The bar stretches across the room, but there are no bar stools in sight. Nor is there any more rum or tequila behind the bar. Instead, shampoo, diapers, shower gel, and soap line the shelves. Most of the items were donated by US citizens wanting to help the new arrivals. Migrants are standing near what was once the bar, waiting to be served toiletries by volunteers. 

The organization Catholic Charities bought this club about two years ago. Up until recently, it was mainly used as a shelter for the homeless. A few homeless people sitting on a bench in front of the building share their thoughts: "We're not allowed to sleep there anymore," one of them complains. "You only get in now, if you are one of them, a migrant."

Some 50 people currently live in the former club. They have trekked all the way from Mexico, Guatemala or Honduras to get here, seeking to live their lives in peace in the United States. Their home countries are afflicted by poverty and violence, crime and impunity.

Crowded onto a truck

"I paid the coyote $6,500 for the trip," says Michelle. She is lying with her baby on a thin mat on one of the three dance floors. "Coyote" is the name that they give to the people smugglers who wait for migrants on the Mexican side of the border.

"I worked two jobs and saved up for a long time. My family invested all their hopes in me. It was them who motivated me to come to the United States with my 4-month-old baby."

Michelle comes from Honduras and traveled, mostly on foot, 2,500 km (1,553 miles) with her son.  The worst moment was when she was crammed into the back of a truck with 40 other refugees. It was far too crowded, so she was forced to abandon her only piece of luggage, a small rucksack. She says she was one of the first to climb aboard, but many others followed, pushing and shoving. To protect her baby,  Michelle placed his head between her breast and shoulder and turned towards the side of the truck, using her back to shield him from the heaving mass of people pressing towards her.  

Michelle is not her real name, but it's what she asks us to call her. "Like Michelle Obama," she says smiling as she refers to the former first lady of the White House. She lies cradling a tortoise, a new cuddly toy given to her son and her in the shelter. In the meantime, her baby has fallen asleep peacefully by her side on the mat. Her face lights up, as she tells us that she is heading for Dallas. "My husband has already been living there for a year. He hasn't seen his son yet. He is working on a building site there and he's waiting for us."

Overworked courts, tight electronic tags 

Michelle has received a temporary residence permit and is allowed to stay in the US for the time being. Now a court must decide whether she will be awarded asylum on a permanent basis. The process can take up to a year in total and involves several hearings.

Often, asylum-seekers have to wait two to four years for a decision. The relevant courts are completely overworked — and that is only likely to get worse. Since Joe Biden became US president, the number of migrants arriving from Central America has skyrocketed. In March alone, US authorities arrested more than 172,000 people without valid papers. That is the highest number in 15 years. 

Michelle wears an electronic tag fitted by border police, a device she cannot take off, not even to shower. "It pinches," she says, "Sometimes, it hurts a bit."

When the battery runs low, the device vibrates and makes a loud beeping sound. It has to be recharged swiftly. During that time Michelle has to stand or lie close to a power socket. She will have to wear the electronic tag until her first hearing on 18 May at the earliest, when it will be decided whether the device is still necessary.

The device means that Michelle cannot move about untraced, as many migrants without valid residency permits do in the United States. 

Asylum — and then what?

A statement made by President Joe Biden earlier in May has given her cause for optimism. Biden announced that for the current financial year, he will significantly raise the cap for migrants set by former President Donald Trump. Instead of the "historically low" cap of 15,000, a maximum of 62,500 migrants will be accepted by the end of September. But it is still not clear what the acceptance criteria are.

One former volunteer at the refugee shelters, who requested anonymity, told DW that those who cross the border are often left to fend for themselves. Migrants and refugees — particularly those arriving as a family — are often granted temporary permission to stay, she says, and then they wander into the US without any guidance. "The work of the government obviously stops right there," she says indignantly.

The volunteer hopes that Kamala Harris, in her capacity as vice president, will get to what she sees as the root of the issue. She would like Harris to find a way to work closely with the governments in the migrants' countries of origin — and create safe solutions for these people in their communities, so there is no longer a need to flee their homes. Joe Biden also tried this once before when he was vice president under Barack Obama. "But this time it's a woman!" says the volunteer, with conviction in her voice. "She could manage it."

The next day, Michelle and her baby are also allowed to move on. She wants to travel by bus to Dallas to join her husband. She will live with him as she awaits her court appointment. Was it worth the dangerous journey? "There was no other option," says Michelle. "In Honduras, we don't live — we survive."

Editor's note: The author's name is a pseudonym due to concerns for their safety.