Latino Sexual Oddysey

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Sunday, July 08, 2007

IMMIGRATION LOGJAM IN LIMBO - Illegal immigrants -- like my husband -- should be given a way to come out of the shadows

IMMIGRATION LOGJAM IN LIMBO - Illegal immigrants -- like my husband -- should be given a way to come out of the shadows
By Kristina Shull
Copyright © 2007, Chicago Tribune
Published July 8, 2007

From the outside, it seems unbelievable that an inconspicuous warehouse building on an unmarked street in Elizabeth, N.J., has 300 people living inside.

One of these people is my husband, Andis Vorfi. For the past six weeks, his sister, brother-in-law and I have made the daily trip to the Elizabeth Detention Facility to visit him. Andis has been there for only two months; most stay for three months and some others for years. Not one person being detained in this facility has a criminal record, and yet it is essentially a jail.

The one hour a day I can speak to my husband through a glass partition is one of two he gets to spend outside his room. The other hour is spent either in "indoor" recreation in a room with a small selection of books, or in "outdoor" recreation playing volleyball, still indoors. The remaining 22 hours each day are spent in the same fluorescent-lit room where Andis and 44 other men sleep, eat, watch TV and use the bathroom. Andis can never tell when the sun rises or sets.

The Elizabeth Detention Facility is a for-profit institution run by the Corrections Corporation of America, used by the U.S. government to house people whose status in this country is undetermined. Men and women at this facility await legal status in the U.S. or deportation.

Our lawyer has assured us several times that we are lucky; if Andis had any kind of criminal record he would be in a regular jail. When I visit him, however, I wonder what the difference is.

Andis' story is not unlike those of an estimated 12 million undocumented immigrants in this country. Fleeing economic and political hardship in Albania, Andis entered the U.S. with a fraudulent passport in October 2001 to join his sister, then a permanent resident and now a citizen. This was his only crime, committed out of desperation.

He reported to immigration

Wanting to abide by U.S. laws, Andis presented himself to immigration upon arrival, opened a political asylum case and applied for work status. But his case dragged on for years, and he was repeatedly denied a Social Security number. He took up employment at a restaurant in New York City, working 50 hours a week over six days.

After we met several times by chance at the beginning of this year, Andis pursued me romantically. I couldn't help falling in love with this handsome, intelligent and respectful man.

I had never met anyone with more drive and optimism than Andis. He is passionate about his dreams, and I knew I wanted to be part of them. Andis' only desire was to return to school and finish preparing for a career in medicine, but he was forced to wait as his case proceeded through a laborious legal system.

After five years of suffering through rescheduled court dates and absent judges, Andis finally saw his request for asylum denied in March. Not knowing what would happen next, we expedited our plans for marriage and had an intimate, beautiful wedding in the Vermont countryside. Our honeymoon, however, has been less than ideal.

At a May 10 immigration hearing, which we decided to attend rather than join the 600,000 other "fugitive aliens" in this country who often live in fear and hiding, the immigration officer decided to take Andis into custody. We argued for his freedom, citing our plan to file for Andis' residency based on his marriage to a U.S. citizen and Andis' continued cooperation. The officer, without offering a reason, refused.

I have since become accustomed to the delays, security checks and arbitrary enforcement of visitation rules at the Elizabeth Detention Facility. You can distinguish the newcomers, who are visibly shaken and often teary-eyed, from the more seasoned veterans, like one woman who calmly told me her friend had been in the facility for more than a year because of appeals. On our first day visiting we saw a man viewing his newborn for the first time -- through glass.

Many detainees are married to American citizens. After seeing fellow visitors daily, we've formed an ad hoc wives club of commiseration, sharing similar stories and experiences.

Some detainees have no idea why they are in Elizabeth, like an Albanian man who has lived in the U.S. for 17 years and has had a green card for 10. According to his daughter, he took his U.S. citizenship test and upon passing was immediately arrested, perhaps on an outdated deportation order, and detained.

Other detainees are stuck between worlds in a veritable purgatory: Their home countries refuse to take them back, and the U.S. has yet to grant them residence. A citizen of nowhere, one such man in Andis' room has been in this "temporary" holding facility for nearly five years.

Tragically, Andis' original lawyer failed to tell him he had 30 days to leave the country voluntarily after his case was dismissed in March. Then he could have returned legally as my husband without fear of detention or deportation. Now he faces a 10-year ban.

I have received a fellowship to attend the University of California, Irvine, this fall for my doctorate in history. If Andis is deported, we will be forced to live half a world apart, unless I give up my career and move to Albania, where opportunities are limited. Andis also fears he may never again see his elderly parents, who are permanent U.S. residents. Our fate lies in the hands of U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services officials reviewing the application we have filed to grant him residency based on our marriage -- a process our lawyer gives a 20 percent chance of success.

How did this happen?

Although I consider myself a socially aware and well-educated citizen, this experience has opened my eyes. It raises the question of how these injustices came into being, and primary fault lies in the problem's continued neglect. The immigration bill that died in the Senate on June 28 would have given millions of people like Andis the opportunity to come out of the shadows and pursue a life here, legally. But the problem cannot go unchecked.

People come, live and work in the U.S. illegally simply because they can. A bogged-down legal system makes it inevitable that people like Andis will establish roots while waiting for the outcome of their case. Andis has lived and worked here for six years. All of his family members are here, including his wife.

This country is as much Andis' home as it is mine. Our current system allows people to establish a life here and then arbitrarily snatches it away. Lost in this system is the humanity behind each case.

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Kristina Shull, a U.S.-born citizen, lives in New York and works as an assistant editor for Scholastic Inc. She plans to enter a doctoral program at the University of California, Irvine, in the fall.

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