Getting acquainted in Tijuana

I promised to blog about my little Tijuana adventure, so here it comes...!

So far, most of it has not turned out as I expected, but the most important part, i.e. the opportunity to do some asylum work that excites me, has.  Driving across the border, trying to merge into a lane of traffic that three other lanes of traffic were also trying to enter, reinforced my conviction that I did not want to be driving any farther than I had to in Mexico.  Then of course -- although the house I am staying at is literally just a few feet from the border wall -- I got lost and had to be rescued by my lovely host Jose and his daughter.  (Okay, in all honesty, Google Maps was giving me street names, which weren't posted on the actual streets; so I don't feel quite as idiotic as I might otherwise.)

The drama of the day, for those who don't read my Facebook posts, is that after I arrived, I discovered that in the discombobulation of trying to tie up loose ends, pack, and leave, I managed to pack my computer's power cord and the padded case for it, but not the laptop itself!  I was not relishing the prospect of another drive up to Irvine and back again; but fortunately Jose's daughter is in L.A. for the weekend and has offered to pick it up for me on the way back on Sunday.  I don't want to hear a single negative word, for a very long time, about today's young adults!!

It turns out that I am not really needed as part of a personal support network for Jose and Erika; he is already recuperating nicely from his surgery, and there really isn't much for me to do about the house. It's actually been more the other way around, as Jose has spent quite a bit of time today getting me acquainted with the places I need to know -- the grocery store, the corner taqueria, etc. I had understood that the place I'm staying was within walking distance of the place I'd be doing most of my work, but in fact it's a bit of a drive on the freeway.  We did it this afternoon (I asked Jose to do the driving!) and it isn't bad, but I'm thinking that after my weekend break at home in a couple of weeks, I might just take the train back and possibly stay in a hotel closer to the office.  That part of town is actually very pleasant, and the idea of daily walks on the beach appeals to me.

Driving from here to the beach area of Tijuana, where Al Otro Lado has its main offices, made me think a bit of the trip I took to the Middle East a couple of years ago with the Olive Tree Initiative. Much of the route parallels the border wall, long sections of which are covered with murals.  The ones on the border wall between Israel and the occupied territories are much more overtly political than most of those I've seen here, but there's one nearby that I want to photograph and post.  (Stay tuned!)  The border as seen from that stretch of road is an eerie sight: the metal fence, looking a little tired in spite of the bright colors painted on it, then a space of maybe 15 feet (but don't test me on that, because I am terrible at estimating distances) before the American wall towers high and white and uncompromising.  And then a vast stretch of dry, rocky land where occasional CBP vans drive slowly through the dust, patrolling.  I need to find a spot from which to take a photo, but meanwhile I'll just say it makes me think of Star Wars.

It was lovely to meet Nicole Ramos, with whom I'll be working.  She put me right to work contacting sponsors and reading declarations and starting to gather evidence from countries of origin, so I came home with a little stack of things to work on over the weekend.  (All of which will be easier when I have my own laptop back in my possession!)  The downside, as always, is learning gut-wrenching stories of appalling violence and oppression.  The upside is having the opportunity to maybe play a small part in bringing someone to safety and a more peaceful future.  That's what I came for!

Early on Friday, October 7, I drive with three friends through Southern California suburbia to the Mexican border.  We have been advised that the return crossing will be easier at Otay Mesa, some 6 miles east of the San Ysidro border station where anyone without a visa or passport is required to come.  Having seen photos of the long lines trying to cross at San Ysidro, we take the tip and drive to Otay Mesa, where we pay $20 to leave the car in a dusty lot and set out on foot with our overnight luggage and a few donations of clothing and medical supplies.  Nobody asks for our passports; on the Mexican side we are waved through by guards who give us no more than a desultory glance.

We are coming as part of a legal clinic organized by the nonprofit Al Otro Lado (www.alotrolado.org), which works with cross-border immigration issues: asylum seekers, deportees for whom some form of relief is possible, people deported in violation of U.S. immigration policy.  I am here partly in hopes of being of help and partly out of a desire to see for myself the conditions we have been hearing about: Tijuana shelters overwhelmed by refugees, people sleeping in the streets, Border Patrol stations incapable of dealing with the throngs of people desperate to cross the border into the U.S.  I have for some time been visiting immigrants detained by ICE (Immigration and Customs Enforcement) in three jails in Orange County, California, and that work led me to become a BIA-Accredited Representative -- meaning that I am legally entitled to do a limited amount of immigration work under the auspices of a certified nonprofit agency.  When I heard of Al Otro Lado's upcoming trip to Tijuana, I needed no encouragement to sign on.  

As the taxi carries us closer to our destination, we see groups of 5-10 people sitting or lying on the sidewalks or standing aimlessly in what little shade can be found.   At the Casa del Migrante shelter, which since early summer of 2016 has experienced a staggering increase in refugees needing help (http://cmsny.org/reflections-from-the-border-refugee-crisis-continues-in-tijuana/), we join thirty or so immigration lawyers and law students for an orientation session before the work begins.  We are told that CPB (Customs and Border Patrol) has been dealing with the refugee crisis by telling non-Mexicans that they have to go to the Mexican authorities for a ticket giving an appointment day and time when they can show up at the border for an initial interview. We hear of abuses by CPB agents: misinformation, intimidation, and even physical abuse to persuade people to turn back without the opportunity to have their story heard.  

Finally we begin one-on-one interviews.  The first people I see are a Mexican couple with their sister-in-law, who say they used to have a stall in a popular market.  They had been paying extortion money to the gang that controlled that market area, but the market became targeted by a rival gang, which showed up with guns and opened fire, wounding the husband in the abdomen.  He has only recently been released from the hospital; he wears a neoprene brace around his torso and shifts uncomfortably as we speak. The couple have two children, and the sister-in-law another two.  A few days ago they went to the border but were shooed away by the CBP agents without an opportunity to tell their story.  I check in with one of the lawyers to see if she thinks there is any way to fit this family into a "Protected Social Group" that might qualify them for asylum.  She shakes her head.  "Family," she says.  "That's all there is."  There is little likelihood that the family will get across the border; but if they do, they will almost certainly be separated -- the husband placed in detention and the women either released or detained with their children.  

The rest of the day I am interviewing Haitians.  One is a journalist who released a statement of protest on national radio after seeing a colleague roughed up by police.  He fled after receiving numerous death threats.  I tell him this is probably a strong asylum case, but when I go on to explain the process to him, his face falls.  In honesty, I have to let him know that getting past CBP is only the beginning.  He will be detained for an unpredictable length of time, but most likely at least for a couple of weeks.  The prospect of prison frightens him, and he comes back over the course of the day with more questions: How long will he be held?  How soon will he have a credible fear interview (the U.S. government's first test of whether a person meets the legal requirements for asylum)?  Is there a way to find a lawyer to help someone like him, who has no money?  We have no certain answers for him; policies change all the time, and their application can be erratic and unpredictable.  

None of the other people I meet have claims as strong as the journalist's, but if he is to get legal status in the U.S., it will come only after he has faced an intimidating list of hurdles: CBP agents with the power to refuse to admit him, a credible fear interview to examine his claim that he fears returning to Haiti, incarceration for an unpredictable length of time, and court appearances where he will confront a government attorney whose job it is to convince the judge that his asylum appeal ought to be denied.  He will face all this with nothing more than the most rudimentary knowledge of U.S. laws and most likely without legal representation.  (The most recent figure I've heard is that some 85% of immigrants in detention lack an attorney.)  During the evening, after we have gone on to dinner and our hotel, I keep thinking of him; and the next morning I look him up and give him my phone number and a little money, in hopes of learning the next chapter in his story.

As we wait for a taxi on Friday evening, a shopkeeper comes out of his store and asks if we are working with "those people."  He tells us that the refugees are a problem for the neighborhood.  "Just look!" he exclaims, waving an arm towards a group of black men on the corner and, farther down the street, a family sitting under the makeshift shade of a plastic tarpaulin.  The taxi driver, too, says that the number of refugees in Mexico creates social problems.  The country cannot absorb the influx, although some of the Haitians are managing to obtain work permits and begin earning a living. 

On Saturday I accompany a small group of attorneys to the Desayunador Salesiano Padre Chave (http://www.misionessalesianas.org/noticias/2014/01/el-desayunador-salesiano-padre-chava-de-tijuana-para-los-inmigrantes/)  where we give a presentation to a group of some 300 Haitians. They fill every seat and stand crowded into the available space near us at the front of the room.  Just in front of us, four bright-eyed toddlers are playing with a ball that someone has brought in, happy in the moment and unconcerned with what the future may hold for them.  The adults, on the other hand, listen avidly.  Many hold cell phones above the heads of their neighbors, recording the presentation.  Moira tells them in Creole that we know there are lots of rumors about the border crossing and that we are here to give them accurate information.  At this, a murmur of approval ripples through the room.  My own part of the presentation, since I've been visiting immigrants in ICE detention, is to explain what detention is like -- a depressing chore, given that the conditions of ICE detention are no different from those of imprisonment for criminal activity.  

Actually, few or none of our audience will get beyond the CBP agent at the border; so in a sense, the information about detention is superfluous.  The presentation ends with a description of the asylum process; and as soon as the attorneys have done speaking, each of us is surrounded by people desperate to tell their own stories, which differ only the the details: number of children, time spent in other countries en route to Mexico, etc.  There are no services in Haiti and no future for my children. There is the constant threat of violence.  The police provide no protection.  The government is corrupt.  Most of these people went first to Brazil and worked there until the Brazilian economy collapsed, at which point there was no work and no way to earn a living. Again and again, we have to explain that if you don't have a visa from a U.S. consulate abroad, a close relative with status in the U.S. petitioning for you, or a strong claim for asylum, there is no legal way for you to cross that border, only a few miles from where we stand.  Faces fall, heads shake in disappointment.

On the return trip Saturday evening, we spend about three quarters of an hour standing in line at the U.S. border station before showing our passports and being waved on.  As we drive home to hot showers and a good supper, it is hard not to think of those we are leaving behind, stranded in Tijuana, with no future at home, no life in Mexico, and little or no chance of beginning a new life in this country.