“Gonzalez-Ardia,” the immigration court judge reads out as he hears his twelfth removal proceeding of the afternoon. A little girl with braids, dressed in a pink coat and pants, just shy of seven, jumps off her seat. The girl holds her mother’s hand as the pair make their way past the wooden banister towards the defendant’s table, opposite from the government attorney. The girl clumsily climbs into the wooden chair almost twice her size, as her mother slips a pair of headsets on her.
“Are you Hallery?” the judge asks in English. The words flow through the headset as the courtroom translator repeats the question in Spanish.
The pair have driven 13 hours from their home in Illinois to the Executive Office of Immigration Review court in Newark, New Jersey. The mother points to the little girl who stares intently at the translator.
The removal hearing is not for the mother. It’s for the little girl—and she is without an attorney.
Of the 40 or so people who appear before the judge over the next two and a half hours only two have attorneys, one of whom phones into court. For each defendant that appears before him, the judge repeats the same question over and over: “Do you have a lawyer?”
The answer is almost always the same: “No.”
“It’s so depressing when you’re a lawyer and you go into immigration court and you see how many people don’t have representation,” Michele Pistone, a law professor at Villanova University, explains. “It’s kind of like they’re on this assembly line and we say that we’re giving them ‘process,’ but they don’t understand what’s happening,” she says.
For precisely this reason, in 1958, the Department of Justice (DOJ) established the Recognition & Accreditation (R&A) Program—to increase legal representation for low-income immigrants, according to the American Bar Association. The Program certifies accredited representatives, non-lawyers who can represent immigrants in court. Accredited representatives must work at non-profits designated as recognized organizations.
Despite the program’s 66 year history, there are still 1,413 undocumented people in the U.S. for every “charitable legal professional,” according to the Center for Migration Studies (CMS). In New Jersey, that number increases nearly two-fold, to 2,687 undocumented people per legal professional.
Nicole Rodriguez, who works at a New Jersey non-profit helping domestic violence survivors apply for asylum, is one of those accredited representatives—taking on over 60 cases at a time. Immigrants in removal proceedings who have legal representation, like Rodriguez’s clients, are 15 times more likely to seek relief, and 5.5 times more likely to obtain relief, according to a study published by the University of Pennsylvania.
“It’s very much a program that has been in the shadows,” Pistone explains. Pistone has heard from former students who’ve become accredited that some officers at USCIS—which conducts site visits for the R&A Program—have never heard of an accredited representative. “I’ve heard of judges who’ve never heard of an accredited rep,” she adds.
The Representation Crisis
In the removal proceedings court in Newark, as the afternoon session for hearings draws closer, a line of about a dozen people extends out the entryway of the courtroom into the hall. Some are dressed in immaculately pressed suits with manila envelopes containing paperwork they will need for court. Others wear jeans with translucent binders. Some carry children with them.
As the Clerk of Office begins to check people in at the door, the line continues to grow. “What’s your case number?,” she asks. “You have a lawyer?” Most repeat the same answer: “No.”
“We can fit another five,” the guard yells down the hall. The wooden bunches begin to fill up dangerously close to the courtroom’s maximum occupancy of 32 people.
As the “defendants” sort themselves among the wooden benches, they sit facing a seal above the judge’s desk with a bald eagle and an American flag. “QUI PRO DOMINA JUSTITIA SEQUITUR,” the inscription reads: “Attorney General who prosecutes on behalf of our Lady Justice.”
But justice is a foreign concept to those who sit in the courtroom. Over the next three hours the judge will hear some 40 odd cases. Only one case will have a lawyer physically present.
For every person who tells the judge they do not have a lawyer, the judge’s response is always the same: “I’m going to give you the list of lawyers who can represent you free or at low cost. You can choose to get one,” the judge responds. “I will give you another court date.” The judge’s gaze lowers. “Even if you cannot find a lawyer you have to come back to court or else you might be ordered removed.”
“You need to come back to this court on January 13, 2029 at 1:30 p.m. in the afternoon.”
There are currently 9 million immigration cases pending at USCIS, and 3 million at EOIR, Robyn Lieberman, Associate Director of the Migration and Refugee Protection Strategic Initiative Group, says. But as of October 2024, there are only 2,561 accredited representatives working at 875 recognized organizations, nationally.
“It’s an underutilized tool in the representation crisis,” Lieberman says. “The Program has been on the books since 1958,” she continues, “and there’s never been more than 2,500 at a time.”
“Most of the people who are coming will not have representation by a lawyer,” Julia Preston, who has covered immigration at the New York Times for over a decade, explains. “You’re looking at a process that, six years from now, you’re very likely to fail in court.”
The Waiting Game
To become an accredited representative, a prospective representative submits an application with their recognized organization to the DOJ. Rodriguez says, in all, her accreditation took about three months.
But when Rodriguez applied for accreditation, she had no idea how long the process would take. The DOJ provides no such information.
In 2022, backlogs for accredited representatives reached 12 to 18 months, according to Lieberman. “It is impossible for somebody to put their career on hold for that long,” Lieberman says. “It’s impossible for organizations to keep open cases that long.” In addition, funding for non-profit organizations often depends on quotas that measure how many cases they process.
“That’s basically shutting down the program,” Lieberman says.
While the processing time decreased to one to three months between February of 2023 and 2024, it has begun to increase again. In September, applications took six to eight months to process—double the three to four months it should be taking—according to Lieberman.
“There should be transparency on the website of how long you can expect to wait for your answer from DOJ,” Lieberman says.
But the review process itself has transparency issues as well. There are currently two immigration judges—removed from the bench for harassment—who are adjudicating R&A applications, according to Lieberman.
“These are two judges that have had multiple complaints,” she explains. “They are asking some very unusual questions,” she continues, “that we think are beyond the scope of the regulations.”
A Double Life
Between 9:00 a.m. and 5:00 p.m. you can find Kimberly Betz at her office desk at Princeton University’s Center for Career Development with a plaque that reads, “Executive Director.” But during the evenings and weekends, her laptop used to reply to student emails turns into a forum for a different kind of work: she is an accredited representative.
“When I’m working on these cases, it’s easy to spend eight to ten hours on the weekend,” Batz says. “It might be three to twelve hours a week.”
Batz works at Arise, a Pittsburgh based non-profit, helping people file asylum claims and prepare for their proceedings. “There are no paid employees,” Batz explains. “Even, Jen,” she says referring to the founder, “there’s no money to pay her a salary at this point.” “She works out of her home.”
The organization has no office space: the website reads that the operations for Arise are fully remote. With the exception of one woman who is retired, all of Arise’s employees have full-time jobs outside of Arise.
Batz only has capacity to work on one case at a time and can only take on a single case for a year. “What we’re saying to people now is, if it takes, you know, three years before you hear anything back, you can come back to us and see if we can sort of fit you back in,” she says. “But we can’t stay on your case for beyond a year.”
With court backlogs at an all-time high, cases are rarely scheduled within the one-year timeline that Arise operates on.
Back in immigration court, the judge continues hearing cases. “Now that I have your application for asylum, I’m going to schedule you for a hearing,” the Newark immigration court judge tells a Haitian woman. “It’s going to be on May 4th, 2029 at 1:30 in the afternoon.”
“You can hire a lawyer at any time you wish.”
But asylum-seekers have much less agency than the immigration judge might lead them to believe. Manuel and Magda who filed for political asylum cannot afford a lawyer. “We were offered pro bono support but we would still have to pay some legal fees,” Magda says.
“They were charging $8,000, $10,000, $15,000,” Emanuel recalls. “We’re saving up,” Magda explains. “We’re waiting for the day that we have to get a lawyer.”
Manuel and Magda came to the U.S. from Colombia with their daughter in 2022. “We can’t go back to Colombia,” Magda says. “My father was a member of FARC.”
In 2016, a peace accord was negotiated between the Colombian government and the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia (FARC)—the main paramilitary group in Colombia at the time, according to the U.S. Department of State. Around 13,000 combatants were disarmed.
Magda’s father was one of them.
“There’s a new armed group called Disidencias de las FARC and they’re going after people who chose to put down their arms—and their families,” Magda says.
Both of Magda’s parents are still in Colombia. “My father is under vigilance by a paramilitary group,” she says.
But even if Magda and Emanuel do find a lawyer, not all lawyers can be trusted. “Lawyers would tell us, ‘I’m pro bono, but the cost to start the paperwork is this much,’” Magda explains. “There have been cases where people have paid $7,000, and then they find out they’re getting deported because the lawyer hasn’t done anything.”
“We’re scared of getting scammed.”
Without legal representation Magda and Emanuel have been left to navigate a complex system alone. “What took the most amount of time was figuring out how to fill out the application,” Magda says, “so that what we wrote wouldn’t be used against us later.”
Filing the application is only half the battle. The court does not notify applicants if a court date has been moved. “We check on it every day,” Magda says. “They don’t tell you if your court date was changed. It’s your responsibility to check it,” Emanuel adds.
“Someone we knew had a court date in 2025,” Emanuel recalls. “They realized the week of their new hearing date that it had been moved to February of 2024,” he continues. “They got a deportation order.”
“The system is not set up to help them,” Batz explains.
“It both makes me angry and desperately sad,” she continues. “For me, this is the way I can do something that I feel like is making a difference in a positive way.”
No Contacts
Neither Magda nor Emanuel have heard of the R&A Program. Even if they had, there is no way for asylum seekers to directly contact an accredited representative. Despite the program’s goal to increase legal representation for low-income immigrants, EOIR only lists the telephone numbers of recognized organizations. Contact information for accredited representatives is entirely missing.
Lieberman calls it “the referral rejection loop.” “They get a name of an organization that can represent them, and then they pick up the phone, and they’re getting ‘This voicemail is full,’ or ‘Please don’t call us for another two weeks,’” she explains.
“How are people supposed to contact these organizations?,” Lieberman asks.
Rodriguez’s clients, who are survivors of domestic violence, may not have safe access to a phone inside their home, Rodriguez says.
The DOJ has the contact information of every accredited representative. “People apply with their emails, and they communicate with the DOJ by email,” Lieberman explains.
“This is a public program,” Pistone says. “Part of the purpose is for the public to contact these people.”
But Lieberman says the lack of data on accredited representatives is typical. There has been no comprehensive study of the R&A Program in the Program’s 66 year history. “There’s no basic data in the field at all,” Lieberman explains. “We have no idea how long the typical average stay is, or tenure is, for an accredited rep.”
In May of this year, Villanova University and CMS announced the first comprehensive audit of the R&A Program. The audit is being conducted through surveys that closed in October, according to Pistone.
With the new President-elect, however, the future of the R&A program remains uncertain. “The R&A Program is not established by law, it’s regulatory,” Matthew Lisecki, Senior Research & Policy Analyst at CMS, explains.
“It can be done away with just an executive action.”
Anxieties also exist for Lieberman. “I’m living in fear that if there is a Trump administration, I don’t know what’s going to happen to the DOJ office that does the accreditations,” says Lieberman.
“We’re going to have to fight like hell to keep the office open.”
For now, Manuel and Magda still don’t have a lawyer. They say they avoid thinking about what they will tell their nine-year-old daughter if their asylum application is denied. “Our daughter is old. She’s smart,” Manuel says. “If our asylum application is rejected, we can’t go back to Colombia.” He continues, “We’re just trying not to think about it.”
“FARC has branches in Panama, Venezuela, and Mexico,” Magda says. “They have alliances with cartels. Nowhere is really safe.”
Magda says that while the family waits, they try to lead a quiet “American” life. “All we can do at this moment is really focus on the asylum case.”
“All we can do in this moment is wait.”
Author: Koki Ogawa
The Preston reading, particularly post-election, highlighted the fact that fear-inducing narratives and anecdotes (even when they are untruthful) have more political purchase than data-driven and sound policy when it comes to immigration. It’s frustrating to me that people are voting for things based off of politically-charged quips and fabricated narratives instead of from a place of actually understanding, as Preston laid out, both Harris’s and Trump’s track record and proposed policies.
That being said, I do not agree with all of Harris’s immigration policies. Particularly raising the legal standard for proving that you are part of a PSG concerns me. While the proposed expedited review process will help with backlogs at EOIR and USCIS, I’m worried about new arrivals who will not have legal representation, who might otherwise have meritorious claims.
While I definitely do not agree with Harris’s policies on immigration, as Preston points out, they are undoubtedly better than Trump’s. People would understand that Harris has more sound policies if they would take the time to learn about her policies in comparison to Trump’s record. Yet these “punchy” narratives seem to carry more political weight in voters’ eyes. I’m curious to know what people think about how (or even whether) we can fight against these fear-inducing narratives that seem to capture more voters than sound policy that offers a practical solution—and whether journalism might have a role to play in this.
Towards the end of the article Preston highlights an important point that I think is often neglected in discussions about immigration: that immigration is a public safety issue. As she points out, if mixed status families and undocumented immigrants fear being deported by police officers or fear having their status questioned by officers they will actively avoid reporting any kind of crime that occurs. I think Trump has led his constituents to believe that new arrivals or undocumented people are somehow separate from the community of people that are documented, but as we’ve discussed in class, these people are deeply enmeshed in their communities. Particularly given the fact that Governor Abbott has made a conscious attempt to bus new arrivals to cities like New York, Chicago, and Philadelphia where interpersonal violence is already extremely concentrated to begin with, we should be concerned about the implications Trump’s plan for mass deportation will have with respect to reporting crime in these areas. It seems, unsurprisingly, counterintuitive to me that the issues that Trump is running on—which include fearmongering about a “rise in crime”—are going to be perpetuated (not solved) by the policies that he plans to implement.
“Día de Muertos,” Gina, who uses they/them pronouns, exclaims as they pull out an embroidery hoop. In the center of the hoop is a half-stitched red heart, framed by layers of gold string. Sequins catch rays of light that dance along the rim.
Día de Muertos, or Day of the Dead, commemorates the departed and welcomes the return of their spirits, according to the Smithsonian. Although rooted in Mexican and Central American cultures, Día de Muertos has become widely celebrated by Latinos in the U.S.
Gina, who came to the U.S. as an asylum-seeker in 2022, used to stitch in Ecuador, their home country. But now, Gina’s passion for art lives in Philadelphia—teaching art therapy classes to newly-arrived children.
“In my place of origin, I was arrested, not only for my sexuality, but I was also a victim of sexual violence,” Gina says.
In 2023, the U.S. Department of State identified sexual violence as a “significant human rights issue” in Ecuador. No laws explicitly criminalize “corrective rape” of LGBTQI+ individuals.
On the morning of November 7, 2022, Gina boarded a plane from Ecuador to Nicaragua. It was a Sunday—which meant Gina could leave unnoticed. “My flight was at 2:00 a.m.,” they explain. The oldest of three children, they didn’t tell their brother, sister, or mother.
From Nicaragua, Gina made the next leg of the journey to Mexico by walking and hitch-hiking with other immigrants. “I only have $20 in my pocket,” Gina says.
“I came to the United States in December 2022,” they explain. Once at the border in Texas, detention center staff took Gina’s fingerprints to run them through what officials told Gina was a criminal check. Staff separated groups by gender; Gina was detained with the rest of the women.
“Two weeks,” Gina says as they struggle to remember how long they were detained for. Keeping track of time in the detention center is a near impossible task. “It’s so difficult because all the lights are on all the time,” Gina explains. “All the time you feel cold.”
Gina says that they were given food twice a day, in the mornings and evenings. “We were eating only apples, or water, or chips—a little box of chips—nothing more,” they say.
Eventually, Gina says they were transported from the detention center to a community-based organization in Texas. They had no information about the next leg of the trip. “I don’t really have family here,” Gina says. “I don’t have a plan when I crossed the border.”
The only U.S.-based contact Gina had was a man in Queens, New York. He was older than Gina but had studied at Gina’s alma mater, University of La Rioja. At every juncture of the journey, he would send Gina incessant messages: “Are you coming?,” “Are you on your way?,” Gina recalls.
It was in the community-based organization that Gina heard of a bus going to Philadelphia. “I think, you know, ‘Wow, this is really next to New York and I can walk,’” Gina says.
“There was definitely a feeling in Texas that they wanted us out of there.”
The bus that Gina ultimately boarded was part of Texas Governor Greg Abbott’s Transportation Program. The program has bussed over 3,400 migrants to Philadelphia since November 2022, according to the Governor’s Office.
It took three days for the bus to reach Philadelphia. During the ride, Gina explains the man sitting next to them was pushed against them, and later began touching Gina. Gina felt powerless to speak up.
Stops for food were not allowed either. “We don’t have time to eat food,” Gina recalls. “I had a really bad experience.”
Once in Philadelphia, Gina was received by local non-profits. Philadelphia’s churches also stepped in, says Manuel Portillo, Director of Community Engagement at The Welcoming Center. “They partner with public health to try to provide support to these people that come in buses,” he says. “Those were the people—the grassroots organizations—that really did the work.”
“They gave us food, clothing, and a place to spend the night,” Gina says.
But even after Gina began to settle in Philadelphia, the man from Queens continued to send Gina messages: “Get to New York. Get to New York. You’re not here yet.” He wanted Gina to perform sexual favors for him.
Gina decided to trick him. “I have Covid, I can’t do contact with anybody,” Gina recalls texting the man. His messages stopped.
Messages from Ecuador, however, continue. “It’s really hard because the people who hurt me, they want to find me,” Gina explains.
Gina receives text messages from their friends in Ecuador: “The father of Gina, dead,” the messages read. Gina knows it’s a lie—a calculated attempt to get Gina to return to Ecuador.
But returning to Ecuador isn’t an option for Gina. “I miss my mom,” they say. “Sometimes I text my mom and say, ‘Hi mom, I’m fine.’ But my mom doesn’t know who I work on, who I am. She only knows I’m here in the United States.”
“I’m really lucky living here in Philly,” Gina says. “I don’t have family here but I have many friends, my community, and they support me.”
“They believe in me and my talents,” Gina says as they tuck the embroidery hoop for Día de Muertos into their backpack.
“I’m wearing La Catrina,” a tall skeleton figure that has become a symbol of Día de Muertos, Gina explains as they hold up their phone. Her screen displays an Instagram account that reads, “lacalacaflaphilly.”
Lacalaca Philly, which organizes Philadelphia’s Day of the Dead celebrations, was first spearheaded by a Mexican immigrant merchant, says Magda Martinez, Chief Operating Office of the Welcoming Center.
“First year we did it, we had $300,” she says. “Now they get over 1,500 people every year.”
“In every community, there’s what I call a bridge person—a person who somehow bridges their community with multiple communities,” Martinez says. For Martinez, the bridge person was the merchant who brought Spanish-speaking communities together to celebrate rebirth through Día de Muertos.
Now, Gina bridges communities through their work at Juntos—which translates to “together” in English—one of the non-profits Portillo says was instrumental in supporting the immigrants who were bussed to Philadelphia. “I’m collaborating with different organizations, making mural arts,” Gina says.
“I’m still afraid that the people who hurt me will find me,” Gina says. “But I also really want to live, and now I have my community—and they need me.”
“That motivates me to get up every morning and fight for what I believe in.”
Sources:
Gina, Juntos Ambassador Magda Martinez, Chief Operating Office, The Welcoming Center Manuel Portillo, Director of Community Engagement, The Welcoming Center https://latino.si.edu/learn/teaching-and-learning-resources/day-dead-resources https://gov.texas.gov/news/post/texas-cracks-down-on-violent-venezuelan-gang-tren-de-aragua https://www.state.gov/reports/2023-country-reports-on-human-rights-practices/ecuador/
According to Nickelsberg, there are people in the White House who seem to understand that not addressing immigration will lead to populist authoritarianism. I’m wondering why then, this issue which has been present since the 80s according to Nickelsberg, is going unaddressed. Is it because the political payoff of fear mongering is high and Democrats have no way of responding to it so they align themselves with more punitive immigration policies? Trying to think through this question reminded me of a study that I saw by the Vera Institute that showed how politicians can win local government elections against tough-on-crime candidates without themselves adopting tough-on-crime positions. I’m curious to know whether a similar study exists for anti-immigrant sentiment.
I also want to ask Nickelsberg what he thinks will happen in the event of a Trump win vs. a Harris win (and more specifically if he thinks that a Harris win will just be kicking the problem of immigration down the road). Will we reach a point where Democrat and Republican positions on immigration converge? From the New York Times review of his book, it seems that he believes the Trump administration will be more coordinated and effective when it comes to implementing the kind of policies that they did last term (like the Consequence Delivery System). There’s a quote from Miller in the book where he says, “We need to be smarter if we want to implement something on this scale again.”
The scene about the men exchanging photos of they took at the prison commissary was compelling to me. I’m curious why they were willing to pay the $3 to get the photo taken when I would imagine they don’t have much if any cash with them to begin with. Did documenting their arrival or incarceration at the detention center serve as some sort of a strategic tactic? Or was it a point of pride that they wanted to document?
I’m also just curious in general, as someone who worked as a photographer for Time magazine for thirty years, whether there were moments where Nickelberg had to think through ethical dilemmas of photographing migrants (whether publishing photographs of them might put them in danger, whether he decided to intervene in life-and-death situations, etc.).
For the New Yorker piece, I was most curious about how the reporter gained access to the scene that they used to write the hook where the Border Patrol agents are in helicopters and are talking about “bodies.” This scene further illustrates this broader idea we’ve been talking about, that dehumanization of immigrants is a requisite step in rationalizing American immigration policy. I think that photographers like Nickelsberg literally force us to see these people as people (because it is very difficult to maintain this idea of an amorphous group that has been discursively constructed by politicians, when we are confronted by pictures of real people).
The Atlantic piece about the Darién Gap reinforced a point that we have been discussing throughout the semester: that the people arriving at the Southern border will do anything and everything to get to the U.S.—regardless of how dangerous it is. I feel like I still can’t quite wrap my head around why politicians (particularly Democrats) haven’t realized this; or if they have and they think it’s a politically unappealing message compared to what the Republican (or perhaps more accurately Trump) narrative has been on immigration.
As Nicole Rodriguez, a paralegal assisting survivors of domestic violence, stood up to leave a New Jersey courtroom, she saw a woman crying.
“I’m trying to find an attorney and no one’s listening to me,” Rodriguez recalls the woman telling the judge in Spanish. Rodriguez later learned the woman—an immigrant—was married to an abusive U.S. citizen and had fled her home with her son.
“It’s so depressing when you’re a lawyer and you go into immigration court and you see how many people don’t have representation,” Michele Pistone, a law professor at Villanova University, explains. “It’s kind of like they’re on this assembly line and we say that we’re giving them ‘process,’ but they don’t understand what’s happening,” she says.
In 1958, the Department of Justice (DOJ) established the Recognition & Accreditation (R&A) Program for precisely this reason—to increase legal representation for low-income immigrants, according to the American Bar Association. The Program certifies accredited representatives, non-lawyers who can represent immigrants in court. Accredited representatives must work at non-profits designated as recognized organizations.
Despite the program’s 66 year history, there are still 1,413 undocumented people in the U.S. for every charitable legal professional, according to the Center for Migration Studies (CMS). In New Jersey, that number increases to 2,687 undocumented people per legal professional.
Rodriguez, who works at a New Jersey non-profit, is one of those accredited representatives—taking on over 60 cases at a time. Immigrants in removal proceedings who have legal representation are 15 times more likely to seek relief, and 5.5 times more likely to obtain relief, according to a study published by the University of Pennsylvania.
“It’s very much a program that has been in the shadows,” Pistone explains. Pistone has heard from former students who’ve become accredited that some officers at USCIS—which conducts site visits for the R&A Program—have never heard of an accredited representative. “I’ve heard of judges who’ve never heard of an accredited rep,” she adds.
There are currently 9 million immigration cases pending at USCIS, and 3 million at EOIR, Robyn Lieberman, Associate Director of the Migration and Refugee Protection Strategic Initiative Group, says. But as of October 2024, there are only 2,561 accredited representatives working at 875 recognized organizations, nationally. “It’s an underutilized tool in the representation crisis,” Lieberman says. “The Program has been on the books since 1958,” she continues, “and there’s never been more than 2,500 at a time.” Why has the number of accredited representatives stagnated despite the growing need for migrants who lack representation?
To become an accredited representative, a prospective representative submits an application with their recognized organization to the DOJ. Rodriguez says, in all, her accreditation took about three months.
But when Rodriguez applied for accreditation, she had no idea how long the process would take. The DOJ provides no such information.
In 2022, backlogs for accredited representatives reached 12 to 18 months, according to Lieberman. “It is impossible for somebody to put their career on hold for that long,” Lieberman says. “It’s impossible for organizations to keep open cases that long.” In addition, funding for non-profit organizations often depends on quotas that measure how many cases they process.
“That’s basically shutting down the program,” Lieberman says.
While the processing time decreased to one to three months between February of 2023 and 2024, it has begun to increase again. In September, applications took six to eight months to process—double the three to four months it should be taking—according to Lieberman.
“There should be transparency on the website of how long you can expect to wait for your answer from DOJ,” Lieberman says.
But the review process itself has transparency issues as well. There are currently two immigration judges—removed from the bench for harassment—who are adjudicating R&A applications, according to Lieberman.
“These are two judges that have had multiple complaints,” she explains. “They are asking some very unusual questions that we’re also documenting—that we think are beyond the scope of the regulations.”
The lack of available contact information for accredited representatives is another problem Lieberman raises. Despite the program’s goal to increase legal representation for low-income immigrants, EOIR only lists the telephone numbers of recognized organizations. Contact information for accredited representatives is entirely missing.
Lieberman calls it “the referral rejection loop.” “They get a name of an organization that can represent them, and then they pick up the phone, and they’re getting ‘This voicemail is full,’ or ‘Please don’t call us for another two weeks,’” she explains.
“How are people supposed to contact these organizations?,” Lieberman asks.
Rodriguez’s clients, who are survivors of domestic violence, may not have safe access to a phone inside their home, Rodriguez says.
The DOJ has the contact information of every accredited representative. “People apply with their emails, and they communicate with the DOJ by email,” Lieberman explains.
“This is a public program,” Pistone says. “Part of the purpose is for the public to contact these people.”
But Lieberman says the lack of data on accredited representatives is typical. There has been no comprehensive study of the R&A program in the program’s 66 year history. “There’s no basic data in the field at all,” Lieberman explains. “We have no idea how long the typical average stay is, or tenure is for an accredited rep.”
In May of this year, Villanova University and CMS announced the first comprehensive audit of the R&A program. The audit is being conducted through surveys that closed last month, according to Pistone.
With the 2024 Presidential Election underway, however, the future of the R&A program remains uncertain. “The R&A Program is not established by law, it’s regulatory,” Matthew Lisecki, Senior Research & Policy Analyst at CMS, explains.
“It can be done away with just an executive action.”
Anxieties also exist for Lieberman. “I’m living in fear that if there is a Trump administration, I don’t know what’s going to happen to the DOJ office that does the accreditations,” says Lieberman.
“If it’s a Trump administration, I think we’re going to have to fight like hell to keep the office open.”
But Lierbman also remains skeptical of a Harris administration. “I’ve worked with both Joe Biden and Kamala,” Lieberman explains. “They’re definitely sympathetic, but neither of them have immigration as a priority.”
“They’re willing to surrender to a lot of right wing talking points on immigration, and they’re willing to divert funding away from things that they know are right.”
Sources:
1. Matthew Lisiecki, Center for Migration Studies
2. Michele Pistone, Founder & Faculty Director, Migration and Refugee Protection Strategic Initiative Group, Villanova University
3. Robyn Lieberman, Associate Director, Migration and Refugee Protection Strategic Initiative Group, Villanova University
4. Nicole Rodriguez, Community Victim Advocacy Coordinator & Partially Accredited DOJ Representative, Mercy Center
5. Toinette M. Mitchell, U.S. Department of Homeland Security Disciplinary Counsel
6. Recognized Organizations and Accredited Representatives Roster: https://www.justice.gov/eoir/page/file/942301/dl?inline
7. Accredited Representatives Roster: https://www.justice.gov/eoir/page/file/942311/dl?inline
8. A National Study of Access to Counsel in Immigration Court: https://scholarship.law.upenn.edu/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article=9502&context=penn_law_review
9. https://www.americanbar.org/content/dam/aba/publications/commission_on_immigration/bia_accreditation_and_entering_immigration_appearances_1994.pdf
10. https://www.justice.gov/eoir/recognition-and-accreditation-program
11. https://www.ecfr.gov/cgi-bin/text-idx?SID=c1727e98a9a2e76e2b419d8a15fec36d&mc=true&node=pt8.1.1292&rgn=div5
12. https://www.cliniclegal.org/resources/federal-administrative-advocacy/policy-brief-severely-under-resourced-ra-program
I’m curious to know the role of foreign correspondents during the U.S. military’s withdrawal from Afghanistan. Ferguson’s comments during the interview made it seem like it was her “team” consisted of her and her cameraman alone. I’m curious to know how foreign correspondents were let in and out of Afghanistan (particularly whether they were on some of the last U.S. military flights leaving Afghanistan). I also want to know the ethical or moral obligations of foreign correspondents in relaying information about evacuation to their contacts. Ferguson’s interview seemed to allude to the fact that there were contacts who had reached out to her seeking information about whether and how they should evacuate.
I appreciated the fact that the New York Times made the reports that they obtained from the FOIA available on their website for public access. I’m wondering if there were any other major journalism pieces that came out of this collection of records.
The article from the Migration Policy Institute contextualized an interaction I had with a man from Afghanistan I met in Texas. By sheer coincidence, my Uber driver in Houston over fall break told me that he had escaped from Afghanistan in 2021. He said he worked with the U.S. military which leads me to believe that he was a translator. He also told me that he worked as an electrical engineer for 15 years before escaping to the U.S. with his four children and wife, but had to work as an Uber driver because he could not afford to go through the certification process to work as an electrical engineer in the U.S. This is in line with MPI’s statistics on labor force distribution—with Afghan immigrants disproportionately going into occupations such as “production, transportation, and material moving occupations.”
He also told me that he is responsible for much of the out-of-the-house childcare because his wife cannot drive a car or speak English. This is in line with “lower education attainment among Afghan women” that the article notes. He also told me that he sends remittances to his parents who are still in Afghanistan. This is also consistent with the MPI’s findings on remittances.
What was particularly striking to me from our short conversation was that despite his professional qualifications, he virtually has no choice but to legally be in a position where he is an independent contractor and is in a more vulnerable economic position than if he were an employee of a company. I’m curious to know how pervasive this trend of barriers to “professionalization” among Afghan immigrants in particular is and whether the U.S. military has mechanisms for allowing these immigrants a way to continue their profession once they’ve relocated.
Frankie Solinsky Dyurea pulls out a Tunisian Blend Camel cigarette from his backpack, a habit he picked up during his summer trip to Morocco as a Princeton junior studying Arabic. Alone in Morocco and excited by the prospect of cheap cigarettes, Frankie says he wanted to act on impulse.
“For a good amount of my life I did feel controlled,” Frankie says. “Trying to find independence now when I feel like I had it restricted as a kid,” he adds.
With the cigarette still in hand, he pulls out his student ID, tracing it with his fingers. Occupying the entire width of the laminated card is his name: “Robert Frank Solinsky Dyurea.”
“I’ve been correcting people when they say ‘Frankie Dyurea,’” he explains. “I wanted to claim my full name.”
Despite his quest for independence from his parents, Frankie is proud of the four names that bind his identity. The outer corners of his name—Robert Dyurea—hold the memory of a Catholic priest who broke celibacy in secret to marry and father a child, Paul Dyurea, Frankie’s father; the inside—Frank Solinsky—holds the memory of a man, once destitute, who worked to send his daughter, Susan Fischer Solinsky, Frankie’s mother, to Princeton.
Frankie stands at a crossroads. On one hand, he values his independence; on the other, tinges of his hometown in Burlingame, California, follow him to Princeton, 2,900 miles away.
Paul’s earliest memory of Frankie’s thirst for independence comes when Frankie was just seven, on a ferry ride during a family vacation to Italy. Paul and Susan, seeing Frankie sitting on the deck by himself, decided to join him. “We probably grabbed him and pulled him over,” Paul recalls. “He got up and sat on the other side.”
Frankie doesn’t remember the ferry ride or much of Italy, but his parents have told him the story enough times for it to stick.
What he does remember, however, is the freedom that his parents gave him to pave his academic path at every juncture. His earliest decision came at five years old when his parents managed to get him redistricted to a Spanish immersion public school. Frankie was given the final say on whether he would enroll.
Decisions continued. Paul recalls a fourth grade Frankie after an admissions interview at the Synapse School. “I know you told me not to set my expectations—but I’ve set my expectations and I want to go here,” Paul recalls Frankie insisting. Frankie was admitted, and completed middle school there.
But when it came to college, Frankie says he wasn’t excited when he was accepted to his mother’s alma mater; in fact, he hadn’t even wanted to apply to Princeton—it was Susan who made him.
“I was controlled into applying,” Frankie says.
“Antebellum”—that’s the word Frankie chose to describe Princeton when he first toured it with his mother. “I didn’t want to follow in her shadow and I thought that that was what it was when I got in,” he says.
“I got in here,” he says referring to Princeton, “and Columbia and I think if I hadn’t gotten into Columbia I wouldn’t have gone here.”
“It affirmed that I was personally capable of doing this; that I,” he searches for the right word, “deserved to be here beyond the fact that my mom had gone here.”
It took Frankie three weeks to choose between Princeton and Columbia. Still, Frankie involved his family in his decision. “I ran the decision by a lot of people in my family, because I have a hard time making decisions,” Frankie admits. “It was tough and it felt like an important one.”
Now, in the place that Frankie disdainfully refers to as the “bubble,” he sits holding the names of his two grandfathers inked onto his Princeton ID: “Robert Frank Solinsky Dyurea.”
Rev. Robert F. Dyurea was a Catholic priest. He married Luilan Dyurea, a nurse at the hospital where he worked and, two years later, fathered Paul—both in secret. Marriage violated the church’s celibacy law and Rev. Dyurea risked excommunication. In 1971, despite overwhelming opposition from his congregation Rev. Dyurea was excommunicated, according to the New York Times. Paul was only five.
The scandal caused a rift. “The Duryea side, I’ve been estranged from,” Frankie explains.
The Solinsky name carries another story—Frankie is the sixth “Frank” in his maternal family to bear the name. “The Solinsky name comes from Count Solinsky,” Frankie explains. “They called him the Count, but no one knows if he was a real count with royal blood or if Americans were just racist,” he laughs.
“My grandpa grew up shit poor in California,” he adds. Despite that, Frank worked to send his daughter, Susan, to Princeton. Susan is now working on her third start-up, according to Paul.
“She goes to all these conferences and acts as a mentor to a lot of women founders,” Frankie explains. “I very much respect her and I think she’s incredible.”
Frankie gets his height, all 6’1’’, from the Solinsky’s and the Duyrea’s. He still holds the Lick-Wilmerding High School high jump record and was Captain of his Varsity Jumps Team, according to his profile on NCSA College Recruiting.
But for a long time, Frankie went by “Frankie Dyurea.” The byline on his Nassau Weekly publications—of which Frankie has been a contributor since freshman year of college—still read, “Frankie Dyurea.”
His choice to reclaim “Solinsky” coincided with his maternal grandmother’s passing. “I was boarding the plane to Argentina when they called me to say that she had her second stroke—and there was nothing I could do,” Frankie recalls.
“It changed me.”
“I feel a lot of pride for the Solinsky part,” Frankie says. For Frankie, the memory of his grandfather growing up with nothing to eat is close enough. “I don’t want to fall back,” he adds. “I take a lot of pride in the fact that my grandpa figured his stuff out, and was able to put his daughter through college.”
“My mom succeeded,” he adds.
Susan would graduate Princeton in 1986, writing her thesis on Spain, under the Department of Romance Languages and Literature, according to the Princeton Mudd Manuscript Library. Now, a comparative literature major and Latin American studies minor, these are interests that resonate with Frankie 38 years later.
“I get my mom’s interests,” Frankie says. “As much as I try to resist it, I’m a lot of her.”
“I still resist it,” he admits, “but a lot less now.”
Sources:
1. https://nassauweekly.com/byline/frankie-duryea/
2. https://www.ncsasports.org/mens-track-recruiting/california/san-francisco/lick-wilmerding-high-school/frankie-solinksy-duryea
3. https://www.nytimes.com/1971/04/16/archives/parishioners-rally-behind-priest-who-married-excommunicated-cleric.html
4. https://www.sfgate.com/news/article/robert-francis-duryea-2941273.php
5. https://dataspace.princeton.edu/handle/88435/dsp01t435gd59v?mode=simple
6. Frankie Solinsky Dyurea
7. Paul Dyurea
8. Harry Gorman
The binary way in which we are taught to think about the Iron Curtain that Longo points out in the first chapter, I think, is a tendency that extends across a lot of the ways in which we think about policies surrounding immigration. Too often narratives like the organizers of the picnic, officials within the government that were helping the organizers, what Longo terms “a shadow archive of secret decisions,” and kind strangers that are seemingly encountered through happenstance, like Norbert, are lost to these broader narratives that fit the political agenda or narrative of the times. As I was thinking through what it meant to introduce personal narratives that complicate these historical monoliths, I found myself continuing to return to this idea of “truth” in journalism and ethnography. I think often in an investigative or archival piece there is a tendency to pursue what we conceptualize as “objective truth.” But I appreciated the fact that Longo paid equal attention to “personal truths” in capturing the border—that is, what the border meant to the people in his stories, rather than simply focusing on the border’s physical or political qualities.
I do think, however, that there are limits to fully capturing “personal truths,” particularly when you are an outsider looking in. This idea is illustrated in the section where Longo drives to Lake Fertő in an attempt to experience what the border meant to the Hungarians at that time. While Longo describes the geographic features of the lake, there are limits to how “accurately” a writer can describe any given experience that is not their own. The limits of our ability as journalists to totally empathize or understand the experiences of the people that we study, and how to address or confront those limits was another lingering question that I had. I’m also curious to know what Professor Longo, as well as others in the class, think about what the Lake Fertő symbolized. To me, it seemed as though it was a place in which the people of Sopron, and later the Hungarians, were able to enjoy a limited form of freedom, yet simultaneously served as a reminder that the border was insurmountable—that it could be maintained without the barbed wire or fencing.
I also found Longo’s choice to write himself into parts of the book interesting. Particularly where László expresses to Longo the challenges of the project: “One of the challenges of your project, he says, is going to be to capture how crazy it was in those days.” I appreciated the fact that the book used these interludes to capture the limitations of the Project as well as how Longo went about gathering information.
I also found the idea of the border as both a physical and imagined object as particularly compelling. The line, “the East, the Iron Curtain soon became an uncrossable divide, powerful not just in its scale, but also in the mythology that justified its rule,” as well as the fact that Simone’s family had never previously seen the border or even knew where it was before crossing it particularly capture this point. I appreciated the fact that the reading captured not just the physical qualities of the border but its inherent ideological qualities as well. As we look at different immigration policies throughout the semester, I am particularly excited to explore these two dimensions of what borders physically are and what they mean to the people who cross and maintain them.
