Visiting a Prison in Mexico City
06:00 a.m.
The alarm rings sharply—it almost feels like it’s not mine. But it is. Time to get up. I stretch, tempted to stay in bed for just one more hour. But then, a thought jolts me awake—I’m visiting the prison today. I can’t be late. I jump out of bed and quickly shower.
What should I wear? I pause, remembering that the prisoners only have access to brown clothing. Those without family support or money wear the same clothes until they are threadbare, sometimes looking more like rags. It’s a harsh reality that hits me as I stand in front of my closet filled with choices.
I glance in the mirror, applying my usual layers of skincare and a spritz of perfume. A touch of mascara and blush follow—what a luxury. I think about how stark the contrast will be when I step into that prison, surrounded by people who have almost nothing.
07:00 a.m.
I head to my favorite coffee shop, as I do every day. The line is long, and I’m lost in thought when I hear Juan, the barista, call out: “What world are you in, Mirjam?” His voice pulls me back to reality, and I smile. But my mind is still in another world—the world I will soon enter, filled with violence, survival, and desperation. It’s a world where only the strongest can endure.
08:00 a.m.
Coffee in hand, I prepare for the journey to the prison. As the cab weaves through the bustling streets of Mexico City, I watch children performing tricks at traffic lights, trying to earn money—perhaps for their families, or sadly, for criminal gangs. The city is a mix of energy and despair, vibrant yet weighed down by poverty.
“We’re here,” the cab driver announces, snapping me out of my thoughts. I look up at the massive gray walls of the prison. My heart skips a beat. “Thank you,” I mutter as I step out of the car, walking towards the entrance.
10:00 a.m. – Gate 1
“Mi amiga, mi Holandesa, give me a kiss!” the guard at the main entrance calls out with a smile. I know him well by now. I try to keep things professional, offering my hand along with the required papers, but he hugs me anyway. I understand this is how things are in Latin America—boundaries are different, but it’s still jarring in a place that should be secure and professional.
10:15 a.m. – Gate 2
I pass through the second gate, where two female guards eye me curiously. “Where are you from?” one asks, noting my height. After a quick search, they let me through.
10:30 a.m. – Gate 3
At the third checkpoint, I get a stamp on my arm. It’s proof that I entered legally, and I’ll need it to exit later. The guard asks where I’m headed, nodding as I explain.
10:45 a.m. – Gate 4
The final gate is guarded by heavily armed officers. Their presence is intimidating, but it’s just another part of the surreal reality of this place.
11:15 a.m. – Meeting the Detainees
When I finally reach the meeting room, I wait for the prisoners to arrive. Today, I’m meeting with one particular detainee who looks even thinner than the last time I saw him. His legs are like sticks, and his clothes are full of holes. Food is provided, but it’s often spoiled—sometimes even containing things like a rat’s head. Proper facilities are scarce, and the prison is infested with cockroaches and lice. Sleep deprivation is common, leading to severe mental health issues.
As we talk, we cover everything from legal matters to mental health struggles. I see the exhaustion in his eyes and feel the weight of his words. Before we part, I share a quote from Elisabeth Elliot: “Sometimes life is so hard you can only do the next thing. Whatever that is, just do the next thing. God will meet you there.”
Heading Home
After a few hours, I walk out of the prison. The sun fights to break through the thick smog that covers the city. Vendors shout, trying to catch the attention of passersby, and the chaotic traffic roars. I pause for a moment, looking back at the towering walls behind me. A quiet prayer of gratitude fills my heart: “Thank You for allowing me to be here today—not because I’m better, but because I can share Your love and grace.”