Humanizing the Dehumanized

By Anonymous

On our drive home, following our drop-off, my father began to question everything about Casa de Paz. What are they going to do with the young lady? How do they pay for everything? Who pays for everything? How did it start? And, most importantly, why? Why do these strangers open up their home to migrants released from detention? Living in the United States as an undocumented person for over twenty years, my father had grown accustomed to fearing and questioning anyone who readily offered assistance. After I tried to answer all of his questions as best as I could, my father kept quiet, staring into the distance. A few minutes later, my father broke his silence and solemnly declared, 
 

“Los hacen sentir humanos.” They make them feel human. 
 

In Deported: Immigrant Policing, Disposable Labor, and Global Capitalism, Tanya Maria Golash-Boza [1] explains how immigrant detention and deportation is related and intertwined with neoliberalism, globalization, and economic restructuring. Neoliberalism refers to a capitalistic practice that favors a free market in which countries can trade goods and services with few restrictions. An example would be the North American Free Trade Agreement (NAFTA) between the US, Mexico, and Canada. Globalization further allows large corporations to move their factories abroad, typically to less developed countries due to less strict regulations and a cheap labor force. Economic restructuring refers to a shift in a country’s economy from a manufacturing economy to a service-skilled economy, which is also known as deindustrialization. In Latin America, these economic shifts generated instability and migration; in the US, restructured industries demanded a compliant, vulnerable, and disposable labor force [2]. Migrants’ undocumented status enhances their exploitability. In other words, migrants are taken advantage of and exploited by their employers for their work because of the ever-present fear of being deported. Because of their uncertain status in the US, migrants fear they must abide by any and all conditions offered to them by their employers, even if that means being paid far less for their labor or being placed in harsh working conditions. Given these circumstances, the US has the power to choose when it needs a labor force and when it no longer does. Through detention and deportation, the US maintains this power, and in the process, the US dehumanizes and commodifies migrants. 
 

To my father and me, Casa de Paz did just the opposite. In the wake of being told they do not belong in this country, in the wake of being considered immediately replaceable, in the wake of being stripped off their freedom, Casa de Paz made recently released migrants from the detention center feel human, “one simple act of love at a time” [3]. 
 

During one of my first volunteering experiences at Casa de Paz, I signed up to prepare and bring a meal to share with migrants released from detention and other Casa volunteers. Since the roads were a bit icy and snowy, my father agreed to drive me to the Casa. When we arrived, my father and I were greeted and welcomed by Oliver, an immigrant himself and a full-time host at the Casa. Oliver led us to the kitchen and introduced us to his wife and daughter. After my father and I brought the food into the Casa, I asked Oliver if any migrants had been released from the detention center. I also asked if my father was able to stay with me at the Casa, to which Oliver enthusiastically said yes. Oliver informed me that they had only released one woman and that she, the other hosts, and new volunteers shadowing this process were on their way to the Casa. Oliver requested that my father and I make ourselves comfortable in the living room. 
 

As my father and I sat on the couches talking with Oliver, more and more people started showing up until the released detainee finally arrived. Her name was Ava, and as she walked into the living room with her belongings in a plastic bag, she stood to the side and looked a little uneasy. Even though I did not know all of Ava’s migration story, I learned that Ava was originally from Mexico and had been transferred to Aurora ICE Processing Center from a detention center in New Mexico. She had been detained for about five months, separated from her two young children who were still in New Mexico. Oliver and another host at the Casa approached Ava and gave her a hug. They welcomed her, giving her a brief introduction about Casa de Paz and asking her to have a seat. Ava agreed and sat next to me, and I greeted her with a smile and a “Bienvenidos.” Welcome. 
 

A host then asked Ava if she would like to eat, but Ava said she would first like to use the restroom, so the host guided Ava to the restroom downstairs. While we waited for Ava, the host offered to give all the students and first-timers a tour of the house, which included my father. Even though I had seen all of the Casa before, I enjoyed walking from space to space with my father as I translated everything that the host described. My father saw the two rooms designated for male and female immigrants, the piles of clothing offered to immigrants, and the garage filled from top to bottom and left to right with materials donated to the Casa for immigrants. My father also learned more about Sarah, the founder of Casa de Paz, and the volleyball league that helps fund the Casa. With every new discovery about the Casa, my father became more and more amazed. He confessed he had no idea that a place like this existed. 
 

Casa de Paz opened its arms and gleefully took Ava in. She was not questioned about why she was detained and almost deported. She was not turned away because of her precarious status. Instead, Ava was made to feel at home and at ease when she was miles away from her real home in New Mexico. Casa de Paz fostered an environment in which everyone who walked through its doors was made to feel welcomed and at home. Ava was no exception. Even though my father and I had merely brought a meal to share and engaged in brief conversations with Ava, we became a part of Ava’s journey. My father and I didn’t have to go to great lengths to make Ava feel accepted after she had been incarcerated and neglected freedom for five months—even a simple “welcome” made her smile and appear more at ease.
 

As individuals willing to help, we don’t have to figure out how to solve immigrants’ problems all at once. We don’t have to be immigration attorneys and know the law inside and out to be able to aid immigrants. Our humanness is sufficient. Simply making them feel human—through a smile, a conversation, or a plate of food—in a country that has alienated them is sufficient.