have.
Less help, more abandonment
As if the situation weren’t already complex, the migrant support system is also crumbling.
UNHCR offices in Palenque, Tenosique, Tuxtla Gutiérrez, and Guadalajara will close on August 30.
At least 130 employees will be laid off, and hundreds of migrants will be left without legal counsel and humanitarian aid.
The NGO Asylum Access also confirmed the closure of its offices in Monterrey, Palenque, and Tenosique.
“We’re alone,” says Marlon, a Honduran man seeking refuge after receiving threats from a gang in La Ceiba. “Without lawyers, we don’t even know how to apply for asylum.”
Of interest: Some 11,800 Honduran migrants have been deported from the United States in 2025.
Hope changes language
Despite everything, many remain faithful. The squares and streets of southern Mexico are beginning to fill with Honduran accents.
Some enroll in adult education. Others seek to legalize their stay. What began as a forced pause has transformed into a decision to remain.
“It’s not the place we dreamed of, but here we are alive,” says José David, as he sweeps the front of his new home in Tabasco. “Here, at least, there’s a little peace.”
Southern Mexico unwittingly becomes the last stop of the Central American exodus.
And amid the numbers, the deportations, and the office closures, what remains is the story of thousands of Hondurans who, without having reached the north, decided to put down roots where they could stop the passage. Because sometimes, the destination isn’t where you dream, but where you survive.
