TEGUCIGALPA — Almost every day, another jet from Houston lands at the airport in this Central American capital and disgorges a new batch of deportees from U.S. immigration custody.
Those who found jobs say they sent far more money home than they could ever earn in Honduras, but most were caught quickly and have returned with empty pockets.
”The immigration van caught us after we walked for three days across the desert in Arizona,” says Matías Miranda, 42, an illiterate farmer. “I wanted to try once more, to help my children. But already I am back without a single peso.”
BILLIONS SENT HOME
Illegal migration is a crucial safety valve for Honduras, a chronically poor country of 7.5 million where 40 percent of the populace earns less than $3 a day. Money sent to families from relatives working in the United States provides nearly one-third of the national income — $2.3 billion last year.
Over the past several years, however, the pace of deportations from the United States has skyrocketed as the U.S. Border Patrol has beefed up operations. In 2006, 24,643 were deported; and by mid-June 2007, the figure had exceeded 13,700. About 90,000 Hondurans attempt to cross illegally each year.
Honduran society has paid a high price for this economic antidote.
BROKEN FAMILIES
”Honduras today survives on remittances, but mass migration also causes enormous damage,” said Julio Velásquez, an official of the Honduran National Human Rights Commission. “Those who manage to reach the U.S. can lift their families a little out of poverty, but often the families fall apart and the kids end up in gangs or on drugs. We need to create the conditions so people don’t need to leave, instead of thinking of migration as something to admire.”
At the Center for Attention to Migrants next to Toncontin International Airport, deportees are greeted with respect.
Outside the center, a throng of families waits anxiously. Gladys Morales and her two children are dressed in new clothes for what Belkis, 13, calls “the Big Day.”
They are waiting for Gladys’ husband, Ramón, 34, who has been in New Orleans for three years. He worked as a house painter, sending home a steady stream of cash. But they missed him terribly, especially José Ramón, 9.
Suddenly, there he is in the door. The children rush forward, and he crushes them to his chest.
”So you still remember me?” he murmurs affectionately. “How are you doing in school? Are you behaving yourselves?”
Morales says he has no idea how he will earn a living .
Still, ”My children need me. So many homes fall apart, but we stayed united,” he says. “I worked hard, I suffered a lot, I sent money home. But after going through all that, you come back with a new mentality. I want to build a life here now. I can’t leave them again. It’s time for me to come home.”
BY PAMELA CONSTABLE
