PBS documentary centers undocumented women and probes meaning of sanctuary

The Rev. Alison Harrington, one of the pastors interviewed in the film, gives that ministry a lineage. Since 2009, Harrington has served as pastor of Southside Presbyterian Church in Tucson, Arizona. Southside Presbyterian was one of the churches that helped shape the sanctuary movement of the 1980s when congregations protected Central American refugees from deportation to almost certain death. 

Harrington has written about sanctuary as part of a longer Christian tradition that includes biblical cities of refuge, churches that sheltered enslaved people and congregations that protected conscientious objectors. When she says, "Sanctuary is an act of resistance," it comes from a life lived in active ministry — and a history the film's central communities now inherit.

Vizguerra knows the cost of being a public witness. She speaks at immigration rallies, gives interviews to the media and addresses college students despite the risk, because staying silent would give others control over her story. Sanctuary, Vizguerra argues, is not a neighborly favor but a social justice. But throughout the course of the film, we see her come to terms with the heartbreaking understanding that the longer she remains in sanctuary, the less popular she becomes, as church members begin to question whether she is turning into a financial burden on the parish.

The film contemplates the meaning of the American dream. In one scene, Latorre dons a T-shirt featuring the late pop singer Selena, and the image of the beloved Tejana singer feels like both a relic of immigrant success in this country and a harrowing reminder that their lives may end in tragedy at any time.

Latorre's story also shows how easily the law can turn survival into crime. In 2019, Colorado Gov. Jared Polis pardoned her from felony charges tied to a stolen Social Security number she had purchased so that she could find employment. The pardon eventually helped her reopen her immigration case and dream of leaving sanctuary after more than 800 days, during which time she became pregnant and gave birth to a daughter. 

The depth of love among the community is movingly conveyed in scenes of Latorre's baby shower, thrown by parishioners and complete with pink cake and traditional Peruvian music. During one shot, the camera observes the party from outside the building, passersby oblivious to the tiny but rich world contained inside.

It is the women's children who become markers of time. We see Vizguerra's and Latorre's sons and daughters grow from babies and toddlers into teenagers who join rallies for immigration reform outside detention centers. Their activism is commendable but sobering: Do they even have a choice? Although sanctuary allows them not to be completely robbed of their childhood, they bear the weight of living as symbols and political figures in their communities.

Directors Krochik and Rigby use news footage and external views of their subjects carefully. At just a little over an hour, the documentary can't hold every ordinary day, but it does offer something immigration stories have too often lacked: the grace of slow time.

By the time we witness Vizguerra arrested by ICE in March 2025, the definition of sanctuary has evolved from a physical place into a network of women, pastors, neighbors and children committed to keeping one another alive. Vizguerra spent nine months at the GEO Immigration Detention Center in Aurora, Colorado, before a judge allowed her release on bond in December. When the credits roll, her American dream and the end of her story — like that of so many courageous undocumented mothers supported by faith communities — remain unfinished.