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An asylum applicant takes an oath of honesty during an interview with U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services asylum officer Farhad Zamani in Anaheim. (Allen J. Schaben / Los Angeles Times) |
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In a sterile waiting room in an Anaheim office building, the applicants sit on rows of black chairs beneath bright lights. Some speak in hushed voices with lawyers and interpreters. Others pace nervously as clerks behind numbered glass windows take fingerprints and photographs.
Farhad Zamani opens a secure door and calls out a number. A slender woman stands up and walks toward him, clutching a silver purse.
The door closes behind them and the woman follows Zamani down a long, empty hallway of locked doors. They arrive at his office, sparsely decorated with stacks of files, a world map and a miniature Statue of Liberty. A white legal pad and the woman's thick file sit neatly on the desk.
She raises her hand and swears to tell the truth.
"What was the main reason you came to the United States?" he asks.
"I opposed the Chinese government's family planning policy," she responds.
The woman fiddles with her hands. Zamani tries to put her at ease.
"This is the worst part of my job, having you relive the unfortunate events, but I need to know," he tells her. "Do the best you can."
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Zamani holds the woman's fate in his hands. If he grants her asylum, she will be allowed to stay in this country, become a U.S. citizen and bring her sons here to live with her. If he doesn't, she will have to press her case in federal Immigration Court, a contentious and lengthy process that could end with her deportation back to China.
This is the front line of the asylum system, and Zamani is the first decision-maker. Behind closed doors, he and other asylum officers interview people from all corners of the world. They try to distinguish truth from lies. They decide if the people seated before them have endured persecution and deserve protection from the U.S. government or are simply economic refugees looking for a better life in America.
To obtain asylum, applicants must show that they are unable or unwilling to return home because of persecution or the threat of persecution based on race, religion, nationality or political affiliation.
If sent back to their home countries, applicants could be imprisoned, even killed. In the years it takes to fight a case in Immigration Court, relatives back home could suffer retaliation.
"The consequences of the wrongful decision are so huge," said Judy London, who directs the Immigrants' Rights Project at Public Counsel Los Angeles.
A favorable ruling from an asylum officer can be elusive. In the majority of cases, officers refer the matter to courts -- essentially a rejection. Of 11,400 applications decided by the Los Angeles asylum office in fiscal year 2008, only 19% were approved based on the initial interview. Nationwide, 31% of the 31,452 applications were granted by asylum officers.
U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services recently allowed The Times a rare glimpse of the confidential screening process on condition that applicants agree to have a reporter present and that their identities not be revealed.
For Zamani, one of 279 asylum officers across the country, judging truthfulness comes down to specifics.
"Details, details, details," he said. "When someone has experienced something firsthand, they are going to be able to provide a whole lot of detail."
Zamani, 39, has been trained in the law, in understanding cultural differences and in assessing credibility. From case studies, lectures and mock interviews, he has learned to recognize signs of deception. He compares applicants' testimony with their written accounts. He probes inconsistencies and studies their demeanor. But he is not allowed to be adversarial.
That adds a layer of difficulty in finding the truth, which is the central challenge facing asylum officers, said George Mihalko, director of the Los Angeles asylum office. "Any time you offer a benefit, people are going to try to game the system," he said.
Farhad Zamani opens a secure door and calls out a number. A slender woman stands up and walks toward him, clutching a silver purse.
The door closes behind them and the woman follows Zamani down a long, empty hallway of locked doors. They arrive at his office, sparsely decorated with stacks of files, a world map and a miniature Statue of Liberty. A white legal pad and the woman's thick file sit neatly on the desk.
She raises her hand and swears to tell the truth.
"What was the main reason you came to the United States?" he asks.
"I opposed the Chinese government's family planning policy," she responds.
The woman fiddles with her hands. Zamani tries to put her at ease.
"This is the worst part of my job, having you relive the unfortunate events, but I need to know," he tells her. "Do the best you can."
::
Zamani holds the woman's fate in his hands. If he grants her asylum, she will be allowed to stay in this country, become a U.S. citizen and bring her sons here to live with her. If he doesn't, she will have to press her case in federal Immigration Court, a contentious and lengthy process that could end with her deportation back to China.
This is the front line of the asylum system, and Zamani is the first decision-maker. Behind closed doors, he and other asylum officers interview people from all corners of the world. They try to distinguish truth from lies. They decide if the people seated before them have endured persecution and deserve protection from the U.S. government or are simply economic refugees looking for a better life in America.
To obtain asylum, applicants must show that they are unable or unwilling to return home because of persecution or the threat of persecution based on race, religion, nationality or political affiliation.
If sent back to their home countries, applicants could be imprisoned, even killed. In the years it takes to fight a case in Immigration Court, relatives back home could suffer retaliation.
"The consequences of the wrongful decision are so huge," said Judy London, who directs the Immigrants' Rights Project at Public Counsel Los Angeles.
A favorable ruling from an asylum officer can be elusive. In the majority of cases, officers refer the matter to courts -- essentially a rejection. Of 11,400 applications decided by the Los Angeles asylum office in fiscal year 2008, only 19% were approved based on the initial interview. Nationwide, 31% of the 31,452 applications were granted by asylum officers.
U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services recently allowed The Times a rare glimpse of the confidential screening process on condition that applicants agree to have a reporter present and that their identities not be revealed.
For Zamani, one of 279 asylum officers across the country, judging truthfulness comes down to specifics.
"Details, details, details," he said. "When someone has experienced something firsthand, they are going to be able to provide a whole lot of detail."
Zamani, 39, has been trained in the law, in understanding cultural differences and in assessing credibility. From case studies, lectures and mock interviews, he has learned to recognize signs of deception. He compares applicants' testimony with their written accounts. He probes inconsistencies and studies their demeanor. But he is not allowed to be adversarial.
That adds a layer of difficulty in finding the truth, which is the central challenge facing asylum officers, said George Mihalko, director of the Los Angeles asylum office. "Any time you offer a benefit, people are going to try to game the system," he said.
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