Removable as Charged"
A year after their big protests, immigrants still struggle to find their place in Philly.
by Doron Taussig



Published: May 9, 2007



immigration



THE ORGANIZER: Diaz hopes D.C.'s Democratic shift will help immigrants.

: Michael T. Regan


Lives are dismantled in this tiny cinderblock courtroom in York. Whether you choose to express sympathy about it or not, that's what happens here. People come in with an assembled life — a home, friends, family, probably a job and a routine — and leave without it.

The presiding judge on this gray March day is Andrew Arthur. Over the course of the afternoon, Judge Arthur hears the cases of two Haitians (who left a country where the per-capita income is less than $2 a day), a man who claims to have fled political persecution in Burma and a middle-aged Italian guy who'd been in the U.S. since childhood, but was hit with a drug charge and now faces deportation.

PAID ADVERTISEMENTToward the end of the day, back to back to back, he sees three Costa Ricans. For the past few years, Luis Villalobos, Glenn Rodriguez Villalobos and Alicia Chavez-Campos have lived illegally in New Jersey and worked illegally in construction.

"They like it here," says Luis's brother Clever, "and the reality is that jobs pay much better, and there's a better quality of life."

On Feb. 11, the trio went to Philadelphia Park to celebrate Luis' 28th birthday. According to Clever, they say they were stopped at the entrance by a security guard asking for identification. When the Costa Ricans showed him their actual IDs, he summoned immigration. A few weeks later, they are here, facing deportation.

There is not much to a typical deportation hearing. The alien is brought into a courtroom filled with people speaking a language he or she often doesn't know. There's a guard with a gun, and one interpreter — in this case, a middle-aged white man reading a novel. The judge goes through what amounts to a checklist:

• Do you understand these charges against you?

• You can have an attorney, but the government won't pay for it. Do you want one?

• Are you or either of your parents citizens of this country?

• If you were to return to your home country, would anyone want to harm you or torture you?

As Judge Arthur ticks off these questions, each Costa Rican sits stoically, a portrait of resignation. Only Chavez-Campos offers any window into her thinking, saying, "If there were any chance to have an opportunity to stay, I would [ask for a lawyer]. But I know I don't have any chance."

Indeed, the judge determines her and her compatriots to be "removable as charged." All three agree to voluntary departures — meaning they'll pay for their own tickets in exchange for a small chance to return — and are escorted out after about 10 minutes.

By now, they're back in Costa Rica.

Last Tuesday, May 1, was the first anniversary of A Day Without an Immigrant, the culmination of last spring's immigrant marches. Around the country, activists held commemorative rallies for immigration reform. Philadelphia hosted a different sort of event: a seminar on how to avoid deportation.

Ricardo Diaz, the political activist who became the local face of last year's marches, opened up the meeting, held at South Philadelphia's Houston Center, by setting a scene. It's 5 in the morning, he told a crowd of about 50 people, and — he slammed his palm on a table, bang bang bang — someone's at your door. "Open Up!" he shouted. "What's your name? Show me your documents!"

Diaz and his partners didn't choose this forum over a march because they've given up on immigration reform — Diaz believes the immigrant community "sounded an alarm" last year, and with a Democratic Congress, things have shifted into a more behind-the-scenes phase.

But the fact that this forum was held on the anniversary of a major protest still serves as an accurate, if melodramatic, symbol of the immigrant community's strange journey over the past year.

Deportations like those of the three Costa Ricans have taken the immigrant community from declaring "We Are Americans" to being painfully reminded that, in an important sense, they are not. Since the marches, Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) has stepped up activities, conducting raids of businesses that employ illegal workers and increasing deportations by 20 percent.

Perhaps more disconcerting for immigrants is what might be called the Minuteman-ization of America. There's a growing sense amongst activists that non-immigration law enforcement officials and private citizens (like the security guard who apprehended the Costa Ricans) are on the watch for undocumented people.

The environment in Philly doesn't compare to, say, Hazelton; the Philadelphia Police Department's official policy on immigration status is "We don't ask," according to Capt. Benjamin Naish. But immigrants here still sense a heightened antipathy. Diaz regularly receives phone calls about rumors of raids. And some immigrants, like South Philly's Maura Hernandez, say they're afraid to go about their routines.

"I'd like to go buy things [without fear]," says the middle-aged woman, who makes tortillas for a living.

It was this fear that organizers were seeking to address last week. After Diaz's introduction, two attorneys from the Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society (HIAS), Philip Weiss and Meredith Rapkin, told the attendees what to do should ICE actually come to their door at 5 a.m.

Their advice: Say as little as possible.

Generally, ICE will come to a home looking for a particular person with a criminal record. If they have a warrant and the person lives there, the attorneys said, that person should go outside — the officers shouldn't be allowed in. If, as is often the case, ICE has the wrong house, you should give them nothing more than your name: no I.D., no birthday, no country of birth. Nada.

For nearly two hours, the advocates went over details, such as whether the attendees should pay parking tickets (yes) or utilize the local police (reluctance to use basic services is common amongst the undocumented). A pall fell over the room when parents were reminded to "make sure the kids know what they're doing," meaning, if someone who looks like a cop comes to the door, don't trust them. Behind the presenters, a few small children played with crayons.

Whether this advice will prove useful remains an open question. There's something of a contradiction in teaching rights to illegal immigrants, because, even if due process is violated, once they're caught, they're done for. "By the time we can put forward some sort of lawsuit," says Rapkin, "they're deported."

From the perspective of the immigrant rights movement, it can all seem very discouraging — the opposite of progress from a year ago. But as the forum wound down, and Rapkin began passing out photocopies of her business card, one was reminded of how last year's marches began: with the introduction of a bill that would have made it a felony to aid illegal immigrants. Had the marches not happened, and that bill passed, this forum would have been against the law.

Instead, the fight has escalated. The HIAS lawyers dispensed advice with impunity, and people left the forum with a sense of confidence. On her way out, Maura Hernandez paused to say that she now felt a little less frightened of ending up in a courtroom like the one in York. Had immigration officials come to her home the day before the forum, she said, "I would have given myself away."
http://www.citypaper.net/articles/2007/ ... as-charged