This evening's reminder of modern-day American slavery

On a panel at the National Immigrant Integration Conference this morning, Saket Soni of the New Orleans Workers’ Center for Racial Justice shared these two stories:

On August 29^th this year, the 6^th anniversary of Hurricane Katrina, a group of undocumented immigrant workers met in a parking lot to receive their paychecks. Their employer, the only home-elevation industry contractor in New Orleans, had withheld their pay for weeks and had promised to deliver their paychecks to them at the meeting. Thousands of dollars of wage theft were represented by their meeting. When the workers arrived on-site, they were not met by their employer, as promised. Rather, they were met by Immigration, rounded up, arrested, and detained. Their employer had staged a meeting under false and cruel pretenses in order to conduct an immigration raid. The workers were deported, unpaid and silenced and their employer, who exploited their labor, refused to pay them, and turned them into Immigration, is somehow in the legal “right” and will continue this practice.

Take another example from New Orleans: Hundreds of immigrant laborers, mostly from India, were working on visas in a large factory. They were being paid $2/hour, and charged rent for their provided “accommodations” sleeping on the factory floor. They were threatened, abused, and if they tried to file a complaint, they would be fired and, since their work visa is a contract with a single employer, they would no longer be able to work in the U.S. The legally-employed live in indentured servitude under the threat of cancellation of their visa.

For many immigrant workers, there are two paths:

Work legally with a Work Visa in contract with a single employer, who can dictate your hours, wage, and living conditions. You are potentially are subject to indentured servitude and have no labor unions to organize under. Any attempt at organization or complaint often gets you fired, and you are sent back to your country of origin.

Immigrate “illegally” and work without legal authorization. In this undocumented state, you can’t turn to law enforcement or legal resources if you are suffering abuse from your employers for fear of deportation. You cannot organize, and you are not protected by a union. Your employer can refuse to pay you or can pay sub-standard wages because you have no voice to protest. You are vulnerable. You are disposable. If your employer decides your labor is no longer needed or he/she doesn’t want to pay you, they can turn you into Immigration.

In Alabama’s HB 56 (or or “Governer Bentley’s Disintegration and Persecution Law” or “American fascism and legally-condoned domestic slavery”) employers are heavily penalized for knowingly employing an undocumented immigrant. However, the bill states “This term [employer] shall not include the occupant of a household contracting with another person to perform casual domestic labor within the household.” In other words, if you are paying someone under-the-table [or not-paying someone] to do your house-work, yard-work, etc, you are exempt from this law. In other words, if you hire an undocumented immigrant as house-hold labor, without protection of labor-rights, with or without pay, you are in Alabama’s legal right.

Decades ago, the South wouldn’t get on-board with labor rights laws because they didn’t want to grant protections to African-American workers. Since they couldn’t legally exclude a group of people from labor laws based on their race, they instead excluded the fields of work that were mostly employed by African-American workers. They excluded domestic workers and farm laborers from union and labor rights, therefore excluding most African-American laborers from protection of labor laws. The same applies here – except in this case the intended target is the Latino undocumented immigrant.

Slavery is an active and common business practice in the United States. It is not merely an artifact of our past. It is an injustice of our present state.

Even though state law and policy may not explicitly state ‘Hey, slavery is okay!,’ slavery-like conditions exist and are permitted through legal avenues. Even though a bill may not explicitly state, ‘Brown people are not allowed the same rights and dignity as white people, and Latinos are not welcome here,’ legislation with racial implications exists and is enforced; “low-income housing areas,” “domestic workers,” “farm laborers,” “contract laborers,” “immigrant workers,” “foreign-born,” are markers of racial implications that often target Latino communities, esp. those of Mexican and Central American origin. Under programs like 287(g), AL HB 56, Arizona’s SB 1070, etc., law enforcement officers are mandated to act upon “reasonable suspicion exists that the person is an alien who is unlawfully present in the United States,” (HB 56) without defining what qualifies for reasonable suspicion – i.e., if someone ‘looks Mexican,’ that is sufficient justification for apprehending them and demanding their papers.

We must read between the lines, speak beyond cleansed language, hold ourselves and our legislators accountable, and look behind the bars.

Current research in the NorthWest!

Hey all!

It’s been a while, and I’ll do my best to summarize my current work with few(er) words.

Classes started less than two weeks after I got back from Nogales, and I’ve been in the thick of it since. (For anyone interested in a quick summary of my summer border work, there’s an article in Whitman’s newspaper). I’m still working on immigration issues, but from a local perspective in this corner of Washington.

I’m in a politics research course this semester, “State of the State for Washington Latinos: Community-Based Research as a Democratic Practice.” It’s a mouthful, but basically we (the 15 of us in the class) work with community organizations in Eastern Washington to research problems affecting Latino communities in the surrounding counties. By the end of the semester, we develop a report that describes the problem, analyzes the factors at play, and gives recommendations to community organizations, service providers, and Washington legislators. This class/program has been going since 2005, and has provided a lot of needed information to community members and actually changed Washington State policy, and I’m honored to be a part of it. Most of our work is done with bilingual education programs, voting rights, and access to resources. BUT (this is where I get giddy-excited) my research group is looking at “Secure Communities,” a federal immigration program, and its impact on four different counties (Yakima, Walla Walla, Benton, and Franklin) since its local implementation this summer.

Secure Communities, or S-Comm, is an Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) program that was first introduced in 2008. S-Comm is a development of programs like 287(g) and CAP (Criminal Alien Program) that employ local resources to do the work of federal immigration agencies. Under S-Comm, the fingerprints of all individuals booked into a local jail are scanned and forwarded from the FBI database to DHS (the fed. organization that oversees immigration and security). At DHS, their fingerprints are checked against an electronic biometric database (IDENT) that has information on those who have applied for “immigration benefits,” those who have a visa/work permit/etc., travelers, and immigrants who have previously violated immigration law. The local jail receives an automated response if the person has a questionable immigration status, and they are placed on a “detainer” or an “immigration hold” (i.e. held because of their immigration status, regardless of the crime they may be charged with, convicted of, or witness to). Within 48 hours, ICE interviews them over a video conference system to determine whether or not they are “deportable,” after which they are transferred to federal custody, sent to a detention facility, and tried for deportation.

The program’s stated intent is to remove “dangerous criminal aliens” and to “improve accuracy and increase speed in identification” of un-documented individuals. The thing is, that’s not how the numbers play out. Of those who have been deported by S-Comm, 66% were charged only on immigration grounds – i.e., two-thirds “criminals” deported were criminal only because the broke immigration law. 19% were charged on other (minor) criminal grounds, such as traffic violations or minor theft. Only 8% were charged with an aggravated felony. S-Comm functions to deport as many undocumented immigrants as possible, as rapidly as possible, with as little human interface so as to extend resources. (There are many more argument points on the un-stated intents of S-Comm, but I’ll save those for later).

S-Comm was originally designed as an optional program that counties could choose to adopt into their community. After the first year or two of the program, several participating counties asked to opt out of the program after they’d tried it out for a while, and they were denied. DHS re-defined “optional” as ‘you can opt in, but you can’t opt out.’ More recently they declared that all counties in the U.S. will be required to adopt S-Comm by 2013. S-Comm is more than just a ‘sweeping program’ to collect and deport more people without papers. It’s also a growing database and developing biometrics program. A sub-objective of S-Comm is to map the “criminal alien” and “illegal immigrant” populations throughout the U.S. in order to focus their attention and resources on larger undocumented populations (i.e. immigration raids and enforcement in immigrant communities). For a well-crafted, concise S-Comm report, see the Oct. 2011 report from the Chief Justice Earl Warren Institute.

So why am I researching Secure Communities (other than to fulfill the need for compassionate, ethical knowledge-sharing)? This summer, four counties in Eastern Washington adopted the S-Comm. OneAmerica, an immigrant rights organization, came to our class asking for research on the affect of S-Comm on the Latino community and their relationship with local law enforcement. Many people fear racial profiling and increased deportation/family separation as a result of the program. I’ve been talking with Latino community members, leaders, and the local sheriffs and sifting through county records for the past two months, and will have a final report in December. My main questions are:

• ·      How has Secure Communities (SComm) affected the interactions between the Latino community and local law enforcement in Benton and Franklin counties, and how has SComm affected public perception of local law enforcement?
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• ·      What personal experiences with local law enforcement, detention, and/or SComm inform Latino residents’ perception of SComm within their community?
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• ·      What are the fiscal costs SComm and Tri-Cities residents’ perceptions of social costs and/or benefits to the community (i.e. community safety, community cohesiveness, increased or decreased violence, change in relationship with law enforcement)?
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• ·      What do county data show regarding the proportions of individuals who are booked into federal custody through Secure Communities, and/or who are deported through SComm, and/or who are not charged with or convicted of criminal offences, in comparison with pre-SComm data of immigration holds and detentions?

Today I’m in Seattle, WA at OneAmerica's National Immigrant Integration Conference. We’re sitting in on panels and talking with people about our early research. There are 600 dynamic, energized, loving people from all fields – education, healthcare, social work, community organizing, legislation, research, union work, etc. – in constant dialogue about immigrant issues and how to construct a more just, receptive democracy. Looking around the maple-walled conference room this morning, I feel urgency and relief. Urgency in that immigrant rights are a pressing, transforming area of aid/advocacy/work/education. Relief in that I am sitting with six-hundred people who working to change our society, to ensure immigrant rights. We are not alone in this struggle – this is a nation-wide, world-wide conversation, and there are strong networks of support and solidarity that we can rest in. This morning, the dark burden of the U.S. humanitarian border crisis does not slump so heavily on my shoulders. I can breathe a little deeper and walk a little lighter, knowing that there is power and care in our many hands.

fotos

I've been out of Nogales for nearly a week now. I've had some space to decompress and process while with family, and think of how to keep working with immigration/border issues from Walla Walla. I'll keep you posted.

View from the apartment in Nogales AZ. The houses on the hill are all in Nogales Mexico.

Section of the Nogales wall from the Mexico side. The mural depicts Santa Muerte (Saint of Death) underneath the "Eye of Providence" that is on U.S. currency. Above the wall is a Border Patrol surveillance tower.

Grupos Beta, the Mexican federal agency that provides aid to migrants, places water in the desert South of the border for those who are crossing. Some walk through desert country for days before even reaching the wall to cross.

On the drive out to the desert camp in Arivaca.

A note left by a traveler in the desert camp this summer:

"A rainy and cold day like today I give thanks to God .

Because he put me in the path where I found refuge and I learned that in the darkest and most ugly [times/places] there is an exit a ray of light. To whoever made this camp thank you for helping us.

Every harvest has its fruit."

Road taken by monsoon

Labeling gallons of water for migrants on a water-drop hike near Arivaca. Photo by Katy Brandes.

From a patient we treated one afternoon at the camp: "Thank you for your attention. May the Father protect you. Very hospitable/friendly."

Desert camp med tent and kitchen tent infront of the Twin Peaks.

This is David [name changed] - he's from Honduras and is traveling with a group of other young Hondurans. He first claimed to be 17, then admitted to 15. We think he is headed back home after a failed border-crossing, but it's hard to be sure of anyone's plans here. David is a sweetheart, a goofy little kid. I wish he were home, playing soccer, waiting for the school year to start. But he's been traveling from Honduras with hopes of work in the U.S., and back in Honduras he'll be working the coffee fields.

Friends at Transportes Reforma

Christ figure at the shelter in Nogales Mexico, with detention center bracelets along the arms. [The pink ones are from Maricopa County]. Photo by Katy Brandes.

Photo by Katy Brandes.

8.18

Tomorrow afternoon I leave the border for Tucson, and I’m not ready. I’m just starting to learn this place, just starting my work.

The other night I dreamt that we had been blocked out of Nogales, Arizona and Sonora. We had crossed a border or wall and weren’t allowed to come back. I was crying. I spoke in fragments of English and Spanish and confusion. I didn’t want to leave yet, I wasn’t ready to go. We stood staring at the gate. All we had left of Nogales was a pile of paletas [popsicles] melting on the table.

Operation Streamline [or] Factory Justice

[Background:

Operation Streamline is a federal initiative to expedite mass deportations of thousands of Mexican and Central American citizens from the U.S. It’s a form of “zero-tolerance” enforcement that processes undocumented people through federal criminal court and penal system (as opposed to detention or offering them civil voluntary departure [which involves signing a form admitting to one’s illegal entry, being cited, and being driven to the border, without going through the criminal system]). The goal of Streamline is 100% prosecution of undocumented peoples through the federal system.

Those who are charged with crossing the border for the 1^st time receive a misdemeanor and up to 6 months in prison. Those who cross again, “illegal re-entry,” are charged with a felony and can receive a 2-year max prison sentence. If someone charged with illegal re-entry has a criminal record (for example, if they’ve already been convicted of the illegal-reentry felony) they can be sentenced for up to 20 years in prison.

Streamline operates on daily en masse hearings. 70 to 100 people are tried on the same day, at the same time, in the same room. In Yuma AZ and Del Rio TX, one attourney may represent up to 40 defendants per day. (The Tucson sector refused this ratio and one public defendant represents no more than 6 people per day).

The whole process – the client’s meeting with their attourney (which lasts max 20 min here in Tucson), their initial appearance, the arraignment, the plea, and the sentencing all occur in less than 12 hours.]

After the desert, we went to witness the trial of 60-70 people through Streamline at the U.S. District Court of Arizona, Tucson.

The courthouse is sterile – white and beige, flat, high ceilinged, glass and metal and linoleum. A 5-foot tall U.S. seal is illuminated in the front of the courtroom.

Before I even see the defendants, I hear the shackles. No, not handcuffs. Shackles. Their cuffed hands are tethered to a chain cinched around their waist, and their ankles are in manacles. The slightest movement causes their chains to chirp and jangle and clatter. Their hands are pulled towards their navels, as if they’d broken their wrists. They hobble when they walk. Several are injured – one man’s hand is in a cast, another can hardly walk on blistered feet. Last week, a man was refused treatment for a broken femur until he was processed by the court.

The accused are packed into the audience and the jury box. They are wearing stethoscope-shaped ear buds that translate the proceedings into Spanish. They are wearing the clothes they were arrested in. They have not been allowed to shower. Their belts have been removed, and they are unable to pull up their pants because of their bonds. They are stripped and denied their dignity; they are publicly humiliated and shushed.

The first five are brought to the front. They don't speak Spanish or English, rather they speak indigenous languages. There are no translators for their languages, thus they wouldn’t be able to understand the proceedings. They are dismissed and their charges are dropped “without prejudice.” An attorney pats his client gently on the shoulder as he leaves, offers “bueno suerte.” The only woman of today’s sixty-plus defendants shuffles out of this group, crying, her ankle-chains clanking, and I feel like everything inside my chest has dropped six inches.

The rest of the defendants are tried with two charges: 1) illegal re-entry after deportation (a felony). 2) evading examination or inspection of U.S. immigration (a misdemeanor). In these cases, a “plea bargain” is offered: in exchange for pleading guilty to the misdemeanor, the court will drop the felony charge, and the individual is sentenced to a maximum of 180 days in prison.

The prosecutor is sifting through a stack of manilas nearly two feet tall. The U.S. Court Marshall is slouching behind his desk near the exit, texting. As the officials speak in English, a woman murmurs the translation into a microphone. The Spanish echo-whispers in a constant stream around the sound-proof walls.

Mid-sentence, the judge turns away from the defendants to pour his coffee while the legal terms casually pour from his mustached lips. He has said these words hundreds of times and he will say them thousands of times more. His speech is memorized.

“…You agree not to appeal that sentence to a higher court…”

“…what you have done wrong…”

“…If any of you feel like you are being forced, obligated, or intimidated in any way, please let me know by standing…”

The judge calls seven men to the front at a time. He asks them each the same rapid thread of questions down the line:

Are you a citizen of Mexico?

            Si.

Were you found in ____[place] on _____[date]?

            Si.

Were you previously denied admission, excluded, deported, and removed from ____[place] on ____[date]?

            Si.

Did you make Application 2 and receive permission from U.S. government immigration officials in order to be here?

            No.

"Si – Si – Si – No."

"Si – Si – Si – No." 

"Si – Si – Si – No."

Then the bucket-brigade of pleas:

“Culpable.” “Culpable.” “Culpable.” “Culpable.” “Culpable.” “Culpable.” “Culpable.”

Meanwhile, the waterfall of chains, the murmur of Spanish breathing from the microphone like a secret.

One man breaks the standard pattern of responses:

[Judge]: Were you told by your attorney upon your last deportation what would happen should you re-enter the U.S.?

[Defendant]: My attorney said if I came I came back I would have 3 months in jail.

The man is sentenced with 165 days, twice the sentence he was told to expect.

Another man protests; he did apply through Application 2, but he didn’t qualify. He was told his request for political asylum was “invalid.” He may well be killed upon return to Mexico, but he didn’t qualify for asylum on the proper form. Perhaps he didn’t pass his Credible Fear exam.

Another starts to plea, “But I was here 5 years –,” and is interrupted:

“____ is a very competent attorney. I have no doubt he would tell you what would happen if you re-entered. What do you think would happen to you if you try to enter again? Do you think it would be a misdemeanor or a felony?” the judge pelts. The judge chastises him aggressively, like a schoolmaster to a sullen student. My hackles rise at the tone of his voice.

The clamor of chains quiets in units of seven men as the accused are tried and the room empties. They are led out the door like cattle. Someone likens the procession to a slave-market.

When an individual broke from the script of silence/si/no during the proceedings, I wanted to hear them speak. I wanted them to be given the space to explain why they crossed and to share what they may have suffered. I wanted to them to be allowed to tell the well-known traumas: my family is hungry; I can’t find work; my child/mother/sister/wife needs surgery; I’m afraid for my life; my wife and kids are U.S. citizens; I was brought to the U.S. when I was two, Mexico has never been my home. I wanted them to be granted the right to be treated as fellow human beings with their own complicated stories and motives. The judge neglected tell the accused of their right to allocute, neglected to ask them if they had something to say to the court. He neglected to allow them their voice. The court, the process, the federal system neglects to recognize the accused as human beings. The court, the process, the federal system tears their dignity from their skin and sends them hungry, hurt, and vulnerable to a border-town that may be more hell than home.

¡Miralo!

Quick preface or afterword to Operation Streamline and the prison system related to deported/detained persons.

Notes from the Desert (8.10 - 8.14)

8.10

Being back in the desert feels like settling into the arms of a second family, re-meeting one of my Places. The Sonoran Desert in monsoon season is loud. During the day, rain, cicadas, flies, and layers of bird calls – chirps and caws and trills and warbles and cries. At night, the wash behind our camp is a riot of bullfrogs, leopard frogs (which sound like a croaking goat), crickets, coyote, and the jets that fly low overhead. It was raining fat drops as we drove in to camp from Tucson. Sections of the road had flooded. The acacias, mimosas, snakeweed are erupting into green, the soil is fine and dark and damp.

The desert camp is outside of Arivaca, the oldest continuously-inhabited town in Arizona and home to the oldest bar (La Gitana) in the state. The No More Deaths camp is eight years old and sits on private property of a friend a few miles out of town. There’s a med-unit tent-and-trailer and a kitchen tent-and-trailer, a shade tent over the tables, a few campers/trailers for storage and sleeping, two poop buckets, and plenty of space to bed down outside.

The work: we drive and hike out to trails and leave gallon-jugs of water, cans of beans, and clean socks at sites people may pass through frequently. At camp, we are open to people who pass through – we provide them with food, water, and give them medical attention. Medical care often means cleaning and bandaging people’s blistered feet (from hiking in weather too hot for too many miles in too-small shoes), and treating for dehydration (water, electrolytes, rest).

8.11

Today the monsoons poured down in full. Most of the routes to our hikes were flooded, so we went on some short water/food drops. Along the trails are empty gallons of water, open cans of beans, worn-out socks, jackets and backpacks and pants left behind. There is a constant presence of people passing through, but rarely do we meet people in the desert (– those crossing the desert are trying to avoid Border Patrol and, as such, would rather not be seen if they are not in need of immediate medical care. And even then, many won’t call out for help for fear of being deported).

At one of the stops, we found “detention bracelets” on the side of the road – temporary handcuffs of black rope and a ziptie-like plastic piece. It’s upsetting to see evidence of conflict, traces of confrontation left behind.

Near camp we helped a neighbor gather mesquite pods, which he grinds into flour and sells in Tucson. The flour is sweet, almost like tamarind. The neighbor is rough, a sun-soaked conspiracist with a couple of trailers (6, actually), two dogs, and a compassionate and cantankerous way of being.

8.12

This region is a conflict zone. There is a tangible, constant tension. There is a persistent undertone of fear. During the day we go on “patrol” to provide basic, basic humanitarian aid (food, water, medical). Those not hiking during the day “hold it down” at camp. The flies buzz mad in the mid-day heat. Today a neighbor to our east was shooting (non-malicious target-practice, I believe) and the sound was ricocheting off the hills to our west. Border Patrol vehicles are everywhere, and a BP vehicle will frequently pull up to the road that our camp is near and watch our camp for hours. Yesterday, when one was parked across from camp, a volunteer pointed toward the car and the vehicle rolled behind a cluster of trees. The camp has been raided by Border Patrol several times, even though camp is on private property.

Several individuals from another humanitarian aid group out here have advised NMD to do as they do and bake cookies for Border Patrol, “ally ourselves with them.” Literally – they bake cookies. I don’t intend to villainize a group of people, nor do I want to speak in a language of enemies and allies. However, baking cookies for Border Patrol officials to create a superficial political “alliance” with the organization that is causing and escalating violence and the deaths of thousands of people along the border does not sit right with me.

The burst backpacks, broken detention bracelets, gallons of water that have been slashed, the surveillance towers of the “virtual wall” that sprout out of ranch lands, the increased deployment of more Border Patrol and National Guard throughout the desert… me inquieta…

After a long day, we went into town tonight for a folk jam on the porch of the Gadsen Coffeshop. About 6 or so guitars, my one uke, a handful of harmonicas, and a washtub bass. The man to my left hasn’t worn shoes in the past 10 years. Another has walked the perimeter of Texas. Much, much needed music, and good company.

8.13 *[heads up: this entry contains stories of sexual violence]

We had several guests in camp today. They’d been walking in the desert from 11 days from Nogales, and are turning around to go back to Mexico. They were if fairly good spirits, not too dehydrated, and amazingly un-blistered. They were sweet, grateful, and helpful and I was glad we could feed them and provide them with a few gallons of water. We cooked up a monster pot of beans tonight for all our guests. The youngest of the group had never crossed before, but it was another’s 6^th time traveling through the desert.

We also had several guests tonight from Angeles del Desierto [Angels of the Desert]. The Angeles is a group of volunteers from Mexico and the SW U.S. who search for missing persons and bodies of loved ones in the desert.

In the past few years, the number of people crossing the desert has decreased, yet the number of deaths has increased. The occurrence and severity of violence has increased. More and more, young kids in Mexican border towns are being forced to smuggle drugs to a pick-up point in the U.S. – traffickers threaten their families if they don’t comply.

The number of disappearances has increased, especially of “mujercitas” (young women, as told by the Angeles). Mujercitas who are crossing the desert and living in border-towns or the Tohono O’odham Reservation, are being kidnapped and raped and/or forced into prostitution.

The Angeles described to us the “rape trees” they frequently encounter on their searches. A rapist hangs the torn under-clothes of the woman/en he has violated in the branches of a tree like a trophy and scatters the contents of her toiletry bag over the sand.

After describing the escalation of violence towards people crossing the desert, one of the Angeles brought over three backpacks they’d recovered on a search today and emptied the packs on the table.

One Guatemalan coin. A white bra stained and scraped by gravel and sand. A tangle of torn underwear.

These are not abstract, theoretical victims. We sat at the dining table with the blatant evidence of rape, the under-clothes torn from these women, glowing in headlamps and moonlight on the dining table. The battered, violated, raped, and perhaps murdered or prostituted women were nearly with us. This violence is another slouching beast of the border wall. I have no words to express this injustice and rage and trauma and hurt.