Temporary immigrants forge enduring ties
Tuesday February 03, 2009 | Boston
Gonlakpor Gonkpala was a bright-eyed college student from Liberia when he arrived in the United States in 1982. His stay was supposed to be temporary.
But with a civil war raging in the West African nation, he and thousands of other expatriates were allowed to remain until it was safe to return home. As the years rolled by, his American life assumed an aura of permanence: He married, honeymooned in the Poconos, had an American son, and bought a sea-green house in Brockton.
Now, Gonkpala's time is up.
His stay of deportation expires in March, and the US government could either force him and 3,500 other Liberians nationwide to go home or grant them another extension under a controversial federal program that is attracting growing criticism on both sides of the immigration debate.
"If I leave here and go to Liberia today I am a stranger," said Gonkpala, a graying 56-year-old parking garage attendant with a weary voice. "I've been here in this country for 27 years, pretty close to half of my life. The only home that I know now is America."
His predicament is shared by more than 300,000 immigrants from seven nations in the United States as a result of the Temporary Protected Status program. It was launched in 1990 to allow immigrants who are already here and whose nations were overwhelmed by war or natural disaster to stay and work here temporarily. It was not meant to lead to citizenship.
Critics say the status often lasts too long, is applied arbitrarily - Hondurans received it after a hurricane, but not Haitians - and at worst, serves as a de facto amnesty for people here illegally.
Roy Beck, president of NumbersUSA, which favors strict limits on immigration, said protection should last no more than six months. "You just can't extend these things forever," he said. "They should send them all home."
Even advocates for immigrants fault the program because it lacks a path to permanent residency. They are pushing for green cards for Liberians, Salvadorans, Hondurans, and others because they have remained so long - and because their nations are racked by unemployment.
Torli Krua, chief executive of Boston-based Universal Human Rights International, said his group is lobbying Congress for Liberians, and Somerville-based Centro Presente is launching a campaign to press for green cards for Central Americans.
"These are people who have US citizen children. They've been contributing for years and paying taxes," said Patricia Montes, executive director of Centro Presente. "These people live in perpetual anguish."
David Santos, spokesman for US Citizenship and Immigration Services, which oversees the program for the Department of Homeland Security, defended it as a way to help people in an emergency - and pointed out that many emergencies linger. Central American nations, for instance, are still struggling to rebuild from earthquakes or hurricanes that left thousands dead. He said it is always clear that the protection is temporary.
"As the name implies, that's what the benefit is," he said.
But for many immigrants, temporary begins to feel permanent in real life, if not on paper.
José Aguirre, a 31-year-old from El Salvador, got temporary protected status in 2001 after a series of earthquakes there. A shy, hardworking man, he dropped out of school as a child to work in the cornfields and was smuggled illegally into the United States at age 18 to work.
Since he got the temporary status, he has bought a stake in Curly's Restaurant, an Irish pub across from the police station in Chelsea, and has two American sons. Now he feels a part of this diverse community: He supports local children's causes and sponsors soccer teams. Salvadoran pupusas - thick, handmade corn tortillas - are on Curly's menu, though shamrocks line the walls.
The thought of returning to El Salvador next year makes him queasy. He hasn't seen his family there since he left, but they still depend on the money he sends.
"We haven't thought about going back," he said, sitting in a wooden chair in his restaurant. "If you think about it, you could make yourself sick."
Across the United States, immigrants from six countries in addition to Liberia have temporary protection - and all are facing its expiration in 2009 or 2010: 30 Burundians, 500 Sudanese, and 300 Somalis, who received protection because of armed conflicts; 3,500 Nicaraguans and 70,000 Hondurans because of Hurricane Mitch in 1999; and 229,000 Salvadorans.
Liberians have been whipsawed with on-and-off temporary protection since 1991. At least eight times, they have faced deportation only to get a last-minute reprieve.
Each time a deadline approaches, a gloom descends on Gonkpala's house in Brockton.
Inside the ranch house, everything looks and feels permanent, from the green family room with flowing drapes, to the framed family photographs and his 8-year-old son's honor roll certificate on display.
Gonkpala tries not to think about the letter his boss received alerting him that Gonkpala's work permit will expire in March. "All the time you've got to look over your shoulder," Gonkpala said, "It's humiliating."
Returning to Liberia is unimaginable for him now. The war ended in 2003, but 85 percent of the workforce is unemployed and living conditions are stark. His paycheck helps support his family in the capital, Monrovia.
And Gonkpala feels American. Liberia and the United States have deep historical ties - Liberia was founded in the 1820s by freed slaves and the nation's capital is named after US President James Monroe.
"Why is the United States turning away from us now?" Gonkpala asked. "After all this time?"