Nicole Naim

On Visibility

Or 

(The Cost of Perception)

The night dragged on as I sat before my computer screen, my index finger incessantly hitting refresh. I read and re-read the scant pieces of information as they trickled in. The numbers rose as the hours passed: 40 bodies, 45… I scanned the headlines once again: “50 Migrants Died in Tractor Trailer in San Antonio.” My stomach churned, and I hit refresh once more. Days later, the final toll was revealed: 53 lives lost.

Just weeks earlier, also in Texas, another tragedy had unfolded: the Uvalde school shooting. Like countless others around the world, I grieved for the nineteen students and the two teachers who tragically lost their lives. Their photographs were all over the news. I saw Jacklyn Cazares (9) in her beautiful First Communion dress, Layla Salazar (11) making a quirky face at the camera, and Xavier Lopez (10) holding his honor roll diploma. Family members shared memories and stories about them, allowing me to know them. Ellie Garcia (9) dreamed of becoming a teacher, Jose Flores Jr. (10) wanted to be a police officer, and Alithia Ramirez (10) aspired to be an artist. Though I had never met them, I felt a deep sense of sorrow.

In contrast, the aftermath of the San Antonio tragedy provided almost no information about its victims. There were no names or ages, no family testimonials, and certainly no photographs. When I searched “Uvalde School Shooting Victims,” I was met with a mosaic of faces. But when I searched “San Antonio Trailer Tragedy Victims,” all I found were images of the trailer.

The media and the world didn’t seem to care as much about the loss of 53 “migrants.” The San Antonio victims were stripped of all identity. They were nameless, faceless, and dreamless, reduced to “stacks of bodies.” Some were identified only by phrases like “male citizen of Guatemala” or “female with severe injuries.” 

But were these 53 “dead bodies” not someone’s brother, sister, son, daughter, mother, father, partner, wife, friend, neighbor, cousin, co-worker? Weren’t they worthy of being remembered and mourned, with their stories shared and their photographs shown? Were they any less human, any less real? 

But what if we could see the faces and know the stories of Pascual Melvin Guachiac Sipac (13), Juan Wilmer Tulul Tepaz (14), Misael Olivares Monterde (16), Pedro Telles Gonzalez (16), Yovani Valencia Olivares (16), Jonny Tziguin Tzoc (17), Fernando Redondo Caballero (18), Marcos Antonio Velasco Velasco (18), Doniz Galvez De Leon (19), William Ramirez Alvarado (19), Pablo Ortega Alvarez (20), Wilson Ambrocio Lopez (20), Yeisan Efrain Jimenez (20), Jair Valencia Olivares (20), Aracely Marroquin Coronado (21), Efrain Garcia Ferrel (22), Celestina Ambrocio Orozco (22), Karla Lopez Espana (22), Miriam Ramirez Garcia (22), Francisco Tepaz Simaj (22), Alvaro Ojeda Salazar (23), Alejandro Andino Caballero (23), Blanca Ramirez Crisostomo (23), Deisy Lopez Ramirez (24), Juan Vasquez Morales (24), Maria Ramirez Alvarado (24), Margie Paz Grajeda (25), Denis Nis Barrios (25), Adela Betulia Ramirez Quezada (27), Gustavo Santillan Santillan (27), Fidelino Ramirez Sanchez (28), Maria Monterro-Serrato (28), Omar Rico Almanza (29), Jose Antonio Perez Ramirez (29), Oscar Aguado Romero (30), Juan Trejo Tellez (31), Nicolas Meletz Guarcax (31), Mayra Beltran Frausto (31), Sebastian Och Mejia (31), Mariano Santiago Hipolito (32), Julio Lopez Lopez (32), Francisco Delgado Rodriguez (32), Belkis Anariba Caceres (33), Jozue Diaz Gallardo (34), Javier Flores-Lopez (35), Rudy Chilel Yoc (35), Jose Lopez Munis (35), Enrique Chavez (37), Yazmin Bueso Nunez (37), Fernando Gallegas Garcia (38), J. Marcial Trejo Hernandez (38), Jesus Alvarez Ortega (43), and Juan Valeriano-Domitilo (55), each of the 53 human beings who tragically lost their lives in San Antonio? What if we could do the same for every un-documented person who dies every year crossing borders, many of whom remain un-counted, un-reported, un-known, un-named, un-seen? Would that make it harder to look away? Would we then feel something? Or would we still scroll past the headline with indifference? I don’t know. Perhaps, at the very least, it would keep us up at night as we remember each person, each name, each face; as we feel anger, anguish, anything. Because perhaps being troubled by these tragedies is the only acceptable response.

The stories the media chooses to highlight, and how, frames our understanding of who matters and who doesn’t. Without names, faces, or personal experiences, migrating people become a distant abstraction, often reduced to statistics or superficial headlines that lack the context and care they deserve. This kind of selective storytelling makes their narratives easier to digest and, ultimately, easier to dismiss.

The word “migrant” appeared in every headline about the San Antonio tragedy, not to inform, but to reduce; it allowed readers to distance themselves from the tragedy. So when they scanned the headline—53 lives lost—and felt that first pang of grief, they were quickly confronted by what came next: but they were migrants. This linguistic framing not only removed the victims’ humanity, it reinforced societal biases and made it easier for people to to look away, to justify their indifference.

Words like “illegal” and “migrant” widen the gap between “us” and “them.” Terms like “alien” go even further, creating the illusion that migrating people are something less than human, or human at all. Dehumanizing language isn’t accidental; it serves a purpose: it justifies cruelty, enforces restrictive policies, and frames migrating people as economic burdens and dangerous threats. Stripped of their humanity, they are cast not as people with dreams and struggles but as problems to be managed. Unfortunately, this isn’t new. For centuries, language has been weaponized to dehumanize those labeled as outsiders. Migrating people today bear the weight of that legacy, a legacy perpetuated by media narratives that reinforce dehumanizing terms.

Words can inflict harm, as seen in the San Antonio tragedy where labels and omissions quietly condemned the victims. Yet, language can also challenge and humanize. It affects how we see others, whether we recognize their full humanity or reduce them to mere concepts.

If language influences perception, images do so as well. The way “undocumented” people are visually portrayed is often limited to mass photographs that depict them crowded together in vulnerable positions, stripped of their humanity and dignity. This makes it difficult to identify anyone in particular and perpetuates the idea of migrating people as a collective rather than as individuals. Or, they are often absent from images altogether. While this rationale is valid and stems from a desire to safeguard anonymity and protect identities, it inadvertently reinforces the notion of their invisibility, their facelessness.

Language and images shape how we see the world and the people in it. They can obscure or amplify humanity, making people visible or rendering them invisible. The San Antonio tragedy, like so many others, serves as a stark reminder of what happens when we allow people to go unseen, when we decide that some lives are more worthy than others. Invisibility has a cost. Dehumanization begins the moment we stop seeing others as human, or start seeing them as something less, or other. And it’s under that premise, in that space, that tragedies are justified.

This failure to see others doesn’t just happen during tragic events. It happens every day, in the smallest ways. How many people do we pass by daily without really noticing? And when we do, are we really seeing them or just the pieces that match our assumptions? Is it their truth we perceive or just a reflection of our own? 

To truly see someone is very rare, but it may be the most meaningful thing we can offer. It requires us to pause, listen, and step into someone else’s world to see and feel what they do. It’s saying: I will look for you. I will look at you. I will look with you.