Deportees' Bittersweet Homecoming

Sympathy and Respect

At the Center for Attention to Migrants next to Toncontin International Airport, deportees who have just been uncuffed from airplane seats are greeted with the sympathy and respect due homecoming survivors of a long ordeal. Immigration officials offer good-luck handshakes while volunteers pass around coffee, tortillas and brochures for free training in fish farming, pastry cooking, auto mechanics or computer programming.

Valdete Wilemon, a Brazilian nun who runs the center, says she has heard a thousand horror stories from returning migrants -- of people crazed from thirst in the U.S. deserts, falling to their deaths from trains in Mexico, being beaten and robbed by cross-border guides.

"I see migration as a big business for those who exploit it, and a cause of great suffering for the migrants," she said. "We treat them with dignity, and we welcome them home. But this country is very poor, and the people will keep trying to get to the north, no matter how big a wall they build," she added. "The deportations are more now, but so is the flight."

Despite her ministrations, new deportees are often angry and bleak. They mill uneasily or slump in chairs, ripping open sacks containing shoelaces, belts and wallets confiscated by U.S. immigration officials -- and copies of the Bible donated by prison visitors -- while they wait impatiently to be processed for reentry into Honduras.

Some look sullen with failure or haggard with exhaustion; others grin and whoop with defiant relief. A few young men with tattoos, possible signs of gang membership, curse at visitors. One man pulls out a snapshot of his wife and daughter, left behind when his factory was raided in New Jersey. Another complains angrily that his landscaping boss in Texas betrayed him to avoid paying his salary.

"I not criminal guy," says Santos Canales, 30, struggling to explain himself in English. "I work hard. I have wife and five kids. The boss know I am illegal. I ask for my money. He call police, not pay me."

In the next room, immigration officials call the deportees one by one for brief interviews. They answer two pages of questions that provide a basic but revealing profile of the motives and fortunes of many illegal migrants from Central America. Education level? Most say they reached only sixth grade. Occupation? Most say farmer, driver, factory worker or bricklayer.

How long did you spend in the United States? A few say several years, but most answer less than two months. How much did you earn? Most say zero; a few say between $1,000 and $2,000 a month. How much did you send home? Again, most say zero; some say several hundred dollars a month.

How many times have you been deported? Many say twice, some say more. Are you planning to go back? Many in their 20s and 30s answer yes; most in their 40s and 50s shake their heads and say no.

"For me, it was definitely worth it," says Hidalgo Fuentes, 30, who quit his local factory job and was caught in May trying to reach Missouri on a cargo train. "Here, the best I can earn is about $30 a week. The last time I went north, I earned $500 a week washing dishes, and my family was able to build a house." Asked if he expects to try again, he just smiles.

Reuniting the Family

Outside the center, a throng of families waits anxiously. Most have received calls from relatives in U.S. detention, saying they will be home this week. Gladys Morales and her two children are there, taut with excitement and dressed in new clothes for what Belkis, 13, calls "the Big Day."

They are waiting for Gladys's husband, Ramón, 34, who has been in New Orleans for three years. He worked as a house painter, sending home a steady stream of cash that helped them improve their three-room shack on a hillside outside the capital. But they missed him terribly, especially José Ramón, 9. For this family, the joy of reuniting is far more important than the loss of income.

Suddenly, there he is in the door, still wearing the paint-splattered pants he had on when U.S. immigration agents raided an apartment complex he was painting in April. The children rush forward, and he crushes them to his chest.

"So you still remember me?" he murmurs affectionately. "How are you doing in school? Are you behaving yourselves?"

José Ramón clutches his father's hand all the way home, a huge grin on his face. He brags about his grades and jokingly offers to teach his father English.

When they reach their house, Ramón Morales looks around appreciatively. The back room is still a dirt-floor shed with a latrine, but the front room has new tiles, a fresh coat of paint, and a TV set and three CD players covered with doilies. Over a welcome-home meal of rice, beans and pork chops, Morales says he has no idea how he will earn a living now, but he is sure of one thing.

"My children need me. So many homes fall apart, but we stayed united," he says. "I worked hard, I suffered a lot, I sent money home. But after going through all that, you come back with a new mentality. I want to build a life here now. I can't leave them again. It's time for me to come home."