Some immigrant women, victims of domestic violence, afraid to seek help
Along the Texas border, some services are hard to find. A doctor or a hospital may be 150 miles away. And often those highway miles include impromptu checkpoints by U.S. Customs and Border Patrol. For some victims of domestic violence, documented or otherwise, those checkpoints stand in the way of getting help.
Most of the women who come to Casa de Misericordia, or House of Mercy, in Laredo, Texas, are undocumented immigrants.
For many who arrive at the shelter, it’s hard to see a way out of an abusive relationship.
“One of the ways men would keep them in a domestic violence situation was saying that 'I am a U.S. citizen,' or 'I am a legal permanent resident, and you call the police, and they will deport you and I will stay with the kids,'” said Sister Rosemary Welsh, the group’s executive director. “It was a way of terrorizing the women and also keeping them in bondage and keeping them in a violent situation.”
Abused women, as well as some men, have been coming to Casa de Misericordia for 15 years, seeking shelter, counseling and legal assistance.
Over coffee and snacks five women, who have received counseling here, but wanted not to be identified by name, shared horrible stories of physical and emotional abuse.
One woman, for example, said her husband would leave her and her children at home without any food. She was afraid if she left the property, he’d have her deported. She says she survived because her son hunted squirrels and rabbits.
Today, she’s in a new marriage, working as a makeup artist, and is taking courses at a local college. And she has a visa. A woman by her side also got a visa last year.
“I feel better, relieved,” she said. “I have a good opportunity for job, for studying. My life changed 360 (degrees), great.”
Another young woman at the table simply said she got her freedom.
The two women with visas got their freedom thanks to the Violence Against Women Act. The law provides funds for the prosecution of violent crimes against women, including those who are undocumented, and helps coordinate community responses. The act was originally signed into law in 1994 and was most recently renewed by Congress in March and signed into law by President Barack Obama.
The women at the shelter wanted to highlight their stories of redemption — but not all have been so lucky.
Many women fear not just their abusers but also increased border security.
Before the Sept. 11 terrorist attacks, border patrol officers were largely contained to the actual border. But today, women said, border patrol agents are at bus stops, stores and in restaurants. They’re on bicycles and in helicopters.
“Now you see them everywhere, through schools, everything. They’re everywhere now,” said one woman who has been living in Texas, without papers, for 13 years.
Her mom sat next to her and spoke of how that's changed their lives.
“We don’t do much stuff, we don’t go out, or we don’t look for a job because we’re scared," she said. "There’s always that fear that either they’re going to catch us, there’s always fear when driving.”
Many women can’t get visas through the Violence Against Women Act. First, there are legal fees — attorney’s fill out affidavits, process papers and help women navigate the system. Costs add up and it’s hard to find a pro bono lawyer.
The victim also has to prove she was abused.
That can be difficult enough, and Sister Rosemary said heavy border security can keep women from venturing out.
“If a woman is raped, sexually assaulted in our community, and wants to do charges against a gentleman, she needs to go to the hospital and do a rape kit. They can’t do a rape kit here in Laredo because we don’t have a nurse prepared, so they have to go to a hospital in Harlingen," she said. "If they go to the hospital in Harlingen, they can’t get back.”
Border patrol agents sets up checkpoints along major highways on the 180-mile drive between Harlingen and Laredo.
Anxiety about getting caught can also affect the women's ability to help their children. One woman spoke about her 6-year-old child who needed treatment for a kidney problem in Corpus Christi, about a 150-mile drive from Laredo.
She was afraid to travel along the highway to the hospital. Eventually, she says, she found a doctor who came to Laredo. Two years later, she says her child is doing fine.
To be sure, none of these women have ever been stopped by border agents.
But they’ve heard about the Obama administration’s record number of deportations, and they worry about being next. Even women who have legal documents get nervous. Sister Rosemary spoke about an elderly woman who violated the rules of her visa. She left Texas to visit family in Mexico.
“Don’t go back I told her,” Sister Rosemary said. “She never got back. We haven’t seen her for five years. She called me every Sunday. She’s sick, she’s going to die, and none of us are going to see her. These are horror stories. That’s a real live story.”
The women at the shelter — both those with and without papers — said they just don’t cross the Rio Grande River anymore. One woman teared up talking about the grandson she’s never met in Mexico. Other women spoke about teenage nieces and nephews they’d never met, and funerals of parents they’d missed.
The women here are angry with politicians in Washington, though they say they understand the need for border security.
While renewing the Violence Against Women Act was a victory for them, they still see a broken immigration system. And many feel like neglected pawns in an un-ending political game.
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