Voices of the Immigrants

Ten immigrants swept up in the June 6 federal raids on New Haven tell their stories.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
By Betsy Yagla

In the early morning hours of June 6, white vans carrying federal immigration officers crept into New Haven. They swept through Fair Haven, the city's predominantly Latino neighborhood, barging into homes and stopping people on the street. Anyone who didn't have the proper immigration papers was arrested. In all, 32 were taken. In many cases, according to witnesses, the federal agents didn't identify themselves and didn't explain what was happening.
Fear gripped the neighborhood. Children were left at school because parents were afraid to leave their homes to pick up their kids. The Latino advocacy organization JUNTA for Progressive Action delivered food to homes because undocumented immigrants were too terrified to go to the grocery store.

Across the country immigration raids are in a stepped-up mode. President Bush announced on August 10 that the number of teams conducting these raids has grown from 15 in 2005 to 68 as of last week. By September's end there will be 75. The federal government will also begin to send warning letters to employers who have several workers with Social Security numbers that don't match their names. They'll also be raising fines for those employers.

In June, New Haven Mayor John DeStefano lambasted the federal government for the way the raids were carried out. He called the arrests retaliation for New Haven's confirming that week that the city would be offering municipal ID cards to all city residents, including undocumented immigrants.

The ID cards and the raids have put New Haven at the center of the national immigration debate, and the 32 detainees have become a symbol of a failed federal immigration policy. The Advocate sought out the detainees and their families to better understand their situations and the how their arrest and confinement has changed their lives. What follows are the stories of 10 people arrested that day, gleaned from interviews conducted during the two months since the raids.

Koikoi Guilavogui
Koikoi Guilavogui's wife will probably give birth to a baby girl while he is in jail. Wendy Guilavogui, a nurse, met her husband, who is a nurse's aide, through work. When she found out their birthdays are one day apart—they were both born in 1978—Wendy gave Koi her phone number and suggested they celebrate together.

That was in February 2004. Instead of waiting until their March birthdays, Koi called that day after his shift. Wendy already had two kids and was going through a divorce, so she was hesitant to get into a relationship. But they did, and in 2006 they had a son, Jayden, and got married.

Koi is from Guinea. Two of his sisters live in Connecticut and have political asylum here. When Koi first arrived in the United States, in 2002, he went to Baltimore and stayed with family. He applied for asylum there, then moved to Connecticut to be near his sisters. His asylum case was rejected and he appealed.

In Guinea, Koi's uncle had formed a pro-democracy organization that was brutally repressed. His uncle was assassinated and his family was persecuted. If Koi returns to Guinea, he'll be targeted.
After Koi and Wendy were married in December 2006, the couple filed papers to change Koi's immigration status. She filed a petition for alien relative and he filed an application to adjust status. "We were told the paperwork was pending," says Wendy.

So the couple was shocked and confused on June 6 when they were awoken by immigration officials. Around 8:30 a.m. there was a loud knocking on the door. From the bedroom, Wendy heard someone yell, "Police!" They entered the bedroom and told her to get out of bed, but to leave Jayden behind in the room.

The officers asked for Koi's ID, and he looked through his wallet. All he had was an expired international driver's license. Then they took him away.

Koi has no criminal history, but he did have a deportation order, which means he is not eligible for bond. After working the phones for two days, Wendy found out her husband was being held in Massachusetts. She can talk to him on the phone, but he can only call collect or use a phone card. Wendy mails him money orders to buy phone cards, because she is not allowed to mail him the cards. She makes the two-hour drive twice a week for his one-hour visiting session. Wendy and Koi sit on opposite sides of a plexi-glass window and speak via phones.

When Wendy takes Jayden to visit his dad, the boy sits on her lap and says into the phone, "I lub you, daddy. I mizz you."

Since the raids, Jayden has been acting out. "He never gave me problems before," says Wendy. But Jayden's tantrums aren't her only worry.

Wendy works the night shift and her sister takes care of the kids while she works. But she can't get anyone to sit when she has to sleep, so she gets exhausted and cranky. The household income is half of what it used to be, so Wendy's been eating at her parents' home in Stratford to save money.

Because she's going to have a C-section, she's not allowed to lift anything heavier than the baby—which will make carrying the family's laundry to the laundromat difficult. Paying bills will be harder, too, because she'll be bedridden for six to eight weeks after surgery and giving birth.
Wendy's scheduled her C-section for the last possible date, August 24, in the hope that by then her husband will be home.

Koi's job allowed Wendy to work part-time and continue studying to become a nurse. But with the loss of his income and support, she's considering reapplying for welfare. She's worried about losing her two-bedroom apartment and a van that she's almost paid off.

If Koi is deported, Wendy wants to follow—she wants to be with her husband and she can't afford to raise her children here without him. But Guinea has the world's highest rate of female genital mutilation. If the Guilavoguis don't allow their six-year-old daughter, Jackie, to be mutilated, they'd be ostracized. Wendy has filed suit against Secretary of Homeland Security Michael Chertoff, Attorney General Alberto Gonzales and the Bureau of U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services (USCIS). If the deportation occurs, the suit argues, Koi will "face violent persecution and crippling social isolation."

Gerardo and Silvino Trujillo
Cousins Gerardo and Silvino Trujillo stick together. They live together and work together. Gerardo, 21, has been in New Haven for six years; Silvino, 24, for seven.

They have an aunt and a cousin here but don't see them very often.

The only job the cousins had until they were arrested was at a Hamden bakery. They lost their jobs after spending two weeks in jail following the raid.

That's understandable, says Silvino, because it was a small bakery. The two had to hustle to find new jobs. They're still working with their hands, though; instead of kneading bread, they wield hammers working construction jobs. They took the jobs without even asking what they pay was—they were that desperate and trusting.

They cousins say they're scared to go out anymore, but they work long hours so they're too tired to do much else except sleep and watch TV.

Silvino and Gerardo are like yin and yang. Silvino talks a lot; he's animated and his face often breaks into a wide grin. His ears are pierced and he seems relaxed, comfortable with himself.

Gerardo depends on his older cousin to speak for him and needs a little prodding before he'll lift his head and open his mouth. He's shy and loathe to make eye contact.

On the day they were arrested, Silvino had been working the night shift at the bakery and left around 4 a.m. "I had just fallen asleep when around 6:45 they came into my bedroom and woke me up by turning on the lights," he says. "I was really confused, ya know, because I wasn't awake. They asked me what my name was and then they grabbed and handcuffed me. We were asking, 'What's happening?' But they didn't say anything."

The immigration agents did not ID themselves. They didn't explain what was going on and they didn't tell the cousins where they'd be taken. Silvino and Gerardo were loaded into a windowless van with eight others. "We were scared," admits Silvino. The others were scared and confused, too.

"I thought there must have been an error because I know I didn't do anything wrong," says Silvino.

"I was really scared and I couldn't figure out why they were arresting me," says Gerardo. In jail, "I couldn't sleep. You can't sleep worrying about what's going to happen to you."

No one who had been arrested understood what was happening. "I called my aunt and I was asking, 'What's going to happen to us?'" says Silvino. "I thought maybe she would have some information, but she was really scared and I ended up calming her down. She didn't have any answers for me and we couldn't talk long anyway," because phone calls were expensive.

When they heard about the rallies and protests in New Haven in the days following the raids, the cousins say they were happy to know people were supporting them.

"That helped a lot," says Gerardo. "It made us feel less alone."

But they say, "We don't leave the house unless it's to work. We're very tired, but we're also nervous," explains Silvino. "You're not the same person after spending time in jail. It's just not the same anymore. It changes you knowing that one day you can wake up and be sent to jail. Maybe in a little while I won't be so scared anymore."


Orlando Rodriguez Casetelan
Orlando Rodriguez Castelan, 25, has only been in the New Haven area for five months. He has a wide, round face with soft features. He keeps his mustache neatly trimmed and he has a tiny mole between his eyebrows. He's shy and quiet, but quick to smile. He's a mechanic, and he's got black grease-rimmed fingernails to prove it. His hands are covered in a constellation of scars and scabs that he gets from working on expensive cars at a body shop.

He spends his days under the hood of cars like Ferraris and Lamborghinis. He began working with cars at the tender age of 10 and fell in love with them, although he doesn't own a car himself.

Instead, Rodriguez Castelan rides the bus to work. On Monday, June 11, he was waiting for the bus in the morning when a car pulled up in front of him. Rodriguez Castelan noticed the passenger was talking on his cell phone. The bus would arrive in less than five minutes.

Rodriguez Castelan waited patiently, not paying much attention to the car in front of him. As the bus pulled up, the passenger hung up his cell phone, got out of the car and approached Rodriguez Castelan. "Do you speak English?" he asked. "Do you speak Spanish?" he asked next. Yes, said Rodriguez Castelan. The man grabbed Rodriguez Castelan's wrists, handcuffed him and shoved him into the back of the car.

"What's going on?" asked Rodriguez Castelan. "I'm the police," responded the man in civilian clothes.

Rodriguez Castelan keeps to himself. He lives with his brother-in-law and his nephew, but they rarely see each other because of their different work schedules. When Rodriguez Castelan was taken to jail, he met others in his situation and became fast friends with Amilcar Soto Velasquez.
They speculated on whether they would ever get out of jail, what their families were doing or talking about. They gave each other hope. "I thought I'd never get out," says Rodriguez Castelan.


Amilcar Soto Velasquez
Amilcar Soto Velasquez has been in New Haven for five of his 22 years. Most of his family is in Florida, he says, but a friend brought him to Connecticut.

As a landscaper, Soto Velasquez practically has the winters off: He works one or two days a week, if at all. But he just shrugs his shoulders when I ask what he does during all that free time. After a while, he says he likes soccer, but he doesn't play during the winter. During the summer he makes up for time off by working long hours six days a week and sometimes on Sundays.

Soto Velasquez is a man of few words, but when he does speak it's rapid-fire. He spits his words out quickly; they trip over each other in an avalanche of sentences. He has an angular face with wisps of a mustache stretching towards his lips.

Soto Valasquez says his bosses didn't mind that he was absent two weeks after getting arrested because he has been a reliable employee for four years. Immigration officials didn't come to his house; they showed up at Teresa Vara's house, where he was visiting and staying the night. Vara and Soto Velasquez are dating.

There were several people in the house, and Teresa's friend Norma Sedeno was the only one who wasn't arrested. The immigration agents allowed Norma to stay behind so that she could take care of the children, Norma says.

"I was extremely worried the first few days in jail," says Soto Velasquez. "I thought I'd be deported without the money for my bond." Friends ended up loaning him the $7,000 he needed to get home.


Teresa Vara
Teresa Vara, 32, has no family in New Haven. Instead, she lives with a woman who has lots of family, Norma Sedeno, 27, who has two brothers, a cousin, a husband and three children.

There were seven adults in Vara and Sedeno's home (Amilcar Soto Velasquez was visiting), none of whom speak English, when the raids occurred. "When ICE (Immigrations Customs and Enforcement) came in we thought they were police," remembers Vara. "They came in without saying anything or identifying themselves."

Vara speaks rapidly and confidently. Words aren't enough for her: She waves her arm, shakes her head and scrunches up her face to make a point. Vara's quick to laugh and quick to cry. Its easy to assume that being arrested for the first time and being separated from the few people she knows in Connecticut has pushed her to emotional extremes.

When Vara saw ICE that morning, she was in her pajamas and wearing flip-flops. She wanted to use the bathroom. They didn't let her change and they didn't let her go to the bathroom.

"There's one person in our house who speaks a little English, and I said to him, 'Ask them what they want.' But they didn't tell us anything," says Vara.

All the men were handcuffed and the immigration agents asked the women if they had kids. "I don't have any kids here, so they handcuffed me and took me off," she says. It was two or three hours before Vara was allowed to use the restroom.

Norma Sedeno was left alone with her three children and a part-time job. Her normally bustling home was quiet. Her brothers Luis and Cirilo and her husband Apolinar had all been arrested. Luis, who has deep dimples, has been in New Haven since 1999. Cirilo was the first family member to arrive in New Haven.

Shortly after the raids, Norma was the voice and face of those left behind. She has a long thick rope of black hair and a wide face with upwards slanting eyes. She spoke at a few rallies through translators. When she spoke, her eyes were full of tears and her voice wobbled insecurely.

Norma's husband and brothers provide for Norma's kids. During the two weeks while she waited to see her family again, Santa Rosa de Lima helped her financially. JUNTA for Progressive Action donated food to Norma and other families in her situation. Her oldest son kept asking when everyone would come home. Sedeno kept asking herself and anyone who would listen, "Why my house?"

The day after the raid, Vara was transferred to Boston, where she met Damiana Reyes, a Dominican who was picked up while working at Chick's in West Haven. Reyes' sister Antonia and her husband have green cards. Her husband had already filled out the paperwork to apply for Reyes' green card when she got picked up. They have children in the Dominican Republic whom they'd like to bring here too.

Reyes and Vara spent a lot of time together in Boston. "We were going through the same thing," says Vara.

Vara had two jobs before the raids, but she lost both of them. She secured a low-paying job after she got out, but she's looking for a part-time job to complement that, or a better paying full-time job.

Reyes' bond was reduced from $15,000 to $1,500 and Vara's to $3,500. "But I only have $4,000 saved up, total," says Vara.


José Efraín Solano Yangua
José Efraín Solano Yangua, 26, was the first of 15 accused-undocumented immigrants to appear before a federal immigration judge June 14 in Hartford. Pro bono lawyers from Yale representing the group painted a picture of Solano Yangua for the judge.

Solano Yangua moved to New Haven in 2000, and since 2003 he's paid taxes to the federal government. Many immigrants who'd like to be naturalized are told they should pay taxes in case a future law requires them to show proof of time spent here. Paying taxes would prove that; it would also show the immigrant is devoted to the United States.

Solano Yangua has had no prior contact with immigration officials, lawyers told the judge. He owns a car, has a bank account and he takes English classes at Springs Learning Center. He's been with the same employer since he moved to New Haven.

He has close cropped hair and he was clean shaven for his day in court.

Lawyers told the judge that Solano Yangua has a brother, Edison Fernando Yangua Calva, who was also picked up in the June 6 raids. The two are the sole source of income for their diabetic father and four younger brothers in Ecuador. Their mother is dead.

The immigration agents found a Michigan driver's license at Solano Yangua's home. Does that mean he's mobile, or a flight risk, or he's not interested in staying in Connecticut?, the judge wanted to know. Solano Yangua works in landscaping—a seasonal job, explained lawyers. From November 2003 to March 2004 he went to Michigan to look for winter work. At that time Michigan allowed undocumented residents to get a driver's license. He took advantage of the opportunity.

The following week in court, both of the brothers' bonds were set at $6,000.


Eduardo Diaz Bernal
Eduardo Díaz Bernal, 39, is a short and stocky man with puffy cheeks and closely cropped hair spiked with gel. His mouth is framed by a thin mustache and a small triangular soul patch.

Díaz Bernal has been living in Fair Haven for six years. He has cousins here, but he's not very close with them. They see each other a few times a month and go to church together at Santa Rosa de Lima, but that's it. Otherwise, he's alone.

Díaz Bernal lives with friends, but they're not very close: He's not even sure where they work. But they cook together, and Díaz Bernal and roommate Diego are regularly trying to convince their other roommate Washington Colala to eat foods laced with chiles. Colala would rather just eat rice, says Díaz Bernal with a shake of his head.

The three single men have been learning to cook. They're experimenting. That's what men do, Díaz Bernal says, when they're on their own. Díaz Bernal is divorced and it clearly pains him to think about it. He and his wife were married 13 years and together they have two daughters, 11 and 18. But the woman remarried quickly and she's had several other children since.

Instead of dwelling on family, Díaz Bernal focuses on cars. He works at a motorcycle store on the shoreline. He's been there for two years, and beforehand he worked in a car wash. He's gone through four cars in his six years here. Recently a friend borrowed his car, got into an accident, and never paid anything for wrecking his car.

Díaz Bernal's thinking about getting a new car—it would make the 40-minute bus ride to his job easier—but he doesn't want to dole out that kind of cash if he'll end up deported. "I don't know what's waiting for me," he says.

On June 6 around 6 a.m., Díaz Bernal was in the bathroom about to take a shower. He heard the doorbell ringing a lot but thought nothing of it. Then someone was persistently knocking on the bathroom door. Strangers were calling his name in a gringo accent. "I came out of the bathroom and they were already in the house. They said they were federal immigration agents. I was in my pajamas and flip-flops and they wouldn't let me change my clothes. They handcuffed me, and then I saw Washington sitting on the floor handcuffed too," he says.

The agents wanted to know where Diego was, but he had already gone to work. They wanted to know where he worked and Díaz Bernal told them he didn't know. He was taken to a private jail in Rhode Island and was held there for two weeks. His bond was reduced to $1,500. Father James Manship of Santa Rosa de Lima church paid the bond and Díaz Bernal says he's working to pay it back.

"I'm not a bad man. I just work," he says. "If I've done something wrong and the police come for me, I deserve it. But, is it wrong to work? I've always wanted to work. If you're not working, you're not doing anything."

Díaz Bernal spent two weeks looking over his shoulder after getting out of jail. He says he's paranoid and worried. Several police officers are regular customers where he works. He used to hang around and chat when the officers came in, but now Díaz Bernal hides when they come to the shop.