"Reflection of an Uncertain Dream": Counter-Narratives of Mobility in a New Era

In October, 2015, Youth Circulations ran a post by Julie C. Keller: "Beyond Trump: America's Dairyland and Multiple Regimes of Mobility." Still in the early stages of the campaign, it was easy to consider, and perhaps hope, that the options Keller presented –"[W]e could write off Donald Trump as merely a celebrity candidate pursuing a theatrical campaign for notoriety. We could refuse to engage with his platform" –would remain just that. With Trump's impending inauguration, however, we no longer have these options. Still, and perhaps even moreso, we remain committed to Keller's broader argument:

“...When we set Trump’s fiery rhetoric against the narratives of migrants, we see an even more complicated relationship between inclusion and exclusion—particularly when it comes to mobility.”

At a time when there is a lot of talk about talk –harassment, "post-truth,"  tweets, "Trump talk"– we choose to keep presenting counter-narratives that illuminate lived, restricted, foreclosed, and resisted mobilities. Recognizing the power of so many other voices, we are honored to present the work of Salvador Jiménez-Flores. Salvador is presently the Artist-In-Residence for the City of Boston and the Harvard Ceramics Program, and he is also a visiting lecturer at the Massachusetts College of Art and Design and Wheelock College. Of his work, he writes:

I did not grow up wanting to be an artist until I migrated to the United States. I never thought that art was a necessity in my life, since there were many other more crucial needs such as food and shelter for my family. At first, art was merely a way of coping with the transition, but later due to my limited English, art became my tool for self-expression. Our nation is currently echoing messages of hate, xenophobia, racism, oppression and inequality. During times like this, it is clear to me how art can become a mechanism to create awareness and purpose actions through powerful images. 

As I reflect back to the time when I created “Reflections of an Uncertain Dream”, it is a bitter-sweet moment. I was personally struggling with the emotions of feeling unwelcome in my new “home” and lacking of a sense of belonging. This is a shared feeling with many new immigrants and the broken immigration system we have had for decades.

On Process and the Public: Creating the "Migration and Belonging" Series

(Spanish translation below)

Amidst so much disciplinary discussion about audience, open access, and applied anthropology, we want to follow Migration and Belonging: Narratives from a Highland Town with a more informal conversation with the series' creators. Below, Michele Statz talks with Giovanni Batz, Celeste Sanchez and Lauren Heidbrink about the challenges and possibilities of collaborative public ethnography. 

Almolonga. Photo credits: Giovanni Batz

Michele: It strikes me that when viewed as a whole, the potential of these posts suddenly exceed their goal. Each is immediately informative about global youth, deportation, and social reintegration, but together they confront the reader with additional questions about audience, voice, and translation. Did you ever discuss the academic “costs” of this kind of collection? Some of the posts are more formal or “traditional” in their style, while others are quite vivid and at times very intimate and heartfelt. I found the combination incredibly appealing, but still wonder: Is this type of analysis forever relegated to the blogosphere? As editors and contributors, who should read this series?

Giovanni, Celeste and Lauren: We hope that this blog series offers a nuanced yet accessible exploration of the issues and challenges emerging from and within sending communities. The images, at once powerful and provocative, invite a broad public to explore the rippling and enduring impacts of migration and deportation on individuals, communities and families. This public importantly includes loved ones and community members that are invested in Almolonga’s future beyond the academic or theoretical questions raised in the series. 

The bilingual series also offers a unique modality for collaborative research, one which showcases the voices of Guatemalan scholars, many of whom remain excluded from the largely English-speaking academic presses. 

“From the outset, we were committed to defying what has tragically become routine academic practice.”

M: Will it be shared with the community members with whom you conducted research?

G, C and L: From the outset, we were committed to defying what has tragically become routine academic practice--that is, students and researchers conduct studies in Guatemala, publish exclusively for English-speaking audiences, and fail to return or share findings with participating communities. It is a long-standing practice which dates to colonial times. We recognized that Almolonguenses generously and sometimes painfully entrusted their experiences of migration and deportation in us, and that these experiences belong to them. “Migration and Belonging” is the first in a series of innovations, including workshops, radio spots, community forums, and bilingual reports to be shared with community members and local and regional authorities.  

M: A number of the "Migration and Belonging" posts are translated into as many as three languages--or more, if you include framing this for an anthropological audience. What is gained and lost in translation?

G, C and L: Language is important to understand different worldviews. Translating is always a difficult task when trying to find the appropriate words and phrases to express a concept. As translators of the blogs, collectively we tried to respect the intent of the authors and maintain intact their passion and critical analysis in their original format. We consulted with the authors and each other to minimize losing meaning in translation. One of the authors (Amparo Monzón) translated her own poem into three languages (K’iche’, Spanish, and English).

M: What is missing from this series?

Almolonga. Photo credit: Lauren Heidbrink

G, C and L: One of the interesting aspects of this research was the uniqueness of each of our positionalities, especially since all of us have personal experiences with migration. Some of our team members have siblings, cousins, aunts, uncles or other relatives who migrated or had attempted to migrate to the US. In addition, two of us were born in the US to Central American parents, bringing into conversation varying experiences and understandings of migration, privilege, identity, and belonging. This research sparked a broad range of emotions in our professional work and our personal lives, sentiments that are not easily captured in virtual form.

After sharing our findings with the community this coming summer, we aim to supplement this series with digital narratives from community members--a vehicle to reflect on their experiences unfiltered by our experiences and perspectives.

M: When you consider the posts together, what do you find? And/or feel?

G, C and L: These posts were written by a diverse group of people from distinct academic disciplines such as political science, international relations, social work, anthropology, women’s studies, and development studies. Our own distinct experiences and lenses provided us with our own interpretations of migration as well as nurtured our own academic and professional passions, as you see in this multi-foci series. As a collective, the series provide a well-rounded, yet understandably incomplete, view of migration from Almolonga.  We hope that the reader may peek through our lenses to grasp the powerful and lived impacts of migration.

Giovanni Batz, MA, is a doctoral candidate in Latin American Studies at the University of Texas-Austin and a research assistant on a grant investigation the deportation and reintegration of youth in Guatemala.

Celeste N. Sánchez, MSW, is a Central American woman born and raised in southern California. She has several years of experience in direct work with children and adolescents in Guatemala and Honduras. She is currently working as the social worker for the Refugee Family Defense Program at Public Counsel in Los Angeles, CA and as a research assistant on this investigation the deportation and reintegration of youth in Guatemala.

Lauren Heidbrink is an anthropologist and Assistant Professor of Human Development at California State University, Long Beach. She is author of Migrant Youth, Transnational Families, and the State: Care and Contested Interests (University of Pennsylvania Press, May 2014). She currently the PI on a multi-year NSF Law and Social Sciences grant investigating the deportation and social reintegration of youth in Guatemala.

Sobre el proceso y el público: creación de la serie "Migración y pertenencia"

Entre tanta discusión disciplinaria sobre la audiencia, el acceso abierto, y la antropología aplicada, queremos seguir Migración y Pertenencia: Narrativas de un pueblo altiplano con una conversación más informal entre los creadores de la serie. A continuación, Michele Statz habla con Giovanni Batz, Celeste Sánchez y Lauren Heidbrink sobre los desafíos y posibilidades de la etnografía pública colaborativa.

Almolonga. Créditos fotográficos: Giovanni Batz.

Michele: Me parece que, en su conjunto, el potencial de estas entradas excede su objetivo inesperadamente. Cada post es inmediatamente informativo sobre la juventud global, la deportación y la reintegración social, pero juntos confrontan al lector con preguntas adicionales sobre audiencia, voz y traducción. ¿Alguna vez discutieron los "costos" académicos de este tipo de colección? Algunas de las entradas tienen un estilo más formal o "tradicional", mientras que otras son bastante vívidas y a veces muy íntimas y sinceras. Encontré la combinación increíblemente atractiva, pero aún me pregunto: ¿Es este tipo de análisis relegado para siempre a la blogosfera? Como editores y contribuyentes, ¿quién debería leer esta serie?

Giovanni, Celeste y Lauren: Esperamos que esta serie de blogs ofrezca una exploración matizada y accesible a los problemas y desafíos que surgen de y entre las comunidades que envían migrantes. Las imágenes, a la vez poderosas y provocativas, invitan a un amplio público a explorar los impactos extensos y duraderos de la migración y la deportación de individuos, comunidades y familias. Importantemente incluye a un público de seres queridos y miembros de la comunidad que se invierten en el futuro de Almolonga más allá de las cuestiones académicas o teóricas planteadas en la serie.

La serie bilingüe también ofrece una modalidad única para la investigación colaborativa, que muestra las voces de los académicos guatemaltecos, muchos de los cuales permanecen excluidos de las prensas académicas anglófonas.

“Desde el principio, nos comprometimos a desafiar lo que trágicamente se ha convertido en una práctica académica rutinaria.”

M: ¿Se compartirá la serie con los miembros de la comunidad con quienes se realizó la investigación?

G, C y L: Desde el principio, nos comprometimos a desafiar lo que trágicamente se ha convertido en una práctica académica rutinaria--es decir, estudiantes e investigadores realizan estudios en Guatemala, publican exclusivamente para audiencias anglófonas y no regresan o comparten los hallazgos con las comunidades participantes. Es una práctica antigua que permanece desde la época colonial. Reconocemos que Almolonguenses generosamente y a veces dolorosamente nos confiaron sus experiencias de migración y deportación, y que estas experiencias les pertenecen a ellos. "Migración y Pertenencia" es el primero de una serie de innovaciones, incluyendo talleres, spots de radio, foros comunitarios e informes bilingües que se compartirán con los miembros de la comunidad y las autoridades locales y regionales.

M: Algunos de los posts de "Migración y Pertenencia" se traducen en tres idiomas o más, si se incluye plantearlo para una audiencia antropológica. ¿Qué se gana y qué se pierde en la traducción?

G, C y L: El lenguaje es importante para entender cosmovisiones diferentes. El traducir es siempre una tarea difícil cuando se trata de encontrar las palabras y frases apropiadas para expresar un concepto. Como traductores de los blogs, colectivamente intentamos respetar la intención de los autores y mantener intacta su pasión y análisis crítico en su formato original. Hemos consultado con los autores y entre nosotr@s para minimizar la pérdida del significado en la traducción. Uno de los autores (Amparo Monzón) tradujo su propio poema en tres idiomas (K'iche ', español e inglés).

M: ¿Qué falta en esta serie?

Almolonga. Créditos fotográficos: Lauren Heidbrink.

G, C y L: Uno de los aspectos interesantes de esta investigación fue la originalidad de cada una de nuestras posiciones, especialmente porque todos tenemos experiencias personales con la migración. Algunos miembros de nuestro equipo tienen herman@s, prim@s, tí@s, u otros parientes que emigraron o habían intentado migrar a los Estados Unidos. Además, dos de nosotr@s nacimos en Estados Unidos a padres centroamericanos, poniendo en conversación diversas experiencias y entendimientos de migración, privilegio, identidad y pertenencia. Esta investigación generó una amplia gama de emociones en nuestro trabajo profesional y nuestras vidas personales, sentimientos que no son captados fácilmente en forma virtual.

Después de compartir nuestros hallazgos con la comunidad el próximo verano, nuestro objetivo es complementar esta serie con narrativas digitales de miembros de la comunidad--una modalidad para reflexionar sobre sus experiencias sin tener que filtrar por nuestras experiencias y perspectivas.

M: ¿Cuándo ustedes consideran las entradas en conjunto, qué encuentran? ¿Y/o sienten?

G, C y L: Las entradas fueron escritas por un grupo diverso de personas de distintas disciplinas académicas como la ciencia política, relaciones internacionales, trabajo social, antropología, estudios de mujeres y estudios de gestión social para el desarrollo local. Nuestras experiencias y lentes nos proporcionaron nuestras propias interpretaciones de la migración, y fomentaron nuestras pasiones académicas y profesionales, como se ve en esta serie multifocal. Como colectivo, la serie ofrece una visión integral, pero comprensiblemente incompleta, de la migración desde Almolonga. Esperamos que el lector pueda mirar a través de nuestros lentes para captar los impactos poderosos y vividos de la migración.

Giovanni Batz, MA, es candidato doctoral en Estudios Latinoamericanos en la Universidad de Texas-Austin y asistente de investigación en esta investigación sobre la deportación y reintegración de jóvenes en Guatemala. 

Celeste N. Sánchez, MSW, es una mujer centroamericana nacida y criada en el sur de California. Tiene varios años de experiencia en el trabajo directo con niños y adolescentes en Guatemala y Honduras. Actualmente es trabajadora social para el Programa de Defensa de Familias Refugiadas en Public Counsel en Los Ángeles, CA y asistente de investigación en esta investigación sobre la deportación y reintegración de jóvenes en Guatemala.

Lauren Heidbrink es antropóloga y Profesora Asistente de Desarrollo Humano en California State University, Long Beach. Es autora de Migrant Youth, Transnational Families, and the State: Care and Contested Interests (University of Pennsylvania Press, May 2014). Actualmente es investigadora principal de una beca plurianual de NSF Law and Social Sciences que investiga la deportación y la reintegración social de los jóvenes en Guatemala.

For the previous blog in the series: Angélica Mejía: La Resiliencia: Generador de movilización y auto-crecimiento/ Resilience of Youth without Parental Care

La Resiliencia de Jóvenes Sin Cuidados Parentales/Resilience of Youth without Parental Care

by Angélica Mejía

(English translation below. For additional posts in this series, visit: "Migration and Belonging.")

Actividad escolar. Créditos fotográficos:  Lauren Heidbrink

La falta de cuidados parentales es un problema que afecta a un número significativo de niños y adolescentes en Guatemala. De acuerdo al informe de la Red Latinoamericana de Acogimiento Familiar (RELAF)  (2010), más que 5,600 niños están institucionalizados en Guatemala, muchos de quienes experimentan inseguridad considerable mientras están transferido a través de orfanatos e instituciones por el país. Las razones por la ausencia de cuidado parental son diversas--como una alta prevalencia de enfermedades crónicas, pobreza extrema, el conflicto armado, un legado de la violencia a migración significante que pueden resultar a la desintegración familiar. Estos factores deben ser entendidos necesariamente como factores relacionados entre sí en lugar de entender como factores individuales o aislados que resultan en la pérdida de cuidados parentales.

Si bien las estadísticas son alarmantes, es importante reconocer cómo algunos niños y jóvenes sin el cuidado parental desarrollan la resiliencia. Al analizar cómo los jóvenes se emprenden proyectos de vida, tales como la búsqueda de educación formal y vocacional, así como sus fuentes de motivación, podemos empezar a desarrollar las instituciones y programas que inspiran más que impiden su desarrollo.

A través de mi colaboración desde 2007 con varias organizaciones comunitarias, he llegado a trabajar con 29 jóvenes, varios de los cuales encarnan condiciones de desigualdad y abandono al tiempo que demuestra al mismo tiempo la resistencia y la fuerza a pesar de estas condiciones. A pesar de encontrar algunos orfanatos e instituciones que disuaden a niños a partir de continuar su educación o el aprendizaje de las competencias profesionales, es decir, otras organizaciones sociales promueven el desarrollo personal y ofrecen importantes recursos educativos. Los que recibieron el apoyo y la oportunidad han terminado el ciclo de primaria, básico y bachillerato; algunos iniciaron una carrera en la universidad.

Actividad escolar. Créditos fotográficos: Angélica Mejía

Tal es la experiencia de Marcos(1), 17 años de edad en su último año de bachillerato y sus hermanos menores, Mercedes de 15 años de edad y Dario de 13 años de edad. Son becarios de la Fundación Portales de Esperanza, ellos lograron continuar su educación, recibir apoyo de una organización comunitaria, y sobreponerse ante las circunstancias socio-económicas. Otros han optado por estudiar en escuelas vocacionales—carpintería, cocina y mecánica—para lograr un empleo que les permita contribuir con sus familias.

En mi colaboración durante la última década con las instituciones y organizaciones que sirven a los jóvenes sin cuidados parentales, los jóvenes articulan varias fuentes de resiliencia—de un deseo de continuar su educación, a contribuir al sustento de su familia, a la creencia en su propio potencial, a un deseo para controlar sus propias condiciones y futuros. Aun cuando estamos a menudo rápidos alabar a organizaciones no gubernamentales, fundaciones privadas e iglesias de distintas religiones para "salvar" a los niños y niñas necesitados, hay que señalar que los propios niños y niñas demuestran la resistencia en la identificación y la búsqueda de oportunidades dentro de estas redes sociales.

La identificación de las fuentes de la resistencia interna de los jóvenes es crítica. También lo importante es apoyar a las instituciones estatales, sociedad civil, y los sectores privados que reconocen y fomentan la capacidad de niños y niñas de recuperación. Sólo por crear oportunidades para que la población infantil participe de manera significativa en estas conversaciones, que podamos satisfacer las necesidades de los niños y niñas sin cuidados parentales.

Bibliografía:

Informe situación de la niñez sin cuidado parental o en riesgo de perderlo en América Latina (2010). Contextos, causas y respuestas. Guatemala: Red Latinoamericana de Acogimiento Familiar.

Mejía, Angélica. (2014) Tesis: “Orientación, metodología para la atención escolar de los niños huérfanos”

Angélica Mejía (Angie) cumplió una Maestría en Gestión Social para el Desarrollo Local de la Facultad Latinoamericana de Ciencias Sociales, Guatemala (FLACSO-Guatemala) y cuenta con estudios de licenciatura en administración de organizaciones educativas de la Universidad San Pablo de Guatemala. Ella ha trabajado en diversas organizaciones educativas con enfoque social en organizaciones locales principalmente atendiendo a la niñez en orfandad.

(1) Seudónimo.

Resilience of Youth Without Parental Care

School activity. Photo credits: Lauren Heidbrink

The lack of parental care is a significant challenge confronting a growing number of young people in Guatemala. According to Red Latinoamericana de Acogimiento Familiar (RELAF) (2010), over 5,600 children are institutionalized in Guatemala, many of whom experience considerable uncertainty as they are routinely transferred between orphanages and institutions throughout the country. The reasons for an absence of parental care are diverse—from a high prevalence of chronic illnesses to extreme poverty to armed conflict to a legacy of violence to significant out-migration that may lead to family disintegration. These factors must necessarily be understood as interrelated rather than individual or isolated factors leading to loss of parental care.

While the statistics are alarming, it is important to recognize how some of the children and youth without parental care develop resiliency. By analyzing how young people undertake life projects, such as the pursuit of formal or vocational schooling, as well as their sources of motivation, we may begin to develop institutions and program that inspire rather than impede their growth.

Through my collaboration with several community-based organizations since 2007, I have been able to work with 29 young people, several of whom embody conditions of inequality and abandonment while simultaneously demonstrating resilience and strength in spite of these challenges.  While I have encountered some orphanages and institutions that dissuade children from continuing their education or learning vocational skills, that is to say, other social organizations promote personal development and offer important educational resources. Those receiving support and opportunity have finished primary, middle and high school; some are pursuing a college education.

School activity. Photo credits: Angélica Mejía

Take the experiences of Marcos(1), a 17-year-old in his last year of high school, and his younger siblings, 15-year-old Mercedes and 13-year-old Dario. With scholarships from the Fundación Portales de Esperanza, they have been able to pursue their education, receive support from a local organization, and begin to overcome difficult socioeconomic circumstances. Still others pursue vocational training—carpentry, culinary and mechanical—eventually securing employment to contribute much needed financial resources to their families.

In my decades’-long collaboration with institutions and organizations serving young people absent parental care, youth articulate varied sources of resilience—from a desire to pursue education, to contributing to their family’s livelihood, to a belief in their own potential, to a desire to control their own conditions and futures. While we are often quick to laud non-governmental organizations, private foundations, and churches for “saving” young people in need, it should be noted that young people themselves demonstrate resilience in identifying and pursuing opportunities within these social networks.

Identifying the sources of young people’s internal resilience is critical. So too is supporting state institutions, civil society, and the private sector that recognize and nurture their resilience. Only by creating opportunities for youth to meaningfully participate in these conversations, may we meet the needs of young people without parental care.

Works Cited

Informe situación de la niñez sin cuidado parental o en riesgo de perderlo en América Latina (2010). Contextos, causas y respuestas. Guatemala: Red Latinoamericana de Acogimiento Familiar.

Mejía, Angélica. (2014) Tesis: “Orientación, metodología para la atención escolar de los niños huérfanos”

Angélica Mejía (Angie) graduated with a Masters in Social Management of Local Development from Facultad Latinoamericana de Ciencias Sociales, Guatemala (FLACSO-Guatemala) and has a bachelor’s degree in Administration of Educational Organization from Universidad San Pablo of Guatemala. She has worked at various educational organizations with social focus on local organizations principally serving orphaned children. 

[1] Pseudonyms.

For the previous blog in the series: Ramona Elizabeth Pérez Romero: El Papel de las Comadronas de Almolonga/The Role of Midwives in Almolonga

For the next blog in the series: Celeste Sánchez, Giovanni Batz, Lauren Heidbrink, and Michele Statz: A Conversation on Translation/Una Conversación sobre Traducción

El Papel de las Comadronas de Almolonga/The Role of Midwives in Almolonga

por Ramona Elizabeth Pérez Romero

(English translation below. For additional posts in this series, visit: "Migration and Belonging.")

En el municipio de Almolonga, las comadronas contribuyen una habilidad especializada para la comunidad—de salvar vidas. La población reconoce que ellas son portadoras de grandes sabidurías ancestrales, que trasladan de generación a generación.  Mantienen una relación integral con individuales, desde el vientre de una madre. Aunque para ser reconocidas, hayan pasado por otras luchas para contrarrestar discriminación por las autoridades médicas y por el personal en hospitales departamentales en el apoyo de sus pacientes.

Oficina de comadrona, Almolonga. Créditos fotográficos: Lauren Heidbrink

Durante mi participación en una investigación comunitaria en Almolonga, yo entreviste Maria Isabel, una comadrona de 86 años. Ella compartió que esta misión de comadronas la traen desde el nacimiento: “Cuando yo empecé a trabajar, yo me enfermaba mucho, pero fui a consultar a un anciano y me dijo que yo sería comadrona. Que solo mejoraría si realizaba mi destino.  Mi primer parto fue en Panajachel hace más que 50 años...Yo no sé escribir ni leer, pero gracias a Dios porque ni uno [de los bebés] se me ha muerto” (Entrevista personal, 4 de Junio 2016).

Para la población, las comadronas cumplen un papel importantísimo.  Ellas son consultadas a orientar en los temas de métodos de planificación familiar, diagnosticar y proveer tratamiento de enfermedades, cuidar las mujeres con tratamientos y cuidado prenatales, y atender mujeres en parto y postparto. También, son consultadas para varias temas sociales y culturales.  Además, son un recurso valioso porque conocen el contexto y los recursos con los que se cuenta en el municipio. “Entienden el idioma de la localidad, la cultura y las necesidades de las mujeres; no miden riesgos ni tienen límites para llegar al lugar donde deben atender la labor de parto, por ello son muy queridas y respetadas en las comunidades” (Pacay 2012).

Las comadronas se comunican en k’iche’, el idioma principal de las mujeres y jóvenes en Almolonga; es importante porque la comunicación en un mismo código produce confianza y facilita que se busque una solución a los problemas dimensionados.  Según las comadronas, las jóvenes son las que más frecuentemente buscar su apoyo, ya que tienen preguntas y buscar consejo, a veces con miedo o vergüenza a pedir a sus padres. Ellas explicaban que los adolescentes están en la etapa de la juventud en donde buscan ser escuchados por otras personas y cuando a veces no encuentran ese nivel de confianza en el hogar o con los padres. Ellas y ellos las buscan para contarles sus problemas y buscar respuestas a sus dudas con su salud. Una comadrona de 40 años reflejaba: “Esto me hace sentir satisfecha porque con esta labor me siento útil para mi municipio, en apoyar a la población joven en sus derechos sexuales y reproductivos.”

Centro de Salud, Almolonga. Créditos fotográficos: Lauren Heidbrink

El director del Centro de Salud en Almolonga explicó que hace cuatro años atrás, ninguna mujer visitaba el centro de salud para su control de embarazo.  Ahora sí porque del papel de las comadronas en aconsejarlas para su cuido, y ahora el Centro de Salud ha tenido resultados más positivos. Las comadronas de la municipalidad mantienen que su relación con el Centro de Salud está cambiando.

Antes, las comadronas sirvieron a sus comunidades sin regulación estatal. Sin embargo, en el 2010, la Ley de Maternidad Saludable estableció una relación formal y regulatoria entre las comadronas y el Ministerio de Salud Pública y Asistencia Social. “Los proveedores comunitarios y tradicionales brindarán los servicios de maternidad en el primer nivel de atención, aplicando normas y protocolos establecidos… En el caso de las comadronas, el Ministerio de Salud Pública y Asistencia Social deberá formular coordinadamente para establecer un programa para la formación de comadronas capacitadas y certificadas a nivel técnico” (Pacay 2012).

Regresando del mercado, Almolonga. Créditos fotográficos: Lauren Heidbrink

A pesar de las mejores intenciones, habría que ver si se está cumpliendo con estas leyes sin consecuencias adversas y exclusiones de comadronas.  Uno de los objetivos específicos de la Política Nacional de Comadronas (Acuerdo Gubernativo 102-2015) es: “Fortalecer la participación activa de las comadronas en concordancia con el Sistema de salud como una de las formas fundamentales de reconocimiento del derecho al ejercicio de sus prácticas ancestrales y medicina tradicional” (Política Nacional de Comadronas 2015-2025). En práctica, las comadronas de Almolonga realizan reuniones una vez al mes, manejan un carnet emitido por el Ministerio de Salud y documentan los nacimientos que atienden.

Con el cambio a una política de regulación, hay comadronas, particularmente las que son de mayor edad, que de repente no son autorizadas por el estado a practicar su vocación. Maria Isabel, la comadrona de 86 años tiene más que 60 años de experiencia, no ha recibido un carnet del gobierno.  A pesar de que la gente sigue buscando su cuidado. Las mujeres tienen confianza y respeta en ella, reconocen su sabiduría para que las atienda y les de consejos para el cuido de los bebés.  Aunque estas relaciones suceden en la práctica, tenemos que preguntarnos si la política está realizando sus metas. ¿Se debe cuestionar este carnet y sus consecuencias?  Aunque la política pretende de reconocer a las comadronas garantizando al mismo tiempo el cuidado de alta calidad, ¿discriminamos y arriesgamos a la una sabiduría ancestral?

Almolonga. Créditos fotográficos: Lauren Heidbrink

Las comadronas son actores claves en Almolonga. Son parte fundamental en el desarrollo del municipio y también la nación. Los Acuerdos de Paz de 1996 dice: “Valorándose la importancia de la medicina indígena y tradicional se promoverá su estudio y se rescataran sus concepciones, métodos y prácticas” (Acuerdos de Paz 1996: 83). En consecuencia, es crítico que las comadronas no solo sean reconocidos por la comunidad sino también por las leyes. El futuro de Almolonga depende de ellas.

BIBLIOGRAFÍA

Gobierno de Guatemala y URNG. (1996). Acuerdos de Paz. Guatemala: Asamblea de la Sociedad Civil.

Pacay, M. (2012). El Don de Ser Comadrona. Revista: Amiga.

Ministerio de Salud Pública. 2015. Política Nacional de Comadronas de los cuatro Pueblos de Guatemala 2015-2025.

Municipio de San Pedro Almolonga. 2010. Plan de Desarrollo Municipal: Almolonga.

Pies de Occidente. (2001). El potencial de las comadronas en Salud Reproductiva. Quetzaltenango: Asociación para la promoción, investigación y Educación en Salud.

Pies de Occidente. (2006). Redes de Médicos Mayas en San Andrés Xecul. Quetzaltenango: Asociación para la promoción, investigación y Educación en Salud.

Ley de Maternidad Saludable. (2010). Decreto 32-2010, Artículo 17.

Ramona Elizabeth Pérez Romero es una mujer Maya Mam. Ella cumplió una Maestría en Gestión Social para el Desarrollo Local de Facultad Latinoamericana de Ciencias Sociales, Guatemala (FLACSO-Guatemala) y una Maestría en Violencia Intrafamiliar y de Género en la Universidad de Costa Rica y Universidad Nacional. Posee una Licenciatura en Pedagogía de la Universidad Rafael Landívar de Quetzaltenango. Ella trabajó  como investigadora colaborando en el estudio de migración y retorno en Almolonga en 2016. 

 

The Role of Midwives in Almolonga

by Ramona Elizabeth Pérez Romero

In the municipality of Almolonga, midwives contribute a specialized ability to the community–they save lives. The people recognize that they are carriers of great ancestral knowledge, which they transmit from generation to generation. They maintain an integral relationship with individuals, initiated in the womb of a mother. However, to be recognized, they have undergone various struggles to counter discrimination by medical authorities and hospital personnel in support of their patients.

Midwife Office, Almolonga. Photo credit: Lauren Heidbrink

During my participation in a community-based study in Almolonga, I interviewed Maria Isabel, an 86-year-old midwife. She shared that midwives carry their mission since birth: “When I began to work, I would get very sick, but then I went to consult an elder, he told me I would be a midwife. That I would only improve [my health] if I fulfilled my destiny. My first birth was in Panajachel over 60 years ago...I do not know how to read or write, but thanks to God none [of the babies] have died on me” (Personal interview, June 4, 2016).

For the population, midwives fulfill a very important role. They consult with people—providing knowledge on methods of family planning, diagnosing and providing treatment for diseases, caring for women with prenatal care and treatments, and attending to women during and after birth. Also, people consult midwives on a number of social and cultural topics. They are a valuable resource as they know the local context and available resources in the municipality. “They understand the language of the locality, the culture, and the necessities of women; they do not measure the risks nor have limits in arriving at a location where they have to attend the work of birth, for this they are very loved and respected within communities” (Pacay 2012).

The midwives communicate in K’iche’, the primary language of the women and youth in Almolonga. This is important because communication in the same language creates trust and facilitates the search for a solution to multidimensional problems. According to the midwives, the youth in particular most frequently seek their support because they have questions and seek counsel, at times afraid or embarrassed to ask their parents. They explained that adolescents are at the stage of their youth where they look to be listened to by other people; sometimes not finding the trust they seek in their homes or with their parents. They look to midwives to discuss their problems and respond to doubts about their health. A 40-year-old midwife reflected: “This makes me feel satisfied because with this work I have felt very useful with my municipality, in supporting the young population in their sexual and reproductive rights.”

Health Center, Almolonga. Photo credits: Lauren Heidbrink

The director of Almolonga’s Health Center explained that four years ago, no women visited the health center to monitor their pregnancies. Now they do because of the role of midwives in advising them on their care, and now the Health Center sees more positive results. The midwives of the municipality maintain that their relationship with the Health Center is changing.

Returning from the market, Almolonga. Photo credits: Lauren Heidbrink

Before, midwives functioned without state regulation. However, in 2010, the Law of Healthy Maternity established a formal regulatory relationship between midwives and the Ministry of Public Health and Social Assistance. “The community and traditional providers provide maternity service at a first rate level, applying establishment norms and protocols…In the case of midwives, the Minister of Public Health and Social Assistance should coordinate in establishing a program for the instruction of trained and certified midwives at a technical level” (Pacay 2012).

In spite of best intentions, there is a need to verify that these laws are being implemented without adverse consequences and exclusions of midwives. One of the specific objectives of the National Policy of Midwives (Government Decree 102-2015) is: “To strengthen the active participation of midwives in accordance with the health system as one of the fundamental forms of recognizing the right to exercise ancestral practices and traditional medicine” (Política Nacional de Comadronas 2015-2025). In practice, midwives of Almolonga meet once a month, maintain a Ministry of Health-issued license, and document the births they attend.

Almolonga. Photo credits: Lauren Heidbrink

With the change to a regulatory policy, there are midwives, particularly elderly ones, who have automatically become unauthorized by the state to practice their vocation. Maria Isabel, the 86-year-old midwife has more than 60 years of experience, has not received a government-issued license. Yet people continue to seek her care. Women trust and respect her and recognize her wisdom to attend their births and to provide guidance in caring for their babies. While these relationships continue in practice, we must ask if the policy is realizing its stated aims. Should we question this license and its consequences? Although the policy claims to recognize midwives while ensuring high quality care, are we not discriminating against and risking ancestral knowledge?

Midwives are crucial actors in Almolonga. They are foundational to the development of the municipality as well as to the nation. The 1996 Peace Accords states: “Valuing the importance of indigenous and traditional medicine will promote its study and will recover its concepts, methods and practices” (Acuerdos de Paz 1996: 83). Thus, it is critical that midwives are not only recognized in practice by the community but also under the law. Almolonga’s future depends upon them.

Works Cited

Gobierno de Guatemala y URNG. (1996). Acuerdos de Paz. Guatemala: Asamblea de la Sociedad Civil.

Pacay, M. (2012). El Don de Ser Comadrona. Revista: Amiga.

Ministerio de Salud Pública. 2015. Política Nacional de Comadronas de los cuatro Pueblos de Guatemala 2015-2025.

Municipio de San Pedro Almolonga. 2010. Plan de Desarrollo Municipal: Almolonga.

Pies de Occidente. (2001). El potencial de las comadronas en Salud Reproductiva. Quetzaltenango: Asociación para la promoción, investigación  y Educación en Salud.

Pies de Occidente. (2006). Redes de Médicos Mayas en San Andrés Xecul. Quetzaltenango: Asociación para la promoción, investigación y Educación en Salud.

Ley de Maternidad Saludable. (2010). Decreto 32-2010, Artículo 17.

Ramona Elizabeth Pérez Romero is a Mam-Maya woman. She completed her Masters in Social Management in Local Development from Facultad Latinoamericana de Ciencias Sociales, Guatemala (FLACSO-Guatemala), and a Masters in Interfamilial Violence and Gender at the University of Costa Rica and National University. She holds a bachelor’s degree in Pedagogy from the University of Rafael Landívar in Quetzaltenango. She worked as a researcher collaborating in the study of migration and return in Almolonga in 2016. 

For the previous blog in the series: Catarina Chay Quiej: A la Intersección de Género, Relaciones Familiares y Migración/At the Intersection of Gender, Family Relationships and Migration

For the next blog in the series: Angélica Mejía: La Resiliencia: Generador de movilización y auto-crecimiento/ Resilience of Youth without Parental Care

A la Intersección de Género, Relaciones Familiares y Migración/At the Intersection of Gender, Family Relations and Migration

Por Catarina Chay Quiej

(English translation below. For additional posts in this series, visit: "Migration and Belonging.")

Aunque conocido como el país de la eterna primavera con un ecosistema rico, Guatemala sufre de desigualdad socioeconómica extrema, con altos niveles de desnutrición, limitadas oportunidades de empleo, y exclusión de género, entre ellos la violencia contra la mujer, femicidio, racismo y exclusión social. Como revela nuestra encuesta comunitaria en Almolonga, la migración también es prevalente. Para algunas familias, es la única opción a pesar de la incertidumbre tremenda—no solo en los peligros del viaje, pero también, los riesgos de la desintegración familiar a largo plazo. 

Casa de remesas, Almolonga. Créditos fotográficos: Lauren Heidbrink

En nuestra encuesta, los padres cuentan de experimentar una presión psicológica y emocional para proveer las condiciones adecuadas para el desarrollo saludable de los hijos y su familia. Entre las limitadas opciones, buscan la mejor alternativa considerando factores como la educación, conseguir un empleo, ahorrar sus ingresos, y mandar remesas. Las familias buscan las oportunidades de comprar terreno, construir una casa, amueblarla, agenciarse de electrodomésticos que facilitan la vida, y dar una buena educación a los hijos. Este es el mejor escenario.          

Vehículos en Almolona. Créditos fotográficos:  Giovanni Batz

Como encontramos en Almolonga, a veces la realidad es bastante diferente—llena de riesgo, deuda, pérdida y con pocas garantías. Los que quedan, quedan angustiados al ver como su querido se obliga a las incertidumbres del viaje. En los casos más tristes, sus queridos terminan desaparecidos o muertos. En otras ocasiones, aunque el migrante llega a su destino, la llegada viene con una mezcla de emociones dado a los traumas y la violencia que sufren en el camino mientras que felizmente celebran una llegada como un gran logro. Las familias nos dijeron que, si bien el migrante busca conseguir rápidamente un empleo, la familia que queda lucha para subsistir y pagar su deuda migratoria hasta cuando las primeras remesas llegan. Varias de las mujeres que entrevistamos describen que viven en la casa de los suegros sin sus esposos resultando en su pérdida de privacidad y libertad de realizar actividades que beneficien su entorno social, emocional o familiar. Algunas mujeres describieron ser vigiladas constantemente y ser víctimas a explotación laboral de parte de sus suegros; al llegar las remesas, los suegros se apropian del dinero, no permiten que sean autónomas ni independientes.

Si bien la migración puede contribuir a mejores condiciones económicas y materiales, también puede transformar las estructuras familiares cambiando los roles típicos de género. Como nos encontramos en nuestro estudio, cuando el padre de familia migra, las madres se quedan como cabezas de la familia, asumiendo responsabilidades de sustento económico de la familia y de lidiar con la educación de los hijos. En estos casos, las madres cuentan que trabajan de más para cubrir los gastos familiares, deudas y, a veces, para enviar remesas inversas; es decir, algunas mandan dinero al esposo en Estados Unidos mientras este se establece. En Almolonga, nos encontramos mujeres también que migran, luchando para mejorar sus situaciones económicas. Sin embargo, la migración también trae sus riesgos. Según los entrevistados, las mujeres son más vulnerables a sufrir violaciones, robos, enfermedades, discriminaciones, y sufrimientos.

Muñecas en Escuela. Créditos fotográficos: Lauren Heidbrink

Entre las mujeres que permanecen en Almolonga, algunos describen que buscan una pareja extramarital o formalizan una nueva relación sentimental para apoyarlas. En algunas situaciones, estas relaciones resultaron en un descuido de sus hijos o una separación de sus esposos que también buscan otras parejas en los Estados Unidos, dejando de apoyar a sus hijos que permanecen en Guatemala.  

En resumen, los riesgos de la migración son significativos y múltiples y las consecuencias de la migración son profundas. Desde la violencia a la deuda a los cambios en los roles de género a la desintegración familiar, la migración trae tanto cambios estructurales como cambios íntimos en la vida de las familias, cambios importantes que merecen un examen más detallado.

Catarina Chay Quiej es estudiante de la Universidad Rafael Landívar-Quetzaltenango en la carrera de Relaciones Internacionales de la Facultad de Ciencias Políticas y Sociales. Ella ha trabajado en su comunidad en la Municipalidad de Zunil con grupos de mujeres indígenas a través de capacitaciones en sus derechos e incidiendo en la participación ciudadana. Ella trabajó como investigadora colaborando en el estudio de migración y retorno en Almolonga en 2016.  

 

At the Intersection of Gender, Family Dynamics and Migration

by Catarina Chay Quiej

Although known as the land of eternal spring with a rich ecosystem, Guatemala suffers from extreme socio-economic inequality, with high levels of malnutrition, limited employment opportunities, and gender exclusion, among them violence against women, femicide, racism and social exclusion. As our community-based survey in Almolonga revealed, migration is also prevalent. For some families, it is the only option in spite of the tremendous uncertainty--not only the dangers of the journey but also, the risks of family disintegration over the long-term.

Remittance home, Almolonga. Photo credits: Lauren Heidbrink

In our survey, parents report feeling the psychological and emotional pressure to provide adequate conditions for the healthy development of their children and families. Within the limited options, they search for the best alternative—in many cases migration—considering factors such as education, securing employment, saving earnings, and sending remittances. Families search for opportunities to buy land, build a house, furnish it, acquire appliances that make life easier, and, importantly, to secure a good education to their children. This is the best scenario.

Vehicles in Almolonga. Photo credits: Giovanni Batz

As we found in Almolonga, sometimes the reality of families with migrants is quite different—filled with risk, debt, loss and few guarantees. Those that remain are anguished as their loved ones undertakes the uncertainties of the journey. In the saddest situations, their loved one ends up missing or dead. At other times, although the migrant arrives at his or her destination, the arrival is met with mixed emotions given the traumas and violence experienced en route while happily celebrating one’s arrival as a great achievement. Families told us that while the migrant seeks to quickly secure employment, they struggle to survive and to now pay the additional migratory debt until the first remittances arrive. Several interviewed women described that living without their spouse in the home of their in-laws has resulted in a loss of privacy and freedom from activities that benefit their social, emotional, and familial surroundings. Some women describe being constantly surveilled and others describe their in-laws exploiting their labor; when the remittances arrive, the in-laws seize the money, not allowing for autonomy or independence.

While migration may contribute to improved economic and material conditions, it may also transform family structures by changing the traditional gender roles. As we found in our study, when a father migrates, the mother who remains may become head of the family, assuming responsibility for the economic livelihood of the family and directing their children’s education. In these instances, mothers explained that they work more to cover the family expenses, pay debts, and at times send inverse remittances; that is, some women described sending money to the husbands in the United States until he got settled. In Almolonga, we encountered women who migrate as well, struggling to improve their economic situation. However, their migration also comes with risks. According to interviewees, women are more vulnerable to experiencing rape, robbery, illnesses, discrimination, and hardship.

Dolls in a school. Photo credits: Lauren Heidbrink

Among women who remain in Almolonga, some describe looking for an extramarital partner and/or building new emotional relationships to support them. In some situations, these relationships resulted in neglect of their children or a separation from their husbands who also may have established new relationships or families in the United States, neglecting to support their children who remain in Guatemala.

In sum, the risks of migration are significant and multiple and the consequences of migration are profound. From violence to debt to shifting gender roles to family disintegration, migration brings both structural and intimate changes in the lives of families, important changes that warrant closer examination. 

Catarina Chay Quiej is a student of the Universidad Rafael Landívar-Quetzaltenango studying International Relations in the Political and Social Sciences department. She has worked in her community in the municipality of Zunil with groups of indigenous women through workshops on their rights and the importance of civic participation. She worked as a researcher collaborating in the study of migration and return in Almolonga in 2016. 

For the previous blog in the series: Alejandro Chán: Almolonga: una interpretación a partir de la migración a Estados Unidos/ Almolonga: an interpretation of migration to the United States

For the next blog in the series: Ramona Elizabeth Pérez Romero: El Papel de las Comadronas de Almolonga/The Role of Midwives in Almolonga

Almolonga: Una interpretación a partir de la migración a Estados Unidos/Almolonga: an interpretation of migration to the United States

por Alejandro Chán

(English translation below. For additional posts in this series, visit: "Migration and Belonging.")

Actividad con jóvenes sobre la migración, Sibinal. Créditos fotográficos: Lauren Heidbrink.

Después de meses participando en una encuesta comunitaria, entrevistando familias en Almolonga, un municipio del departamento de Quetzaltenango, Guatemala, se pudo tener aproximaciones sobre algunas dinámica social, económica, política y cultural; de manera que en esteblog pretende a capturar algunos fragmentos de la vida cotidiana a la intersección de familia y migración. Aunque de inicio fue difícil, no obstante, de encuesta a encuesta, de entrevista a entrevista, poco a poco se fue conociendo sobre el sentir, la percepción y la opinión de las personas en el tema de migración. No importando contar con vivencias directas o ajenas, siempre hubo una opinión. Era evidente que hay muchas experiencias de sufrimiento que no se hablan-- que no se comparten, sino que se sufren en silencio; muchas familias toleran o reprimen los aspectos negativos que provoca la migración.

Vista de Almolonga. Créditos fotográficos: Giovanni Batz

Escuchar, por ejemplo, la experiencia de rupturas entre esposas y esposos, entre padres e hijos y viceversa. O de los peligros que corren los migrantes, la violación constante y permanente de sus derechos más elementales: la vida, la dignidad y la libertad. Es decir, que el derecho de migrar o no migrar no traen garantías algunas.

Derechos humanos se desvanecen en distintas rutas--ante las largas caminatas que emprenden los migrantes en los desiertos donde exponen y arriesgan su vida. El camino de los migrantes supone el despojo de sus derechos y con ello sus sueños de tener una vida digna. Muchos mueren buscando al “Sueño Americano.” Otros llegan y logran obtener un trabajo. Sin embargo, no significa el fin de los sufrimientos; sino que se transforman por otras formas de sometimiento--el racismo, la discriminación y la explotación en las interacciones económicas, sociales y políticas de los Estados Unidos.

¿Cuántos migrantes son despojados de sus derechos, del esfuerzo, fruto de su trabajo? ¿Cuántos aguantan esta explotación por el hecho de buscar una “mejor vida”?

Marcas de la migración, Almolonga. Créditos fotográficos: Giovanni Batz

Es cierto que en algunas ocasiones los migrantes logran de mandar dinero a sus familias y con éste pueden comprar o mejorar sus viviendas o comprar tierra para cultivar los alimentos para sus familias que se quedan. Pero no equivale a tener una vida digna. Dichos logros tienen costos inmensurables: separarse de la familia, vivir solo, desconectado del pueblo, lejos del sueño de una vida mejor.

Y para los que se quedan también es difícil. Como mencionó una de las entrevistadas: “No es lo mismo educar a los hijos en pareja que uno solo.” Esto es solo uno de los tantos retos que enfrentan las familias que se quedan en espera del ser querido que fue a buscar el “Sueño Americano.”

En este sentido, el “Sueño Americano” es solo una ilusión que obliga a millones de personas a migrar al Norte. Ya estando allí el sueño del migrante es el menos beneficiado; es el que lo menos importa. Lo que le importa a Estados Unidos es el trabajo que ofrecen los migrantes de forma barata. Un migrante retornado relató: “a nosotros los migrantes guatemaltecos, nos dan los trabajas más duros y por ser indocumentados no nos pagan lo que es justo.” No obstante jornadas largas de trabajo en las peores condiciones, aun así el migrante sigue trabajando.

De manera que Estados Unidos absorbe la fuerza de trabajo de los empobrecidos de países como Guatemala y comunidades como Almolonga. Millones de personas por la pobreza que impone el sistema económico global vigente se ven obligados a tomar la única alternativa que el mismo sistema económico global ha fabricado--la migración irregular--para luego ser explotados en el “primer mundo” si llegan.

A como está el panorama se puede ver que aquí o allá el Estado, el supuesto garantes y protectores de los derechos humanos, se ha convertido en la mayor estructura criminal que persigue, asesina y empobrece a los migrantes.

Cruzando la frontera de Guatemala y Mexico. Créditos fotográficos: Lauren Heidbrink

Y por si fuera poco, detrás de esta explotación se fortalece cada vez un negocio donde se visualizan estructuras, instituciones, organizaciones y personas que explotan al migrante. Como se ve en Almolonga, por ejemplo, los coyotes que son los primeros en cobrar una cantidad exorbitante de dinero a las familias o personas que quieren migrar, luego se encuentran por los préstamos con intereses sumamente altos de los bancos, cooperativas o prestamistas. Las autoridades fronterizas corruptas que, al igual que las estructuras criminales como los Zetas, cobran cuotas a los migrantes con la finalidad de tener derecho de paso por los territorios nacionales. Todo dicho, la cantidad de los actores e instituciones que aprovechan la vulnerabilidad de los migrantes son impresionantemente numerosos.

Una vez que los migrantes logran integrarse en la economía de la explotación de los Estados Unidos, los mayores beneficiados nuevamente son los bancos o instituciones financieras donde tiene lugar las transacciones de las remesas. En tándem, los centros comerciales se benefician por publicar y cultivar una cultura de consumo en las familias receptoras de las remesas.

Aun en estas condiciones, es fundamental que reconocemos y aprendemos de las múltiples resistencias que consolidan los migrantes para esperar por un mundo mejor, así como también los familiares que se entretejen con su experiencia en búsqueda por una vida más digna.

Alejandro Chán es Maya K’iche’, originario de San Andrés Xecul, Totonicapán. Maestro en Gestión Social para el Desarrollo Local, por FLACSO-Guatemala y Politólogo por la Universidad Rafael Landívar. Ha publicado en revista El Observador,  sobre reconfiguración del territorio.

Almolonga: An interpretation of migration to the United States

by Alejandro Chán

Activity with youth about migration. Photo credits: Lauren Heidbrink

After months of participating in a community survey, interviewing families in Almolonga, a municipality in the Department of Quetzaltenango, Guatemala, it was possible to approximate some of the social, economic, political and cultural dynamics. This blog aims to capture some of the fragments of daily life at the intersection of family and migration. While it was difficult at the beginning, from survey to survey, from interview to interview, little by little, we gradually came to know the feelings, the perceptions, and the opinions of the people on the topic of migration. Regardless of having direct or indirect experiences with migration, there was always an opinion. It was evident that there were many experiences of suffering that are never discussed--that are not shared, but rather suffered in silence. Many families tolerate or repress negative aspects that incite migration.

View of Almolonga. Photo credits: Giovanni Batz

Take, for example, the ruptures experienced between wives and husbands, between parents and their children and vice versa. Or the dangers that immigrants face, the permanent and constant violation of their most fundamental rights: life, dignity and liberty. That is to say, the right to migrate and the right to not migrate do not come with any guarantees.

Human rights vanish along different routes--before the long journeys migrants undertake across the deserts where they expose and risk their lives. Migrants’ paths imply the displacement of their rights and with it their dreams of a dignified life. Many die searching for the “American Dream.” Still others arrive and are able to obtain employment. However, this does not mean the end of their suffering; they are transformed to other forms of subjugation--racism, discrimination, and exploitation in their economic, social and political interactions of the United States.

How many migrants are stripped of their rights, their efforts, the fruits of their labor. How many endure this exploitation in seeking a “better life?”

Marks of migration. Photo credits: Giovanni Batz

On some occasions migrants may succeed in sending money to their families and with it, their families can buy and improve their houses or purchase land to cultivate the sustenance for their families who remain. But this is not equivalent to having a dignified life. These achievements come with immeasurable costs: separation from family, living alone, disconnected from the community, far from the dream of a better life.

And for those who remain, it is also difficult. As one interviewee mentioned: “It is not the same to educate children as a couple than alone.” This is just one of the many challenges that families confront, as they wait for their loved one who left in search of the “American Dream.”

In this sense, the “American Dream” is only an illusion that forces millions of people to migrate to the North. Once there, the migrant’s dream is least valued; it is the one that matters least. What matters to the United States is the cheap labor that migrants provide. A returned migrant related: “To us Guatemalan migrants, they give us the hardest jobs and because we are undocumented, they do not pay us justly.” In spite of a long day’s work in the worst conditions, the migrant still continues working.

In this way, the United States absorbs the workforce of impoverished countries like Guatemala and communities like Almolonga. Because of the imposition of the current global economic system, millions of people find themselves in poverty and see themselves obligated to take the only alternative that the global economic system itself has created--irregular migration--to only then be exploited by the “first world” if they arrive.

In this panorama, the State here and there, the so-called guarantors and protectors of human rights, has become the greatest criminal structure that persecutes, assassinates, and impoverishes migrants.

Crossing the Guatemala-Mexico border. Photo credits: Lauren Heidbrink

And if that were not enough, behind this exploitation is a business network that is increasingly strengthened by structures, institutions, organizations and people that exploits migrants. As we see in Almolonga, for example, coyotes [smugglers] are the first to charge a exorbitant amounts of money to families or people who want to migrate, followed by high-interest loans from banks, cooperatives or money-lenders. Corrupt border officials who, in the same manner as criminal structures such as the Zetas, charge fees to migrants, as if they own the right of passage through national territories. All told, the number of actors and institutions that take advantage of migrants’ vulnerability are breathtakingly numerous.

Once migrants are integrated into an exploitive US economy, the principal beneficiaries are yet again the banks and financial institutions where remittances pass. In tandem, commercial centers benefit by publicizing and cultivating a consumer culture among families receiving these remittances.

Even in these conditions, it is critical that we recognize and learn from the multiple forms of resistance that strengthen migrants to hope of a better world are recognized and admired, as well as their family members whose experiences are interwoven in the pursuit for a more dignified life.

Alejandro Chán is Maya K’iche’ from San Andrés Xecul, Totonicapán. He has a Masters in Social Management of Local Development from FLACSO-Guatemala and is a Political Scientist at the University Rafael Landívar. He has published in the magazine El Observador regarding the reconfiguration of territory in Guatemala.

For the previous blog in the series: Sandra Elizabeth Chuc Norato: Deudas y Migración: Explorando a la realidad de Almolonga/ Debt and Migration: Exploring Almolonga’s reality

For the next blog in the series: Catarina Chay Quiej: A la Intersección de Género, Relaciones Familiares y Migración/At the Intersection of Gender, Family Relationships and Migration

Deudas y Migración: Explorando a la realidad de Almolonga/Debt and Migration: Exploring Almolonga’s reality

por Sandra Elizabeth Chuc Norato

(English translation below. For additional posts in this series, visit: "Migration and Belonging.")

La falta de empleo y la situación correspondiente económica en Guatemala son algunos de los factores que influyen fuertemente en la decisión de migrar. En el municipio de Almolonga en Guatemala, tal es la situación de varias familias que participaron en nuestra investigación. Según los participantes, una de las primeras etapas en decidir de migrar es la identificación de cómo financiar la migración. En 2016, el viaje desde Almolonga hacia Estados Unidos tiene un costo entre 50,000.00 quetzales hasta 60,000.00 quetzales, una cantidad significativa para una comunidad agraria en donde los entrevistados cuentan con ingresos diarios de 15 quetzales a 150 quetzales al dia.

Tercer Lugar: America. Almolonga. Créditos fotográficos: Lauren Heidbrink

En este contexto, los que deciden de migrar hacia Estados Unidos se tropiezan con dificultades significativos para agenciarse de tal financiamiento.  Las entidades crediticias reguladas, como bancos o cooperativas, no financian este tipo de actividad debido al riesgo que representa el viaje y la incertidumbre de pasar la frontera exitosamente. Ante ello algunos habitantes de la localidad recurren a solicitar préstamos con prestamistas locales, familiares, amigos o conocidos. Es preciso señalar que piden préstamo no exclusivamente para financiar la migración sino también para satisfacer otras necesidades como el financiamiento para la cosecha estacional, emergencias de salud, o gastos funerarios.

Desde un punto de vista financiero, “La deuda…se puede referir a un saldo establecido tanto en efectivo como en especie (tal como un favor que debe ser pagado)” (Villareal, 2004: 14). En Almolonga, el financiamiento que algunas personas obtienen con prestamistas —entidades crediticias no reguladas —préstamos que se pueden catalogar como deuda, la cual implica una tasa de interés, una garantía como la escritura de un bien inmueble y un plazo de tiempo designado para el pago.

Tienda de fertilizantes, Almolonga. Créditos fotográficos: Lauren Heidbrink. 

Los pobladores de Almolonga también recurren a entidades crediticias reguladas —bancarias o cooperativas. Se considera que “El crédito se usa habitualmente para relaciones más formales con bancos u otras instituciones… Se tiene el derecho a recibir ciertos fondos y se reconoce la obligación de pagar una tasa de interés” (Villarreal; 2004:14). Los montos que otorgan las entidades crediticias reguladas para esta actividad oscilan entre 10,000.00 quetzales hasta 40,000.00 quetzales y las tasas de interés que cobran se ubican entre 18% al 30% anualmente. Esta modalidad de préstamos también incluye un requisito de una garantía–bien inmueble–que avala el cumplimiento o el pago del monto otorgado en crédito o deuda. 

Las entidades financieras reguladas existentes en Almolonga tienen normas y parámetros establecidos para otorgar créditos, entre los cuales figura la garantia de un bien inmueble con escritura registrada. Algunas de las personas que recurren a estas entidades crediticias no cuentan con tal garantía y, así, no reúnen los requisitos establecidos. Como resultado, buscan un respaldo familiar, colega profesional, o contacto personal para que sirva como “fiador.” De esta forma, la responsabilidad de pagar la deuda es compartida. Este tipo de relaciones es compleja pues no solo encierra el compromiso de “cumplir con la palabra” sino también tiene un sentido profundo para la población Maya K’iche’. Implica un compromiso moral que tiene más valor que la firma de documentos legales escritos requerido por una entidad crediticia.  

Las condiciones para cumplir con el compromiso son precarias y las consecuencias de no cumplir son graves. Para algunas familias, cumplir con el compromiso de pago mensual representa largas e intensas jornadas de trabajo (de hasta 15 horas, 2:00am – 5:00pm) y el involucramiento directo de todos los miembros de la familia. Además, las familias enfrentan eventualidades que no son posibles de anticipar —condiciones climáticas, bajas en los precios de los productos, cambios drásticos en el mercado local y extranjero, y enfermedades o accidentes de miembros de la familia.  Si no paga, hay un incremento abrumador de la deuda que puede resultar en la pérdida total de sus bienes inmuebles y/o fragmentación de relaciones con familiares o amistades.

Prestamos hipotecarios en 24 horas, Departamento de Quetzaltenango (Anonimizada).  Créditos fotográficos: Lauren Heidbrink

—Es preciso señalar que existen casos en los cuales las personas recurren a entidades crediticias y solicitan crédito para el uso en agricultura o comercio, pero realmente es utilizado para financiar la migración irregular. Esta situación no es reconocida “oficialmente” por el sistema bancario o el sistema cooperativo. También sucede que las personas recurren a la deuda con entidades financieras no reguladas —prestamistas —quienes conceden los montos solicitados siempre y cuando exista una garantía de bien inmueble sin importar el tipo de escritura; además se debe firmar un documento/contrato privado ante un abogado y notario que puede ser un “Reconocimiento de Deuda” o una “Cesión de Derechos” sobre el bien inmueble que figura como garantía. Los montos que otorgan oscilan entre los 20,000.00 quetzales y 60,000.00 quetzales y las tasas de interés se ubican desde 3% hasta 5% mensual (su equivalente de 36%  hasta 70% anual).

Independientemente si el préstamo viene de una entidad financiera regulada o no regulada, esta dinámica de crédito y deuda genera una serie de efectos en las familias. Aquí, se remarcan dos específicamente

1. Varios entrevistados cuentan del monto adeudado se utiliza directamente para el ‘pago del coyote.’ Si la persona que realiza el viaje no logra pasar, al regresar a Guatemala, generalmente la deuda ha incrementado; no tiene un trabajo que le permita generar ingresos económicos suficientes para asumir el compromiso adquirido. Esto genera atrasos en los pagos. En algunos casos ante no poder pagar la deuda, como consecuencia la familia pierde el bien inmueble que fue otorgado en garantía. En ocasiones, es el único patrimonio familiar que poseen. Es decir que las condiciones económicas precarias se acentúan, limitando la alimentación, salud y educación de todos los miembros de la familia.

2. En otros casos, el monto adeudado también es utilizado para financiar la migración y la persona logra llegar a su destino. El o ella encuentra un trabajo y genera ingresos económicos suficientes para luego enviar remesas a su familia. Generalmente, las familias cuentan de priorizar el pago de la deuda para recuperar el bien inmueble que garantiza la deuda. Luego de ello se destina cierta cantidad de las remesas para las necesidades familiares como alimentación, educación, y salud. En algunos casos, a pesar de las remesas, las familias describen recurrir nuevamente al uso de la deuda o del crédito para financiar actividades agrícolas y de comercio, compra de bienes inmuebles como terrenos para la agricultura, o construcción de viviendas que posteriormente serán habitadas por la familia. Es decir que la deuda o el crédito se vuelve recurrente en la vida de los migrantes en los EE.UU. y los que fueron deportados.

Bibliografía

Villareal, Magdalena 2004  Antropología de la deuda. Centro de Investigaciones y Estudios Superiores en Antropología Social CIESAS.

Sandra Elizabeth Chuc Norato es una mujer Maya Kich’e’, originaria del Municipio de Totonicapán, Guatemala. Ella es una profesional en gestión del desarrollo con experiencia en investigación cualitativa y cuantitativa. Tiene maestría en Gestión Social para el Desarrollo Local por la Facultad Latinoamericana de Ciencias Sociales FLACSO-Guatemala y licenciatura en Administración de Empresas por Universidad de San Carlos de Guatemala.

Debt and Migration: Exploring Almolonga’s reality

by Sandra Elizabeth Chuc Norato

The lack of employment and corresponding economic situation in Guatemala are some of the factors that strongly influence the decision to migrate. In the municipality of Almolonga in Guatemala, such is the situation of several families who participated in our study. According to participants, one of the first steps in deciding to migrate is identifying how to finance migration. In 2016, the journey from Almolonga to the United States cost between 50,000.00 quetzales to 60,000.00 quetzales, a significant amount for an agrarian community in which respondents have a daily income ranging from 15 to 150 quetzales per day.

Third place: America. Almolonga. Photo credits: Lauren Heidbirnk

In this context, those who decide to migrate to the United States are faced with significant difficulties to wangle such funding. Regulated lenders, such as banks or credit unions, do not fund this type of activity due to the risk of the journey and the uncertainty of successfully crossing the border. In response some residents resort to borrowing from local moneylenders, family, friends or acquaintances. It should be noted that people solicit loans not only to finance migration but also to meet other needs such as financing seasonal harvests, health emergencies, or funeral expenses.

From a financial standpoint, "Debt ...can refer to a balance established both in cash and in kind (such as a favor to be paid)" (Villareal, 2004: 14). In Almolonga, in order to secure financing from moneylenders —unregulated credit entities —in the form of a loan often requires a guarantee such as the deed to property. The terms of this agreement, which can be classified as a debt, also establishes a period of time for repayment that includes variable interest rates.  

Fertilizer store, Almolonga. Photo credits: lauren Heidbrink

The people of Almolonga also resort to regulated credit entities —banks or cooperatives. It is considered that “Credit is commonly used in more formal relationships with banks or other institutions...One has the right to receive certain funds and the obligation to pay a rate of interest [for those funds] is recognized” (Villarreal; 2004:14). The amounts granted by regulated lenders for these activities vary between 10,000.00 and 40,000.00 quetzales, and the interest rates they charge are between 18% and 30% annually. This mode of loans also includes a requirement of collateral —normally real estate —that guarantees the fulfillment or payment of the granted amount in credit or debt.

Regulated financial entities that exist in Almolonga have established norms and parameters to grant credit, which include collateral in the form of real estate with registered documentation. Some people who seek these lenders do not have this guarantee, and therefore, do not meet the established requirements. As a result, they look for backing via a family member, professional colleague, or personal contact to serve as “guarantor”. In this way, the responsibility to pay the debt is shared. These types of relationships are complex since it not only includes the commitment to “fulfill your word” but also has a profound meaning for K’iche’ Maya people. It implies a moral commitment that has more value than a signed legal documents required by a lending entity.

The conditions to fulfill the commitment are precarious and the consequences of noncompliance are great. For some families, fulfilling the monthly payment commitment represents long and intense work days (up to 15 hours, 2:00 am - 5:00 pm) and the direct involvement of all members of the family. Besides, families confront unexpected events--weather conditions, declines in commodity prices, drastic changes in local and overseas markets, accidents and illnesses of family members. If they do not pay, there is an overwhelming increase in debt which may result in the total loss of their property and/or the fragmentation of relationships with family or friends.  

24 hour Mortgage Lender, Department of Quetzaltenango (Anonymized). Photo credits: Lauren Heidbrink

It should be noted that there are cases in which people turn to lenders and apply for credit to use in agriculture and trade, while in actuality, it is used to finance irregular migration. This situation is not recognized "officially" by banks and cooperatives. It also happens that people turn to loans from non-regulated financial entities —moneylenders —who grant requested amounts as long as there is a guarantee of property regardless of the type of deed; they must also sign a private contract before a lawyer and notary which serves as an "IOU" or "Assignment of Rights" on the real estate listed as collateral. Amounts granted range from 20,000.00 and 60,000.00 quetzales and interest rates range from 3% to 5% per month (an equivalent of 36% to 70% annually).

Regardless if loans originate from a regulated or unregulated financial entity, this dynamic of credit and debt generates of series of effects for the families. Here, I discuss two specifically:

1. Various interviewees indicate that the acquired amount is utilized directly for the ‘payment of the coyote.’ If the person who undertakes the trip is unable to cross, upon returning to Guatemala, generally the debt has increased; there is no job that allows for sufficient income to fulfill their commitment. This creates delays in payment. In some cases when unable to pay the debt, the family ultimately lose the property offered as collateral. In some instances, it is the only property the family has. This is to say that their precarious economic conditions are exacerbated, limiting nutrition, health and education of all family members.
2. In other cases, the acquired amount is also used to finance migration, but the individual is able to reach their destination. She or he finds employment and earns sufficient income to send remittances to family. Generally, the families prioritize the payment of the debt to recover the property utilized as collateral. Afterwards, a certain amount of the remittances is destined to cover family needs such as nutrition, education and health. In some instances, in spite of remittances, families describe once again returning to the use of debt and credit to finance agricultural or commerce activities and, to buy property such as land for agricultural production, or to construct their homes which will be inhabited by the family. That is to say, debt and credit becomes recurrent in the lives of migrants in the U.S. and those deported to Guatemala.

Works Cited

Villareal, Magdalena 2004  Antropología de la deuda. Centro de Investigaciones y Estudios Superiores en Antropología Social CIESAS.

Sandra Elizabeth Chuc Norato is a K’iche’ Maya woman, originally from the Municipality of Totonicapán, Guatemala. She is a professional in Development Management with experience in qualitative and quantitative research. She has a Masters in Social Management for Local Development by the Latin American Department of Social Sciences FLACSO – Guatemala and a bachelor’s in Business Administration at the University of San Carlos, Guatemala.

For the previous blog in the series: Amparo Monzón: Botas Negras/Tuqxajab’ q’eq/Black Rubber Boots

For the next blog in the series: Alejandro Chán: Almolonga: una interpretación a partir de la migración a Estados Unidos/ Almolonga: an interpretation of migration to the United States

Botas Negras / Tuqxajab’ q’eq / Black Rubber Boots

By Amparo Monzón

(K'iche' and English translations below. For additional posts in this series, visit: "Migration and Belonging.")

Créditos fotográficos: CMFOTO

El contexto de este poema surge a través de las múltiples vivencias de sabidurías compartidas por mujeres, hombres, niñas, niños, jóvenes, ancianos y ancianas durante la investigación de campo sobre migración en Almolonga realizada en el verano del 2016 en Guatemala.

Describe en su forma orgánica la vida de una familia agricultora de Almolonga que se levanta aproximadamente a las 2:00 a.m. y termina su día laboral alrededor de las 7:00 p.m. Por consiguiente, la narración de este poema está dividida en las horas que rigen la dinámica agrícola de la población de dicho municipio.

Las primeras tres estrofas consisten en un cuestionamiento sobre la vida que lleva la familia actualmente y las últimas dos la solución que resuelven tomar. Cansados, la pareja decide migrar a los Estados Unidos.

Ellos narran su viaje. En el sexto verso, la escritora narra en tercera persona, describiendo la voz callada de muchos migrantes que han desaparecido sin saber de ellos.

Escrito en Español, K’ iche’ e Inglés, este poema es dedicado a las miles de personas que migran, asumiendo los costos diarios y humanos de la política exterior de los Estados Unidos.

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The context for his poem emerges from the many life experiences of shared wisdom by women, men, children, youth and elders that resulted from conducting fieldwork on migration in the Summer of 2016 in the municipality of Almolonga, located in the western highlands of Guatemala.

The poem organically describes the life of an agricultural family in Almolonga who wake up approximately at 2:00 a.m. and end their work day at about 7:00 p.m. Accordingly, the narration of this poem is divided into the hours that coincide with the agricultural cycle of Almolonga.

The first three stanzas question the family’s present-day life and the last two are about their resolution. Tired, the couple in the poem decide to migrate to the United States.

They narrate their trip and journey north. In the sixth verse, the author narrates in third person describing the silenced voices of many migrants who have disappeared and whose whereabouts are unknown.

Written in Spanish, K’iche’ and English, this poem is dedicated to the thousands of people that migrate, bearing the everyday human costs of US foreign policy.

Botas Negras

2:00 a.m. (Aún no ha salido el sol)

Yo no necesito reloj para levantarme.

Solo siento el olor de mis botas negras para recordarme.

Yo no necesito ver la tierra para sentirla.

Solo necesito mis manos,

para limpiarla, sembrarla, picarla y cosecharla.

6:00 a.m. (Mercado Local vs. Mercado Global)

Yo no necesito que me repitan que los precios de las verduras han bajado.

Solo necesito llevar mi bulto al mercado.

Yo no necesito que ella me vea los ojos cansados,

para saber que estamos bien ‘pisados.’

7:00 a.m.  (Retorno a casa)

Yo no necesito que me digan que a Diego, Martita y Juanito les hace falta alimentación y educación.

Y que mi casa no vale un millón.

Que la operación sale en Q. 20,000.00.

No necesito que me digan en que me van ayudar.

Yo ya lo pensé, lo soñé  y lo sé.

9:00 a.m. (El hogar y la decisión final) 

Y la vi y me vio y nos vimos.

Y supimos.

Y nos fuimos.

10:00 a.m. y semanas… (La ida)

Caminamos y sudamos

por el Desierto.

Recordamos y lloramos

por el Rio.

Y se la llevaron y me dejaron.

Y lo triste es que nunca llegaron.       

Tuqxajab’ q’eq

Keb’ kajb’al (Le q’ij maja kiloq)

Chi kinwalijik in rajawaxik ta’ chwe kajb’al.

Xaq xu kina’ le raxlab’ le nutuqxajab’ q’eq’ab’ che kanataj chwech.

In rajawaxik taj kin wil le ulew che kin na’o.

Xaq xu rajawaxik le nuq’ab’,

che usu’ik, tikonik, k’otinik xuquje’ uyakik.

Waqib’ kajb’al (K’ayb’al Chutin ruk’ K’ayb’al Nim)

In rajawaxik ta’ chwe che kanataxik che le rajil le uwach ulew che xqajik.

Xaq xu tane’ kinkamb’ik le nutanat pa le k’ayb’al.

In rajawaxik ta’ chwe che are’ kuril le nub’aq’och kosinaq,

che retanla’ che ujk’olik pa k’axk’ol.

Wuqub’ kajb’al (Tzalajem pa ja)

In rajawaxikta’ chwe che kab’ixik che ri a Tek, laj Marta’ xuquje’ laj Xwan che rajawaxik chake che ketzuqik xuquje’ le pixonem.

Che le wachoch che marajil ta’ jun millón.

Che le kunab’al kil Q. 20,000.00.

Rajawaxik ta’ chwech che kab’ix chweche kinkito’.

In xinchomaj, xinwichik’aj xuquje’ wetam chik.

B’elejeb’ kajb’al (Le ja xuquje’ ri chomanik k’isb’al)

Xinwilo, xinrilo, xaqil qib’.

Xaqetamaj.

Xujek.

Lajuj kajb’al - Q’ij rech wuq’ij… (Ilem)

Xujb’inik xuquje’ xujil pak’atanal

choch le zanib’ Ulew.

Xanataj chaqe xuquje’ xujoq’ik

choch le Plo.

Xk’amb’ikxin k’iya’y q’anoq.

Le b’isonik che man xeb’opanta’ wi’.    

Black Rubber Boots

2:00 a.m. (Darkness)

I don’t need a watch to wake up.

I only need the smell of my black rubber boots to remind me.  

I don’t need to see the earth to feel it.

I only need my hands,

to clean it, to sow it, to reap and harvest it.

6: 00 a.m. (Local Market vs. Global Market)

I don’t need to be reminded that the prices of vegetables have lowered.

I only need to take my bundle to the market.

I don’t need her to see into my tired eyes,

to know that we are ‘fucked.’

7:00 a.m.  (Going back home)

I don’t need to be told that Diego, Martita and Juanito need food and education.

That my house is not worth millions.

That the operation is going to cost 20,000.00 quetzales.

I don’t need your help. 

I already thought about it, I dreamt about it and I know it.

9:00 a.m. (The house and the final decision) 

I looked at her, she looked at me, we looked at each other.

And we knew.

And we left.

10:00 a.m. and weeks… (The departure)

We walked and we sweated

through the Desert.

We remembered and cried

through the River.

And they took her and they left me.

And the tragedy is that they never arrived.  

Amparo Monzón is a Maya K’iche’ woman and holds a M.A. in International Relations from the University of Westminster. She is passionate about learning and sharing experiences. 

For the previous blog in the series:  Lauren Heidbrink: Migration and Belonging: Narratives from a Highland Town/Migración y Pertenencia: Narrativas de un pueblo del altiplano/

For the next entry in the series: Sandra Elizabeth Chuc Norato: Deudas y Migración: Explorando a la realidad de Almolonga/ Debt and Migration: Exploring Almolonga’s reality

Migration and Belonging: Narratives from a Highland Town

by Lauren Heidbrink

(Spanish translation below)

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Photo credits: Lauren Heidbrink

Youth Circulations is honored to showcase the important contributions of Guatemalan scholars in a new multilingual series entitled “Migration and Belonging: Narratives from a Highland Town.” This 7-part series emerges from a longitudinal study on the deportation and social reintegration of youth in Guatemala and Southern Mexico. With generous funding from the National Science Foundation, an interdisciplinary team conducted ethnographic and survey research in Almolonga, a K’iche’ community in the Department of Quetzaltenango.

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Photo Credits: Lauren Heidbrink

Like many highland communities of Guatemala, Almolonga has been intensely impacted by migration and deportation over the past three decades. Known as the “breadbasket” of Central America, Almolonga is a peri-urban community that enjoys a thriving agricultural economy. Employment opportunities are abundant and include harvesting multiple seasons of crops, selling in local markets, and commerce activities to Mexico and El Salvador. In fact, Almolonga has experienced a population surge, in part due to internal migration to Almolonga by Guatemalans seeking employment. Known for a strong evangelical church, there is also notable institutional leadership. And yet in spite of these promising aspects, poverty remains significant, social inequality pronounced, alcoholism pervasive, and livable wages scarce. Heralded as an alternative to migration because of its employment opportunities, Almolonga continues to experience significant out migration to the U.S., primarily to bedroom communities of Portland, Oregon where there has been a relatively well-established Almolonguense community since the 1990s. As we learned in our research with households and community leaders in Almolonga, the impacts of migration and deportation are pervasive and enduring.

We offer a window into this complex landscape through “Migration and Belonging” which features blogs, poems, and reflections from an interdisciplinary research team conducting a household survey in Almolonga. Each piece is immediately informative about global youth, migration, health and well-being, belonging, and the effects of deportation across geographic space. And when taken together, this collection offers a rich, multifaceted account of a community impacted by colonialism, state violence, and the profound impacts—both historic and contemporary—of migration moving between intimate, community, and transnational levels.

“Migration and Belonging” likewise confronts the reader with questions about audience, voice, and translation. How does this series, at once heartfelt and artistic, reach an academic audience—or is it forever relegated to the blogosphere? What is gained and lost in translation? In our final blog of the collection, Celeste Sánchez, Giovanni Batz, and I reflect on these and other questions that arose during collaborations with our research team.

Please visit Youth Circulations (or subscribe) to receive the following weekly blogs in our series:

• Amparo Monzón: Botas Negras/Tuqxajab’ q’eq/Black Rubber Boots
• Sandra Elizabeth Chuc Norato: Deudas y Migración: Explorando a la realidad de Almolonga/ Debt and Migration: Exploring Almolonga’s reality
• Alejandro Chán: Almolonga: una interpretación a partir de la migración a Estados Unidos/ Almolonga: an interpretation of migration to the United States
• Catarina Chay Quiej: A la Intersección de Género, Relaciones Familiares y Migración/At the Intersection of Gender, Family Relationships and Migration
• Ramona Elizabeth Pérez Romero: El Papel de las Comadronas de Almolonga/The Role of Midwives in Almolonga
• Angélica Mejía: La Resiliencia: Generador de movilización y auto-crecimiento/ Resilience of Youth without Parental Care
• Celeste Sánchez, Giovanni Batz, Lauren Heidbrink, and Michele Statz: A Conversation on Translation/Una Conversación sobre Traducción

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(Left to right) Back row: Alejandro Chán, Amparo Monzón, Angélica Mejía, Giovanni Batz, Lauren Heidbrink, and Celeste Sánchez. Front row: Catarina Chay Quiej, Ramona Elizabeth Pérez Romero, Sandra Elizabeth Chuc Norato.

Lauren Heidbrink is an anthropologist and Assistant Professor of Human Development at California State University, Long Beach. She is author of Migrant Youth, Transnational Families, and the State: Care and Contested Interests (University of Pennsylvania Press, May 2014). She currently the PI on a multi-year NSF Law and Social Sciences grant investigating the deportation and social reintegration of youth in Guatemala.

 

Migración y Pertenencia: Narrativas de un pueblo del altiplano

por Lauren Heidbrink

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Créditos fotográficos: Lauren Heidbrink

Youth Circulations tiene el honor de mostrar las contribuciones importantes de los eruditos guatemaltecos en una nueva serie multilingüe titulada “Migración y Pertenencia: Narrativas de un pueblo altiplano.” Esta serie de siete partes surge de una investigación longitudinal sobre la deportación y la reintegración social de jóvenes en Guatemala y el sur de México. Con apoyo generoso de la National Science Foundation, un equipo interdisciplinario hizo una investigación etnográfica y una encuesta comunitaria en Almolonga, una comunidad K'iche' del Departamento de Quetzaltenango.

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Créditos fotográficos: Lauren Heidbrink

Como muchas comunidades del altiplano de Guatemala, Almolonga ha sido impactado intensamente por la migración y la deportación durante las últimas tres décadas. Conocida como el "granero" de Centroamérica, Almolonga es una comunidad periurbana que goza de una próspera economía agrícola. Las oportunidades de empleo son abundantes e incluyen cosechas múltiples, la venta en mercados locales, y comercio con México y El Salvador. De hecho, Almolonga ha experimentado una oleada de población, en parte atribuido a la migración interna por parte de guatemaltecos que buscan empleo en Almolonga. Conocido por una iglesia evangélica predominante, también hay un liderazgo institucional bien establecido. Sin embargo, a pesar de estos aspectos prometedores, la pobreza sigue siendo significativa, la desigualdad social pronunciada, el alcoholismo penetrante y los salarios dignos escasos. Proclamada como una alternativa a la migración por sus fuentes de empleo, la migración de Almolonga hacia los Estados Unidos continúa, principalmente a las comunidades dormitorio de Portland, Oregón, donde hay una comunidad Almolonguense bien establecida desde los años noventa. Como hemos aprendido en nuestra encuesta comunitaria y con líderes comunitarios en Almolonga, los impactos de la migración y la deportación son omnipresentes y duraderos.

Ofrecemos una ventana a este complejo paisaje a través de "Migración y Pertenencia", que cuenta con blogs, poemas y reflexiones de un equipo interdisciplinario dirigiendo una encuesta de hogares en Almolonga. Cada contribución es inmediatamente informativa sobre la juventud global, migración, salud y bienestar, pertenencia y los efectos de la deportación a través del espacio geográfico. Esta colección ofrece un relato abundante y multifacético de una comunidad impactada por colonialismo, violencia estatal y los impactos profundos—tanto históricos como contemporáneos—de la migración que se mueve entre niveles íntimos, comunitarios y transnacionales.

"Migración y Pertenencia"también enfrenta el lector con preguntas sobre audiencia, voz, y traducción. ¿De qué manera esta serie, a la vez sentida y artística, llega a una audiencia académica—o está siempre relegada a la blogosfera? ¿Qué se gana y se pierde en la traducción? En nuestro blog final de la colección, Celeste Sánchez, Giovanni Batz, y yo reflexionamos sobre estas y otras preguntas que surgieron durante las colaboraciones con nuestro equipo de investigación.

Por favor visite Youth Circulations (o suscríbase) para recibir los siguientes blogs semanales en nuestra serie:

• Amparo Monzón: Botas Negras/Tuqxajab’ q’eq/Black Rubber Boots
• Sandra Elizabeth Chuc Norato: Deudas y Migración: Explorando a la realidad de Almolonga/ Debt and Migration: Exploring Almolonga’s reality
• Alejandro Chán: Almolonga: una interpretación a partir de la migración a Estados Unidos/ Almolonga: an interpretation of migration to the United States
• Catarina Chay Quiej: A la Intersección de Género, Relaciones Familiares y Migración/At the Intersection of Gender, Family Relationships and Migration
• Ramona Elizabeth Pérez Romero: El Papel de las Comadronas de Almolonga/The Role of Midwives in Almolonga
• Angélica Mejía: La Resiliencia: Generador de movilización y auto-crecimiento/ Resilience of Youth without Parental Care
• Celeste Sánchez, Giovanni Batz, Lauren Heidbrink, and Michele Statz: A Conversation on Translation/Una Conversación sobre Traducción

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(De izquierda a derecha) Fila posterior: Alejandro Chán, Amparo Monzón, Angélica Mejía, Giovanni Batz, Lauren Heidbrink, and Celeste Sánchez. Primera fila: Catarina Chay Quiej, Ramona Elizabeth Pérez Romero, Sandra Elizabeth Chuc Norato.

Lauren Heidbrink es antropóloga y Profesora Asistente de Desarrollo Humano en California State University, Long Beach. Es autora de Migrant Youth, Transnational Families, and the State: Care and Contested Interests (University of Pennsylvania Press, May 2014). Actualmente es investigadora principal de una beca plurianual de NSF Law and Social Sciences que investiga la deportación y la reintegración social de los jóvenes en Guatemala.

For the next blog in the series: Amparo Monzón: Botas Negras/Tuqxajab’ q’eq/Black Rubber Boots

Reimagining Youth Mobility Through Architectural Design

Can architecture provide a counter-representation of youth mobility? Architectural designer and critic Stuart Shanks shows how space informs popular perceptions of global youth.

How space is utilized in photographs of young migrants has the potential to portray fully realized people--as well as the potential to diminish or deprive us their humanity. In these images, space becomes a character in its own right, even as it is presumed to be a habitat or a transitional feature.  Sometimes, space is presented in place of a young migrant, as in the work of Mary Beth Meehan and in many of the photos featured here on Youth Circulations.

Source: Mary Beth Meehan

Meant to underscore the invisibility that individuals who are undocumented presumably feel, Meehan portrays space as shadowy, even haunted. The effect is captivating, but it is insufficient. It also sustains a powerful silence—the silencing of young individuals’ voices, movements, expressions, and manipulations of space. There is no indication of life that is creative or resistant or even particularly active. Not only do these photos present a static image of young migrants—notably through youths’ marked absence—but they also reflect space in a way that diminishes the power-filled relationship between youth and the places they maneuver through and inhabit.  

The perception of youth of the world to the world—i.e., how global youth are represented—is increasingly through photographs easily accessed on your screen. The resulting disconnect, between the multidimensional physical world and the flat digital image, creates emotional rifts that are bridged by the photographer’s framing. Meehan's use of so many desolate and haunting shots thus creates a simultaneous sense of unease and familiarity. She uses space to depict how her subjects inhabit the fringes of the world, and she uses those fringe spaces to project her perception of reality onto us, the viewer. 

In Meehan’s images, the rooms are rarely placed head-on; instead, the frame highlights corners or off-centered dead ends. The viewer is never offered an easy exit out of these rooms. Passages are covered or obscured. Some are false exits, curtains hiding bare walls. 

Source: Mary Beth Meehan

The space we observe is always small, and yet the rooms are sparsely furnished. This combination—scarce furnishings in a small room—creates a strange dichotomy that is at once suffocating and uncomfortably expansive. The objects in these spaces are mismatched garage sale finds, unwanted. In this version of what occupies “undocumented space,” we might assume that the people who live here are as undervalued to the population at large as the possessions they own. 

In her photos Meehan demonstrates the pain, loss, and needs a migrant presumably feels, in a sense willing the viewer to get closer and to care. It is a balancing act that, if done right, is very impactful. 

Meehan’s techniques of placement can also be situated within a broader framework of architecture called wayfinding--the study of how people use and walk through space. Where do you look when entering a house? What room will you enter next?  Is the room entered on an axis or off? Do you open a door or move through an archway? How does the ceiling or floor height change the dynamics in a room? If answered correctly, the space works exactly how the architect envisions it,  never realizing these are decisions that have been made. 

Curving pedestrian ramp through building. Carpenter Center, Cambridge, MA. Photo by Le Corbusier, 1960-64.  

Arguably the most prominent American architect of the last century, Frank Lloyd Wright pushed himself into the American conscious in numerous ways. He re-envisioned how people live in their houses. He improved an American model of the suburb while creating lyrical sculpture that was as beautiful as it was functional. He reorganized and rethought what a modern museum entailed. Beyond his designs, many more people remember him for his cult of personality, for being larger than life. Indeed, at many points in his life, Wright's salesmanship and personal life seem to outshine his projects. 

Today, a number of architects are similarly idealized. Rem Koolhaas, Bjarke Ingles, Norman Foster, and Toyo Ito may not have the same cachet as Wright, but they wield great influence in architecture  and exhibit similar personal and professional largess. The only difference, it seems, is how--or if--they use architecture to re-imagine and influence culture at large. Wright and his contemporaries were masters of this, well before Wright became famous for being famous. Through most of the 20th century, these architects questioned how a space is used, what the space is used for, and how those answers have implications the world at large. 

Broadacre City, a concept for an American version of the suburb. Photograph of model by Frank Lloyd Wright, 1934-35. 

The modern architect of the 21st century no longer seeks to dialogue with cultural change as theory. Instead, such questions are an afterthought, only addressed when deciding how to sell a building to the client or to the public at large. Then, buzz words like “green,” “innovative” and “open” are tacked on to increase some bottom line. Architecture has become commodified as a means to an end. No longer is it a field of critical thinkers who explore how design can influence and change the future by critically questioning the present.
 
How, then, can architecture be both more introspective and publicly-engaged? Responding to Meehan’s work architecturally, and to the reality of youth mobility, may offer one possibility. Now, the questions are: Can architecture become a new tool for how youth can reclaim space for themselves? If so, how can architecture re-emerge to offer a counter-representation of youth mobility? How might architects use space to depict global youth as living, as opposed to envisioning space as simply "lived-in"?
 
In order for this to happen, architects need to instill in themselves an approach that most young people already employ: a deliberate, fluid, and keen awareness of ongoing shifts in transnational culture and technology. The architect’s response must be to create something now—something that can be edited and deleted, that can evolve and be mobile. Architecture can no longer be based on a perceived increase in returns from our established givens. Instead, it needs to exist for the sake of an actual increase on what people desire out of life. Only when space is imagined and designed with mobility in mind; with a recognition of individuals as creative and creating; and with attention to young people’s critical regard for the spaces through which they move and choose to stay will architecture better resonate with life, and vice versa. 

Collaboratively researching how city workers utilize space--from food trucks to daily commutes between local villages and the city center--this museum was conceptually designed as a cultural hub in Chandigarh, India but evolved into an educational center and a place to relax as more input was received from the local community. It likewise moved beyond business and tourism to take into account the natural environment and regional building practices. (2016, concept by Stuart Shanks)

Photos like Meehan’s draw people into a world that reveals an intimacy of transition and hardship—yet they tell us very little about the actual person who inhabits that world. Similarly, contemporary architecture has become a signature, and the space it physically creates the afterthought. Through architecture, young migrants should find a voice that, like the avant-garde of the last century, will resonate with a wider audience. Architecture offers the signifiers that morph and evolve into the formal public discourse of what is modern. By responding to how people live, architecture inherently questions the function of existing space; it interrogates everything from grand palaces to city streets to what it means to be one’s own race, gender, nationality, and sexual orientation. By questioning present architecture, youth voices will continue to question gray areas of what it means to inhabit private and public spaces, the legality of occupation and concerns over ownership. Instead of giving examples of this, I challenge the reader to critically see how space helps and hinders how youth and everyone for that matter use and move through space. How certain public spaces are specifically designed to discourage mobility, like skateboarding; how physical “security” barriers create a sense of foreboding and implicitly discourage interaction with and within the space; how spaces that have no discernible purpose in urban centers have been co-opted by those too often characterized as “marginalized” and transformed into perfect examples of city improvement and civic pride. With the fluidity to inhabit more than a single space, to create new answers, and to put forth multifaceted designs that reveal their functionality, relevance, and beauty over time, architecture is perfectly positioned to respond to and represent global youth. 

Stuart Shanks is an Architectural designer and writer currently based in Princeton, NJ. He received his Masters in Architecture at the University of Illinois at Chicago and has worked for numerous firms in the Midwest and east coast including Zimmerman Architecture Studio in Milwaukee, MoDE Architects in Chicago, and Komita Design in Philadelphia. His work bridges the gap between technical detailing and theoretical practice to give architecture a cultural relevance. His design work and writings are found at www.stuartshanks.com. 

Source:  http://stuartshanks.com/bb.jpg

The Politics of Memory among Child Survivors of the Bosnian War Diaspora

By Ana Croegaert and Elmina Kulašić

The use of objects—including the body—to imbue meaning and communicate memory and identity is a longstanding area of anthropological scholarship (Verdery 1999, Appadurai 1986, Miller 2009). More recently, anthropologists have explored the use of objects in the inter-generational communication of trauma (Kidron 2009). In this post, we consider the relationship between memory and trauma through acts and objects explicitly aimed at memorializing traumatic events. We draw on our work with child survivors of the Yugoslav Secession war in Bosnia and Herzegovina (BiH) in 1992-95 and reflect on what we call these survivors’ politicized “memory work.” We argue that an anthropology of child survivors’ experiences sheds light on this diaspora’s critical role in postwar democracy in BiH. While our discussion centers on the Bosnian diaspora, the dynamics we explore here may offer insights that expand awareness of challenges in other post-conflict sites, situations, and diasporas.

The war in Bosnia was among a series of wars over the struggle for power in post-Cold War Yugoslavia during which half of Bosnia’s 4.5 million population were displaced and tens of thousands of women were raped (Croatia 1991-5; Bosnia 1992-5; Kosovo 1999-2000). Civilian deaths accounted for forty percent of the over 100,000 war-dead; nearly seventy percent of Muslim Bosnians who were killed during the war were civilians (Center for Justice and Accountability). Of the million people who fled the country as refugees, nearly 170,000 made it to the United States, with Chicago serving as the largest relocation site for Bosnian refugees outside of Europe. St. Louis, Missouri is now home to the largest Bosnian war diaspora population. According to the U.S. Department of Homeland Security, 169,000 refugees from former Yugoslavia were admitted between 1992-2012. The majority were Bosnian Muslims and Bosnians in mixed marriages who fled during the Bosnian War, along with some Muslim Kosovars. This number also includes those who sought asylum after Germany and Austria began forcibly repatriating Bosnians in 1999.

ENCOUNTERING A MEMORY-SCAPE

 ANA: When I began my research on how Bosnian refugee-immigrants managed their forced relocation to Chicago, I was struck by the efforts of those in the 1.5 generation—who were children during the war and migration—to make sense of the war and to remain connected to Bosnia.[i] I was also troubled by the role of teenage girls in memorializing the Serb-allied Bosnian military’s genocide[ii] of more than 8,000 Bosnian Muslim men in the Srebrenica U.N.-declared “Safe Area” in July of 1995. Yet, I found it difficult to raise these concerns in the context of my fieldwork.[iii] Given the gender-dimensions of Islamophobia in the United States, public memorials often enlisted perceived “less-threatening” images and voices of young Bosnian women, rather than of young Bosnian men.[iv]

In July 2005, I attended one such event marking ten years since the genocide in Srebrenica in Chicago’s Daley Plaza in downtown Chicago.[v] The organizers set the stage and loud speakers to communicate with the lunchtime crowd. Some of us had been given green ribbons to tie around our arms to signify the victims as Muslim. Those of us gathered in the plaza were given a set of confusing directions—perhaps intended to reproduce the chaos during the actual massacre—to participate in a dramatic re-enactment of the ritualistic events leading up to the massacres. We were separated by gender, told to kneel and kiss the ground as an audio-recording of a barrage of gunfire blasted across loudspeakers. The elder Bosnian women whom I accompanied were shocked. One woman fainted. 

Ten-year memorial of Srebrenica massacres at Daley Plaza in Chicago, 2005. Photo credit: A. Croegaert

Following the restaging of the genocide, 18-year-old Selma took the stage and relayed her memories as a seven-year-old, of dodging gunfire while playing with friends and hiding for weeks in a cave-like shelter with her mother and brother. She ended her story with the image of a phoenix rising from the ashes. 

The memorial brought home for me the complex memory-scape that 1.5 generation youth traverse. They want to learn of their parents' experiences, while also navigating their own childhood memories. They want to be involved in supporting their parents, and people living in Bosnia. Yet they face numerous and competing narratives: Serb Bosnians who deny the genocide of Muslim Bosnians at Srebrenica, and at Prijedor; nationalistically centered groups like the one who staged this memorial; and their silent and depressed parents. Furthermore, the 1990s wartime massacres were layered upon the buried history of WWII-era massacres that were officially repressed during the Communist Era in the pursuit of the policy of national "Brotherhood and Unity".

Years later, Selma, then in her early twenties, told me that she was proud of her participation. Her father had encouraged her. And, she felt proactive. She contrasted her actions with her mother's constant depressive state and reluctance to discuss wartime events. 

Wartime memories and how to memorialize these events in order to prevent future atrocities preoccupied another youth I met during my research: Elmina, co-author of this blog. The following is an excerpt of our conversation about her involvement in organizing a photoshoot commemorating May 31, 1992. On this day, all non-Serb residents of her town were ordered to mark their homes and businesses with white flags and their bodies with white armbands. Twenty years later, those who were forced to mark themselves in this way appropriated the white armband as a symbol of the violence they survived, and of those who had not.

WHITE ARMBAND CAMPAIGN

ANA: Elmina, why did you want to participate in this memorial?

ELMINA: The White Armband campaign commemorates May 31, 1992 when after a forceful and illegal takeover of the municipal government in the Municipality of Prijedor, the Bosnian Serb authorities issued a decree on local radio ordering all non-Serbs to mark their homes with white flags or bedsheets and to wear white armbands when leaving their homes. It was a direct and tangible marker of the “Other.”

At the beginning of the 1992-95 war in Bosnia, my hometown Kozarac in the municipality of Prijedor was attacked. I was seven years old at the time. The shelling lasted for over 24 hours. On May 25, 1992, all of the non-Serb residents, including my family and I were ordered to “surrender” and to march towards Mountain Kozara. The march was long and exhausting. I remember my father carrying my oldest disabled sister on his back the whole time.

Mount Kozara Forced March, 1992. Map credit: E. Kulasic via Google Earth, 2016.

It was a march that marked the horrors that awaited us. We slept at the mountain that night and early in the morning we were once again marched back to Kozarac. A high number of civilians were killed and many more wounded while the rest of us were directed towards nearby concentration camps that were established for the non-Serb population. My family and I were detained in the Trnopolje concentration camp.

I remember seeing white flags at some of the homes. At the time, I didn’t know what the white flags meant but I did hear whispers about it. The elderly were trying to protect us thinking that we would not hear them. I remember comments like: “They will not kill us; the white flags are visible.” After over a month of starvation, humiliation, killings, torture and constant fear, we were transferred from the Trnopolje concentration camp to refugee centers in Croatia and other countries that were taking in refugees at the time. The screams, stares and hunger left a number of invisible scars; scars that require a long time to heal and this is one of the reasons why commemorating and remembering is of utmost importance for survivors. It is one of the reasons why in 2012, twenty years later and the year I moved back to Bosnia, that the White Armband Campaign became so visible.

ANA: Why in 2012 and not before?

ELMINA: The answer is complex but also simple. Since the post-war agreement, Prijedor lies in the Serb Republic (RS) entity of Bosnia. The municipality is still governed by Serbs, many of whom continue to deny the massacres. In 2012, Bosnian Muslims who returned to memorialize the deaths of their family and friends were forbidden to publicly commemorate the events, to use the term “genocide,” or to visit the former concentration camps. The local authorities claimed that such a commemoration would tarnish the image of the city. After a number of meetings and rejected requests for a public commemoration, the returnees started an online campaign. Overnight, it became an international campaign in which people posted photos wearing a white armband to social media. The goal was to draw attention to the crimes committed in Prijedor and to commemorate the 20th anniversary.

Elmina at Old Jewish Cemetery, Sarajevo, 2012. Photo credit: R. Vrgova

At the time I was studying in Sarajevo and I wanted to be more directly engaged with the people from Prijedor and Kozarac. I talked about the white armband campaign with a Macedonian classmate and photographer, and together we developed the photo campaign to document the images of individuals wearing the white armband to bring awareness to the use of objects to identify the "Other." 

I thought about my photo. I wanted to connect my experience in Kozarac, my refugee journey from Croatia to the United States, and then my return to Bosnia twenty years later. I wanted to depict my pain and my resilience. One image that recurred to me was a story that I learned about in 8th grade. It was a story about the Holocaust. Connecting my photo to the Holocaust was a way to connect these two dark histories of Europe and to draw parallels between the atrocities. I wanted to draw attention to the labeling of “Others” and the means used to identify and to kill innocent neighbors and friends. It was the reason why I took my photo at the Jewish Cemetery in Sarajevo.

I was nervous, wondering which of my classmates would participate, as some were from other narod/national groups and other parts of former Yugoslavia. However, those of us who were children during the war had a need to raise our voices against injustice both historic and in the present day. A Serb classmate of mine said to me:

"Elmina, I did not know. I knew about the David's Star [that Nazis forced Jews to wear during the Holocaust] but I did not know about the White Armband in Prijedor. It never even crossed my mind that my generation was marked in such a way and that I would be participating in raising awareness about it to make sure that it does not happen again."

This was the precise message that we intended the photo campaign to send.  The participants included my classmates from the program who came from Serbia, Croatia, Montenegro, Albania, Macedonia, Bosnia, Russia, Georgia, France, UK, and the U.S. Since 2012, the White Armband Campaign is now an annual memorial event.

ERM class photo with white armbands, Sarajevo, 2012. Photo credit: ERMA, R. Vrgova

ANA: What sort of restrictions did you encounter when attempting to memorialize the war?

ELMINA: This photo exhibit was the first time that I have worked with individuals from the region who were my age and in the same educational program. My previous work included a number of exhibitions, documentaries, reports and projects; however, none was as interactive as the White Armband Campaign. One of the reasons is the fact that working on memorialization requires both patience and understanding, especially when working directly with survivors. I have found that working with survivors requires a lot of time to carefully and thoughtfully understand the specific locations, histories, and crimes. With the 1.5 generation, my generation, which seeks to document the crimes and memories in order to reckon with the past, it is challenging to remember one’s own story while trying to objectively commemorate the past. Nonetheless, it is also one of the reasons why the 1.5 generation is the key to a peaceful future- this generation remembers Bosnia before the war, they have survived the war and they are the ones who have felt the consequences of war and understand why peace must prevail.

The differences are also reflected in tensions within Bosnian society, where international donors and NGOs want to focus on reconciliation and where ethno-centric and nationalistic political parties evoke the war and fear to shore up their voting base. The call to “move on”, in a way, contributed to the overall situation in Prijedor where survivors and returnees were forbidden to commemorate the 20th anniversary. For this reason, the photo campaign was so powerful--the images of wearing the armband are tangible reminders that the past is not really in the past. That it is a shadow, a painful invisible scar, lingering over Bosnia reminding all of us that a local approach to raising awareness is a concrete model for reconciliation.

REFLECTIONS       

Organized twenty years after the war, these two memorial events illustrate how memory is embodied, reworked and transmitted through materiality. These memorials demonstrate how the local is always embedded in the transnational—or what some refer to as “translocal”—when populations are forcibly displaced and globally dispersed, and external polities are involved in “state-building” (Fisher 1997).

While the Chicago 2005 memorial relied on Selma’s iconic young female survivor status to publicly mark the Srebrenica genocide, the 2012 social media armband campaign that Elmina participated in emphasized local, regional, and diasporan generational solidarity. By engaging social media to challenge the local municipal government’s denial of the Prijedor massacres, the White Armband Campaign opens up a series of questions about the role the 1.5 diaspora will play in the future of the Bosnian state: How might generational status shape survivors’ political stances toward the postwar state? How do youth diasporans define justice, and what degrees of significance do they assign to justice in relation to their daily lives? What objects are involved in communicating acts of injustice and how are the symbolic meanings of these objects reproduced—and changed—across time and space? We argue for a sustained awareness of and attention to young people’s varied experiences of forced migration and wartime violence, and to how they represent, depict, and reflect upon these experiences. Their perspectives and voices are central to how the Bosnian War is re-membered, and are integral to social wellbeing and stability in the postwar state.

White Armband Campaign participants. All photos credited to R. Vargova, 2012.

ABOUT THE AUTORS

Ana Croegaert is an Assistant Professor of Anthropology at the University of New Orleans. She explores political dimensions of migration and urban change, with particular attention to the intersections of race & ethnicity, gender, and class in shaping people’s senses of belonging. She is especially interested in people’s efforts to use story and visual culture to adapt space, and to alter their circumstances. Her publications can be found in American Anthropologist and North American Dialogue, among other journals and anthologies, and she is the project director of Gathering Grounds, an ongoing public anthropology project. She has a PhD in Anthropology from Northwestern University.

Elmina Kulašić, a recent returnee to Bosnia from Chicago (United States), works on genocide prevention, human rights, and democracy and public policy issues, with experience in the United States, and in Southeast Europe. Elmina holds two Master’s Degrees: an M.A. in Public Policy from the Central European University with a focus on ethnic lobbying of the European Union and the role of regional representation; and a second M.A. in Human Rights and Democracy from the University of Bologna and the University of Sarajevo with a focus on transitional justice education in the Balkan region, especially in Macedonia and Bosnia and Herzegovina (BiH). She is the former Executive Director of the Advisory Council for BiH, Washington, D.C., and has interned at then-Senator (IL) Barack Obama’s district office, and Senator (IL) Richard Durbin’s district office.

Elmina has extensive public policy, education, and advocacy experience in the United States and in Europe, including: the Genocide Film Library, the 2008 Srebrenica Commemoration event on Capitol Hill, Prijedor: Lives from the Bosnian Genocide exhibit, 2012 Srebrenica commemoration event in Skopje, Macedonia, and the Višegrad Genocide Memories exhibit in Budapest. She is currently the Senior Advisor at the Victims and Witnesses of Genocide Association, Sarajevo, and founder of Bridges for the Future Association.

NOTES

[i] See Gonzales and Chavez 2012 for argument to explore the experiences of 1.5- generation as a distinct migrant cohort in the United States. See Croegaert (2015 and 2010) and Gathering Grounds book manuscript (n.d.) for discussion of Bosnian 1.5 generation in the United States.

[ii] We use the word “genocide” here in keeping with the International Criminal Court (ICJ) and the International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia (ICTY) findings in the case of Srebrenica, and because survivors use this term. At the same time, we recognize the limits of the term. “Genocide” developed during the age of the early twentieth century construction of “race” and is thus linked to processes of racialization (the social beliefs and practices involved in the reproduction and transformation of existing racial categories and identities). While the term has been central to establishing legal criteria for the prosecution of individuals for the massive, organized, condensed slaughter of a group of people—a significant milestone in helping to achieve some sense of justice for survivors at the international and local levels—“genocide” simultaneously reproduces the fiction of “race”. We do not enter into the problematics of this phenomenon here. However, we want to create awareness of how unreflexive use of the term may, ironically, reproduce the fiction of racialized biological and cultural differences on which the wartime project of “ethnic cleansing” centered. See R. Hayden 2008 in for critical discussion of the Srebrenica genocide, and D. Stone, ed. 2008 for historiography of genocide.

[iii] Men were more often killed outright, while women—Muslim women in particular—were targets of sexual violence. The United Nations estimates that as many as 60,000 women were victims of wartime rape (see D. Žarkov 2007 for critical discussion). Despite the ICTY (International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia) holding the first ever trial charging rape as a war crime, there is scant public recognition of this gendered violence. While I documented multiple memorials to the thousands of men massacred during the wars, the only public recognition of wartime rape I witnessed was at an event held on Capitol Hill organized by my co-author Elmina on International Women's Day in 2009, and by Bosnian writer Aleksandar Hemon at a 2010 memorial in Chicago.

[iv] Bosniaks are Bosnian Muslims who trace their conversion to Islam to 15th c. Ottoman occupation and subsequent administration of Bosnia (Sorabji 1988). See Hromadžić (2012) for an in-depth discussion of Yugoslav-era racial/ethnic categories including narodi, narodnosti, etnicke grupe. 

[v] The International Court of Justice (ICJ) has ruled that genocide was committed in Srebrenica in July of 1995 Radislav Krstić was the first person to be convicted of genocide in Srebrenica at the International Criminal Tribunal for former Yugoslavia (ICTY). Radovan Karadžić was convicted of genocide in Srebrenica.

Rethinking Home: A Powerful Look at Return Migration via Film →

Contributed by Tatyana Kleyn, The City College of New York and Director & Producer of Una Vida, Dos Países (One Life, Two Countries) 

Una Vida, Dos Países: Children and Youth (Back) in Mexico is a 30 minute documentary film with free educator resources that explores the experiences of US-born or raised students who have spent all or most of their lives in the US and returned with their family to Oaxaca, Mexico. The film is a rich teaching tool for conversations in schools about immigration and identity. To read a recent New York Times article featuring the film, please click here.

“We drove for four days through California, New Mexico and Arizona to get to the El Paso, Texas border [with Mexico]. There I spent my last moments in the US. I turned around and said, ‘I will be back, I don’t know when, but it’s a promise.’ I took my last breath on that side of the border and turned around, leaving not just friends and family, but a life I will never forget.”

— Melchor, 17 years old

Photo credits: Ben Donnellon

People from all over the world dream about migration to the United States for “a better life.”  Some receive permission from the US government to immigrate, in the form of a green card or visa.  Others cross into the country without papers when it is nearly impossible for them to attain the required permission.  Currently, there are more than 11 million people in the US who are unauthorized and are the topic of contentious immigration debates in our country.  Melchor (quoted above) and his family belonged to this subcategory of migrants during their 10 years in the US.  

While we hear a lot about immigrants coming to the US, less is known about what happens when they leave.  The discourse is often around deportations and the rising numbers of individuals the government forces to return to their country of origin.  However, other families who are in the US without papers find that circumstances related to living undocumented also force them to return.  This phenomenon reminds us that migration is not a linear process, but a cyclical one.

Photo credits: Ben Donnellon

Aside from deportations, there are a range of reasons families make the difficult decision to return.  These include reuniting with elderly family members they have not seen in years (or those their children have not even met); medical issues that require long-term healthcare that undocumented immigrants cannot access in most states in the US; discrimination via state policies that prohibit undocumented immigrants from accessing drivers licenses, college education, or financial aid; racism and xenophobia that many immigrants of color face on a regular basis; and the economic struggles of supporting a family while living in the shadows and being exploited of by the labor system.  

In order to share the stories of these returned families, and to focus on their US born and raised children, I was part of a team with Ben Donnellon, William Perez and Rafael Vásquez that created a short documentary to delve into these phenomena.   Una Vida, Dos Países: Children and Youth (Back) in Mexico explores how elementary and secondary students struggle with their identity, language learning and loss, and schooling.  The film shows some of the benefits of being “back,” such as meeting grandparents and enjoying delicious fresh Mexican food, but it also shares the challenges that returning youth face - fitting in, using Spanish for academic purposes, communicating with family who speak indigenous languages, and the economic struggles that make education an obstacle for them.  

The goals of the film are to raise awareness about this growing population of students, some of whom are dual US and Mexican citizens.  The film is also accompanied by a Spanish-English bilingual curriculum for secondary schools in the US, Mexico and beyond.  The lessons prepare the students to watch the film and to delve deeper into the areas of identity, language, economics and policies. 

A resource guide for educators in Mexico, whose students cross literal and figurative borders throughout their lives, also accompanies the documentary. These include the most obvious border, the artificial division between the US and Mexico, in addition to borders that are crossed from one state to another while living in the US.  Another border students cross daily is languages, such as English, Spanish, and, in the case of some of the families in the film, Zapotec (an indigenous language spoken in certain parts of Mexico).  These students also cross cultural borders as well as those across school systems.  For all these reasons I use Lynn Stephen’s (2007) term transborder to describe them. 

A group of transborder high school students, who call themselves “The New Dreamers,” meet to discuss the realities and challenges of being back in Mexico. Photo credits: Ben Donnellon

That these students are now (back) in Mexico does not mean that is where they will stay.  Those who are dual citizens of the US and Mexico, (if they were born in the US to at least one Mexican citizen parent), can freely travel between the two nations as long as their documentation is up to date.  Many who were undocumented in the US still see that country as their home, and many hope to return.  However, applying and receiving papers or re-crossing countries’ borders without authorization are tremendously costly and difficult for Mexicans.  But regardless of where they will be in the future - the US, Mexico or another nation - they bring with them a wealth of resources. including their multilingualism, cross-cultural capabilities and in-depth understanding of how national and transnational policies – or the absence of them – impacts people at the most human level.  

The film and accompanying resources can be accessed via: www.unavidathefilm.com. For additional updates on the film, screenings and the transborder students, join us on Facebook and Twitter. The film and resources were funded by the US-Mexico Foundation.

This blog was originally published on the American Immigration Council’s Education blog, Teach Immigration on March 28, 2016.  The American Immigration Council’s Education Department strives to promote a better understanding of immigrants and immigration by providing educational resources that inspire thoughtful dialogue, creative teaching and critical thinking. Please click here for more information.

Child Protection or Security Agendas? NGOs address the Syrian Refugee Crisis in Lebanon

by Estella Carpi and Chiara Diana

     In the wake of the massive influx of refugees from Syria to Lebanon (2011-2014), some international NGOs have intervened in specific regions of Lebanon to prevent Lebanese and Syrian youth from “radicalizing” themselves and joining armed groups. In the presence of security and political risks, these NGOs play a sizable role in territories that often become destinations for refugees and migrants. We recognize their work as an effort to “neutralize” social spaces by stifling any factor causing local instability. 
     In this framework, youth quickly come to be addressed as objects of concern but rarely as subjects of decision-making and aware action. Our study seeks to unpack international NGOs’ discourses about children’s vulnerability and protection, which are generally formulated according to universalized conceptions of childhood. This research is aimed at understanding the space between global security agendas, child protection, and humanitarian action. Finally, our study shows the controversial character of humanitarian agencies that alternate between depoliticizing younger generations and complying with the social order established by local power holders.

Armed young boy in the Syrian War

Syria’s conflict is impacting neighboring countries in myriad ways. Since the conflict started in 2011 as a result of several anti-government street protests and the consequent heavy shelling of the opposition areas, more than one million Syrians fleeing violence and political persecution arrived in Lebanon. Among these Syrians are those who are registered with United Nations High Commission for Refugees (UNHCR) and in search of social and legal protection.

Refugee influxes are generally considered to pose diverse challenges, ranging from the political to the socio-economic. Here, we choose to focus on the humanitarian programs meant to prevent North Lebanon-based children from joining armed groups currently combating in Syria. An example of these is Disarmament–Demobilization–Reintegration programs (DDRs) directed by international NGOs at 15-18 year-old youth. These programs target childhood in a bid to avert suitable conditions for armament.

Through ethnographic research, semi-structured interviews with two large international NGOs, and in-depth interviews with local residents (both Syrians and Lebanese) in North Lebanon, our study primarily focuses on the Akkar region and the city of Tripoli.

Child protection map of north Lebanon

The research we are presently conducting unpacks international NGOs’ discourses about children’s vulnerability and protection, discourses formulated according to universalized conceptions of childhood. It also demonstrates the controversial character of humanitarian agencies that alternate between depoliticizing young generations and complying with the social order established by local power holders.

 Informal refugee camp next to the Syrian border. 'Akkar (North Lebanon), 2013. Photo taken by Estella Carpi.

A number of international NGOs[1] attempt to dissuade children who resettled in Lebanon from joining combating factions - especially the several armed Syrian opposition brigades—while prompting their families to send them to school and lead a “decent life.” Some of these NGOs provide vocational training to 14 and 15 year-old teenagers who dropped out of school in an attempt to discourage them from joining armed factions. “If the youth have education and professional skills, they won’t fear for their income and they won’t feel hopeless. That’s how they end up warring or even becoming suicide bombers,” an NGO worker affirmed during an interview.

Similarly, another international NGO offers common school programs to Syrians and Lebanese children and youth, as the education and overall future of both communities are jeopardized. Indeed, young men from both nationalities are in fact recruited in takfiri (Salafi ideology) armed groups combating in Syria. As “beneficiaries,” both Syrian and Lebanese children do not need to be “infantilized,” that is to say, emptied of their political afflatus. In any situation of conflict and violence, they are always defensible since they are presumed to never have individual viewpoints. While here we are not promoting practices which would simply place blame on children and youth, we rather seek to highlight that the youth are the easiest vessels of humanitarian sympathy and generosity (Rieff 2002: 26), and this belief often leads to the humanitarian misconceptions of childhood that we will illustrate below.

Informal refugee camp next to the Syrian border. 'Akkar (North Lebanon), 2013. Photo taken by Estella Carpi.

Although the Syrian government criminalized the recruitment of children by armed forces and non-institutional groups in 2013, such legal protection measures continue to be disregarded by all warring sides. As mentioned above, employment is considered the most effective dissuasive factor to avoid war recruitment. As a 2015 livelihoods assessment indicates (Save the Children and UNICEF 2015), families are struggling to meet their basic needs and feel they have no other alternative than putting their children to work, marrying off their daughters, and allowing their children to join armed groups. Moreover, official work permits are unlikely to be obtained nowadays for the Syrians who have relocated to neighboring nations. Without work permits, those working illegally risk imprisonment, fines, return to refugee camps, or even deportation to Syria. In addition, some children live in areas without functioning schools, as they have mostly been bombed by the Asad military aviation. Joining an armed group remains one of their few available options (HRW 2014: 2).

Nevertheless, it seems to be quite difficult to gather reliable and detailed information about recruitment efforts inside Syria and in the neighboring countries. Indeed, war recruitment is a strategy that is inherent neither to Jihadist groups nor to Lebanon. For instance, in the Kurdistan region of Iraq, a child labor assessment found that 30% of children interviewed had been approached for recruitment (UNICEF 2014). Therefore, in the whole region affected by the Syrian crisis, joining presents benefits to children. Children who join armed groups can in fact receive monthly salaries of up to US$400. Others participate without pay in order to join family members or friends, or because they have suffered on a personal level at the hands of one of the warring parties and desire to exact revenge.

There is also very limited information about the willingness of children and young boys to join and serve armed groups in Syria today. However, generally, it has been noted that many children and adolescents are abducted and conscripted at an early stage. They latter turn into loyal fighters (Depuy and Peters 2010: 67). Likewise, young people recruited by government forces, or informal groups of government-affiliated thugs–Asad’s shabbiha in Syria—are often told that they are protecting their families and homes against “terrorists” who oppose the government. In this sense, indoctrination in governmental armed groups becomes a continuation and expansion of state propaganda.

Children militarily recruited by the “Islamic State”

Reflecting media biases, international NGOs likewise maintain a number of misconceptions about the children they aim to serve. In fact, Syrian refugee children are homogeneously represented as vulnerable. They are quickly classified as innocent victims and impartial, with little opinion about the current conflict. More specifically, according to the analysis we have conducted so far, the misconceptions of the international NGOs are threefold. The first misconception resides in the definition of childhood and child vulnerability, influencing how need and aid are imagined. Indeed, the translation of “vulnerability” variously refers to local conceptions and ways of being addressed in Lebanon. “Vulnerable people” in Lebanon are often referred to with the expression “mustad’afun,” which literally means “the weakened.” This particularly stresses the political agentivity behind the low status and miserable condition of the individual. In other words, individuals are not weak per se, but they have been weakened by historical processes, usually started by political foes.

The second misconception of the international NGO apparatus lies in the standardization of age-focused individual rights and social categories as a result of a universalization of western cultural standards. Indeed, childhood is not approached as a relative process that varies according to culture and context, but rather as a fixed age range.

Thirdly, the NGOs addressing children tend to view regional sectarianism and violence as innate characteristics of Lebanon and Syria and as the very cause of conflict, thereby ignoring the territorial political issues and their connections to the whole region. Nevertheless, the lack of a constructive sense of citizenship and engaged civic participation are certainly not to be blamed on the international NGOs’ action per se, but rather on the longstanding state abandonment and state hostility in the northern Lebanese region, in addition to the widespread use of violence as an instrument to pursue political goals and elitist privileges.

NGO language and implementation strategies thus largely influence and reify the category of “children in need,” who, in the Lebanese context, are merely associated with war and displacement. In brief, youth quickly come to be addressed in terms of objects of concern and rarely subjects of decision-making and aware action.

Syrian primary school for refugee children, Tripoli (North Lebanon). Photo taken by Estella Carpi, 2013.

As our current analysis indicates, the international NGOs that operate in North Lebanon believe they can act in a social void, one in which armament and recruitment are regarded and addressed as motivated simply by the ongoing conflict in Syria and hardly ever correlated to longstanding social rifts and unresolved political issues–sometimes not associable with community frictions–which concern the local residents to greater extent.

From a local perspective, the children who join the activities promoted by these NGOs are not viewed in the same way as those exposed to higher risk of being recruited or voluntarily recruiting. According to the in-depth interviews that we conducted thus far with Tripoli’s residents connected to armed groups in Syria, the families whose children join the international NGOs’ activities are generally affluent or plugged in international networks. This local perception is noteworthy, as it illustrates how non-beneficiaries view addressed vulnerability as an empowered condition, as the privileged social status of some social groups. The parents collaborating with these NGOs are therefore believed as unwilling to send their children to fight, not being themselves prone to political violence. 

On the one hand, our interlocutors have so far expressed perplexity about the external–essentially “western”–way of conducting studies on this issue. In an interview conducted in Tripoli, two Lebanese, ‘Abdallah and Walid, recounted, “international NGOs lack direct access to local communities, and end up addressing families that are not much prone to let their children fight in Syria and that have not been politically oppressed. How can they imagine having tangible results?”
On the other hand, the local interviewees who were neither addressed nor approached by international NGOs highlighted how their children were not “manipulated” to undertake violence for the parental cause, but rather they reasserted that childhood is integral part of the parental effort to implement local and regional social justice. The recruitment of young boys in armed groups, across Lebanon as elsewhere, is a product of much complex social factors which are not simply associable with “evil adult recruiters” or structural features. While international law wants to see adults as conveyers of an inherently and unchangeably “violent culture,” it aprioristically tackles children as unaware perpetrators and objects of manipulation (Rosen 2010: 50), therefore detachable from the local predominant culture and society in which they grow up. To the same extent, these international NGOs tend to believe that the institutional and cultural environments they are able to provide structurally enable children to start a better life, or at least protect them against armed violence on a sustainable basis.

While international humanitarianism is unlikely to see any act of the child as an expression of local culture and therefore “blameless,” the violence of adults is deemed as inherent to the cultural pattern at hand. This marks the epistemological contradiction which underlies the NGO efforts to foster an unconditioned primary depoliticization of children in North Lebanon. At the antipodes of a conception of childhood as politically engaged and aware beyond their exposition to war recruitment, international human rights protectors are overlooking a much more needed protection for children exposed to state and non-state terrorist attacks in schools and public spaces. This clearly points to a close correlation between child recruitment prevention and the generalized concerns of international security apparatuses. Our study will provide insights on how such global politics concerns are addressable through the ongoing NGOization of Lebanon.

Works Cited

Depuy, K. E., Peters, K. (2010) War and Children. A Reference Handbook, Santa Barbara, CA: Praeger Security International, in the Contemporary Military, Strategic, and Security Issues.

Human Rights Watch (2014) Maybe We Live, and Maybe We Die. Retrieved from: https://www.hrw.org/report/2014/06/22/maybe-we-live-and-maybe-we-die/recruitment-and-use-children-armed-groups-syria

Rieff, D. (2002) A Bed for the Night: Humanitarianism in Crisis. With an Afterword on Iraq, New York City, NY: Simon & Schuster Publishers.

Rosen, D. M. (2010) “Social Change and the Legal Construction of Child Soldier Recruitment in the Special Court for Sierra Leone”, in Childhood in Africa, an Interdisciplinary Journal, Issue 1, Vol. 2, p. 48-57.

Save the Children and UNICEF (July 2, 2015) Small Hands, Heavy Burden. How the Syria Conflict is Driving More Children into the Workforce. Retrieved from: http://reliefweb.int/sites/reliefweb.int/files/resources/RS102356_CHILD%20LABOUR%20%285%29_low.pdf.

UNICEF (2014) Assessment of the Situation of Child Labor among Syrian Refugee Children in the Kurdistan Region of Iraq.

Estella Carpi is presently a Research Fellow at Lebanon Support (Beirut) and a Research Consultant for the New York University (Abu Dhabi). She received her PhD in Social Anthropology from the University of Sydney (Australia), with a research project on the social response to humanitarian assistance in Beirut’s southern suburbs and in the Akkar villages (Lebanon). In the past she also worked as a researcher at Trends Research & Advisory - Abu Dhabi, the United Nations Development Program (UNDP) – Cairo, and the International Development Research Center (IDRC) – Cairo, mostly focusing on social development, welfare, NGOs, and humanitarian emergencies in the Middle East. She has lectured extensively in the Social Sciences in Italy, Lebanon, and Australia. After studying Arabic in Milan and Damascus (2002-2007), she wrote her MPhil dissertation in Linguistic Anthropology on the everyday speech in contemporary Lebanon (2008). To access all her publications: https://nyuad.academia.edu/ESTELLACARPI.

Chiara Diana is a Research Associate for the French Center for Economic, Juridical, Social Studies and Documentation (CEDEJ, Egypt). In 2015, she received her PhD in History from the Institute for Research and Studies on Arab and Muslim World (IREMAM) and the Aix-Marseille University (France). Her thesis research is a socio-history of social and political construction of childhood in Egypt during the Mubarak era (1981-2011). In the past, she taught at the Aix-Marseille University and the University of Sorbonne Nouvelle (Paris). Her current research interests include childhood and youth in Arab countries, activism and political socialization of young generations in revolutionary, post-revolutionary and conflict contexts. Her latest work is entitled “Children’s Citizenship: Revolution and the Seeds of an Alternative Future in Egypt” in Herrera Linda (ed.) and Sakr Rehab, Wired Citizenship: Youth Learning and Activism in the Middle East. New York: Routledge (2014). To access her publications: https://univ-amu.academia.edu/ChiaraDiana.

[1]The NGOs included in the present study will remain anonymous in order to protect the identity of their beneficiaries and their specific territories of intervention.

“The Stress Along the Way”: Medicalization and Transit Migration

by Kristin Yarris and Heide Castañeda

This month, Youth Circulations features a series of conversations between two migration scholars, Heide Castañeda (University of South Florida) and Kristin Yarris (University of Oregon). In this series, Drs. Castañeda and Yarris creatively and critically examine representations of the circulation of Central American and Mexican migrants through what they describe as "a zone of transit" in Western Mexico. Their research is funded by The Wenner Gren Foundation for Anthropological Research, and is a collaboration with Dr. Juan Manuel Mendoza of the Universidad Autonoma de Sinaloa.

Kristin Yarris: 

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Several participants in our project on Transit Migration through Mexico’s Pacific Route recently attended a workshop offered by two organizers with Doctors without Borders-Mexico (Médicos sin Fronteras, or MSF). While MSF doesn’t have a field site where we work, they do partner with migrant shelters--particularly those in the south and north of Mexico-- where they attend to the physical and mental health needs of migrants traveling through Mexico to “El Norte,” or the USA. In our field site, during this workshop, MSF was seeking to train local NGO staff and others working to protect the health and safety of migrants in transit, teaching people to recognize the signs of mental distress, and discussing appropriate responses.

Unlike the rhetoric dominating U.S. media during the current political cycle, which portrays migrants as criminals, “rapists” and drug traffickers, anthropological fieldwork shows that Central Americans traveling north through Mexico are highly vulnerable. These are people fleeing extreme conditions of poverty, violence and failed states and traveling with few possessions other than the clothes they are wearing and the few pesos they manage to carry in their pockets (Vogt 2013). MSF’s humanitarian assistance thus becomes essential and life-saving for migrants in transit through Mexico-- especially along the tracks of freight trains used as transportation, where migrants suffer traumas including falls, limb loss, rape and sexual assault, robbery, and extortion.

The images here are from a brochure distributed during the MSF workshop described above, which was held in August, 2015. What I find provocative in these images is the way the pamphlet transforms the violence and extremity of transit into a medicalized version of suffering: “estrés” (stress). My concern is that medicalizing transit violence and its mental health effects as “stress" risks shifting our gaze away from the sociopolitical dimensions of migrant suffering. Further, medicalization individualizes both psychosocial distress and the responsibility to respond to it. “Stress”, in particular, whether in U.S. or Mexican popular discourse, also implies an orientation to the individual sufferer, who must “manage stress”, as part of our responsibilities as neoliberal subjects.

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These critiques of the medicalization of suffering are not new. Indeed, medical anthropologists have exposed how the individuation of harm reduction responses may save lives but do little to alleviate social suffering (Garcia 2010) and may exacerbate conditions of extremity (Jenkins 2015).  When I look across the images in MSF’s brochure– of migrants jumping across moving train cars, lying on the side of train tracks, or sharing a cigarette while ostensibly waiting to jump onto a moving train – and compare these images of danger and risk to the professionalized stress language contained in the bullet-points of text – “What is Stress? A physiological response we have when we perceive life’s demands as overly-difficult” – I perceive a troubling disconnect between medical discourse and migrant reality. And yet, I am able to critique this brochure from an academic distance, as I’m not currently in the field but instead sitting comfortably behind my laptop screen, analyzing images. So, I’m left with an unsettled feeling, both troubled by medicalization but also mindful of the crucial role MSF and similar humanitarian NGOs play in providing “primeros auxilios psicológicos” (“psychological first aid”) to migrants in transit, which can indeed be essential to migrants’ survival through a perilous journey.  

Heide Castañeda:

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As Kristin points out, the images and text in the MSF pamphlet medicalize the violence and extremity inherent in the migrant journey, transforming it into a form of suffering called “estrés” (stress).  This occurs not only in the Mexican context; we have seen similar discourses about the mental health consequences of migratory transit in relation to Syrian refugees entering Europe. For the non-migrant viewer of the images, the individualization of this psychosocial distress onto migrant bodies works to remove any political imperative or ethical responsibility to respond. 

What strikes me also is that pathologizing the suffering that accompanies transiting from one place to another assumes that there is something abnormal about migration, or that it is somehow a new phenomenon. In fact, mobility has been a recurring feature of human populations across time and space, yet migration is still often discussed as if it were unusual. Time and again we encounter political and public debates that rely on an understanding of migration as abnormal. That migration is strange becomes “common sense.”

 At the same time, we of course recognize that this particular migration through Mexico – often but not always by Central Americans fleeing economic and political insecurity and underdevelopment – is particularly extreme. Not only are people migrating after having already suffered violences in their place of origin, but also travel along these routes is especially risky amidst harsh environmental conditions, dangerous modes of transportation, and interpersonal aggressions. In this case, MSF steps in where states fail and “do their best” despite the many critiques of short-sighted and depoliticized humanitarian aid. Indeed, MSF is among the few organizations that, despite observing neutrality and impartiality in the name of universal medical ethics, has also explicitly chosen to take a political stand for victims as part of their humanitarian efforts. 

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Many of the images here show the dangers of travel (by train or by flimsy raft). One interesting photo shows two men sharing a smoke – is this supposed to indicate tobacco or marijuana use, to cope with estrés?  Perhaps, but I also see in the image camaraderie, solidarity, and the opportunity to share about one’s experiences. Maybe I am too optimistic, but this underscores that a migratory journey is not always a negative thing, nor really a “thing” at all. It is instead a social process. 

Kristin Yarris:

I agree that we need to be cautious about the tendency to medicalize migration-related stress or pathologize migration itself. As Heide rightly points out, migration is a social process and has always been one. Yet, I am also mindful of the very real violence of the journey that undocumented Central Americans make through Mexico on their way (usually) to the U.S., what Janis Jenkins (2015) might call a condition of extremity. Where the Mexican and U.S. states fail to protect migrants, NGOs like MSF respond by providing medical services and care at various points along transit routes through Mexico. This work is vital, often life-saving, and I value and respect our MSF colleagues in the field. Still, the tone and message of the brochure is unsettling to me, both for the brochure's ambiguity and for the ambivalence I feel about medicalizing migrant stress.

One area of ambiguity regards the target audience of the brochure - who is meant to receive these messages and what action(s) are the messages meant to provoke? At first glance, the pamphlet seems directed towards migrants themselves, given the tone, language, and how-to type instructions. On one hand, it is difficult to imagine migrants sitting down and reading such a brochure, given the instability and insecurity of their journeys. However, we have indeed encountered Central American migrants as far north as Sinaloa clutching onto the maps and printed guides that NGOs distribute in the South of Mexico, in shelters in Chiapas and Oaxaca. During interviews with migrants in a shelter in Sinaloa, I have witnessed travel-tired men and women pulling folded pieces of glossy paper from their jeans pockets; their edges worn and tattered from weeks of transit, the brochures and maps still serve as helpful guides for migrants making crucial decisions about their next northward steps. I am made to wonder if the benefit of this type of brochure lies well beyond the content of the message it contains. In other words, I am coming to see how such brochures become material instantiations of humanitarian aid, small tokens of social support – reminding migrants that, despite the dangers and marginalities of transit, they matter, they are cared for, and their lives have value. 

Works Cited

Garcia, A., 2010. The pastoral clinic: Addiction and dispossession along the Rio Grande. University of California Press.

Jenkins, J.H., 2015. Extraordinary conditions: Culture and experience in mental illness. University of California Press.

Vogt, W.A., 2013. Crossing Mexico: Structural violence and the commodification of undocumented Central American migrants. American Ethnologist, 40(4), pp.764-780.

Kristin Yarris is Assistant Professor of International Studies at the University of Oregon. Her research and teaching focus on global health, global mental health, migration, kinship and care.

Heide Castañeda is Associate Professor in the Department of Anthropology at the University of South Florida. Her research lies at the intersection of cultural and medical anthropology and focuses on migrant health, constructions of citizenship, and how policy and legal institutions shape everyday experiences of immigrant communities. Current projects focus on: mixed-status families along the US/Mexico border; transit migration in Sinaloa, Mexico; effects of healthcare policies on immigrant communities; and immigrant youth movements in Texas and Florida. 

Visualizing Risk and Potential: Migrants in Zones of Transit

This month, Youth Circulations features a series of conversations between two migration scholars, Heide Castañeda (University of South Florida) and Kristin Yarris (University of Oregon). Drs. Castañeda and Yarris creatively and critically examine representations of the circulation of Central American and Mexican migrants through what they describe as a zone of transit in Western Mexico. Their research is funded by The Wenner Gren Foundation for Anthropological Research, and is a collaboration with Dr. Juan Manuel Mendoza, of the Universidad Autonoma de Sinaloa.

by Heide Castañeda, PhD and Kristin Yarris, PhD

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Heide Castañeda:

The image selected here portrays a woman and a young child on a ladder attached to a train. The boy seems to pause as he looks up towards her, while the camera captures the woman’s leg movement as, the caption reveals, she climbs onto a train. Without this detail, the viewer might assume they are disembarking. The viewer is drawn to the pair through the framing of the shot, with the length of the train extending into the distance in one direction and the ladder in another. The two people are foregrounded against the bare, geometric metal lines. The photographer also hints that this is a freight rather than a passenger train:  there are no windows from which passengers gaze; the metal frame is dirty, scuffed, and utilitarian; and on the lower left, a set of numbers with a meaning indecipherable to anyone but railroad employees. These numbers do not reference the human cargo depicted in the photograph. The landscape through which the train runs is unremarkable, neither welcoming nor foreboding – some trees, a sign, a utility line. The setting could be anywhere. While the pair is traveling – they are on a train, after all – they do not carry anything beyond the woman’s small purse. Their clothing is clean, casual, and everyday. 

An image, however, does not hold meaning a priori outside its relation to the viewer, who must fill in the missing information to make sense of it. Often, this is done using social conventions: Is the woman the child’s mother? She must be, the viewer might reason, since she appears to be the age of a parent, female, and clearly accompanying a young boy. The viewer might assume that a mother would not leave her child behind, nor let him travel alone, and thus the two journey together. The boy looks up at her, as if to say, I trust you, I will follow you. 

At other times, the viewer makes meaning though circulating public and media discourses: Are these two individuals fleeing northward to the U.S. from Central America?  The viewer might guess their origins based on their appearance, though the two-dimensional image masks other clues like the language they are speaking. A viewer might surmise that because they are hopping onto a train, that their origin was one of the so-called “Northern Triangle” countries of Honduras, El Salvador, or Guatemala.  Because of the flurry of news reports and public debates in the U.S. regarding a humanitarian “crisis,” border securitization, and refugee policy beginning in the summer of 2014, the viewer has likely heard or seen reports about women and children’s desperate and dangerous travels northward, often atop trains. Perhaps the viewer has encountered explanations about the circumstances from which they are fleeing. The circulation of visual representations, such as the one offered here, also have a broader social impact as part of such news reports, invoking and evoking an emotional response in the viewer.

Kristin Yarris: 

I appreciate Heide’s attention to detail in this photograph, particularly the way she calls the viewer’s eye to the relationship between the boy and the woman and likewise invites us to consider how social and political discourse surrounding the Central American migration “crisis” filters our response to this image. My response to this photograph occurs on several levels. First, I consider the photographer her or himself.  What is the role of the U.S. media, of photographers and journalists working for outlets such as the New York Times, in providing not only coverage of the movement of people across borders, but also an explanation as to why people migrate? In the historical moment we find ourselves in the U.S. today, when xenophobia and social exclusion seem to shade our responses to displaced persons; the potential role of the media in contextualizing the motives for migration, and in humanizing migrants themselves, seems more crucial and essential than ever.

I recall recently viewing a YouTube video making the rounds of social networking sites. Produced by Mexican human rights activists, the video was a comedic critique of journalists rushing to cover the “story” of Central American migration through Mexico. The clip compellingly satires journalists who sell images and narratives to media outlets and who draw attention to themselves as much as to the human suffering they are presumably attempting to portray. This video critique shapes my response to this image. I wonder: How many similar images circulate; how familiar has this image become, and will this familiarity result in a loss of empathy for migrant suffering? These questions push me to ponder my own role, as a researcher and U.S.-based academic, in portraying and analyzing Central American migration through Mexico. I am cognizant of how my own research reflects and may reinforce negative attention or response to migrants’ plight, and that it is my responsibility to work against this. At the same time, in the classroom, I have seen how my sharing of stories similar to the one told in this image effectively sensitizes students’ comprehension of the risks of migration, the desperation of migrants, and the responsibility to respond in humanitarian ways. 

On another level, my response to this photo is to probe further our assumptions about the relationship between the woman and the boy. What if they are not mother and son? What if they are, like many migrants we meet in zones of transit in Mexico, “fictive kin,” people making kinship or relatedness through the trials and tribulations of transit itself (Ibsen and Klobus 1972, Carsten 2004), violence and the threat of violence pushing co-nationals or even strangers to claim relatedness in attempts at self-protection and preservation of life of self and other? Should our response to migrants, our inclusion or exclusion of them in our social body, depend upon whether they are “real” kin or “really” deserving or “truly” portraying the reasons for their flight?

“Images have equal or greater potential to pacify as they do to persuade.”

Photographic images can be powerful in shaping human understanding. As we saw with the photograph of Alan Kurdi, a Syrian boy killed at sea while seeking refuge in Europe, some images come to have iconic power, shaping a movement in public opinion and garnering a political response. And yet, I remain somewhat cynical about the potential power of the visual image or video, largely given its ubiquity in contemporary online culture. Images have equal or greater potential to pacify as they do to persuade. 

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My thoughts shift to the risks of photographs. One of our interlocutors in Sinaloa is a local woman who voluntarily prepares and provides meals for dozens of migrants each day, carrying them in her personal car to the side of the railway where she and the other volunteers she organizes hand out hot food in plastic cups to migrants riding the trains. This woman has been explicit with us that we are not to take any photos of her and her work, for she wishes to remain anonymous, an informal humanitarian, off the radar of NGO networks and international researchers.  In part, her concerns are for her safety, as she has been threatened by neighbors for “bringing criminals” into the community and by migration authorities for “abetting unauthorized migration.” In some ways, the risks she faces make her humanitarian work all the more impressive. And yet, as she resists documenting her efforts, I simultaneously recognize the power of images as tools for teaching and deepening understanding and humanitarian response, particularly important – as Heide points out – in contexts of political polarization like that in which we find ourselves in the U.S.

Heide Castañeda: 

I agree wholeheartedly that we must be open to alternative explanations about the relationship between the woman and the child. In our own joint fieldwork on transit migration in the state of Sinaloa, Kristin and I have encountered such “fictive” – but no less precious – kinship relationships among people who journey together. These include aunts or cousins who may present themselves as a child’s mother to ensure protection, or people who were strangers only days before decide it would be safer and logistically more feasible to travel as “husband and wife.” We know that family reunification with parents and spouses already living in the U.S. is a strong driver for migration from Central America, and have heard reports of parents saving up to pay between $6,000 and $8,000 to have their children brought to them. Sometimes they travel in custody of other family members – an aunt, grandmother, sister-in-law, or cousin – or trusted acquaintances such as a neighbor or family friend. When money changes hands, this further complicates popular and legal notions of human smuggling: Here, we find intimate relationships to an extent commodified as smuggler/guides are often family members or hometown acquaintances. Yet even when payment is not involved, we must be careful not to assume – especially in the context of migration – that care practices occur only within the nuclear family.  Still, if apprehended while entering the U.S., children will be separated from anyone who is not a parent or legal guardian and placed in the care and custody of the Office of Refugee Resettlement. 

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The broader issue Kristin raises is that many Americans simply are not familiar enough with the circumstances that lead people migrate. This naturally shapes their responses and potential calls to action. The push factors driving Central American migration to the U.S. include economic and political insecurity, violence, and underdevelopment. The failure of our politicians to achieve meaningful immigration reform has exacerbated this situation, since family-based petitions for legal status remain out of reach for most Central Americans already living in the U.S., leaving parents and their children few choices other than risking the dangers of migration. 

This is why photography is a powerful medium: It permits not only the documentation of the risks and desperations associated with migration, but in offering a human portrait of the journey, can provoke a sense of obligation to respond in meaningful ways. As the Department of Homeland Security currently enacts a series of raids targeting hundreds of Central American families, this issue must not be a convenient pawn in the political games of an election year. The circumstances spurring migration have not changed. People must be treated as refugees seeking protection and given meaningful access to due process provisions that exist under U.S. and international refugee law. 

Works Cited

Carsten, Janet. 2004. After Kinship. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Charles A. Ibsen and Patricia Klobus 1972. Fictive Kin Term Use and Social Relationships: Alternative Interpretations Author(s): Reviewed work(s): Source: Journal of Marriage and Family, Vol. 34, No. 4 (Nov., 1972), pp. 615-620 National Council on Family Relations

Heide Castañeda is Associate Professor in the Department of Anthropology at the University of South Florida. Her research lies at the intersection of cultural and medical anthropology and focuses on migrant health, constructions of citizenship, and how policy and legal institutions shape everyday experiences of immigrant communities. Current projects focus on: mixed-status families along the US/Mexico border; transit migration in Sinaloa, Mexico; effects of healthcare policies on immigrant communities; and immigrant youth movements in Texas and Florida. 

Kristin Yarris is Assistant Professor of International Studies at the University of Oregon. Her research and teaching focus on global health, global mental health, migration, kinship and care.

A Primer for Governors: Legal and humanitarian repercussions of shutting borders to Syrian refugees

by: Anita Maddali, Esq.

Director of Clinics and Associate Professor of Law, Northern Illinois University

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In response to the terrorist attacks in Paris, 34 U.S. governors have issued statements indicating that their states will not accept Syrian refugees.  Some intend to put a hold on allowing the government to resettle Syrian refugees within their states until the federal government’s screening process is vetted.  These same governors are asking the Senate Majority Leader and the House Speaker to include a provision in the spending bill to prohibit the admission of Syrian refugees.  

The Paris attacks have also created a platform for presidential candidates to make claims in which they align themselves on the side of safety, national security and a Christian ideology. Jeb Bush recently announced that he would only grant refugee status to Syrian Christians.  Mike Huckabee insisted that Paul Ryan should “lead and reject the importation of those fleeing the Middle East” or “step down” if he fails to do so. Reflecting earlier eras of xenophobia and gatekeeping in the U.S., these statements not only misrepresent actual domestic refugee processes, but they additionally ignore the United States’ obligations and commitment to accept refugees under domestic and international law. They likewise perpetuate an inaccurate and violent image of refugees themselves: According to the Migration Policy Institute, of the 784,000 refugees resettled in the United States since 2001, only 3 have been accused of terrorism-related activities, two of whom were not planning attacks in the States and a third whose plans were described as “barely credible.”  

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Turning away refugees ignores the human face of suffering. More than half of the four million Syrian refugees who have been forced to flee Syria because of violence and terror within their country are women and children. These are people who desire and desperately need safety, security and peace for themselves and their loved ones. The very purpose of refugee law is to provide these things. Should we follow these governors’ actions and turn Syrian refugees away, then we as a nation are ignoring our obligations under both international and domestic law. We are responding to universal human needs with hate and fear rather than compassion.

To understand domestic and international law relating to refugees, some history is required. In 1948, the United States passed Displaced Persons Legislation (1). Under this legislation, the U.S. was to accept only 100,000 persons over a two-year period. Significantly, these individuals had to be registered as displaced on December 22, 1945—effectively excluding those displaced persons, primarily Jews, who entered camps for displaced persons in 1946 and 1947 (Divine 1972: 120 cited in Rodriguez and Legomsky 2015: 906). President Truman and others declared the legislation insufficient, stating that it reflected a restrictionist and anti-Semetic response. In 1950 Congress amended the Act, thereby permitting the admission of more than 400,000 refugees, including those who had been displaced prior to January 1, 1949 (Rodriguez and Legomsky 2015).

In 1950 the United Nations established the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR) to assist with the resettlement of the one million refugees displaced by the war.  A year later, the United Nations adopted the Convention Relating to the Status of Refugees, which included the international definition of a refugee (2).  The U.S. did not sign the 1951 Convention, but became a party to it when it acceded to the 1967 Protocol Relating to the Status of Refugees (3). The 1967 Protocol removed the geographic and time restrictions from the 1951 Convention, which had limited the definition of a refugee to those individuals who were fleeing persecution as a result of WWII.

Despite the United States’ accidence to the 1967 protocol, it did not have an adequate domestic mechanism for accepting refugees. When Congress passed the 1965 Immigration and Nationality Act, it created a system of preferences, including a seventh preference category for the admission of those who faced persecution and were fleeing either a “communist-dominated country” or a country “within the general area of the Middle East,” as well as anyone “uprooted by catastrophic natural calamity” (Goodwin-Gil and McAdam 2007: 426-427). The annual ceiling for admission under this category was 17,400, a number particularly inadequate to address the growing number of refugees fleeing war and genocide of the 1960s and 70s. Because of the insufficient allowances of the seventh category, the Attorney General frequently used his authority to parole groups of refugees into the United States, even though parole is really a device intended for providing temporary relief (Goodwin-Gil and McAdam 2007).

In 1980 Congress enacted the Refugee Act (4). The Act  is significant for three critical reasons. First, it modeled the refugee definition after that provided in the 1951 Convention (amended by the 1967 Protocol). Refugee status thus requires persecution or a well-founded fear of persecution on account of race, religion, nationality, membership in a particular social group, or political opinion” (5). Second, under the Act the President, after engaging in “appropriate consultation” with Congress, determines the annual admission of refugees. In other words, there are no numerical restrictions. Congress also authorizes the President to allocate additional slots for an “unforeseen emergency refugee situation” occurring after the annual allocation is determined (6). Third, the Act created the Office of Refugee Resettlement (ORR), within the Department of Health and Human Services.  ORR is responsible for administrating programs funded by the federal government throughout the U.S. to resettle refugees (7).

The Immigration Act directs the United States Refugee Admissions Program to designate areas of “special humanitarian concern to the United States in accordance with a determination made by the President after appropriate consultation” (8).  The current priority system is as follows:

• Priority 1 – Individual cases referred to the program by virtue of their circumstances and apparent need for resettlement;
• Priority 2 – Groups of cases designated as having access to the program by virtue of their circumstances and apparent need for resettlement;
• Priority 3 – Individual cases from designated nationalities granted access for purposes of reunification with family members already in the United States.

Today, there are approximately 19.5 million refugees worldwide, with over 14 million under the mandate of the UNHCR. Fifty-one percent of the world’s refugees are children.  In 2014, an average of 42,500 persons were forced to leave their home per day. The term “refugee” encompasses only those who are outside their country of nationality and does not include those who are internally displaced within their country (although the President of the United States can specify special circumstances in which a person could qualify for refugee status if still in her country of origin). For instance, of the 14 million refugees under UNHCR’s mandate, over four million are from Syria.  However, there are 7.6 million Syrians internally displaced within Syria who are not designated as refugees.

UNHCR is required to find “durable solutions” for refugees under its mandate. These include: 

Source: Syrian child asleep at the Hungary border.

1. Repatriation – working with the person’s country of origin to ensure a safe return – an option that has been increasingly unavailable. In 2014, approximately 126,800 refugees repatriated, which is the lowest number since 1983; 
2. Integration – integrating the individual into the host country; 
3. Resettlement – an option for those who cannot return home.  Approximately 28 nations, including the United States, provide resettlement under UNHCR’s third durable solution option. Importantly, less than one percent of the 14 million refugees are permanently resettled, and the U.S. typically accepts approximately half of those referred for resettlement.

The process of preparing a case for resettlement is long and extensive, and it frequently hinders quick resettlement in emergency situations. Most often, it is the UNHCR who refers a case for resettlement, but it can also be a U.S. embassy or an NGO.  There are nine Resettlement Support Centers (RSC) that are funded by the Department of State’s Bureau of Population, Refugees and Migration and exist throughout the world to receive and process these cases. RSCs collect biographic and other information necessary for the in-person interviews that the United States Citizenship and Immigration Service (USCIS) conducts with applicants. Cases are screened by the FBI and put through databases run by the Defense Department and other federal agencies. A person is checked for any grounds of inadmissibility, which would prohibit his or her admission.  It is approximately 18-24 months before an individual case is approved for resettlement within the United States.

Under his authority, President Obama allocated admission of 70,000 refugees for fiscal year 2015. This has been the allocated number for the past few years, but it’s important to note that in the past the number was much higher.  For instance, in fiscal year 1995 112,000 refugee admissions were authorized, and in 1991, the number was 132,000 (Rodriguez and Legomsky 2015: 912).  After the Vietnam War, 402,000 Vietnamese refugees were admitted.  At the same time, the number the President authorizes does not necessarily result in that number of refugees being admitted.  For example, 70,000 admissions were authorized for fiscal year 2002, but, as a response to 9/11 only 18,652 were admitted.  In 2003, 50,000 were authorized for admission, but only 25,329 were admitted.  Rodriguez and Legomsky 2015: 913.

Of the 70,000 refugees admitted into the United States during the 2014 fiscal year, only 249 were from Syria.  Since September 2015, the U.S. has accepted 1,854 Syrian refugees. In accordance with the Immigration and Nationality Act, President Obama announced that he would increase the 2015 allocation by 10,000, an amount that would derive from the 18,000 referrals submitted by the UNHCR.  More than half of these referrals are children.

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The restrictionist response to the Syrian refugee crisis is strikingly similar to the U.S.’ response toward Jewish refugees during World War II. In July 1938, 67% of Americans opposed admitting refugees.  In January 1939, Americans were polled and asked whether the government should permit bringing in 10,000 children – mostly Jewish – to the United States. Sixty-one percent said no.  In the spring of 1939, the Nazis allowed the SS St. Louis, a ship carrying European Jewish refugees, to leave Hamburg for Cuba. Nazis arranged to have corrupt Cuban officials deny their entry, even though they were granted visas. After being turned away from Cuba, the United States denied the ship’s entry as with President Roosevelt’s announcement that the U.S. was unable to accept more refugees because of immigration quotas. The ship eventually landed in Holland, and Great Britain, Holland, Belgium and France accepted the refugees. Ultimately, however, over 600 of the 937 passengers on that ship were eventually killed by the Nazis. In retelling this story, Professor Bill Ong Hing (2000: 590-591), notes “When the United States refused the S. Louis permission to land, many Americans were embarrassed; when the country discovered after the war what happened to the refugees, there was shame.”

Today, ISIS has forced millions of people to flee their homelands to escape its terror. Just as many of the Jewish refugees perished, so too might many of the refugees America now seeks to reject.  This has many humanitarian consequences, but it also has security ones, as well – a fact ignored by political pronouncements favoring the refusal of refugees.  “The alternative now to an open-door policy is to leave the Syrian refugees and their children festering in Middle Eastern camps, creating the radical armies of the future.” This does not make me feel safer. In fact, it makes me feel shame. 

I am reminded of the words of Palestinian-American poet Naomi Shihab Nye who calls us to transform human suffering, not into more fear and oppression, but into kindness:

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“Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,
you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.
You must wake up with sorrow.
You must speak to it till your voice
catches the thread of all sorrows
and you see the size of the cloth.
Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,
only kindness that ties your shoes
and sends you out into the day to gaze at bread,
only kindness that raises its head
from the crowd of the world to say
It is I you have been looking for,
and then goes with you everywhere
like a shadow or a friend.”

I call on all U.S. governors and their constituents to learn from history, to resist fear, and to transform the suffering of Syrian refugees into a life of hope in America. 

Citations

1. Act of June 25, 1948, Ch. 647, 62 Stat. 1009.

2. 189 U.N.T.S. 137.

3. 606 U.N.T.S. 267, 19 U.S.T. 6223, T.I.A.S. No. 6577.

4. Pub.L. 96-212, 94 Stat. 102 (March 17, 1980).

5. INA Section 101(a)(42).

6. INA Section 207.

7. See also INA Section 411.

8. INA Section 207(a)(3).

Works Cited

Divine, R. A. (1972). American immigration policy, 1924-1952 (Vol. 66). Perseus Books.

Guy S. Goodwin-Gill & Jane McAdam (2007). The Refugee in International Law (3d ed.): 426-27.

Hing, Bill Ong. "No Place for Angels: In Reaction to Kevin Johnson." University of Illinois Law Review (2000): 559.

Rodriguez and Legomsky. 2015. Immigration and Refugee Law and Policy, (6th ed).

Anita Ortiz Maddali is the Director of Clinics and Associate Professor of Law at the Northern Illinois University College of Law.  She writes about and teaches immigration law.  Prior to coming to NIU, she represented women and children who were fleeing violence and seeking asylum in the United States. She is a graduate of Northwestern University School of Law.

Beyond Trump: America's Dairyland and Multiple Regimes of Mobility

"...there is value in using Trump’s stumping as an entry point for understanding the powerful systems that regulate the movements of migrants..."

Julie C. Keller

Source: CNN

Speaking to a crowd of thousands of supporters in Dallas recently, Republican presidential candidate Donald Trump continued to vilify undocumented immigrants, declaring that the U.S. is the “dumping ground for the rest of the world”; that “they’re all over the place”; and “it’s disgusting what’s happening to our country.” Given Trump’s leading position in the polls among other GOP candidates, this inflammatory anti-immigrant rhetoric appears to be resonating strongly with many conservative voters, who he describes as the “silent majority.”  Trump’s plan for immigration reform, as outlined on his campaign website, includes the construction of a wall at the Southern border funded by Mexico, ending birthright citizenship, and imposing financial penalties for cities that do not cooperate with Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE).

Described by fellow Republican candidate Marco Rubio as a “freak show,” we could write off Donald Trump as merely a celebrity candidate pursuing a theatrical campaign for notoriety. We could refuse to engage with his platform. But there is value in using Trump’s stumping as an entry point for understanding the powerful systems that regulate the movements of migrants. For instance, Trump’s campaign rhetoric and his proposed policies are evidence of a particularly intensified version of what political sociologist Ronen Shamir (2005) refers to as a “global mobility regime,” one characterized by “the prevention of movement and the blocking of access” and “premised not only on ‘old’ national or local grounds but on a principle of perceived universal dangerous personhoods.” This apparent stance of absolute exclusion, however, contradicts the realities of neoliberalism, a system that depends upon the transnational movement of both capital and cheap, exploitable labor. Of course, when we set Trump’s fiery rhetoric against the narratives of migrants, we see an even more complicated relationship between inclusion and exclusion—particularly when it comes to mobility.

Source: Rick Wilking/REUTERS

Anthropologists and other social scientists have extended Shamir’s framework by emphasizing multiple regimes of mobility, a plurality that indicates that regimes “normalize the movements of some travellers while criminalizing and entrapping the ventures of others” (see, e.g. Glick Schiller and N. Salazar 2013). Adding to this line of inquiry, I ask: How are migrant workers entrapped in these mobility regimes? And, how do they push against them? To make sense of these multiple regimes of mobility, I draw on my transnational research from 2010 to 2012 with a population of Veracruzanos from Mexico who work on Wisconsin dairy farms. All but four of the 60 migrants I interviewed were men, and the average age of participants was 31 years old. Approximately half were young men under 30. How are migrant workers entrapped in these mobility regimes? And how do they push against them? The narratives below reveal the complex relationship between mobility and immobility, particularly for teen migrants whose stories are not often made central in the mobility scholarship. By examining multiple mobility regimes and migrants’ relationships to them, we contribute toward alternative narratives to counter the anti-immigrant rhetoric of Trump’s that has dominated the airwaves in recent months.

The Changing Dairy Industry in Wisconsin

Source: Randen Pederson, “Autumn Farm,” Creative Commons Attribution

Rising costs of production and lower milk prices have led many Wisconsin farmers on small and medium-sized operations—dairy farms with less than 100 cows, and between 100 and 499 cows, respectively—to expand their herd size. This pressure, paired with the perceived unreliability of local white Americans as milkers, and the emergence of new immigrant destinations, has resulted in a tremendous increase in low-wage immigrant workers on Wisconsin dairy farms in recent years. In 1999, immigrants made up just 5% of all hired dairy labor in the state. In 2008, sociologist Jill Harrison and colleagues (2009) conducted a survey of hired dairy workers in Wisconsin and estimated that immigrants made up over 40%. They found that the vast majority of immigrant dairy workers in Wisconsin come from Mexico, with the states of Veracruz and Guanajuato listed as the most common states of origin. Most of those who migrate to work on dairy farms are men, and 63% of the immigrant workers surveyed were married. Many are not legally authorized to work in the U.S. and have very few workplace protections.

From Mexico to America’s Dairyland, and Back

I met the Ximetl family through a relative of theirs, the owner of a restaurant in the village of Xoxotutla, a rural pueblo in the state of Veracruz.* We were briefly introduced on their doorstep, where I met Doña Yamile and two of her sons, David and Rico. Both men told me they had worked on dairy farms in Wisconsin, just as their father, brother-in-law, uncles, and cousins had. When Doña Yamile invited me in to talk, I told the Ximetls that I wanted to know about what life was like in Wisconsin, and about how and why migration from Xoxotutla to Wisconsin started in the 1990s. The stories they shared, stories of life on the dairy farms, often began with stories of border crossings.

Rico, the youngest son of Doña Yamile, returned from Wisconsin just two months before I met him. He was 17 when he first went to El Norte, and he spent three years in Wisconsin. There, he worked at a medium-sized dairy farm for 75 hours a week, earning $700 every two weeks, with no days off. With his earnings, Rico had a house of his own built in his village on the lot just beyond his mother’s house. When I asked about life in Wisconsin, Rico described to me his motivations for migration:

“To make something, a house…To build a house and return…It’s why I went… Because to suffer on the border with the walk, no water, the food runs out, the heat, the cold. And so because of that, I thought, I suffered. And so, I have to make something (of myself). And thank god I did it. That’s why I went. To have a house, a car.”

Veracruz. Source: Julie C. Keller

Later, when I interviewed Rico’s brother, David, he explained that he and fellow travelers had come across a body in the desert, a migrant who had presumably died from dehydration and exposure to the elements. Rico’s older brothers explained that compared to the 1990s, the border was now very difficult to cross. The construction of the U.S.-Mexico border wall, which accelerated with the 2006 Secure Fence Act, made crossing without detection much more treacherous. Although supporters of the wall claim it has been successful at deterring unauthorized crossings, what is clear is that the barrier has pushed migration routes to more isolated areas that pose more hazards, making it more profitable for smugglers and resulting in increased migrant deaths.

As he reflected upon his life in the U.S., it was clear that the harrowing journey across the desert shaped the way Rico viewed his work in Wisconsin.  The dangerous conditions on the border that Rico and others described have manufactured what some have termed “workaholic migrants” (Harrison and Lloyd 2011). In this sense, the border and the multiple risks it presents for migrants is part of a national mobility regime that determines migrants’ relationship to work after they enter the U.S. Mobility regimes such as this intersect with other regimes at various geographic scales or institutional arenas, with different sets of agents maintaining or thwarting movement.

We can identify aspects of a local mobility regime, for instance, by centering on immigrant destinations and how movement is facilitated or prevented at the level of communities. Toward the end of my interview with Rico, I asked him if while living in Wisconsin he felt like he was part of the community.

Rico: No, hardly…Almost no one liked us. A few, well, a few. Some people. My boss liked Mexicans because he said they are hard workers and people from there don’t like to work. So that’s why. But some people don’t. They get angry that we are there.

Julie: Who?

Rico: People from there…They don’t like what they see. They get angry.

Julie: Who, for instance? Shop owners?

Rico: People. People in the street. They’ll call the police. That’s why we hardly left. We work and that’s it. We were in the house when we were off, but we almost never left…Only to buy food. Not more than every couple weeks.

Racially marked as “other” in predominantly white towns, and without the protection of a secure legal status, many migrant workers spent their time off work in the trailer where they lived on the farmer’s property. This exclusion from the broader rural Wisconsin community that Rico described was echoed by other Veracruzanos who I interviewed. Back in Wisconsin, I met Alonso, a 24 year old dairy worker from Xoxotutla who was employed at a large-sized farm—with over 500 cows— located about 10 miles from the nearest town. It was his third stint in Wisconsin and he first went to El Norte in 2004, when he was 16 or 17 years old. Each time he stayed three to four years before returning to Mexico. I asked him about the most difficult part of life in Wisconsin:

 “We don’t have the freedom to come and go. We have problems with the police… [In Mexico] you can go out, you can go eat with your friends, you can have fun for a little while. It’s very different.”

Alonso did not have a car, and he would leave the farm only once or twice a month with other workers who owned cars. Still, driving was risky. Many workers were ticketed or sent to jail when they could not show police a valid driver’s licensee. For unauthorized migrants, any interaction with the police, even due to a minor offense, intensified the threat of deportation. When I visited Xoxotutla, David said that his boss in Wisconsin did not like it when his employees drove to town. In this sense, driving was doubly risky. Workers risked getting pulled over by law enforcement and possibly detained, and they also risked appearing insubordinate at work.

Wisconsin dairy farm. Source: Julie C. Keller

But the confines of this local mobility regime did not leave workers powerless. Employers typically could not prevent workers from seeking employment elsewhere, or stop them from leaving to return to Mexico at a moment’s notice. The farmers I interviewed frequently complained about workers who left with little warning, and they were concerned about how to keep those who they described as good workers. While in Xoxotutla, David called his former boss on the family’s land line and handed me the phone to introduce myself. The farmer described to me how wonderful David was as an employee, and that he would have him back in an instant if he could. David later told me that his boss wired money to him and his brothers in order to pay for them to cross again. Of course, the money was a loan that would be paid back from the worker’s paycheck.

Similar to the national mobility regime, the local mobility regime I describe here is embedded with deep contradictions. The movements of these young migrant workers on and off the farm are closely watched by employers and police alike, while their unauthorized movements northward across the border are encouraged—and even at times facilitated via loans—by farmers.

Juxtaposing Donald Trump’s stance on immigration with the narratives of migrant workers reveals just how complex regimes of mobility can be—their contradictions and intersections, as well as the various sets of agents involved in affirming them. Neoliberalism depends upon the cross-border movement of workers to fulfill economic demands for a deportable, and thus exploitable, low-wage labor force. Trump’s apparent position to universally exclude all unauthorized immigrants belies the state’s interest in maintaining the multiple mobility regimes in which transnational migrants, like the young men described here, are precariously situated. In observing campaign calls for ever more restrictive immigration policies, we should consider the various kinds of movement they are meant to both exclude and regulate. This study of the rapidly changing dairy industry in Wisconsin highlights these mobility tensions by revealing both the strong demand for cheap migrant labor as well as the confinement and surveillance that workers experience. Doing so will illuminate and disrupt popular tendencies to cast migrants as “dangerous personhoods,” as well as demystify “the frenzy of wall building today.” (Brown 2010: 79).  

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*All names of participants, villages, and towns are pseudonyms.

Works Cited

Brown, W. 2010. Walled States, Waning Sovereignty. New York: Zone Books.

Glick Schiller, N. and N. Salazar. 2013. Regimes of Mobility Across the Globe. Journal of Ethnic and Migration Studies 39(2):183-2000.

Harrison, J.L. and S.E. Lloyd. 2011. Illegality at Work: Deportability and the Productive New Era of Immigration Enforcement. Antipode 44(2):365-385.

Shamir, R. 2005. Without Borders? Notes on Globalization as a Mobility Regime. Sociological Theory 23(2):197–215.

Julie C. Keller, PhD, is an Assistant Professor in the Department of Sociology and Anthropology at the University of Rhode Island. She is currently writing a book based on her research on immigrant dairy workers entitled, Laboring in Limbo: Migration and Mobility from Mexico to America’s Dairyland and Back. This research was made possible with funding from the National Science Foundation Doctoral Dissertation Improvement Grant.

Fast fashion, slow integration: Guatemalan youth navigate life and labor in Los Angeles

By Stephanie L. Canizales

Americans often associate factory work—and the violence and exploitation of manufacturing industries—with distant nations like China, Vietnam, India, and Cambodia. While stories of workers “transported like pigs,” trapped behind barred windows and locked doors, and protected from death by suicide nets trigger broad concern, they tend to ultimately be cast off as the problems of “foreign” societies.

Child working in textile industry. Photo courtesy of The Guardian.

The Emmy Award-winning documentary Made in L.A. brought the narrative of garment worker exploitation back to U.S. soil, but the film focuses on the experiences of adult women. My research thus addresses a critical and unexamined space of inquiry: It moves beyond media attention and scholarship on garment workers abroad or adult laborers in the U.S. to center on the experiences of garment working immigrant youth. This project uncovers the conditions these young people encounter and the ways labor exploitation affects the long-term integration of unaccompanied immigrant youth.(i) 

Youth at work

Since 2012, I have conducted research with Guatemalan Maya young adults between the ages of 18 and 35. Most arrived alone in the U.S. between four and 19 years ago. Although violence and poverty push some youth to emigrate, others migrate because years of violence and poverty have led to political insecurity as well as broken educational and occupational structures. In other words, for some the primary motivation is less immediately about violence or poverty than it is the lack of education and job opportunities in Guatemala. Some youth are further motivated by the desire to prevent the replication of their own suffering in the lives of their younger siblings.

 Young Guatemalan migrants living in Los Angeles describe that, in their home countries, many begin working various jobs as early as four years old. These jobs range from shoe shining to manufacturing to agricultural work in order to supplement their parents’ meager income. Many also assume garment work in factories or, more commonly, in their homes, where children and their parents sew denim pants, embroider shirts, or attach sleeves and buttons onto a blouse or other products intended for the U.S. market.

In societies ensnared by mass poverty and oppression, including the Central American countries of Guatemala, El Salvador, and Honduras, cycles of violence are naturalized and workplace exploitation is normalized.  Youth who aim to work to contribute to the family income but are unable to secure employment in their home countries view migration as a natural (and sometimes only) next step in ensuring their family’s survival.

This is the case of many of the Guatemalan youth who work in downtown Los Angeles garment factories. As youth share with me, they quickly discover that “uno no viene aquí a recoger dinero” (one does not come here to pick up money [off of the streets]). Instead, the same neoliberal economic policies that govern their work options, conditions, and livelihoods in Guatemala dominate the U.S. labor market. The structure of the garment industry in Los Angeles and the nature of the work of undocumented immigrants limit their options for financial stability and impact their mental, emotional, and physical health in the U.S.

My ethnographic research focuses on the integration experiences of Guatemalan young people who arrive unaccompanied in the United States and live and work in Los Angeles. I have spent over 500 hours participating in support groups, church youth groups, cultural events and community garden gatherings, as well as conducting formal and informal interviews.

Telling stories of poverty, hunger, and suffering, youths’ experiences evidence the impact of the expansion of free trade policies on migration. These policies have decreased local agricultural production and manufacturing, increased food insecurity, and undermined the public sector workforce. And while Central American leaders of the 1970s and 1980s attempted to reduce poverty through land redistribution or taxation of foreign companies, the U.S. thwarted these efforts by sending the CIA to remove these leaders, thereby introducing more violence to the region and further spurring migration.

Contemporary Central American migrants, including children and youth, leave their homes in search for families already in the U.S., but also as a strategy to provide for their families who remain abroad. Unfortunately, many youth who migrate in search of educational opportunities and work to alleviate their family’s poverty do not find refuge in the U.S. and continue struggling to make ends meet.(ii) 

The Los Angeles Garment Industry: poverty and exploitation in the shadows of affluence

The global clothing and textile industry is projected to generate nearly $3.2 trillion in 2015, and the global apparel industry represents 2 percent of the world’s Gross Domestic Product (GDP). The success of these industries is in part due to “fast fashion,” a term used to describe the transition of the fashion industry from two fashion seasons—Spring/Summer and Fall/Winter—to the production of 52 “micro-seasons” per year. While many do not notice this production trend, this shift in manufacturing style has been a long time coming.

The Los Angeles Fashion District. Photo courtesy of fashiondistrict.org.

“A few years ago, a factory supplying a major retailer would have expected to manufacture 40,000 garments across four styles for 20 weeks. Today it will be lucky to get commitment from the retailer to manufacture four styles at 500 garments per week for just five weeks. The remaining 30,000 will be ordered at the last minute, when the design team has worked out whether the mainstream consumer has been inspired by Taylor Swift, Daisy Lowe, Lindsay Lohan or none of the above” (Siegle 2011). New trends are released every week, filling the racks of stores like Anthropologie, Forever 21, the Gap, H&M, Zara, and other stores that arguably define the industry. The goal of fast fashion is for consumers to purchase as many garments as possible and as quickly as possible, or else risk feeling “out of style.” While fast fashion keeps people buying, it also keeps people working.

Los Angeles, the epicenter of fast fashion, hosts a garment district that spans 100 blocks. The rise of the garment industry in Los Angeles in recent years has garnered praise, but it has also fallen under scrutiny, as when a drug cartel used a garment wholesaler to launder money from the U.S. to Mexico. In 2015 the Garment Worker Center in Los Angeles released a report arguing for the recognition of the plight of garment worker mothers who struggle to find childcare while at work. Some of the key findings in my own work in this field include high levels of exploitation, poverty, and marginality of garment working youth (Canizales 2015).

Many consumers remain unaware that sweatshop-like factories line the streets of a city like Los Angeles, which is commonly associated with fame, fortune, and luxury. In the last major study of the Los Angeles garment industry, sociologists Edna Bonacich and Richard P. Appelbaum (2000) define a sweatshop as:

Map of Los Angeles Fashion District. Photo courtesy of CBRE.

A factory or a home work operation that engages in multiple violations of the law, typically the non-payment of minimum or overtime wages and various violations of health and safety regulations. According to this definition, many of the garment factories in Los Angeles are sweatshops. In a sample survey conducted by the U.S. Department of Labor in January 1998, 61 percent of the garment firms in Los Angeles were found to be violating wage and hour regulations. Workers were underpaid by an estimated $73 million dollars per year. Health and safety violations were not examined in that study, but in a survey completed in 1997, 96 percent of the firms were found to be in violation, 54 percent with deficiencies that could lead to serious injuries or death (3).

In 2014, I volunteered as an English language translator for garment working youth at wage theft hearings in the Los Angeles branch of the Labor Commissioners office. During this time, Labor Commissioner officials and pro bono attorneys expressed frustration with their inability to keep track of pop-up factories in Downtown Los Angeles and the informal channels through which licensed garment factories rent out spaces for other unlicensed manufacturers to set up shop. Also of concern is the structure of the garment production process that allows retailers, contractors, and manufacturers to deny responsibility of work place violations by redirecting blame elsewhere (Bonacich and Appelbaum 2000). As a result, licensed and unlicensed factories in Los Angeles are often not kept accountable for the work conditions and treatment their employees endure. And when asked, many youth cannot confidently say the name of contractor or factory where they are employed, since no clear signage is displayed outside many factories. The ways in which garment work shapes undocumented workers’ lives beyond the confines of these workspaces also remain hidden.

The everyday lives of young garment workers

Arriving between the ages of 12 and 17 and without a parent or guardian traveling with or awaiting them, Guatemalan youth workers enter Los Angeles’s low-wage labor force to support the families they leave behind. Many enter the garment industry, where they work 11-hour days for up to six days per week in Korean owned factories, many of which are managed by Latino floor supervisors.

Garment workers around the globe are paid piecemeal. That is, rather than being paid for the number of hours worked, workers are paid for the number of completed pieces — 2-cents per button sewn, 5-cents per sleeve, 11-cents per zipper. In this way, the onus of low payment is placed on the worker. Since workers do not select their daily assignments, they cannot predict the money they will earn. They instead work feverishly to make a few hundred dollars by the end of the month. By foregoing lunch breaks, trips to the restroom, or drinks of water, individuals attempt to maximize every minute. These conditions result in back and neck pain, migraines, eye aches, nervousness and anxiety. Some youth spend days and weeks living on the streets of L.A. because they are unable to earn enough for their rent.

Unaccompanied Mayan garment worker youth greet guests visiting their weekend youth group meeting where prayers often focus on freedom from poverty. Photo courtesy of the author.

Many of the Guatemalan youth I interviewed report working in hot, dimly lit, poorly ventilated garment factories for anywhere between 58 and 66 hours of labor per week. A young garment worker in his or her first weeks on the job might make $85 per week. Over time, these young people make between $280 and $420 per week. Wage theft—when an employer withholds earned pay—is also frequently reported.

One of the most common forms of wage theft is through the denial of overtime hours. Youth describe how floor managers clock workers in and out each day. One young man showed me a time sheet that clocked him in between 2 and 5 minutes after 8AM and out at 5PM every single day for close to 8 months. He describes that he wakes up every morning at 5AM to be at work at 6AM and does not leave until about 7PM. Another young man calculated that over $8,000 was withheld by his employer during a one-year timeframe.

The LA Times recently covered garment factory wage theft, featuring the experiences of a 23-year-old Guatemalan man who filed a complaint with the California Division of Labor Standards Enforcement.  The article reads,

In seven years, the Guatemala native has worked as a sewing employee in some 40 factories, he said in Spanish through his attorney, Kevin Kish. At most sites, the bathrooms were filthy. Once, he was pushed to the ground by an angry supervisor.

Almost all the facilities paid him per piece stitched— a quarter for a normal T-shirt or as little as two cents for a simpler garment. Laboring for 50 to 70 hours a week — Monday through Friday and a half-day on Saturday and sometimes Sunday — would earn him about $300, always paid in cash.

[He] filed his complaint after being fired for seeking a raise, he said. The claim was ultimately settled.

“I don't mind the work and even like it, but sometimes I feel ashamed because of the conditions in which I work and the amount I'm paid for it," he said. "But you get used to it, and you have to do it.’”

In a support group I observe as part of my doctoral research, young Guatemalan garment workers describe their work and financial struggles. A young man who works on garment repairs, which requires taking apart incorrectly made pieces but is paid according to how many damaged garments are re-sewn, explains:

“Esta semana estuve haciendo reparaciones. Tuve que descoger medio día. No gane nada y ando un poco estresado. No me fue muy bien.” 

“I was doing repairs this week. I had to [take the clothes apart] for half of the day. I didn’t earn anything and now I am stressed. [This week] didn’t go well for me.”

Another young man shares that he attended work while sick; despite his discomfort, he worries about how it will affect him the next day.

“La semana pasada tuve catarro. Eso me afecta mucho en el trabajo.… y después pienso en mañana. ¿Que voy a hacer con el dolor de cabeza mañana?”

“Last week I had a cold. That really affects me at work… and then I start to think about tomorrow. What am I going to do with a headache tomorrow?”

Of course, youth do not only think about themselves and their well-being. They also express concern about their families. This concern further motivates or convinces them to continue their work, and to fulfill the goals they set out for themselves when they left home.

One person describes,

Estuve peleando el dolor emocional porque no puede ayudar a mi mama. Pensé muchas cosas, “¿Que tal si se muere?” No pensé mas en eso. Pensé en lo que necesito lograr.

“I was fighting emotional pain because I wasn’t able to help my mom. I thought of many things, ‘What if she dies?’ I didn’t think about that more. I thought about what I need to accomplish.”

A young man who often contemplates suicide because of his severe loneliness and anxiety shares:

 “Vine con una meta aquí. Vine por mi mama. Sufre mucho. Me siento responsable por mi familia hoy. A veces me siento triste y solo pero tengo que aprender manejar eso. Mi vida es diferente hoy. Si me quito la vida, ¿quien va cuidar a mi mama?”

“I came with one goal here. I came here for my mom. She suffers a lot. I feel responsible for my family now. Sometimes I feel sad and alone but I have to learn to control that. My life is different now. If I take my life, who is going to take care of my mom?

These stories of violence and suffering are silenced and made invisible by the structure of the garment industry. Consider payment: When asked how they are paid, youth describe a process of going to the bank to cash their checks. These banks, they explain, are inside the garment factory. On the designated payday, garment workers are handed a single sheet of paper with what appears to be an image of a check. Workers then line up in the factory owner’s office and hand off their printed check in exchange for cash. This, of course, leaves the youth without proof of labor.

Ultimately, the entire work/pay transaction is done in-house. To some workers, the transaction feels legitimate and even honorable, but the garment factory owner’s meticulously controlled system and (falsely) documented trail leaves undocumented workers invisible-- without proof of work, payment, or presence in the factory. I have encountered numerous young people who might qualify for Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals (DACA) but are unable to apply because they do not have documents demonstrating their presence in the U.S. since arrival.

Similarly, many of the young people I have interviewed note the importance of education in changing their circumstances, but they are unable to attend school due to their work schedules or are unable to afford continuous enrollment in English classes. Those who attend class do so with tired eyes and little energy. The structure of the garment industry and the absence of a parent or guardian hinder the integration of unaccompanied youth in consequential and long-term ways.

The art of resistance

Resistance against systems of violence and oppression in the garment industry takes many forms, and indeed, worker strikes in Cambodia and China and protests in Bangladesh represent only a few of the most recent stories captured by the media. While garment workers in Los Angeles have not yet organized a movement against the injustices they face in the L.A. garment industry, many do engage in quotidian forms of resistance. In my research, youths' narratives of pride emerge as one such form. Though young garment workers often see workplace violations as simply the nature of the industry and life in the U.S.--particularly those who can only refer to work experiences in their home country--the skills they acquire through garment work, how hard they work, and the quality of the final products they create comprise meaningful, if not defiant, narratives for themselves and others. 

Photo courtesy of PopularResistance.org.

The young man in the above LA Times article notes, “I don't mind the work and even like it.” Other youth in my research often share that despite the dehumanization that comes with the work conditions and the pay they receive, they feel pride and sometimes enjoyment in their work. To them, seeing a completed project brings a sense of satisfaction.  Youth who had engaged in garment work in their home countries might have worked from home or in a small factory. They thus think it is prestigious to be a worker of a U.S.-based factory with elaborate machinery. The ability to operate large and loud machines and to move from sewing zippers on Citizens of Humanity denim pants to seams of a chiffon dress prepared for Bloomingdale’s is a source of pride. This is what sociologists Jacqueline Hagan, Ruben Hernandez-Leon, and Jean-Luc Demonstat (2015) refer to as the “Skills of the ‘Unskilled.’”

Young garment workers are additionally aware of the prices of the garments they are sewing. Because of the cost of the item, the time and skill dedicated to its completion, and the target clientele, garment workers view their work as art. They may earn despicably meager wages, yet many youth see increased wages over a long period of time as an accomplishment. It is a symbol of skill, hard work, efficiency and patience. One young person explained to me, “Yeah, you start off getting paid very little but then you get paid more. That means you are moving quickly. It means you are learning.” Another enthusiastically agreed, “According to how you learn, you earn!” Though youth might not engage in strikes and protests, they humanize their experiences on the margins by resisting the notion that they are unskilled workers.

Conclusion

Global production and trade policies not only shape the lives and livelihood of those abroad but within our own borders as well. The influx of unaccompanied migrants in 2014 exemplifies the perpetuation of this historic trend. Though news coverage on unaccompanied children has waned, we must continue to focus on understanding the root causes and consequences of child and youth migration, especially those that are exploitative, violent, and deny young people’s human rights. At the same time, we must also turn our attention to the integration of young people in the U.S., supporting the institutions that create positive conditions for youth’s integration and well-being while reforming or dismantling those that impede integration and worsen the conditions of suffering for youth. Closer regulation of the garment industry will facilitate this not only for unaccompanied youth workers in the U.S., but low-wage, and potentially undocumented people, more broadly.

About the author

Stephanie L. Canizales is a PhD Candidate in the Department of Sociology at the University of Southern California. This research was generously funded by USC Dornsife College of Letters, Arts, and Sciences, USC’s Center for the Study of Immigrant Integration, the UC Davis Center for Poverty Research, Canizales’ dissertation examines patterns of integration and belonging among unaccompanied Guatemalan youth in Los Angeles. The National Science Foundation’s Sociology Program generously funds her research.

Works Cited

Bonacich, Edna and Richard Appelbaum. 2000. Behind the Label: Inequality in the Los Angeles Apparel Industry. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press.

Canizales, Stephanie L. 2015. “American individualism and the social incorporation of unaccompanied Guatemalan Maya young adults in Los Angeles.” Ethnic and Racial Studies 38(10): 1831-1847. DOI: 10.1080/01419870.2015.1021263.

García, María Cristina. 2006. Seeking Refuge: Central American Migration to Mexico, the United States, and Canada. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press.

Hagan, Jacqueline, Ruben Hernandez-Leon, Jean-Luc Demonsant. 2015. Skills of the “Unskilled”: Work and Mobility among Mexican Migrants. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press.

Menjivar, Cecilia. 2011. Enduring Violence: Ladina Women's Lives in Guatemala. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press.

[i] An “unaccompanied child” is a legal category applied to minors under the age of 18 who have no lawful immigration status and no parent or guardian willing or able to care for them in the U.S The young people with whom I work have not been apprehended and, therefore, are not juridically considered “unaccompanied children”. Yet ‘unaccompanied’, in many ways, accurately reflects the ways in which these youth migrated unlawfully and lived in the U.S. without a parent or guardian.

[ii] Guatemalan migrants who leave their homes in search of work cannot be categorized as economic migrants exclusively. The weak political, social, occupational, and educational infrastructure that spurs their migration is due, in large part, to the civil wars that plagued the Central American region in the 1970s and 1980s and have left a legacy of instability and institutional mistrust (Menjivar 2011; Rodriguez 2006).

Notes from the field: Humanitarian discourses, systemic erasures, and the production of victimhood in “Child, Bride, Mother”

By Briana Nichols and Lisette Farias

The following is a dialogue between cultural-linguistic anthropology and critical occupational science written by two PhD students working in Guatemala.

Source: Stephanie Sinclair

Briana: What initially struck me about the image was her vacant stare.  The caption below the photograph explains, “Aracely was 11 when she married her husband, who was 34. Now 15, she is raising her son on her own.”  We see a girl, seated, her blue jean skirt, purple shirt, and her toddler son’s red shorts brilliantly contrast the weathered wooden shack behind her. With her son on her lap, she prepares corn. And perhaps intended to be most shocking to the non-Guatemalan viewer, she is breastfeeding.   

So what are we, the western, global north, New York Times consumer, supposed to understand from this image?  What emotions is it meant to evoke?  What is made visible, and what is obscured when images of the “developing world” are published for outside, selectively contextualized consumption?  

This photograph is one of fifteen in the “Child, Bride, Mother” exposé “documenting the issue of Child marriage” in Guatemala.  It is part of a larger transmedia project, “investigating: the world of prearranged child marriage,” by photojournalist Stephanie Sinclair entitled “Too Young to Wed” (Sinclair directs a non-profit organization by the same name).  

Source: Stephanie Sinclair

As an anthropology PhD student working in Guatemala, I wonder about the power of the outsider, myself included, in the representation of the other, the unfamiliar, the shocking. When a photojournalist chooses to focus on child marriage, the subjects of her photographs are presented within that specific framing—a framing situated in discourses of childhood, human rights, and victimization. We often take for granted the nature of childhood, its implicit innocence, and the inherent need to protect children as vulnerable and non-agentive social beings (Bluebond-Langner and Korbin 2007; Poretti et al. 2014; Rosen 2007).  Fassin (2013) demonstrates how this global rhetoric of childhood is often viewed as common sense, despite its historically constructed and culturally situated nature. With this naturalization comes a legitimization of vulnerability, rendering children as the only “pure victims” and eclipsing the realities of sweeping structural violence and inequity. 

Sinclair’s “Child, Bride, Mother”  communicates a sense of moral outrage over the marriage of girls who are under 18 in the rural Department of Petén, Guatemala.  In the text accompanying her images, Sinclair describes these “underage brides” as traveling for hours “from the villages along the mud-soaked roads” and “parading endlessly through Petén’s hospital” to seek medical care. Sinclair characterizes the subjects of her photos as “physically immature and psychologically unready young mothers,” claiming these individuals are frequently abandoned by their husbands and left to raise their children alone.

Source: Stephanie Sinclair

If viewed uncritically, this piece promotes an image of Guatemala where unknowing young girls are abused, impregnated, and abandoned by a society that does not care enough to adequately protect them. This discursive framing of Guatemala is gaining traction beyond Sinclair, and promotes a specific explanatory model with the potential to influence funding and policy priorities. Sinclair evokes a moral economy of childhood in which sin is ascribed to adults for allowing such abuses to befall young girls Fassin (2013), and blame is placed on local “cultures” viewed as deviant or defective (Poretti et al. 2014).  These images of “child brides” exist within a framework often mobilized by child right’s advocates which normalizes childhood as a period of “innocence and happiness” and in order to produce “damaged children” as icons of victimhood (Poretti et al. 2014).

The evocation of moral outrage and narratives of victimhood that surround the “child brides” of Guatemala obscure very real structural circumstances, such as inadequate access to healthcare, limited educational and employment opportunities, and massive land ownership disparities under which many rural and indigenous Guatemalans, young and old, live (Fisher and Benson 2006).  Not only do these conditions create significant survival obstacles for the rural and indigenous families who attempt to live off of their milpas (small plots of land), but they are also largely responsible for the forced mobility of rural Guatemalan workers in search of alternate ways of supporting their families.  Marion Carter (2002), who researches spousal support of maternal health in rural Guatemala, notes that the biggest impediment to spousal involvement is not “machismo” or patriarchal cultural norms—as Sinclair implies—but the absence of spouses due to forced migration. Sinclair treats the multiple factors impacting family survival decisions as inessential, but they are critical to understanding the context of the young women she is claiming to champion. Obscuring these factors promotes an understanding of the “child bride” phenomena in which deviant adult behaviour and “toxic” cultural norms take the blame while systemic failures and state responsibility is forgotten. Local culture is constructed as being in opposition to the “culture” of the rights of the child (Poretti et al. 2014;  Rosen 2007), taking for granted a universal understanding of childhood that is imbedded in transnational politics, and indifferent to local context.  

Source: Stephanie Sinclair

Many of my recent experiences in Guatemala focus on access to health care in rural communities.  It is only because of my research here that I recognize the circumstances Sinclair describes—walking hours to medical care, the high rates of maternal mortality—not as a phenomena specific to “child brides”, but rather as the deeply problematic lived reality for most rural Guatemalans. Without necessary contextualization, what meaning do the consumers of Sinclair’s piece leave with?  To me, this raises very real concerns over the power of representation and issues of moral authority. 

Lisette:  Briana, I definitely want to echo your concerns. As a PhD student in critical occupational science, I focus on human doing or “occupations” and how this “doing” influences people’s identity, health status and well-being. My interests lie in how political, cultural and socioeconomic factors affect people’s choices and possibilities to engage and participate in occupations that they want, need, or are expected to do within societies/communities. Born in Chile and currently working in Guatemala, I resent that young women are still portrayed as non-agentic and “poor” humans without a critical analysis of their context and acts of resilience, resistance or complex negotiations. In other words, Sinclair’s photos need context. Without knowing how girls take up, negotiate, or resist social issues such as a lack of opportunities or structural violence in rural areas of Guatemala, who are we to impose a Western-based ideal of childhood and motherhood as a natural and ethical conceptualizations for all collectives? What are the consequences for individuals and collectives who do not have the resources to live out these conceptualizations? (For more discussion about the “poor citizen,” the human right regime and global inequality, see e.g. Lister, 2009; Salomon, 2011). 

Overall, the representation of childhood in these photos makes me wonder: Why do we (outsiders) keep reproducing and maintaining a discourse about young girls as if they have failed the system, the country, or our own assumptions about childhood and womanhood? As you described above, these individuals are portrayed as “travelling for hours to seek medical care,” as if this situation was in some way related to the fact that they are young mothers rather than such travel being a common reality for women and men in rural areas such as in Petén, Guatemala. In other words, the social inequality and a lack of health services and resources have no relation to “underage brides” but to structural issues within Guatemala. Yet when presented uncritically, as Sinclair and others do (see e.g. CFR Info Guide Presentation, Tuschman reflections), the socio-historical issues that have marked out and shape the occupational possibilities (Laliberte Rudman, 2010) of young girls and women in Guatemala are easily and completely overlooked. 

Source: Stephanie Sinclair

The construct of occupational possibilities situates human action within a socio-historical context. This context facilitates and/or hinders our access to and possibilities for doing what we need, want, or are expected to do in society, as well as what we “should be” and “could be” doing. With her photos, Sinclair places the responsibility of action (being pregnant, married, etc.) within the individual (girls and their families), disregarding the larger social forces that promote, reinforce and maintain these ways of doing. In this way, Sinclair’s photos raise concerns regarding how young women are being portrayed in ways that individualize responsibility for “their doing”, obscuring the Western- neoliberal modes of governing that served to construct this image. Moreover, she used this governance to place responsibility not only on the individuals but also on us and our moral outrage asking us to “take action”- a problematization that enacts specific ways of power linked to specific modes of thinking (e.g. Western, Neoliberal, and individualistic notions of doing and responsibility, paternalism).

In a critical analysis, these photos portray young women as immature, unready, abandoned, vulnerable, and without any capacity of choice or self-determination. But a closer consideration recognizes that these individuals are walking several hours to bring their kids to the hospital; they are taking care of their children in very complex contexts (some supported by their families, their husbands, or their husband’s families, as portrayed in the images). In this sense, how can we morally argue they are not doing what they should? 

I am aware of the abuse and abandonment that many of these young women (as well as other women, boys and men) experience. While I am not arguing that these situations do not deserve serious attention, my point in this piece is that these situations are not just about “child brides.” Portraying these individuals as “poor, immature girls” without a critical analysis of the social issues that are affecting the whole population of Guatemala reproduces and reifies a socially constructed image of girls as non-agentic social beings. It likewise ignores their acts of resilience and resistance. 

Source: Linda Forsell

Along with these thoughts, I wonder: The young people are shown as alone and in rural areas in these pictures, some wearing Maya traje (traditional dress). What specific “type” of individuals are these pictures portraying? Who is missing in the photos? And what intersections between forms or systems of oppression are absent? 

Briana:  Lisette, I so appreciate the questions your response raises, both with regards to issues of “western” conceptualizations of childhood and the intersectionality of the girls portrayed in the images.  I think these two sets of questions are fundamentally related.  This journalistic effort on “child brides” in Guatemala does not consider the diversity of the country; histories of colonialism; structural racism and discrimination against indigenous populations; and the Mayan worldviews that inform indigenous practices. It thus acts not as an exposé but as an erasure (see Grandin 2000).  Many of the girls portrayed in the photos are wearing some form of indigenous clothing, but their indigeneity is never mentioned in Sinclair’s piece.  This matters.  Not only does it matter because of the above mentioned structural inequities—often including a fundamental lack of access to healthcare, education, and basic services—but it also matters because family structures in Mayan populations do not necessarily abide by “Western” conceptions of the adult/child divide. 

Source: Linda Forsell

The global north has established a relatively arbitrary year in which adulthood starts—usually 18 years old. We have demarcated vulnerability as it fits with our cultural norms and practices, and then apply that to the rest of the world as though this conceptualization is a given.  In speaking with a Kaqchikel Mayan woman recently (the Kaqchikel are one of the indigenous Maya people of the Midwestern highlands in Guatemala), she explained her understanding of adulthood and childhood in ways that were fundamentally different with those of the western world. She noted that adulthood was not about chronology, but about responsibility—responsibility to the family and community—and that youth were educated in the ways of their parents starting at an early age so that they could gradually take on more household responsibility, culminating in marriage, which would then become the indicator of their adulthood. This is not to say that there are no bounds, and in anthropology, we struggle to figure out what happens when local culture and human rights- (or child rights-) based discourses collide. The problem with the Sinclair piece is not that the marriage of young girls is never problematic, it is that we cannot assume that it is always so, as Sinclair implies.  We must attend to the situated intersectionality of the girls, they are not just “child brides,” they are Guatemalan, rural, often indigenous, women. They are family members and community members who both frame and are framed by larger social structures and histories. 

You mention in your response that these young women are depicted as predominately alone. I am curious to hear your thoughts on this from an occupational perspective. What work do you think the journalist is doing by representing these young people as abandoned? In what ways are the occupational possibilities of the girls obscured through this photojournalism? 

Lisette:  Mayan understandings of childhood/adulthood are based on the goal of “raising a child/person who will be able to sustain himself or herself economically and function as a competent member of the society” (Bazyk, Stalnaker, Llerena, Ekelman, & Bazyk, 2003: 274). In this way, children in Mayan communities socialize and develop within the context of their community; learning the work and duties of their parents and other family activities by observing, accompanying and participating in the work of others. In this way, according to diverse Mayan traditions, it is expected that in adolescence/early adulthood, girls and boys share in the responsibility of contributing to the household.  Sinclair’s pictures do not portray the lived complexities of indigenous children and young adults. That the young women are frequently portrayed as solitary figures, abandoned, and sad draws my attention to the absented occupations. Their occupational potential is not described or exposed, completely obscuring the intersections that hinder their occupational possibilities.

Girls rendered as “alone” are also indicative of the missing socio-cultural and occupational context (e.g. the activities that the girls are performing to care for their children, families and communities). In particular, a historical and cultural issue strongly related to marriage is missing: the conflict of land ownership (Viscidi, 2004; Lopez Mejia, 2006). As you mentioned earlier, in Guatemala, land ownership is an issue connected to great insecurity and instability for women and indigenous populations.  Not only does Guatemala have one of the greatest land ownership disparities in the hemisphere, it also does not enforce basic protections for indigenous rights to land—and in particular the rights of indigenous women.  Traditional inheritance practices have led to the further division of already small milpas, making subsistence farming increasingly difficult.  Therefore, many families and young girls have chosen “marriage” as their only alternative to secure their family land and their daughters’ futures. This is not an issue of cultural “pathology,” but rather one of embodied structural violence.

Conversations about “child brides” need to go beyond the stereotype of “poor and immature” girls/women if we really want to enable young women to access the resources and occupational possibilities that they need and want. Representations such as Sinclair’s are problematic not just for what they supposedly expose, but for what they naturalize and hide.  

References

Bazyk, S., Stalnaker, D., Llerena, M., Ekelman, B., & Bazyk, J. (2003) Play in Mayan children. American Journal of Occupational Therapy, 57, 273–283. 

Bluebond‐Langner, Myra., & Korbin, J. E. (2007). Challenges and Opportunities in the Anthropology of Childhoods: an introduction to “Children, Childhoods, and Childhood Studies”. American Anthropologist, 109(2), 241-246. 

Carter, M. (2002). Husbands and maternal health matters in rural Guatemala: wives’ reports on their spouses’ involvement in pregnancy and birth. Social Science & Medicine, 55(3), 437-450.

Fassin, D. (2013). Children as Victims. When People Come First: Critical Studies in Global Health, 109.

Fischer, E. F., & Benson, P. B. (2006). Broccoli and desire: global connections and Maya struggles in postwar Guatemala. Stanford University Press.

Grandin, G. (2000). The blood of Guatemala: a history of race and nation. Duke University Press.

Laliberte Rudman, D. (2010). Occupational possibilities. Journal of Occupational Science, 17(1), 55-59. 

Lister, R. (2009). Poor citizenship: social rights, poverty and democracy in the late 20th and early 21st centuries. In A. Kessler-Harries & M. Vaudagna (Eds.), Democracy and social rights in the “Two Wests” (pp. 43-66). Torino: Otto Editore 

Lopez Mejia, M.L., (2006) indigenous women and governance in Guatemala. The Canadian Foundation for the Americas (FOCAL).

Poretti, M., Hanson, K., Darbellay, F., & Berchtold, A. (2014). The rise and fall of icons of ‘stolen childhood’since the adoption of the UN Convention on the Rights of the Child. Childhood, 21(1), 22-38. 

Rosen, D. M. (2007). Child soldiers, international humanitarian law, and the globalization of childhood. American anthropologist, 109(2), 296-306. 

Salomon, M. E. (2011). Why should it matter that others have more? Poverty, inequality, and the potential of international human rights law. Review of International Studies, 37, 2137–2155. 

Viscidi, L. (2004). A history of Land in Guatemala: Conflict and Hope for Reform. Americas Program, Interhemispheric Resource Center. 

Briana Nichols is a 3rd year PhD student at the University of Pennsylvania pursuing a joint degree in Anthropology and Education.  After receiving her BA and MA from the University of Chicago, she spent 5 years teaching in the Chicago Public Schools working with predominately Latino communities on the south and west sides of the city.  Her experiences as a teacher inform her current research interest in the mobility, subjective positioning and state management of “undocumented unaccompanied youth” as they circulate between Guatemala and the United States. brianan@gse.upenn.edu

Lisette Farias Vera is a 2nd year PhD student and a Trillium graduate scholar in the Health and Rehabilitation Sciences Graduate Program in the field of Occupational Science at Western University. Lisette completed a 5 years BSc in Human Occupation and a professional degree in Occupational Therapy at the University of Chile. During her undergraduate education, she received the Linnaeus Palme Award to participate in a student exchange program between Sweden and Chile. She also completed a European MSc in Occupational Therapy at Amsterdam University of Applied Science. Currently, her research interests lie primarily in the area of occupational justice, critical occupational science and community development. More specifically, her doctoral work explores critical and participatory approaches to examine political, cultural and socioeconomic factors that enact and constrain people’s choices and possibilities to engage and participate in society. lfariasv@uwo.ca

After the Border: Undocumented or Child? The Policy Implications of Conflicting Constructions of Unaccompanied Migrant Youth

By Breanne Grace and Benjamin Roth

In the summer of 2014, the American media fixated on the US-Mexico border and the children and youth who were detained while trying to enter the US without the accompaniment of a parent or guardian. [Here we refer to these young people as unaccompanied migrant youth.] The media narratives were dehumanizing. Questioning the immigrants’ status as children and their legitimacy as human beings, these narratives drew upon intersecting and contradictory social constructions of children and childhood (James & Prout, 2015; Cunningham, 2006) and immigration status (Johnson, 1996). 

Constructed as inagentive beings, migrant youth are often portrayed as lacking the capacity to migrate across international borders on their own accord and as unquestionably innocent and deserving. Yet at the same time, immigrants without legal status are often constructed as fully agentive and viewed as intentionally undermining the rule of law through their very presence. Their personhood becomes categorized as “illegal.” 

Migrant youth uniquely occupy the conceptual space between these competing social constructions. 

Source

As a result, media portrayals of migrant youth at the border question youths’ status as children, the legitimacy of their independent migration, and their personhood. As Daniel Cook has noted, the childhood of these migrants becomes a “battleground” for what constitutes belonging:

“Standing for what they are thought to bring—their Otherness—the futurity of [unaccompanied migrant youth] became cast as neither hopeful nor legitimate. […] It is a threat that they might…maybe…perhaps…become us”

— (Cook 2015: 4-5).

While there has been academic blog coverage of the media’s response to the border, these competing constructions impact far more than news coverage. Indeed, the contradictions embedded within these constructions are also institutionalized. In what follows, we discuss the ways in which this process is manifest in the services the Office of Refugee Resettlement (ORR) designs to support unaccompanied migrant youth after they are released to their families and await deportation proceedings. 

Federal law requires ORR to place unaccompanied migrant youth in the “least restrictive” environment while they undergo deportation proceedings. Some are placed in licensed residential facilities or long-term foster care, but the majority is placed with relatives or family friends living in the U.S. Among the latter, a small percentage—less than 15 percent—receives post-release services (PRS). PRS are case management services provided to migrant youth who are identified in detention as vulnerable and in need of additional support while they await deportation proceedings. The goal of PRS is social integration: these services include referrals to health care providers, assistance enrolling in school, help identifying legal representation, and referrals to mental health services. While sub-contracted case managers are able to refer children to these services, they are not guaranteed any sort of insurance coverage or financial assistance to facilitate access to services. What’s more, not accessing these services may be counted against migrant youth as they navigate court proceedings. Thus, although the goal of PRS is social integration, the process is essentially facilitated by the reality of removal: it occurs alongside the young person’s legal proceedings, and case managers are charged with observing children and ensuring court compliance. The contradictions within PRS—the push for integration while awaiting deportation; identifying psychological, medical, and social needs, but not providing resources to actually address these needs—reflect the “battleground” of these dueling constructions.  

The goal of this blog post is not to provide a comprehensive overview of this social issue. Rather, drawing on a study we recently conducted of PRS, we hope to highlight two important themes where the tension between the constructions of child and undocumented immigrant arise. 

VULNERABILITY     

Media Portrayal of “Child”  from the Associated Press/ Santa Fe New Mexican 

In qualifying for PRS, migrant youth are explicitly identified as “vulnerable” and in need of support, yet no material support is provided. Case managers are only charged with telling youth and their families where they might and should find such support. Our research findings suggest that this is problematic throughout all service areas, but can be especially so for children’s access to legal representation. Many of the youth we interviewed were categorized as vulnerable based on criteria that could potentially be used as evidence of humanitarian legal claims. That is, someone within detention identified that these youth had experienced trafficking or persecution and that these experiences left lasting psychological, social, or medical needs. Yet despite this identified need, applications for humanitarian relief were not initiated and case managers and migrant youth still had to search out qualified legal representation upon release, often at significant expense to their sponsors. For some migrant youth, no such legal representation existed. The lack of legal services was particularly evident in “new immigrant destination” areas (Massey, 2008)—places such as suburbs and the American southeast that have not been home to new immigrants for generations.  Despite their need for highly specialized legal services, these young people were often without legal options or were required to drive hours (sometimes into neighboring states) in search of services. 

Despite their identified need and the additional support provided through PRS, not all migrant youth in our study were able to access services, risking refoulement.  Thus, while their categorization of vulnerability and identification for services was based on a recognition that deportation would endanger the child, the process for deportation moved forward, putting the financial, social, and emotional burden for finding legal representation on the child and his or her family. This was in spite of their age, lack of resources, and identified trauma. This raises questions concerning the experience of migrant youth who do not receive PRS. Are they able to more easily access legal service providers and other local resources without the assistance of a case manager? And what is the role of the family—or sponsor—in helping migrant youth adapt to their new (if potentially temporary) home? Unfortunately, without data to answer these questions, the longer-term well-being of migrant youth is largely left to speculation.

Media Portrayal of “Undocumented” from Fox News Screen Shot via Media Matters

While the UNHCR approaches such situations from a protection perspective, the young people processed for PRS were primarily dealt with in terms of their undocumented status. A 2015 report by the United States Government Accountability Office details how Customs and Border Protection (CBP) failed to identify legitimate humanitarian claims for young people: CBP officers were inadequately trained on the importance and criteria of humanitarian claims and these processes; current processing policies were incorrectly or inadequately implemented; agents were not trained regarding the rights and independent decision capacity of children; and agents were inconsistent in recognizing “legitimate fear” components and trafficking protections (12-35). This is notably different from UNHCR protocols that are established to ensure legal access without lengthy deportation processes.  “Unaccompanied children” are further complicated in the U.S. because they are part of a larger mixed-migration process. Mixed migration movements, where refugees often move with non-refugees, are common, and the UNHCR has established protocols for processing in these circumstances. Yet despite the U.S. government’s ability to identify children’s humanitarian claims as a grounds for PRS, there are systematic obstacles inhibiting legitimate claims-making, the most severe of which is the U.S. government’s unwillingness to recognize its own categorizations of vulnerability, the lack of training for officers who make initial determinations, and an unwillingness to re-categorize this as a mixed-migration process. 

SOCIAL INTEGRATION WHILE AWAITING DEPORTATION        

In our research, case managers were often hyper-aware of their charge to help migrant youth socially integrate, even though these children could ultimately be deported. Case managers helped them enroll in school, join extracurricular activities, and develop meaningful connections in the U.S. Yet despite case managers’ best efforts, the migrant youth we interviewed still recognized that the lives that they were establishing in the U.S. could be short term. At best, migrant youth are able to develop meaningful—if temporary—connections to family and community and to successfully plead their case in Immigration Court. At worst, their integration is limited by the government’s contradictory effort to connect them to local supports and simultaneously extract them from the communities where these supports are located. Unless they are able to find affordable legal representation, the latter outcome is more common.

Source

The version of childhood that migrant youth are expected to engage in is universalizing; it fails to recognize variation within life stage, economic conditions, and psychological pressures related to immigration status. Nonetheless, signaling one’s status as a “worthy child” remains important for the legal process. As children, migrant youth are expected to engage in the activities of childhood—attending school, establishing friendships, and engaging in extracurricular activities—but because of documentation status, these activities are understood as potentially fleeting, often undermining a child’s desire to engage in social life. Engaging in this prescribed childhood becomes both the definition of social integration for migrant youth and a coerced objective to meet in order to build a stronger legal case. Of course, establishing friendships and engaging in school is often even harder for young immigrants, as hard because they these individuals have the added burden of constant fear. We find that youth fear that their status might be discovered by their friends, or fear to dream about the future because the present is so uncertain.  

For the migrant youth we interviewed who had previously worked or maintained households prior to migration, this new definition of the life course is met with mixed emotions. These young people often feel limited by the culturally-bounded expectations that they attend school and return to a childhood with minimal responsibility. However, they also recognize the burden their legal fees and medical bills contribute to household expenses. They often want—and need—to work to help their families and to have a chance at legal relief. 

The politicization of immigration (especially undocumented migration) has led to contradictory services and implementation of services for migrant youth. Until policy makers address the social and political assumptions that are embedded in discourse about migrant youth, policy implementation will continue to undermine policy objectives.  If the goal is social integration, migrant youth should be provided with reprieve from deportation in order to engage in their new communities. If the government has identified young people for additional services based on humanitarian need, then why are the same children being put at risk for refoulement? If children are identified as having pressing medical, social, or psychological needs that need to met, then why aren’t resources provided so that children and their sponsors can adequately address these critical needs? 

Breanne Grace, PhD, is an Assistant Professor in the College of Social Work at the University of South Carolina. Trained as a sociologist, Grace’s work focuses on African refugee populations resettled in the United States and Tanzania, as well as transnational family and community relations between resettlement sites, country of origin, and refugee camps. Her work focuses on social citizenship rights access after refugee resettlement and the political economy of humanitarian aid. 

Benjamin Roth, PhD, is an Assistant Professor at the College of Social Work at the University of South Carolina. His research interests include the social, cultural, economic, and political processes of immigrant integration; the effects of legal status on youth development; and the geography of poverty and access to the social services safety net. His current projects explore how factors such as place and space, legal status, discrimination, social boundaries, and organizations (including schools, churches, and social service agencies) influence the adaptation of low-income immigrant youth and families.

Read more about Bre and Ben’s collaborative work at www.immigrantaccessproject.org 

i. Children and youth who maintain no lawful immigration status the U.S. without authorization and who are apprehended without a parent or guardian are legally categorized as “unaccompanied alien children.”  However, throughout this blog post we will refer to them as migrant youth. Their average age is 14.5 years old. 

 ii. It is important to note that this problem is not unique to the US. Currently the European Union and Australia are dealing with similar questions around asylum and refugee status. The situation of unaccompanied children differs in that young people are fleeing their countries of origin to the US, which is the first safe country of arrival. 

Works Cited 

Cook, D. T. (2015). A politics of becoming: When ‘child’ is not enough. Childhood, 22(1), 3-5.

Cunningham, H. (2012). The invention of childhood. Random House.

James, A., & Prout, A. (Eds.). (2015). Constructing and reconstructing childhood: Contemporary issues in the sociological study of childhood. Routledge.

Johnson, K. R. (1996). " Aliens" and the US Immigration Laws: The Social and Legal Construction of Nonpersons. The University of Miami Inter-American Law Review, 263-292.

Massey, D. S. (Ed.). (2008). New faces in new places: The changing geography of American immigration. Russell Sage Foundation.