Asylum seekers in Tijuana are desperate to start the asylum process. Here is what awaits them in the detention centers.
Arriving in Tijuana last week, a remnant of migrants from the infamous caravan joined many asylum seekers already in Tijuana. Camping in makeshift shelters, they await their opportunity to apply for asylum at the port of entry. California Border Patrol (CBP) highly restrict the numbers of asylees processed per day—an intentional tactic employed by the current administration to discourage asylum seekers from entering the United States. This approach, known as “metering,” is not new and by no means exclusive to the current administration; however, restrictions by CBP in San Ysidro/Otay Mesa have reached extreme levels as the number of asylum seekers waiting in Tijuana continues to rise. And as thousands wait for an opportunity to apply for asylum “the right way” at the port of entry in squalid and risky conditions, tensions continue to rise—leading some to protest to demand their right to apply for asylum.
Last Sunday, CBP agents deployed tear gas against asylum seekers on the Mexican side of the San Ysidro port of entry. After risking the treacherous journey north and despite the oppression and hazards they experience while waiting to enter in Tijuana, they are desperate to start the asylum process. However, entering CBP custody to start that process is by no means the end of the journey for asylum seekers. In immigrant detention centers all over the U.S., they will spend months or years enduring a myriad of new perils and risks.
As a public health scientist studying issues of health and justice, I interview asylum seekers after their relocation in the U.S. and discuss their experiences applying for asylum and incarceration in ICE detention centers. While each origin story is unique, it is the commonality of their experiences that strike me. This Thanksgiving, I was reminded of one of the first New Americans that I met while conducting my research and the night that he hosted me in his modest home in San Diego. In the spirit of Thanksgiving (its not over if there’s still leftover pie!), and to protect his identify, I’ll refer to him as William Bradford.
As a native San Diegan I had driven past this street many times but, admittedly, had never walked it. I was embarrassed to feel this lost in my own hometown. This was the right address, but it didn’t look like a residence. Who would be living here? On my third lap around the block, the basement cellar door of a church creaks open and I am greeted by a friendly face who invites me in with a warm voice. As I step into the brightly lit basement I notice the scars on his head and face. As we introduce ourselves I notice the impediment in his soft voice, likely a result of his obvious injuries.
As I prepare my notes and tape recorder, I notice subtle signs of the basement’s occupancy. A small bedroll in the corner. A neatly folded shirt on top of a pile of boxes. Before a single word of the interview has been recorded, I get glimpses into the life a New American in the early days of his freedom in California. William Bradford recounts the story of those years between the day of his injury that gave him his scars and our chat in the basement. Years that were spent escaping and waiting in detention.
After months of arduous travel, William Bradford’s story of coming to America was stalled significantly in Tijuana, Mexico, where asylum seekers are routinely denied their right to declare for asylum at the port of entry. In this way, California Border patrol agents have established a proverbial wall discouraging asylum seekers from handing themselves over.
Exhausted and depleted after long dangerous journeys to the border, many return home or settle elsewhere at this point. Those I interviewed in my research remained, struggling for months to find food and shelter. With few health resources available, this is a challenging time for those with complex medical conditions. In his brightly lit basement, William Bradford reveals more of his story. As a police officer in his home country, he was targeted by gang members and run down by a car while on his motorcycle. After lifesaving surgeries and a dangerous journey north, he suffered for 3 months in Tijuana without essential pain relief and anti-seizure medications for his condition.
When finally permitted to enter CBP custody, asylum seekers immediately become detainees. For weeks they are held in large, uncomfortable holding rooms with insufficient food, bedding and space. They receive a brief medical screening, but no specialized care. Eventually, the asylum seekers leave CBP custody and are handed over to Immigration Customs and Enforcement (ICE). Many are separated from family members and travel companions at this point. Asylum seekers spend months or even years detained, longer than most other detainees, as they await a ruling by a judge. William Bradford spent 18 months in an ICE detention center.
For many, detention is analogous with stress and depression. To pass the time, detainees work in the kitchens or cleaning for $1/day. Sometimes the labor is forced with threats of write-ups which could result in solitary confinement or impact their asylum hearing. The singular hour of afternoon recreation does little to relieve restlessness. The daily grind of las hieleras, separation from family, stress about legal status, and intimidation by the guards wears down the mental health of asylum seekers, by all measures a resilient and determined group. Some disclosed to me feelings of desperation, dehumanization or suicidal ideation. With few mental health resources, people find their own ways to cope.
William Bradford told me how he started a “church” of his own that met nightly in the detention center laundry room, creating a community of faith in an otherwise lonely and isolating place. It helped him get through the time when he finally had saved enough money to call home and asked to speak to his grandmother, only to find out she had died a month ago.
While some medical facilities are available, many detainees wait hours or overnight to receive medical attention. One person I spoke with passed out waiting for pain relievers. Another spent the day throwing up before he saw a doctor. Some received unwanted medical attention. William Bradford had his blood drawn against his will, under threat of write ups if he refused. Another New American I spoke with received an injection she didn’t want or even understand.
Once its all over, after passing a credible fear interview and asylum is granted by a judge, New Americans are finally released. This happens almost always in the middle of the night. Its hard to believe that this indignity is a coincidence.
Upon release, medical records may be available but people receive no continuity of care. They are shoved out into the night, asylum granted, with the freedom to move about their new home country. Free to search for shelter, scrounge for food and hope for healing. The last time I spoke with William Bradford, he was still trying to access a doctor and medications. He fought through the pain on the left side of his head as we concluded our interview and said goodbye.
This past Thanksgiving, as asylum seekers arrived at one side of the border and U.S. troops sat along the other, I’m wasn’t thinking of the first Americans but rather, the New Americans. I’m thinking about the experiences they will have as they step into our immigration system which, by design, works to disrupt, discourage, and punish new faces seeking asylum in America at every step. Our immigration system will do harm, not receive it. So, if we care about protecting the health and dignity of New Americans then we must support other systems, like organizations that are helping asylum seekers and migrants. And together, through research and advocacy, we can work to restore justice and health to those seeking asylum in the United States.
