'Lost Hope': Tens of Thousands of Asylum-Seekers Face Tough Prospects in US Courts

Oviedo won asylum in the U.S., a feat that so far a tiny fraction of people in the Remain in Mexico program have achieved. Now a resident of the the Bay Area, Oviedo has a job and plans to raise funds to help migrants at the border and the at-risk youth he used to work with in Honduras.

But Arzu lost his asylum claim and was deported to Honduras. Back in his hometown of La Ceiba, one of the most violent cities in the country, he wonders if he’ll be able to dodge the gang members who initially made him flee. He’s lost hope, he said.

One year into the unprecedented U.S. policy, officially called the Migrant Protection Protocols, immigration authorities have sent back nearly 60,000 mostly Central American asylum-seekers to Mexico. And they have transformed the prospects for those seeking U.S. protection at the southern border.

Only 187 people — 0.3% of the men, women and children placed in Remain in Mexico — have won the protections so far. Meanwhile, one-third, almost 20,000 people, have lost their claims and were ordered deported, according to researchers at Syracuse University.

For asylum-seekers who are allowed to pursue their claims while residing in the U.S., obtaining protection is more likely: Immigration courts granted asylum in about 30% of cases last year.

Supporters of the Remain in Mexico policy say it prevents migrants who want to come work in the U.S. from abusing the asylum system, while offering migrants with legitimate claims faster proceedings, as those cases are prioritized by immigration courts.

“It has made it possible for people who do qualify for asylum, who are genuinely in need of protection, to get relief sooner because they are in more accelerated proceedings,” said Jessica Vaughan, director of policy studies at the Center for Immigration Studies, which favors reducing immigration. “Before they would simply have been put in limbo, waiting for years for their first hearings even.”

Critics counter that the policy places vulnerable migrants at risk in dangerous areas of Mexico and erodes due process rights. It’s next to impossible for asylum-seekers in Mexico, who are often living in shelters or in the streets, to find legal help, assemble evidence and present their cases to U.S. courts, according to interviews with migrants and attorneys.

“It’s sort of an asylum process in name only,” said Lisa Knox, an immigration lawyer who represented Oviedo in his claim. “The reality is that, for most people there, they are not getting a fair shake.”

U.S. immigration law is complex, and migrants often don’t speak English or understand how to build a successful asylum claim and navigate the court system. Representation by a U.S. immigration lawyer is key to winning the protections.

But only 5% of people in the Remain in Mexico program have legal representation. By contrast, 37% of all immigrants fighting deportation cases have an attorney, according to the American Immigration Council.

To obtain asylum, non-citizens must prove a well-founded fear of persecution in their home country on account of race, religion, nationality, membership in a particular social group or political opinion.

Oviedo fled Honduras under death threats by gang members. He said he worked for years getting youth out of gangs and into church in a neighborhood known for murders in broad daylight. After a 15-year-old boy who attended Oviedo’s church was killed, he organized a march to demand the government tackle crime and protect residents.

“I was mad because the government wasn’t doing its job to protect youth, to protect a child, to protect families,” said Oviedo, who publicly called for the government to install security cameras and assign more police officers to patrol the streets. “Because of that, the gang started following me and threatening me.”

In November 2018, Oviedo traveled to the U.S. border as part of a caravan of about 5,000 Central American migrants and reached Tijuana.

On Jan. 29, 2019, the same day the Trump administration first put Remain in Mexico into action, Oviedo approached U.S. border authorities and requested asylum. He was returned to Mexico the following day with a court date.

During the following nine months in Tijuana, Oviedo co-founded a shelter for migrant women and children that recently opened its doors, and helped organize a festival to ease tensions between long-term residents of the border city and newly arrived Central Americans.

While Oviedo had a strong asylum case, it wasn’t guaranteed he’d win, said his attorney, who traveled to Tijuana five times to prepare the claim and meet with him.

“Douglas is an extraordinary individual ... there were articles and witnesses to support his claim,” Knox said. “But it was still a lot of work.”

Saul Arzu also fled Honduras because he feared he’d be killed by gangs. Gang members murdered his cousins, and once they attacked him and slashed him in the head, he said.

Like Oviedo, Arzu said he participated in protests against the government of President Juan Orlando Hernández, whose brother was convicted on drug trafficking charges last fall in New York. He ties the widespread violence in Honduras to his country’s corrupt government, and he believes the police are in league with organized crime.

Like most of those in Remain in Mexico, Arzu couldn’t find a pro bono attorney after he first approached U.S. border authorities on Feb. 22. He tried calling U.S. legal nonprofits during the ensuing months he spent in Tijuana, he said, but couldn’t find anyone who would take his case.

Arzu said robbers stole his cellphone and $500 in Tijuana. During his immigration court hearing in San Diego, he pleaded with a judge to not return him to Mexico, where he said he didn’t feel safe. Authorities locked him up at the Otay Mesa immigration detention center instead.

There, a different judge heard his case and denied his asylum claim.

The U.S. government attorney arguing against him, told the judge that conditions in Honduras were safe enough for him to return, said Arzu.

“I couldn’t defend myself from what he was saying,” Arzu recalled. “The judge asked me for my argument first, but after the prosecutor’s turn, the judge didn’t give me a chance to speak again.”

Arzu said that when he first got back to La Ceiba, he tried to stay out of sight of gang members. But now, he said, he’s working whatever odd jobs he can find, because he “can’t stay hidden forever.”

“We’ve lost hope here. There’s nothing left but to live the time we’ve got left,” Arzu said by phone from Honduras. “It’s tough but that’s the reality.”

Oviedo won asylum last September. Two weeks later, he attended a hearing at the 9th U.S. Circuit Court of Appeals in San Francisco and witnessed a panel of judges considering the lawsuit he joined with California-based legal aid nonprofits against the policy, which is still under review.

“I never imagined I’d be able to be in that courtroom. It was a great feeling,” Oviedo said. “There’s thousands of migrants at the border who feel they’ve been abandoned. But they are not alone.”

He decided to move to the Bay Area because friends helped him connect with an elderly sponsor who offered him a temporary place to stay at her home in Hercules.

With a new U.S. work permit in his pocket, Oviedo commutes three hours each way to remodel and paint houses in Daly City. While riding BART, he plans his next steps to organize a camp for about 150 troubled youth in Honduras, and to raise funds so U.S. immigration attorneys can travel to Tijuana to represent more asylum-seekers.