| | |  Americas & Beyond | December 2008 
Village Fills with Deportees as US Cracks Down
 Traci Carl - Associated Press
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| | In this May 6, 2008 file photo a woman carrying a machete walks along the road in Xicalcal village in Guatemala. In Xicalcal, many face losing their land because they were deported from the U.S. before they could pay off the loans they took out to pay smugglers. The reason is a raid that happened nearly two years ago and 3,000 miles away. On a bitterly cold March morning in New Bedford, Mass., dozens of immigration agents swarmed the Michael Bianco Inc. textile factory on the water's edge and arrested 361 people, mostly Central American women from this town. (AP/Rodrigo Abd) | |
Xicalcal, Guatemala — For years, the only people in this valley were those too old or too young to make the trip to the United States. Now the village bustles again with deported workers.
The reason is a raid that happened nearly two years ago and 3,000 miles away. On a bitterly cold March morning in New Bedford, Mass., dozens of immigration agents swarmed the Michael Bianco Inc. textile factory on the water's edge and arrested 361 people, mostly Central American women.
The sweep was among the first of more than a dozen showcase raids as the U.S. cracks down on illegal immigration. Arrests of undocumented workers have risen tenfold since 2003, to 4,077 last year. Fines for employers have jumped from a few dozen companies paying $45,000 in 2003 to 863 facing penalties totaling $30 million.
The Michael Bianco raid signaled the government's new, no-tolerance attitude toward its undocumented population. So far only 160 former Michael Bianco employees have been sent home. But the raid's impact has had a ripple effect across the U.S., scaring employers into policing their work forces.
Thousands of workers found themselves jobless and gave up on the American Dream, returning to hometowns now struggling to feed the returning populations. One of these is Xicalcal, a collection of homes down a forgotten dirt road in Guatemala's Mayan highlands.
The area was among the hardest-hit during Guatemala's civil war in the 1980s, and many people fled as soldiers and militias killed anyone suspected of being a leftist guerrilla. A few ended up in the industrial port of New Bedford, where the fishing and textile factories rarely asked for work papers.
Over the years, hundreds followed, some paying smugglers as much as $6,000 for the trip.
As money flowed back, Mayan women replaced their delicate, hand-embroidered blouses with polyester tops. Men wore ballcaps with "Old Navy" scribbled across the front. Crude huts gave way to three-bedroom concrete homes. But mostly the town emptied, and homes ended up half-finished, rusty rebar reaching for the heavens.
In New Bedford, a town of about 94,000 people, the Guatemalans spent long hours pushing fabric through chattering sewing machines at companies like Michael Bianco. The factory started out making leather goods for brands including Coach, Fossil and Timberland and ended up winning $230 million in contracts to produce military gear for the U.S. war in Iraq.
As far back as 2002, the U.S. Social Security administration suspected Michael Bianco might be hiring illegal immigrants. It sent a letter stating that almost a quarter of workers' social security numbers didn't check out. Similar letters arrived each subsequent year.
In December 2005, as rumors swirled of a possible raid, a manager announced over the intercom that employees were welcome to leave for the day, according to a federal indictment. About 75 people scattered, hiding in factory boxes or their cars.
That turned out to be a false alarm, but soon an undercover agent posing as an illegal immigrant was working at Michael Bianco. According to the indictment, the factory's payroll manager told her how to get illegal papers at the record store across the street.
By 2007, Michael Bianco's payroll had swelled to almost 650 people. More than two-thirds had fishy social security numbers, and prosecutors allege the company intentionally filled its ranks with undocumented workers to avoid paying overtime. The Guatemalans gladly took the jobs, where they could earn in a half hour what they made in a day back home.
On March 6, 2007, the sewing machines had just clicked into gear when armed agents in black flooded the floor and blocked the exits. Workers scattered and hid – including one found by immigration agents in a box hours after the raid. They broke into applause, congratulating the man for evading capture. Then they arrested him.
News of the raid was splashed across the evening news in the U.S. and made headlines as far away as Guatemala.
Immigrant-rights groups accused agents of leaving children stranded at schools and with baby sitters when they rounded up their parents – allegations Immigration and Customs Enforcement calls baseless. ICE Director Julie Myers called it a good example of a showcase raid.
"As long as there's a job," Myers said, "people will keep coming back."
Nearly two years later, some 200 people are still waiting to see if the U.S. will let them stay. Some are allowed to work while their cases crawl through the court system. Some have no income.
Three teens got green cards because they were unaccompanied minors. At least four other workers have won permission to stay in the U.S., including three who got asylum, which allows them to seek citizenship.
Those deported are flown to the capital, Guatemala City, at the U.S. government's expense, and most fund the rest of the journey by themselves.
Last month, Michael Bianco founder Francesco Insolia – himself an immigrant from Italy – pleaded guilty to harboring and concealing illegal immigrants. He faces up to 18 months in prison when he's sentenced in January. He also agreed to pay workers $850,000 to settle a lawsuit claiming back pay.
The raid also had a chilling effect on other employers. Fearing a similar fate, many are turning away anyone whose work papers are suspect. Missouri-based Eagle Industries, which bought Michael Bianco Inc. a year ago, now runs social security numbers through E-Verify, a government database. Some say the government is passing on its responsibilities to employers.
"It isn't easy for an employer, despite all the rules and regulations," said Anthony Sapienza, chief executive of the Joseph Abboud high-end men's clothing factory in New Bedford. "The fact is, you can buy pretty sophisticated documents on the streets and you can get hoodwinked."
Tragedy for some has been opportunity for others. Jeff Matos, 24, says without the raid he wouldn't have been able to leave the overnight shift at a 7-Eleven to work at Michael Bianco. He now earns 50 cents more an hour.
"It's an unfortunate situation," he said of the raid. "But it opened up a position for me to get hired."
Many of the Guatemalans, meanwhile, are stuck.
Dominga Gomez's husband, Ricardo, was among the deported, and she was fired from her illegal job packing clothes into boxes at a textile factory nearby. But she didn't leave New Bedford because the U.S. government pays $500 in medication every three weeks for her autistic American son, 4-year-old Mauricio.
Her husband couldn't support their five children in Guatemala, so he borrowed $6,000 from friends and family to be smuggled back into the United States. He arrived on Oct. 28, 2007, complaining of a sore throat, and felt worse the next day. But Gomez didn't take him to the doctor because they could be caught.
Soon, he wasn't breathing. She called an ambulance. He was declared dead. She never found out why.
Living in New Bedford with her 4-year-old, Gomez can't find steady work because she doesn't have papers, and now takes odd jobs for cash. Her oldest child, a 19-year-old boy, is in Guatemala. He begs to be smuggled to New Bedford, but she refuses.
"I don't want to lose a son," she said. "I already lost a husband."
Back in Xicalcal, hardly a day passes without another long-lost villager walking up the dusty path. Several were deported before they had paid off smugglers for their trip north. With the prospect of losing land or homes, they borrowed more and headed north again.
But most are staying these days. Table saws whine through the mountain valley as people finish abandoned homes. Many can't find steady work, and are rapidly using up savings from their time in the U.S.
Victor Garcia, 34, wonders how he'll feed his four young children. When he worked for Michael Bianco, Garcia was able to send home up to $500 a month. Now, he is lucky to earn 40 Quetzales ($6) a day working in the fields.
"I wasn't stealing anything," he says. "I just wanted to work."
Remittances are dropping. Guadalupe Toj is among the lucky few who still lives on money sent home by her husband. He works illegally at a pizzeria in Boston, but she wonders how long that will last.
"There are so many people coming back," Toj says. "Who is going to employ so many people? What will they eat?"
A few feet away, her children flip through a deck of playing cards sent by their absent father. They don't recognize the logo of the Boston Red Sox. |
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