Young Immigrants’ Dreams Put on Hold in a Sort of INS Halfway House

They have jumped borders, hopped trains, dodged police and scraped for a living on the streets. Though only children, they have managed hazardous journeys halfway across a continent, fleeing warfare and poverty. Against all odds, they have reached their destination: the United States.

So far, however, it has not been as they hoped for these migrant youths.

“I just want to live with a family, to live in peace,” said Juan, a 15-year-old from El Salvador who explained softly how he fled his native land in fear for his life. “I want to stay in America.”

Juan and a dozen other boys--all Central Americans, all under 18 and unaccompanied by adults, and all prisoners of the U.S. Immigration and Naturalization Service--are residents of a singular detention facility known as the Casa San Juan, situated in an inconspicuous building on a residential street here. Their crime is being in the United States illegally. All are seeking some relief from deportation, usually political asylum--a time-consuming process that could leave them incarcerated for months.

But their “jail,” although far from luxurious, is more akin in atmosphere to a kind of group home; it has no armed guards, no cells and few trappings of life behind bars. Children here receive daily classroom instruction in English and other subjects--a stark contrast, INS critics say, to the oppressively monotonous, impersonal and sometimes-threatening atmosphere of the INS’s other detention facilities.

Advocates have waged an extensive legal battle in federal court aimed at improving conditions for the scores of children incarcerated by the INS nationwide.

“Of all the detention facilities, I think that the Casa San Juan is the only one that’s habitable for children,” said Haydee Sanchez, a paralegal with El Rescate, the Los Angeles-based immigrant-rights group.

In fact, Casa San Juan serves as a sort of model for court-ordered changes governing how juveniles in INS custody will be held in the future. “It demonstrates that the INS can put children in good facilities rather than substandard facilities,” noted Alice Bussiere, an attorney with the National Center for Youth Law in San Francisco, which is assisting in the legal effort on behalf of incarcerated minors.

It is morning at the Casa San Juan, and a teacher is conducting classes in mathematics. The day before, INS officials brought in a handful of new children.

“I’ve done additions, subtractions, multiplications and divisions,” said one of the new boys, Angel, a sprightly, short-haired 13-year-old from Guatemala, who explained later how he became separated from his father in San Ysidro. “He got on a bus and I couldn’t.”

Opened in July, 1982, as a place to house material witnesses in smuggling cases, the Casa San Juan has since expanded to include as many as 33 INS prisoners, all women and male children. (Few unaccompanied juvenile girls are arrested by INS authorities, so the only minors kept here are boys.)

U.S. officials contract with Catholic Community Services to run the two-story facility.

Upstairs, there are seven bedrooms, each with cot-style beds and a bathroom, for as many as 15 male youths; there is also a classroom with a television. As many as 18 adult women, occasionally accompanied by their children, stay in quarters downstairs, where there is also a kitchen, dining area and offices. The Casa’s modest grounds include a small patio and a yard--enlivened by a mural depicting Mexico and Central America--where the boys play soccer and basketball.

“We want to try to emphasize a home atmosphere where the anxiety level isn’t as high,” explained Susan Torres-Tacata, who heads the program for Catholic Community Services.

The average stay, officials said, is 12 days. Some detainees remain only a day or two before being bailed out and turned over to a relative. One boy remained 9 months--a record.

Security is far from rigid. The doors are locked, but windows remain open. The only bars are designed to protect first-floor windows from errant soccer balls. Because of the informality, authorities attempt to screen out street-wise youths and potential trouble-makers, who are placed in more secure facilities.

“We know we’re going to have a few escapes every year from the Casa San Juan, but we feel it’s worth the risk,” said Robert H. Mandgie, the INS assistant district director for detention and deportation in San Diego.

However, space limitations contribute to what immigrant advocates characterize as a major drawback: There are no visits by relatives, although attorneys do come to the facility. And, despite the upbeat atmosphere, the youths here are incarcerated--a situation that many would like to see changed. Advocates are fighting for a new policy whereby youths would be quickly released to the custody of suitable families willing to provide foster care.

“No matter how ideal Casa San Juan is--and it is the best place for children in INS custody to be right now--the children there are still locked up, and that’s not good,” said Carlos Holguin, an attorney with the National Center for Immigrants’ Rights Inc. in Los Angeles.

At the facility, much of the children’s activity revolves around classes.

Their teacher is Joy Wasserman, who was a 10-year veteran of inner-city Detroit schools when she arrived at the Casa San Juan in February, 1985. That’s when classes first began--thanks to the cooperation of San Diego County juvenile authorities and federal officials. The efforts of Wasserman, a county employee, extend well beyond teaching: She is frequently on the telephone seeking prospective foster homes and legal guardians for the youths, attempting to expedite their immigration cases, trying to locate relatives and the like.

“These are wonderful children,” Wasserman said.

Scattered on Wasserman’s cluttered desk and posted on the wall in her light-filled second-floor office are mementos of former students. There are hand-drawn scenes in crayon depicting the wondrous quetzal, the national bird of Guatemala; a Honduran flag; the colorful national crest of El Salvador. In her photo album are dozens of photographs of past residents, including a snap of a Honduran boy and a cake--celebrating his first-ever birthday party.

Her interest extends beyond her job. Wasserman has brought into her home a Nicaraguan youth, Jose Antonio, 15, a longtime orphan and former Casa San Juan resident. His parents were killed by Sandinista troops, said the teacher, who now cares for him like a son.

Although Jose Antonio has not had much luck in his short life, he is fortunate in one sense: Refugees from leftist Nicaragua have a better chance at being granted political asylum in the United States than their counterparts from U.S.-backed regimes in El Salvador, Guatemala and Honduras--a situation that critics have denounced as hypocritical. Whatever its merits, however, the policy means that most boys at the Casa San Juan will likely be deported back to Central America, a prospect that frightens many.

Wasserman was on the telephone with INS officials, attempting to expedite the farm-worker amnesty application of a 17-year-old Guatemalan boy, a former Casa San Juan resident, who now lives in Florida. Although his paper work is solid--she helped collect evidence of his residence and employment history in the United States--Wasserman said that the INS is threatening deportation.

“This kid is scared to death; he can’t understand what’s happening,” she explained.

Such dramas are daily occurrences here.

The boys tell similar stories: They speak of warfare in their home countries, of forced recruiting drives by the military, of broken homes, of encounters with Mexican immigration officials seeking bribes--for these youths were also “illegal aliens” in Mexico during their long treks northward.

Some say they have family in the United States, although many are unaware of how to contact them. Some have no close relatives and have been on their own for years. All were drawn here by the age-old immigrants’ dream of a better life.

Juan, a soft-spoken, deeply religious 15-year-old, said he was reared by a family in a small village near the capital of San Salvador. On his 11th birthday, he said, the woman he thought was his mother informed him that he would have to leave. She also told him the truth of his background: His natural mother, unable to support him, had given him away as an infant. Now, the woman told him, he would have to support himself.

Juan said he left for the capital, where he found work as a helper on trucks heading for Guatemala. He worked for four years, he said, barely earning enough to eat; he said he often slept nights in a market. He also met some missionaries and became an Evangelical Christian, he said .

One evening two months ago, he said, he stayed at the rented room of a 22-year-old cousin in the capital. Without warning, he said, four armed men burst through the doors and pinned his cousin on a bed. While the men were occupied, Juan said he escaped through the door, avoiding capture by taking shelter in a nearby store.

“I don’t know if the men were police or guerrillas,” Juan said, seated on a desk at the shelter.

Fearing for his own life in a country where “disappearances” are threads in the fabric of life, Juan said he left on his own for the United States with his savings of $40 or so; he caught buses through El Salvador and Guatemala and, finally, boarded Mexican passenger trains to the border. Once at the border, Juan said, he simply sat down on the U.S. side, allowing immigration authorities to arrest him.

“I came to ask for protection,” said Juan, speaking in a hushed voice. “I want to be with a family, helping them, living freely, learning English. . . . I can’t go back to El Salvador. I’ll lose my life.”