By Andy Mannix
By Caleb Hannan
By Olivia LaVecchia
By CP Staff
By Aaron Rupar
By Jacob Wheeler
By Olivia LaVecchia
By Aaron Rupar
Every couple of months, a group of local immigration attorneys gathers for lunch. The legal world they traverse has become mind-bogglingly complex since 9/11, so the conversations usually end up being an exchange of exasperating anecdotes that involve clients caught up in an overloaded, underfunded system suddenly charged with the amorphous task of fighting terror.
A young woman from Pakistan can't get an I.D. because she doesn't have a set of fingerprints, and she can't get a set of fingerprints without an I.D. A traveling salesman from Saudi Arabia hasn't been able to fly for nearly a year because his name has been misspelled on a critical document, and every time he goes to the trouble of having it changed, the mistake is repeated. A couple goes to Hennepin County to get a marriage license and a vigilante clerk unilaterally decides that, though the bride-to-be is a U.S. citizen and her brown-skinned fiancé is a lawful immigrant, their documentation is not adequate--even though Minnesota statutes don't require anything but a valid ID, which both possessed. On and on it goes, until you know what one attorney means when she jokes that "it's a good time to be a WASP."
Last week, this group of middle-class, middle-of-the-road professionals invited me to sit in on their confab. Notebook in hand, pen dutifully poised, I asked them to comment on the origin of these bureaucratic nightmares. My guess was that this administration's now-perpetual holy war, and a mass media high on jingoism, were encouraging pen-pushers in various bureaucracies to take up policing our borders, due process and civil liberties be damned. I also wanted details about both the practical and psychological impact of Attorney General Ashcroft's decision to change the name of the Immigration and Naturalization Service (INS) to the Bureau of Citizenship and Immigration Services (BCIS), and to make it an integral part of the Department of Homeland Security in late January.
The answers to the first question were actually heartening. Yes, many clients were jittery--especially those non-immigrant males from 25 countries known to harbor evildoers who were visiting or working temporarily in the United States. These people were called in to the BCIS to sign up for the National Security Entry-Exit Registration System, which involves a questionnaire, fingerprinting, and a picture. In a situation like that, it is always reasonable to worry that a paperwork error or an overzealous immigration agent could cause trouble. In addition, as the American Immigration Lawyers Association pointed out in a recent newsletter, the program "offers little protection because it targets people based on national origin, race, and religion, rather than on intelligence information."
That being said, the attorneys assured me, the BCIS center in Bloomington--which was so woefully understaffed last winter that people were lined up outside in sub-zero temperatures for hours--is doing a commendable job simply making sure we know who is already here. As for the war against Iraq and Islamic extremists (they're one and the same if you've been watching TV coverage of the "liberation"), it may be making people wary, but so far there is no evidence that local noncitizens have been harassed or detained as a result. Mainly, the process of tracking status is just time-consuming.
I couldn't help but ask again whether rounding up people for "special registration" after they've already entered the country doesn't put a chill in the air, essentially sending the signal that the words "immigrant" and "terrorist" are synonymous. After a few beats of silence, one lawyer asked me if he could speak off the record, meaning that I can use his quotes but not identify him by name. "Sure," I said. "This whole conversation can be anonymous, if that will make you more comfortable."
The mood abruptly shifted. Bureaucratic bungling, bad enough given how high the stakes, is just a symptom of the disease, they said--a convenient cover story when questions arise about agenda. "The whole system is in terrorism mode," another attorney says, after being promised anonymity. "The whole process is alienating the immigrant population.
"I mean, people are coming to this country expecting freedom, justice, and liberty and they are immediately realizing that there is no such thing as equal treatment. They learn that they can be ensnared in the system for things that are out of their control. And they learn that the system will turn its back on them when they are in most need of help. Every time they have to deal with immigration officials, they get this pit in their stomach--they feel like they're gambling."
"If Ashcroft had his way, and he may well get it, he would just close the borders," says another, who agrees Bush's war games have created a law-enforcement philosophy as racist as it is imprecise.
"The people from Somalia who live in this community are fearing for their lives. It's a witch hunt. And it's terrifying. Think about it: You don't know what they think they know, so how could you possibly be prepared to deal with them? How could you possibly feel safe?"
Most of the attorneys in the room have talked to reporters before, on the record. They are all U.S. citizens, educated in American law schools, with nothing apparent to hide. Yet they seem nearly as loath to speak openly as their clients. The idea of openly questioning the system in which they work seems to terrify them, especially the two attorneys in the room who were born in another country.
"I have children, and I fear for them," says one. "I mean, there's language in the Patriot Act II (a piece of draft legislation that has yet to be introduced in Congress, though it's made the rounds on Capitol Hill) that talks about de-naturalizing people. That's us. That freaks me out."
The other foreign-born attorney shakes his head in disgusted assent: "I went to law school to learn about how to use the law to advocate for people's rights. We've entered an era in which the laws we have are being warped to put people like me in danger. And I'll tell you something: The reason none of us wants to speak on the record is because we are all convinced that there are parts of the federal government that are practicing retribution."
When the news broke on April 1, I found it hard to believe that the arrest of 30-year-old activist Omar Jamal, who founded the Somali Justice Center in St. Paul and has openly accused police and elected officials of racism, was anything but politically motivated, although attorneys from the Homeland Security Department still contend that that's not the case. The charges against Jamal are based on arcane immigration documents filed five years ago in Memphis. Just to check myself, though, I decided to run my conspiratorial theory past the attorneys I had met for lunch. Several laughed. "There's no way they would dig something like that up unless he was on some sort of hit list," one of them said.
Reading the Star Tribune's coverage only fortified my impression that most journalists aren't buying the official line either. Reporter Allie Shah's April 7 piece, "For Local Muslims, a Fearful Time," made reference to the unnerving effect of the arrest. Staff writer Curt Brown, who covered Jamal's bail hearing, also gave a striking amount of space to advocates contending that Jamal has been targeted. On Saturday, the paper covered a rally held for the "embattled Somali leader," making it clear the government's thinly veiled excuses are just that. (Every now and then, the "liberal media" pulls its weight. Here's hoping they stay on the story.)
There is one remark by Jamal that I can't get out of my head: "If their aim was to pressure me and scare the hell out of me, it's working."
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