BurfordTJustice
2017-09-20 19:20:06 UTC
Stopped at US border, Haitians find 'Mexican dream' instead
TIJUANA, Mexico (AP) -- Jose Luis Millan found a new crop of star employees
at an upscale Tijuana car wash where customers cross the border from the
U.S. to pay up to $950 to have their prized possessions steamed and scrubbed
for hours. They're never late, always hustle and come in on days off to
learn new skills, traits that he says make them a model for their Mexican
counterparts.
They are among several thousand Haitians who came to Mexico's northwest
corner hoping to cross the border before the U.S. abruptly closed its doors
last year. The Mexican government has welcomed them with visas that help
them fill the need for labor in Tijuana's growing economy.
In a country whose population is 1 percent black, Tijuana's Haitians stand
out. They share tight living quarters, sending much of their meager wages to
support family in Haiti. Haitians earn far less than they would in the
United States but enough to forsake the risk of getting deported by heading
north.
Two new Haitian restaurants downtown serve dishes with mangoes and mashed
plantains. Dozens of Haitian children attend public schools. Factories that
export to the U.S. recruit Haitians, who can also be found waiting tables
and worshipping at congregations that added services in Creole.
"It's the Mexican dream for many of them, a sense that they belong," Millan
said. "Mexico has given them opportunity. Mexico has opened up and let them
achieve their dreams."
Millan, who lived in the Los Angeles area for two decades until he was
forced to leave last year for employing dozens of people illegally at his
party planning company, sees parallels to Mexicans in the U.S. Their
teamwork sets an example. Some customers ask for them.
Haitians, he says, "fight hard, fight strong, and they don't stop."
The Haitians took an accidental route from their impoverished Caribbean
homeland to Tijuana, a city of about 2 million that borders San Diego and
also has large pockets of Chinese and Korean immigrants.
Brazil and its neighbors took in the Haitians after that country's 2010
earthquake. As construction jobs for the 2016 Summer Olympics ended and
Brazil descended into political turmoil, they crossed 10 countries by plane,
boat, bus and on foot to San Diego, where U.S. authorities let them in on
humanitarian grounds.
Then President Barack Obama shifted course in September and started
deporting Haitian arrivals. Many decided to call Mexico home.
After struggling as a schoolteacher in Haiti, Abelson Etienne moved to
Brazil in 2014 to work at a factory that made cable for lighting products.
He arrived in Tijuana in December after a harrowing journey with his wife
who, despite the U.S. policy shift, was allowed in on humanitarian grounds,
presumably because she was seven months' pregnant.
Etienne, a 27-year-old who studied chemistry in college in Haiti, settled
into a routine of six-day weeks and three double shifts, earning him 1,900
pesos (a little over $100), mostly for his wife in New York City and the
infant son he hasn't seen. On Sundays, he sleeps until the afternoon and
goes to church.
"There's so much work in Tijuana," he said while a pot of fish stew with
mangoes and tomatoes simmered on an electric burner in the two-room
apartment that he rents with three other Haitians. "I've been treated very
well in Mexico."
Like its neighbor to the north and many other places in Latin America,
Mexico has a complicated history with race. Mexico's elites tend to be
white-skinned, and black people are sometimes casually demeaned, even in
everyday phrases such as "trabaja como un negro," meaning "to work like a
black," or work hard.
The Mexican government is giving Haitians one-year, renewable visas that
allow them to work but not bring family. Rodulfo Figueroa, the region's top
immigration official, says Mexico is practicing what it asks of the U.S. and
other countries.
"We believe that there's a humanitarian case to be made for these people to
find better lives in Mexico," said Figueroa, the National Migration
Institute's delegate in Baja California state, which includes Tijuana. "Our
policy is to have the Haitian population do what they need to do to have
status in Mexico."
The new arrivals, currently numbering around 3,000, are manageable in a
country of 122 million. Central Americans, who come illegally in much larger
numbers, are typically deported, although Mexico is granting asylum more
often.
Rodin St. Surin, 36, is among hundreds of Haitians who found work at
Tijuana's export-oriented factories. CCL Industries Inc., a Toronto-based
company that makes Avery office products for retailers including Staples,
Wal-Mart, Target and others, needed help after moving manufacturing from
Meridian, Mississippi, last year.
The plant hired St. Surin and 15 other Haitians in May for its workforce of
1,700 during peak back-to-school season. They inspected and packaged binders
at the back of a giant, spotless floor where machines also churn out labels,
folders and markers around the clock.
Plant managers overcame language barriers by having St. Surin translate
their directives to Creole. Some Haitians have quickly learned Spanish in
Tijuana, while others got a head start from time spent in Spanish-speaking
parts of the Caribbean and South America.
"I'm very comfortable with these people," said Mario Aguirre, the plant's
operations director and a 43-year industry veteran. "They have given us very
good results. They don't miss work, they always arrive on time. We'd like to
see the same attitude in everyone."
The factory offered 1,500 pesos (about $85) for a six-day week, with health
coverage, paid vacation and a free shuttle to work. St. Surin, who left
Brazil with hopes of joining a cousin in Miami, sends earnings to a
caretaker for his three children in Haiti, whom he hopes to bring to
Tijuana.
"Mexico could become my home," he said outside a crowded, graffiti-covered
building where a nun allows about 50 Haitians to live rent-free on a street
shared by cars and stray dogs. They tap a neighbor's hose for water to
bathe, and cook meals on a campfire under a large canopy.
The Ambassadors of Jesus Church, which sits on a rugged dirt road lined by
agave and used tires, housed up to 500 Haitians last year on floors strewn
with mattresses, making it perhaps the largest religious or civic aid group.
Its pastor, Jeccene Thimote, wants to build a "Little Haiti" of 100 houses
nearby at the bottom of a canyon where the sound of peacocks and roosters
and smell of pigs permeate the air. He built three houses before the city
halted construction for lack of flood controls.
Thimote, 32, survives on two hours' sleep, rising to pray at 5 a.m., serving
as foreman for a crew of 10 Haitians building a house in one of Tijuana's
wealthiest neighborhoods, and working the night shift at RSI Home Products
Inc., a California-based company that makes cabinetry for The Home Depot and
Lowe's.
Thimote, who was among 160 Haitians still living rent-free at the church
this summer, sends his earnings to Haiti to settle family debts and support
a 3-year-old daughter. He hoped to join a cousin in New York when he left
Ecuador last year, but considers Mexico better than Haiti, saying, "There's
more poverty there than here."
The church has adapted. Every Wednesday night, Haitians gather for a rousing
sermon in Creole. Mexicans attend a Sunday service in Spanish. A Haitian and
Mexican recently announced plans to marry at the church.
TIJUANA, Mexico (AP) -- Jose Luis Millan found a new crop of star employees
at an upscale Tijuana car wash where customers cross the border from the
U.S. to pay up to $950 to have their prized possessions steamed and scrubbed
for hours. They're never late, always hustle and come in on days off to
learn new skills, traits that he says make them a model for their Mexican
counterparts.
They are among several thousand Haitians who came to Mexico's northwest
corner hoping to cross the border before the U.S. abruptly closed its doors
last year. The Mexican government has welcomed them with visas that help
them fill the need for labor in Tijuana's growing economy.
In a country whose population is 1 percent black, Tijuana's Haitians stand
out. They share tight living quarters, sending much of their meager wages to
support family in Haiti. Haitians earn far less than they would in the
United States but enough to forsake the risk of getting deported by heading
north.
Two new Haitian restaurants downtown serve dishes with mangoes and mashed
plantains. Dozens of Haitian children attend public schools. Factories that
export to the U.S. recruit Haitians, who can also be found waiting tables
and worshipping at congregations that added services in Creole.
"It's the Mexican dream for many of them, a sense that they belong," Millan
said. "Mexico has given them opportunity. Mexico has opened up and let them
achieve their dreams."
Millan, who lived in the Los Angeles area for two decades until he was
forced to leave last year for employing dozens of people illegally at his
party planning company, sees parallels to Mexicans in the U.S. Their
teamwork sets an example. Some customers ask for them.
Haitians, he says, "fight hard, fight strong, and they don't stop."
The Haitians took an accidental route from their impoverished Caribbean
homeland to Tijuana, a city of about 2 million that borders San Diego and
also has large pockets of Chinese and Korean immigrants.
Brazil and its neighbors took in the Haitians after that country's 2010
earthquake. As construction jobs for the 2016 Summer Olympics ended and
Brazil descended into political turmoil, they crossed 10 countries by plane,
boat, bus and on foot to San Diego, where U.S. authorities let them in on
humanitarian grounds.
Then President Barack Obama shifted course in September and started
deporting Haitian arrivals. Many decided to call Mexico home.
After struggling as a schoolteacher in Haiti, Abelson Etienne moved to
Brazil in 2014 to work at a factory that made cable for lighting products.
He arrived in Tijuana in December after a harrowing journey with his wife
who, despite the U.S. policy shift, was allowed in on humanitarian grounds,
presumably because she was seven months' pregnant.
Etienne, a 27-year-old who studied chemistry in college in Haiti, settled
into a routine of six-day weeks and three double shifts, earning him 1,900
pesos (a little over $100), mostly for his wife in New York City and the
infant son he hasn't seen. On Sundays, he sleeps until the afternoon and
goes to church.
"There's so much work in Tijuana," he said while a pot of fish stew with
mangoes and tomatoes simmered on an electric burner in the two-room
apartment that he rents with three other Haitians. "I've been treated very
well in Mexico."
Like its neighbor to the north and many other places in Latin America,
Mexico has a complicated history with race. Mexico's elites tend to be
white-skinned, and black people are sometimes casually demeaned, even in
everyday phrases such as "trabaja como un negro," meaning "to work like a
black," or work hard.
The Mexican government is giving Haitians one-year, renewable visas that
allow them to work but not bring family. Rodulfo Figueroa, the region's top
immigration official, says Mexico is practicing what it asks of the U.S. and
other countries.
"We believe that there's a humanitarian case to be made for these people to
find better lives in Mexico," said Figueroa, the National Migration
Institute's delegate in Baja California state, which includes Tijuana. "Our
policy is to have the Haitian population do what they need to do to have
status in Mexico."
The new arrivals, currently numbering around 3,000, are manageable in a
country of 122 million. Central Americans, who come illegally in much larger
numbers, are typically deported, although Mexico is granting asylum more
often.
Rodin St. Surin, 36, is among hundreds of Haitians who found work at
Tijuana's export-oriented factories. CCL Industries Inc., a Toronto-based
company that makes Avery office products for retailers including Staples,
Wal-Mart, Target and others, needed help after moving manufacturing from
Meridian, Mississippi, last year.
The plant hired St. Surin and 15 other Haitians in May for its workforce of
1,700 during peak back-to-school season. They inspected and packaged binders
at the back of a giant, spotless floor where machines also churn out labels,
folders and markers around the clock.
Plant managers overcame language barriers by having St. Surin translate
their directives to Creole. Some Haitians have quickly learned Spanish in
Tijuana, while others got a head start from time spent in Spanish-speaking
parts of the Caribbean and South America.
"I'm very comfortable with these people," said Mario Aguirre, the plant's
operations director and a 43-year industry veteran. "They have given us very
good results. They don't miss work, they always arrive on time. We'd like to
see the same attitude in everyone."
The factory offered 1,500 pesos (about $85) for a six-day week, with health
coverage, paid vacation and a free shuttle to work. St. Surin, who left
Brazil with hopes of joining a cousin in Miami, sends earnings to a
caretaker for his three children in Haiti, whom he hopes to bring to
Tijuana.
"Mexico could become my home," he said outside a crowded, graffiti-covered
building where a nun allows about 50 Haitians to live rent-free on a street
shared by cars and stray dogs. They tap a neighbor's hose for water to
bathe, and cook meals on a campfire under a large canopy.
The Ambassadors of Jesus Church, which sits on a rugged dirt road lined by
agave and used tires, housed up to 500 Haitians last year on floors strewn
with mattresses, making it perhaps the largest religious or civic aid group.
Its pastor, Jeccene Thimote, wants to build a "Little Haiti" of 100 houses
nearby at the bottom of a canyon where the sound of peacocks and roosters
and smell of pigs permeate the air. He built three houses before the city
halted construction for lack of flood controls.
Thimote, 32, survives on two hours' sleep, rising to pray at 5 a.m., serving
as foreman for a crew of 10 Haitians building a house in one of Tijuana's
wealthiest neighborhoods, and working the night shift at RSI Home Products
Inc., a California-based company that makes cabinetry for The Home Depot and
Lowe's.
Thimote, who was among 160 Haitians still living rent-free at the church
this summer, sends his earnings to Haiti to settle family debts and support
a 3-year-old daughter. He hoped to join a cousin in New York when he left
Ecuador last year, but considers Mexico better than Haiti, saying, "There's
more poverty there than here."
The church has adapted. Every Wednesday night, Haitians gather for a rousing
sermon in Creole. Mexicans attend a Sunday service in Spanish. A Haitian and
Mexican recently announced plans to marry at the church.