Interview

Jacqueline Baylon is a Mexican filmmaker whose work focuses on civil rights injustices and migration stories across the globe. Her short film Until He’s Back (2024), about a father seeking to recover his son’s remains after he died attempting to immigrate, was shortlisted for the 97th Academy Awards.

I started out as a writer — I’ve been a journalist for more than 15 years — but my real passion was always video, even though I kept landing jobs at newspapers. Eventually, I joined The New York Times as a web editor, but I knew I wanted to move towards documentary filmmaking after seeing so many powerful films being made. I began pitching short videos to The Times to build my portfolio, and later I joined Scripps News, where I worked on the documentary team and pitched my film Until He’s Back. In many ways, I still feel like I’m straddling journalism and filmmaking, but my goal is to eventually dedicate myself fully to filmmaking.

I came to the United States with my mother when I was about six years old. She made the decision to move us to El Paso, where I grew up. That experience shaped so much of who I am today. About 20 years ago, I became a US citizen, which opened the door to many opportunities and has allowed me to contribute in ways I’m very grateful for.

Yes, I do think my life would have been very different if I’d stayed in Chihuahua. I come from a very humble family with limited means, and it might have been difficult to figure out a path to college in Mexico. That said, things have changed over generations, so I may be comparing my experience to my mother’s era. In the US I became the first person in my family to go to college, and in doing so I showed that there are alternatives to starting work at a very young age. Now some of my younger cousins are going to college as well. I don’t know if I directly influenced them, but I do think I helped demonstrate another possibility. At the same time, it’s also part of a generational shift — my aunts, for example, have come to see education as a path out of poverty and they’ve encouraged their children to pursue it.

I grew up on the border, with most of my family still in Mexico, and my mother and others migrating. That experience has stayed with me — the separation of families, the struggle to survive in an unfamiliar world. But I’ve always wondered about the families left behind: how they cope with the distance or what happens when their loved ones die along the journey.

Until He’s Back, about migrant deaths and rescue in the Mediterranean, with a particular focus on a Moroccan man trying to get the body of his son back.

I grew up on the border, with most of my family still in Mexico, and my mother and others migrating. That experience has stayed with me — the separation of families, the struggle to survive in an unfamiliar world. But I’ve always wondered about the families left behind: how they cope with the distance or what happens when their loved ones die along the journey.

That led me to the story of Martín Zamora, a mortician in southern Spain who has spent more than 25 years helping return the bodies of Moroccans who died at sea. By the time I met him, I think I was the 12th journalist to knock on his door, and he was understandably burnt out. He felt that talking to the media hadn’t changed anything. But I believed I could tell his story — and the story of a family — in a different way, with more intention and focus on what closure really means. Very few people understand the process of repatriation, or the importance it carries for grieving families. That was the story I wanted to highlight.

If there were safer, legal ways for people to migrate, they wouldn’t have to risk their lives this way. Martín [Zamora] focuses on those who don’t make it — the bodies that wash ashore — and he works to identify them, find their families and bring them home. What struck me was not only the nature of his work, but also the compassion behind it.

Martín Zamora is a mortician in Algeciras, a port town in southern Spain. I’ve known him for several years now, and much of his career has been dedicated to helping return the bodies of Moroccans who died trying to cross the Mediterranean. If there were safer, legal ways for people to migrate, they wouldn’t have to risk their lives this way. Martín focuses on those who don’t make it — the bodies that wash ashore — and he works to identify them, find their families and bring them home. What struck me was not only the nature of his work, but also the compassion behind it.

In the media, we often focus on numbers — how many arrive, how many die — but rarely on who those people were or what their families go through. At first, I intended to make a simple profile of Martín. But after spending months documenting his work, I realised the story was much bigger. I saw the countless phone calls, the small team he relied on and the enormous effort required just to return one person home. That led me to follow the journey of families searching for their loved ones, including Ahmed Tchiche, who was trying to recover his son’s body. It was heartbreaking, but also a reminder of how vital closure is for those left behind.

It was a bit of both. I always begin with a lot of research in the pre-production stage, but in documentary filmmaking, building trust with people is just as important, and that takes time. Trust can be very fragile in the beginning. After that, you have to let reality guide the story. Unlike fiction, you can’t script it — you have to observe, adapt and film as life unfolds. That’s what I love most about the process.

I can only speak from my research and from the people I met while filming, not as a Moroccan myself. What I heard consistently was how difficult it is to escape poverty. One family I met had lost their son, who had been trying to start a small fishing business for five years. But the authorities repeatedly demanded money from him simply because he had a business, and eventually he went broke. Unable to keep up with the fees, he decided to pay for passage on a dinghy — and was never heard from again. Stories like his reflect how limited opportunities, combined with systemic pressures, push young people to take enormous risks.

People don’t leave home because they want to, they leave out of necessity. Thinking of my own mother, and of the Moroccan families I met, I know how hard it is when governments like the US or Spain make it nearly impossible even to get a visa. Most people don’t want to abandon their homes — they want the chance to build a decent life where they are.

I think that’s the central question for anyone who cares about immigration. My view is that people don’t leave home because they want to, they leave out of necessity. Thinking of my own mother and of the Moroccan families I met, I know how hard it is when governments like the US or Spain make it nearly impossible even to get a visa. There’s no real evidence that if you relaxed migration policies, everyone would rush to leave. Most people don’t want to abandon their homes — they want the chance to build a decent life where they are. If they had the opportunity to visit, to work temporarily or to be vetted fairly, many would return home. For example, the Moroccan fisherman I mentioned earlier: if he had been able to sustain his business, he would never have risked his life at sea. What people need most is the ability to live with dignity in their own communities — and when that’s not possible, migration becomes the only option.

I don’t think it’s my place to judge who deserves to stay or go. Initially, President Trump talked about targeting people with serious criminal backgrounds, but what we’re seeing now is a much broader effort where anyone who is undocumented is treated as a criminal. That’s created a really difficult situation, because families are being separated and even children of US citizens are being affected. It’s heartbreaking and I think it shows how complex and sensitive immigration policy really is.

What people need most is the ability to live with dignity in their own communities — and when that’s not possible, migration becomes the only option.

Yes, I think there are clear inconsistencies in how immigration policies are applied. A good example is Europe’s response to the war in Ukraine, where millions of Ukrainians were welcomed and given immediate access to work, education and health care. Meanwhile, people fleeing equally dangerous conditions in countries like Afghanistan were being deported. In the US, during the Title 42 period, asylum seekers from Latin and Central America were turned away at the border, yet Ukrainians were able to enter and claim asylum with far fewer obstacles. These contrasts show that immigration policies aren’t always applied in a consistent or equitable way.

Yes, I spend part of the year in Spain and I’ve noticed a significant number of immigrants arriving from Venezuela and Argentina, as well as from other Latin American countries. Many left because of economic collapse or political instability back home, and Spain has become a natural destination. It’s an interesting situation, because much of Spain — what’s called España vacía, or “empty Spain” — is underpopulated. You’d think immigration could be a solution to revitalise those areas.

What’s striking, though, is the difference in how Spain approaches immigrants from Latin America versus those from Morocco or other parts of Africa. With Latin Americans, the cultural, linguistic and religious similarities make integration easier, and the government often highlights that. Meanwhile, many Africans do come to work in agriculture, particularly in the south, but their path to residency or citizenship is much more limited. That contrast reveals both the opportunities and the challenges of Spain’s immigration policies.

Absolutely. Climate change is already shaping migration. Here in Madrid, for example, temperatures have reached nearly 40°C — locals say it never used to be this extreme. When living conditions become unbearable, people naturally start looking to move. And we’re seeing this worldwide: rising sea levels are forcing people from coastal areas, prolonged droughts are making farming impossible and floods are displacing communities. Whether people move through official channels or informally, climate change is going to be one of the biggest drivers of migration in the decades ahead.

The real question isn’t whether migration will happen, but how we choose to manage it. Why can’t countries work together to handle it in a more humane way? Humane certainly doesn’t mean putting people in cages, criminalising them or deporting them without dignity. We need approaches that recognise migration as a constant part of human history and treat people with respect.

Migration isn’t going anywhere. Throughout history, people have always moved — for economic reasons, to escape conflict or in search of better opportunities — and with climate change, that movement will only increase. Wars, instability and economic collapse will continue to push people across borders. The real question isn’t whether migration will happen, but how we choose to manage it. Why can’t countries work together to handle it in a more humane way? Humane certainly doesn’t mean putting people in cages, criminalising them or deporting them without dignity. We need approaches that recognise migration as a constant part of human history and treat people with respect.

In documentary filmmaking, building trust with people is important, and that takes time. Trust can be very fragile in the beginning. After that, you have to let reality guide the story. Unlike fiction, you can’t script it — you have to observe, adapt and film as life unfolds. That’s what I love most about the process.