Salvadoran Teen From Migrant Caravan Reunites With Mother in Bay Area

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n a sunny morning in the Contra Costa County city Pinole, Veronica Aguilar pushed a supermarket cart at a discount grocery store. Her 15-year-old son Vladimir trailed closely behind, scanning the aisles.

As Aguilar paused before shelves stocked with bags of red beans, she turned to ask her son if they should take some home. The shy teen answered with a quiet nod.

"This boy loves beans," Aguilar said with a smile.

Until recently, something as routine as a grocery trip together seemed like a dream for Aguilar and Vladimir, who spent more than a year separated by international borders.

Aguilar, 36, was the first in her family to flee gang members in El Salvador in 2017, after they repeatedly threatened to kill her. Last fall, Vladimir also ran away from gang members with guns drawn at his doorstep. The family said it was the only way for him to escape being recruited by gangs and survive.

Now, after months of anxiety, Aguilar and her son are living together at a home in Pinole.

"I feel so happy that he's with me again and that I can take care of him," she said.

Since October, U.S. Border Patrol has apprehended nearly 27,000 unaccompanied minors crossing the border illegally, mostly from Central America. Another 2,000 minors traveling on their own have arrived in the U.S. through ports of entry, according to the most recent government figures. 

Vladimir's journey — aided by attorneys, a congresswoman and others — reflects some of the perils minors without such luck or resources face in their bid to seek asylum in this country.

Vladimir's Journey North

Last October, Vladimir and his grandmother Luci Diaz hopped on a bus and left their town north of San Salvador, which Diaz described as a "red zone for gangs." Aguilar had asked Diaz, 55, to accompany Vladimir and keep the boy safe on the grueling trip.

In southern Mexico, the pair joined a loosely-organized caravan of about 7,000 Central Americans, many of them women and children, heading to the U.S. border. Ahead of the midterm elections, the caravan became a frequent target for President Trump, who called it "an assault on our country."

For weeks, Vladimir and Diaz caught rides on trucks when they could and walked long stretches of Mexican roads. Diaz had toenails fall off after her sneakers broke during the journey.

Aguilar nervously followed her son and mother's progress from the Bay Area, checking her phone often for any updates. She worried that the caravan would be turned away at the U.S. border.

“This is such a difficult road, and it hurts to know that so many are suffering, walking so much,” said Aguilar, who has applied for asylum protections in the U.S.

In November, Vladimir and Diaz reached Tijuana, as protests and clashes erupted over the caravan's arrival. But Diaz had to return to El Salvador to care for her two other grandchildren.

She decided Vladimir would be safer at a youth shelter, with access to immigration attorneys who could help him prepare his claim. A day before she left, she visited Vladimir at the shelter to say goodbye.

“Remember I love you,” she told Vladimir as she hugged him close. “I brought you here not to abandon you, but to make sure you have a future.”

After Diaz left in tears, Vladimir found himself on his own, in a city he didn't know.

“It’ll be difficult because I don’t know what’s going to happen, if I’ll even be able to cross the border or not,” he said.

Crossing Into the U.S.

At the Tijuana-San Diego border crossing, hundreds of migrants from around the world huddled every morning, waiting for their turn to ask U.S. officials for asylum.

A growing wait list at the El Chaparral pedestrian crossing had 4,200 names on it, with asylum seekers expecting to linger for months before being able to see U.S. officials.

But at the youth shelter where Vladimir was staying, the advice from pro bono attorneys was to avoid writing their name on that list. The lawyers worried Mexican immigration officials would detain the minors, said Lindsay Toczylowski, an attorney who met Vladimir in Tijuana.

The night before Thanksgiving, Toczylowski accompanied Vladimir and other minors to request asylum at El Chaparral. As they walked on the pedestrian bridge leading to the border crossing, Mexican immigration authorities stopped them and detained Vladimir and another minor, she said.

Staff at the shelter in Tijuana for minors intervened, and Vladimir was released several days later, she said.

A U.S. Customs and Border Protection spokesperson said in a statement the agency processes "all unaccompanied alien children who present themselves at and between the ports of entry."

"The safety of children in our custody is of paramount concern," the CBP spokesperson said.

But the agency has also stated that the number of asylum seekers they process daily at ports of entry depends on detention space in their facilities, translation requirements and other factors.

On Dec. 1, a few days after he was released, Toczylowski again accompanied Vladimir as he tried to present Vladimir for asylum. This time, they took a taxi from Tijuana 20 miles east to the Otay Mesa border crossing, a smaller port of entry than Tijuana's.

Toczylowski feared CBP officials at Otay Mesa would not accept Vladimir. But she knew U.S. Rep. Pramila Jayapal, D-Seattle, would be touring the border there, and she timed their arrival to coincide with the congresswoman.

"I thought it was probably impossible for us to present anyone (for asylum) without a member of Congress there," said Toczylowski.

While Jayapal did not immediately identify herself before border officials, Toczylowski pleaded with a CBP supervisor to process Vladimir for asylum. But she said the supervisor kept saying no because the facilities were at capacity.

"He kept telling us we needed to vacate the premises and that we would get in trouble if we continued to loiter there," Toczylowski said.

That's when Jayapal walked up to the CBP supervisor and asked what he meant when he said their facilities were at capacity.

"The CBP supervisor said, 'Ma'am, you need to step back. I don't need to answer that question,' and (Rep. Jayapal) said 'No. I am a member of Congress and in fact you do need to answer that question because we fund your agency,'" Toczylowski recalled.

The back and forth continued until the CBP supervisor relented and took Vladimir for processing, said Toczylowski.

"In many ways, he was really, really lucky because he had lawyers who were volunteering and who were there to fight for him," she said. "It's like winning the lottery that he also had Rep. Jayapal there that day."

Toczylowski said she still gets text messages from other unaccompanied minors who arrived with the caravan in Tijuana last winter, but who have not been able to request asylum from U.S. officials.

A Mother and Son Reunite

After being held by border officials, Vladimir was transferred to a shelter that holds about 1,600 unaccompanied teens in South Florida. He was there for two months before being released to his mother in California.

Nationwide, approximately 11,500 unaccompanied minors are living in shelters that are run or contracted by the Office of Refugee Resettlement (ORR), part of the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services.

On average, unaccompanied minors spend three months at ORR shelters before they are released to family members and other sponsors in the U.S. to await immigration hearings, according to the agency.

ORR is unable to release minors immediately because they must work with other federal agencies to verify the identity of sponsors, according to the agency's website.

Looking back at the year that she was separated from her son, Veronica Aguilar feels thankful to the people who helped him get across the U.S. border.

"They pushed for his right to seek asylum," she said.

Challenges Ahead

Like most teenagers, Vladimir spends a lot of time on his phone. That's how he stays in touch with other teens he met at the government-run Homestead shelter outside Miami. But he doesn't elaborate on anything else about the two months he spent there.

"I don't want to talk about it," Vladimir said flatly.

But his mom said when they would talk on the phone while he was at the shelter, he was depressed. Now, she still sees pain inside him.

She suspects those emotions are similar to what she felt after she was locked up for seven months by immigration authorities when she applied for asylum.

"I don't want him as a young person to live with that his whole life," said Aguilar, adding that she plans to find a psychologist he can talk to.

Vladimir said he is also a little nervous about his new high school in Pinole. He only speaks Spanish and all of his classes are in English. But he's excited to get out of the house and meet people his age.

"We'll see what happens," Vladimir said.

Through it all, Aguilar said she has been amazed by the generosity of strangers. She and Vladimir are staying with a married couple who opened up their home and sponsored her so she could be released from an immigrant detention facility in Southern California last summer.

Aguilar said Ann and Kent Moriarty, a former middle school teacher and a mechanical engineer, have supported her like family.

"They've helped me so much," she said. "It's really been a blessing."

Recently, Aguilar also received an unexpected present in the mail: a $100 dollar gift card from a professor in Ventura County who heard about her story.

The envelope also included a note welcoming Vladimir to the U.S. Aguilar read it aloud to him, her voice breaking.

"I'm also an immigrant who came here looking for a better life," the professor said in her note. "Everything is possible. Good luck."

As Aguilar slowly folded the piece of paper back in the envelope, she let out a long sigh. She wondered aloud how strangers could offer help like that. Then her eyes became resolute once again. She looked up at her son.

"This is motivation to keep fighting," she told him.