Voices: Why deportations won't stop the border deluge

REYNOSA, Mexico – It took Brian Soler Redondo seven months to get from his home in Comayagua, Honduras, to this city on Mexico's northern border with Texas.

Along the way, the 14-year-old hitchhiked, walked for miles, dodged thunderstorms, jumped from a moving train to avoid roving gangs, had his money stolen by unscrupulous border police, witnessed a pregnant woman thrown under a train and killed, begged for bus fare, and felt more hunger, thirst, fear and fatigue than most people feel in a lifetime.

Today, Brian restlessly roams the Senda de Vida shelter here. His goal – get to the United States, return to school and find a job that will let him send money back to his parents and seven siblings -- lies maddeningly close, a few dozen yards away across the Rio Grande. But the cartel that rules that stretch of river told him it'll cost $2,000 to cross. He doesn't have the money.

If he crosses …

"'When', not 'if,'" Brian corrects. "I will get across. God will help me."

The deluge of unaccompanied minors coming from Central America through Mexico and illegally crossing into Texas continues unabated. More than 52,000 have crossed this fiscal year, nearly four times the number two years ago.

Last week, at a U.S. House field hearing in McAllen, Texas, Gov. Rick Perry urged the federal government to beef up security on the border and step up deportations of those who cross illegally.

The White House recently sent out a similar signal, asking Congress for $2 billion in emergency funding for border security and authority to quickly deport the waves of children coming over. Some see stepped-up deportations as a deterrent for other would-be crossers.

But annual deportations have been on a steady rise for years under President Obama and have more than doubled the past decade. Deportations reached 419,384 in fiscal year 2012, up from 188,467 in 2000, according to the Department of Homeland Security.

Sending so many back has done little to discourage the steady flow of migrants, many of whom are fleeing rampant violence or economic despair in Honduras, Guatemala and El Salvador. The threat of being deported from the U.S. pales in comparison to a looming gang kidnapping or the prospect of another day without dinner.

"You can close the door of a burning house, but people are just going to jump out the window," says Michelle Brané of the Women's Refugee Commission.

Filemon Velasco, 31, of Oaxaca, Mexico, another refugee at the Senda de Vida shelter, has crossed the Rio Grande twice. Both times, he was caught by Border Patrol agents and deported. He says he gave his life savings to the cartel that helped him attempt to reach the U.S.

"I don't have anywhere else to go," Velasco says. "I'll keep trying."

Hector Silva, the smiling, jovial pastor who runs the shelter, says he often sees the same faces reappearing at his facility as they cross, get deported and return for their second, third, fourth attempts. He counsels them to seek other routes, to avoid the ruthlessness of the cartels.

But the migrants' resolve is formidable.

"Deportations won't stop them," Silva says. "We need deeper solutions."

Brian, the 14-year-old from Honduras, dropped out of elementary school when gangs infiltrated his town and began recruiting at his school. He tried earning money to help his family but there were no jobs, so he headed north.

He says he doesn't fear being deported. Right now, his single focus is scraping together enough money to pay for the crossing.

"We've suffered a lot to try to make our lives better," he says. "If they knew what we've been through, they'd let us in."

Jervis is an Austin-based correspondent for USA TODAY.