In hiding in the US after a deportation order: ‘I have nothing here, but even less there’

The police stopped Andrea on a Thursday. She was supposed to appear in court on Wednesday regarding her immigration status, but she went there on the wrong day. A scheduling error that costs any undocumented person their future. That Thursday, she learned she had a deportation order that she believes was issued for not attending court the day before. The police let her go with a warning for driving with expired insurance and the promise that she would leave the United States within 20 days. But she’s been in Texas for three years, and Venezuela, her home country, has nothing to offer her. She’s chosen to go into hiding.

She moved into a trailer with no permanent address with her young daughter, certain that running into a police car could cost her the little she’s earned. She quit her regular job and is living off the little she gets from the girl’s father, and the charity of her friends. “I’m here, but I’m not doing anything. I don’t have papers, I don’t have a lawyer, I don’t have an address, I don’t have a school for my daughter. I have nothing. What I don’t want is to be put in jail,” she says.

Twenty days passed, then two months, and nothing improved. Andrea, 23, doesn’t give her real name, mainly for fear of having her daughter taken away from her. When she crossed the border, she had the same plan as almost everyone else: work, buy a house, a car, save, send remittances to her family, and live peacefully. The reality has been harsher: “Sometimes I spend the whole day looking at my phone. Crying, thinking. I also saw they’re giving a thousand dollars to those who leave voluntarily, and I’ve wanted to leave. But what am I going to do in Venezuela? I have nothing here, but even less there.”

Attorney Danay Rodríguez, an immigration representative for an NGO that offers low-cost legal services to migrants, recommends in these cases initiating urgent legal action. “This allows the person to remain in the country until the matter is resolved,” she explains. “Otherwise, they could be forcibly expelled, which would result in a detention that would remain on their immigration record. They could be barred from legal re-entry into the United States, and it could affect any benefits they apply for in the future, such as a visa or residency.” The problem is that not everyone can afford a lawyer. She knows this, but insists that it’s best to seek alternatives through charities or private firms that do pro bono work.

“With a good legal plan, you can not only stop the order, but also rescind it,” Rodríguez points out. “Reopen the case, and apply for legal relief that could lead to a request for closure of the court, which means the judge and prosecutor are not interested in deporting that person. Then, there’s also the possibility of legalizing oneself in the country.”

The order is an official document bearing a name and an Alien Number: the number the government assigns to certain migrants to identify them. A document that, according to law, makes you someone who should no longer be in the United States. Tomás has one of those, but he doesn’t want to leave either. This 30-year-old Cuban once had residency, but lost it after a minor conviction for marijuana possession years ago. He was locked up in a detention center for months. He hired a lawyer, but lost the case and was ordered deported. “I’m in limbo. Cuba practically doesn’t accept deportations. Then they release you and you become the property of ICE (Immigration and Customs Enforcement), forced to report every six months by going to sign on a machine.”

Tomás can’t regularize his status and, therefore, doesn’t make long-term plans. He keeps his driver’s license and a camera, which is his life and his work tool. “If they send me to Cuba, I’ll go with my camera, and there I’ll figure out how to survive.” But he has nothing there. For him, it’s the island where he was born and, at the same time, a foreign land. Every day he does the same thing: taking photos, buying equipment, avoiding trouble. Especially that last point: “I can’t give them reasons [for arrest]. I can’t fail.”

“I don’t live in fear, but I do live with caution. My freedom depends on them not trying to screw me over,” he says. He can’t do any more. He has to work and report while planning to set up his own studio in another country; where, he has no way of knowing for now.

“They took you out the wrong door,” a lawyer told David after reviewing his case. When they released him at the border, after an anxiety attack that knocked him to the ground, they explained nothing to him. They took him to the hospital, medicated him, returned him to the detention center, and the next day they released him without temporary status or entry record. David was a ghost until two weeks ago, when he learned he had an immediate deportation order. They didn’t notify him. He didn’t have a chance to tell his story. The land of laws told him it was game over before even telling him he was playing.

He’s 26 years old and lives with his parents, who arrived with him. They were quickly released. He was left in a coffin-like cell: two meters by one meter. “I didn’t know if it was day or night. I slept out of despair.” Four days later, an ambulance took him out.

David doesn’t work because, he says, no one hires undocumented people anymore. He wants to be a truck driver, but he can’t get a driver’s license either. All he does all day is practice English with Duolingo or go for walks around the neighborhood, mulling over the things he would do if they let him stay legally. “This isn’t life. I can’t help my family, I can’t pay anything. I feel like a parasite.” He also doesn’t trust the idea of voluntary deportations. “That’s a lie. They make you sign and put whatever they want into the system. There’s no way to file a claim.” According to the lawyers he’s consulted, his only option is political asylum.

If he’s deported, he doesn’t know what he’ll do. In Cuba, he felt useful, but also stuck and frustrated. “I don’t know if I’m better off here or there. All I know is that I’m a nobody.” Neither in the United States nor in Cuba. David is a migrant who arrived as if he hadn’t arrived.

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