Abandonment
Students protest against domestic violence in front of the main campus of Jadavpur University, in Kolkata, West Bengal, India. Oct. 17, 2016. Photo by Debsuddha Banerjee/ZUMA Wire via Alamy
As domestic violence spiked among women of color and marginalized people during the pandemic, a more insidious form of abuse began to manifest more frequently in South Asian immigrant communities
Editor’s note: Domestic violence is a pervasive problem in our Latino community and it is also a reality among other communities of color. It acutely affects immigrant women who are often wary of reporting the abuse due to their immigration status, the safety of their children, and other complicated factors like guilt, cultural pressures and concerns about financial stability. These are experiences that transcend nationality and culture. We see immense value in publishing this revelatory piece written by reporters Meera Kymal and Anjana Nagarajan-Butaney that zooms in a form of domestic abuse rarely discussed: transnational abandonment. Through that process, this dynamic team of journalists created the Desi Dost Project, with a grant from the University of Southern California, to investigate the impact of domestic violence within the Indian American community. The writers have changed the names of the women mentioned in the story to protect their identities because some of them still have active pending cases in the courts. This article is the second in a series on transnational abandonment written by the authors. The original version was published in India Currents.
Anjali Kour was six months pregnant with her first baby and living with her husband’s family in New Delhi, India when her in-laws told her in no uncertain terms that she needed to leave for the United States to give birth to “a U.S. citizen child.”
With the reluctant blessing of her ob-gyn, Anjali flew to San Francisco in 2008, to join her NRI (non-resident Indian) husband in the Bay Area. Anjali told Desi Dost that she “was forced to come to America to deliver a male U.S. citizen child” because her in-laws said that by doing so, her husband’s business “would flourish.”
In 2017, Anjali visited India with her husband and son, who was then 9. While they were there, her husband abandoned her and fled to the U.S. with the boy. Anjali filed a criminal complaint against her husband in India. In retaliation, “he filed for divorce and custody of our son in the U.S., because my child was a U.S. citizen by birth,” Anjali said.
Desperate to be reunited with her child, Anjali made her way back to California and began fighting for custody in state courts. In the months that followed, the courts granted the no-fault divorce her husband had requested, resulting in Anjali losing her H4 dependent visa and her legal immigration status. (By Indian law, the two were still married, however.)
Her case bounced between U.S. family and immigration courts without a clear pathway to resolution because each legal system operates in distinct jurisdictions. In 2022, nearly five years later, Anjali continues to live in legal limbo as she battles for her rights.
‘Which jurisdiction do we belong to? Are we married? Divorced? Single? What is my status?’
In the U.S., South Asian immigrant women not only have to overcome power imbalances within their relationships and cultures, but also hidden disparities in the U.S. immigration and domestic law that tilt control towards their husbands. Beholden to their husbands in every way and dealing with complex law in multiple countries, these domestic violence survivors have few options.
Without a way to obtain a legal immigration status, survivors cannot transcend their situation. Without court rulings in their favor, survivors lose access to resources and custody of children. Without a clear pathway through the chokehold of immigration policy, transnational legal systems, resources or community support, disenfranchised survivors cannot reclaim stability, statehood or an identity, and sometimes, even their children.
A spike in abandonment
Transnational abandonment is a form of domestic abuse that occurs when vulnerable immigrant women are abandoned in their country of origin by husbands who start new lives elsewhere. This phenomenon is particularly prevalent in arranged marriages within the South Asian community, and it results in victims facing domestic violence, emotional abuse, cultural alienation, and/or financial exploitation by their husbands and in-laws. A study conducted in the U.K. concluded that the ‘stranding’ of a foreign national wife abroad in their country of origin by a husband “was intended to prevent the wife from asserting their matrimonial or residence rights.” Women who “migrated to her husband’s country of residence, were ousted from or deceived into leaving their homes after a period of abuse, creating the phenomenon of transnational marriage abandonment.” A 2011 report by Manavi, an organization based in New Jersey that addresses the needs of South Asian women in the U.S. who have been affected by domestic violence, suggested that the number of transnationally abandoned women in India had “reached staggering proportions.” In 2013, a study on stranded women found that, according to Indian authorities, émigré husbands had abandoned an estimated 30,000 women in India.
In the U.S., the practice was under-reported with few statistics collected until the onset of the pandemic and the social isolating that followed triggered an unprecedented wave of abandonment cases. Narika, a Bay Area organization confronting domestic violence in South Asian communities, reported two to three cases of transnational abandonment a week as domestic violence spiked among women of color during the pandemic.
Illustration “Amita” by Tanya Momi.
Anjali becomes an “illegal alien”
In India, the tradition of arranged marriage began as a way to unite wealthier, powerful families, much like European aristocracy did. Today, non-arranged “love” marriages are increasingly becoming common in modern India, however the vast majority of Indians still marry through traditional arranged matches.
When her dad was vetting possible husbands for Anjali, in 2004, “I told him my only condition was that I did not want to go abroad,” she recalls. All Anjali wanted was a traditional marriage to an Indian man and a life near her own family in Delhi.
Instead, Anjali’s life began to collapse when her businessman husband secured an IT consultancy job in Silicon Valley’s tech industry. And soon, a pattern of domestic abuse that had manifested as early as their honeymoon in Canada — when he attempted to abandon her at a mall and refused to buy her vegetarian food though she did not eat meat — escalated into physical and verbal assaults.
Anjali’s arranged marriage crumbled, resulting in her abandonment and separation from her child. “In the middle of the night, he abducted my son,” Anjali says. “I had no clue if I would ever be able to see (my son) again.”
That fear drove Anjali back to the U.S. She knew she had a tough battle ahead because she had few resources and little understanding of the U.S. legal system. Her basis for claiming custody of her son was the fact that in India, her marriage was still legal. “So what exactly is my status?” asked Anjali. “Being an NRI abandoned woman, we are of a dual status. Divorced in the U.S., married as per Indian laws. My question to the judiciaries of two countries, India, and the United States, is…Which country do we belong to? Which jurisdiction do we belong to? Are we married? Divorced? Single? What is my status? I married a Delhi-based businessman with no dreams of coming abroad. Why is the fate of Indian marriages being decided in the U.S. legal system?”
How visa systems fail survivors
Non-immigrants like Anjali Kour arrive in the U.S. on ‘dependent’ H4 visas which are attached to their spouse’s H1B residency permits. Anjali’s husband worked in the Silicon Valley on an H1B — a temporary non-immigrant visa that IT companies often use to employ thousands of foreign workers with specialized skills in its tech sector. U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services (USCIS) has issued the bulk of these visas to Indian nationals.
The H4 gives spouses some privileges. They are eligible to get driver’s licenses, pursue education, and open bank accounts. With her H4, Anjali could have gotten a job by adding an H4EAD work authorization, but her husband forbade it.
On the flip side, the H1B and H4 visa scheme subjugates wives to their husbands for legal status in the U.S. The inherent risks of a dependent, temporary visa can be devastating. If the marriage fails or when an immigrant wife is abused or abandoned, the sponsoring H1B husband can withdraw support of her legal status.
When she lost her H4 safety net, Anjali Kour also lost access to legal recourse and justice, and became an illegal alien on U.S. soil.
“You are nothing without your H1B visa holder,” she told Desi Dost.
“Once you’re cut off from the H1B,” said Shah Peerally, president of a Bay Area immigration law firm and one of the leading advocates fighting cases for immigrant domestic violence survivors, “you have no money because your H1B spouse is making the money.”
Peerally called the H4 visa “tricky.” “When the spouse is a dependent, and it comes to the H4 visa, they have a problem, because there’s no provision for the law to protect them,” he noted.
How things go wrong
Women navigating the U.S. immigration system encounter a tangle of immigration protocols and judicial systems. With a single misstep, they can lose their immigration status, custody of their children, their home and their assets, and face deportation.
Sandhya, a highly educated and talented artist and the mother of two children, lived in the Bay Area until a divorce in the U.S. courts drove her back to India. She was a green card holder married to a U.S. citizen. Sandhya described her arranged marriage as “abusive and very violent.” Her husband gagged her in the bathtub, threw her down the staircase, and attacked her with a knife. “He was arrested for threatening to kill me,” Sandhya said.
‘No money means no justice for victims in transnational cases.’
When he filed for divorce in 2014, Sandhya explained, he “took away all my joint credit and debit cards, blocking me from all funds. He falsely claimed in court that we had separated since 2003 to keep control of all our joint California community assets.” She returned to India after her divorce, but still had a valid green card to return.
In her absence, however, her ex-husband filed court orders claiming Sandhya was a Spouse Green Card fraudster, and guilty of tax and medical insurance fraud, and while Sandhya was “unrepresented in U.S. family court,” his team of lawyers were able to obtain court orders blocking her from all funds.
“I have been given no alimony, fined $200K, (and) asked to pay all my husband’s attorney fees,” Sandhya said. “I’ve been stripped from all 401K pension funds, and all our joint assets, and our joint homes. He kept all my heirloom jewelry, and he forged my signature to get a $400K U.S. bank loan.”
“No money means no justice for victims in transnational cases,” she said.
Since 2014, she has continued to fight her case in India, where her marriage is still legal.
In another abandonment case, Ritika’s U.S. citizen husband promised to marry her when she arrived in the U.S. on a fiancée visa. He never did, nor did he file for a change of status when her visa expired after 90 days, which caused her to lose her legal immigration status in the country. In her book, “Custodial Battle,” Ritika recounts her arduous journey to regain custody of her son. “Then, when our son was 2 years old,” said Ritika, “my husband took the family to India and abandoned me. I did not find out till later that he filed for sole custody of our baby.”
Peerally, the attorney, is very clear about how the type of visa affects the legal status of an immigrant spouse.
“There is not much we can do if a spouse does not petition for the status to be legalized by marriage,” said Peerally. He recommends that brides marrying U.S. citizens come to the U.S. on a marriage visa rather than a fiancée visa, “to establish a base level of protection” if things go wrong.
Will I clear Immigration?
Women abandoned outside the U.S. face a tenuous journey to reenter legally. Anjali returned to the U.S. on the merits of her H4 visa. But Ritika had no visa that would permit legal re-entry. So she appealed to the U.S. Consulate, the Indian Overseas Ministry, and the child abduction unit in Washington, D.C.
With the help of her family, an attorney, and a Bay Area nonprofit, Ritika assembled documented proof of her marriage and her son’s birth certificate that the U.S. Consulate required. She was granted humanitarian parole through the USCIS because she is the wife and the mother of U.S. citizen children. However, this strategy is “only successful in the rarest of cases,” said Sara Fain, a staff attorney at the Immigration Institute of the Bay Area.
Anjali, Sandhya and Ritika all lost their legal status to manipulative, abusive husbands. Only Anjali and Ritika figured out ways to return to the U.S., but neither anticipated the traumatic tug of war that would ensue with the American legal system, while they tried to reclaim the sons they lost to divorce and transnational abandonment.
Battling for custody
In the U.S., the immigrant status of a mother who gives birth to a U.S. citizen determines whether or not she has rights to the child. Without a registered marriage or a green card, as a fiancé and not a wife, Ritika had already lost rights to her home, assets and child.
In “Custodial Battle,” Ritika recounts her harrowing journey to rescue her son from a legal system that, according to her, “delayed justice to an immigrant mother, simply because her rights to a green card and permanent residence were withheld by an abusive husband who happened to be an American citizen.”
Ritika acknowledged that she could not have taken on the U.S. courts and lawyers fees without the financial support of her parents and brother. It took 10 years of judges’ rulings, minor counsels, reunification therapist reports, court orders for custody evaluations, the child’s parents and grandparent reports, and the court attendant’s permission, for Ritika to gain custody of her son.
Anjali’s ongoing custody battle followed a similar pattern.
“I fought with the court system for eight months to prove I am not an abusive mother or spouse,” she said.
On one occasion, recalled Anjali, after the court-ordered emergency screening of her husband and son, “the court-appointed screener testified that the husband and his family are involved in parental alienation and maladaptive gatekeeping. I would have got 50% custody of my child at that time,” said Anjali, who was emotionally exhausted by her endless court battle. “Unfortunately, I made one mistake. I cried in the courtroom. I told the judge, this is not what I deserve. I’ve been deprived of a roof over my head, deprived of my finances, deprived of my child, of my basic necessities, of my legal standing, and then asked to come to court to fight for my rights in a foreign land where I have no family or friends?”
Recommendation for sole custody by court appointed supervisor. Image of original court documents
Despite damning testimony against her husband by Anjali and her legal team, according to Anjali, her husband’s attorney told the court that “the mother is not mentally stable, not fit to raise the child.” “I was thrown into nine months of therapy to prove that I was mentally stable,” she said.
For two years, Anjali endured supervised visitations with her son under the watchful eye of a court-appointed reconnection therapist. “I was abused (verbally and physically) by my nine-year-old child,” at the instigation of his father, said Anjali. The courts continued to withhold joint custody, even though her therapy proved she was an able mother, and ignored evidence of her husband’s threats towards their son.
Court documents indicating Anjali was denied custody.
Finally, her son spoke up. According to Anjali, “he said, ‘I have to obey the orders of my dad otherwise I will be sent to juvenile hall.’” As a result, a court-appointed reconnection therapist “filed a case of child abuse by the father.” Her husband immediately fled the U.S. to India. Anjali finally got full physical custody of her son.
And yet, his request for a divorce was granted anyway. “I was divorced over the phone in three minutes,” said Anjali. “My husband was in India.” The California court “granted the divorce based on irreconcilable differences,” which, she points out, “is not grounds for divorce under India’s Hindu Marriage Act.”
As a “no fault” divorce state, California will grant a divorce to a resident asking to end a marriage without the other partner’s consent.
But Anjali questioned the validity of that divorce. “What is the result? I am divorced per U.S. law and still married by Indian law. The divorce was only granted to make me unlawful because an H4 visa holder is nothing without her sponsor.
“I was not abused by a green card holder or U.S. citizen. I was abused by an Indian citizen – an NRI – who came to the United States on an H1B employment visa.”
Anjali questions how California law, which requires proof of just six months residency to grant a divorce, can have jurisdiction over a marriage certified in India.
‘How would it feel to know that you lost your child, not based on your capability as a mother, but on the basis of something as meaningless as nationality?’
Additionally, when parents and children have different nationalities, custody battles become unpredictable. Anjali’s U.S. citizen son was born to Indian national, non-immigrant parents.
“The judge ruled that a U.S. citizen child cannot be removed from U.S. jurisdiction,” said Anjali.
“Courts have to make decisions based on the child’s best interests,” explained Dorchen Leidholdt, director of the Legal Center at Sanctuary for Families, a service provider and advocate for survivors of domestic violence, sex trafficking, and related forms of gender violence based in New York.
But in Anjali Kour’s case, did they?
The problem lies in resolving the issue of split jurisdiction when women are abandoned. A study by Manavi assessed which nation’s laws apply to divorce, alimony and child custody when a couple has Indian nationality but resides in the U.S. The study concluded that “the assumption that family law jurisdiction must be based on the residency of the petitioner in the U.S. is manifestly inadequate” because it is based “on a now obsolete notion that both parties in a marriage live in the same state. Today’s couples do not necessarily live in the same country, let alone the same state.”
Immigration issues in Family Court?
“Family Courts should not be using the victim’s lack of full immigration status or lack of any immigration status against her in the court proceedings,” stressed Leidholdt.
“(Even if) clients are partially/undocumented and in family court that should not make a difference. It really shouldn’t impede them in any way from pursuing their rights to civil protective orders, custody, or visitation of their children.”
Ritika was told that immigration issues do not belong in family court, but without proof of a marriage certificate, the family court was predisposed to rule in her husband’s favor because he was a U.S. citizen. Because of her immigration status, Ritika was only allowed to meet her son for an hour a day under supervision by a court-appointed reconnection therapist.
Ritika thought it was unfair. “How would it feel to know that you lost your child, not based on your capability as a mother, but on the basis of something as meaningless as nationality?” she asked.
Ritika is scathing about the treatment she received from the family court system. “I was treated as a flight risk and an ‘unfit person’ as long as my immigration status was unresolved. All that changed when I got my green card,” says Ritika, who finally got full custody of her child. But it was not an easy win.
The 10-year battle came at a cost. The fight took a toll on her wellbeing, finances and the mother-child relationship, she said. Ritika spent a small fortune in attorney fees, court orders for custody evaluations, and therapy sessions to prove her character was “worthy of custody as a mother.” And it took her years to break through the shell of rejection that alienated her son from her and re-establish a connection with him.
Ritika felt at times as if her son had been kidnapped. “I paid ransom to the judicial system to see my child,” she said.
Falling through the cracks
In the U.S., immigrant women often fall through the cracks between family law court and immigration court, because the two courts “never talk to each other,” said Peerally, the attorney. “One is state and one is federal. That’s not going to change.”
“On a legal level it’s going to be very difficult. On one level we’re dealing with the state court, and on the other with the federal court. Immigration is uniform, but family law, criminal law, each state has their own,” said the expert.
Peerally explained, “What tends to happen when the wife has no immigration papers, is that the judge will give the U.S. citizen kids to the spouse who has residency in the country, ‘because that’s my jurisdiction.’ The judge in family law court doesn’t have a choice, because the state of California does not have jurisdiction or control over defendants out of state or out of the country.”
Petitioners in family law court in the U.S. do not have the right to counsel for civil cases. So unless they have funding, like Ritika, or pro bono counsel, petitioners like Anjali and Sandhya will struggle for representation during the legal proceedings.
‘International law makes it like this juggling game of passing the ball to someone else because it is not my problem, it is theirs and it keeps going on.’
Once Sandhya was stranded in India, any chance for justice was choked off.
“I am in India. I was not allowed to testify as part of judicial misconduct, none of my witnesses were allowed in U.S. court, my evidence was not seen,” said Sandhya.
“My husband understood that I couldn’t lodge a complaint in the U.S. while I was in India. I had no lawyer. No lawyer means no voice in court and immigrant spouses in faraway native countries are absolutely helpless.” U.S. Legal Aid societies and pro bono lawyers refused to take an overseas client.”
“In America, if you don’t have the money to pay the lawyers, you’re done,” said Peerally.
Finding protection with VAWA
At Sanctuary for Families, where up to 95% of clients are immigrants, Leidholdt clarified, “There are a number of remedies that are available to undocumented or partially documented immigrant survivors of DV” but “it is essential that immigration practitioners and family law practitioners work together.”
“If a victim of DV is married to a U.S. citizen or permanent resident, the Violence Against Women Act (VAWA) Self Petition or the Battered Spouse Waiver is absolutely available. “If he sponsored her for conditional residence status, and refuses to continue the sponsorship, she should be able to petition under the battered spouse waiver to adjust her status and obtain a green card,” Leidholdt added.
“If there is evidence of marriage, a survivor should be eligible to self-petition under the Violence Against Women Act, she would have to demonstrate battering or extreme cruelty and good faith marriage — but that usually is not difficult, and that she resided here with her abuser.”
According to Peerally, “Even if the marriage is valid for one day, a person can file for VAWA. It’s made for both men and women.”
Leidholdt assured Desi Dost that documents from India are valid in U.S. courts. “It counts if the survivor is able to provide evidence of marriage from any country. A marriage doesn’t have to take place in the United States,” she said. A marriage certificate from India absolutely should pass muster in a VAWA self-petition case.”
Leidholdt encouraged survivors to submit wedding videos, pictures, photographs of their wedding, or “any documentation of that ceremony is very valuable evidence. It shows (a) good faith marriage.”
But winning a VAWA case is not straightforward, Peerally warns survivors. “Once you get hit, call the cops and move out. Don’t stay and get killed,” he says, adding that survivors also need to prove that “it’s a bona fide marriage, by saving or making copies of “bills or a lease together.”
Peerally also warns VAWA petitioners that they need to show proof of “good moral character.” “You do not hit back,” he says. “If you do, you become the aggressor. Retaliating can work against you in a court of law.”
Protection with the U Visa
Immigrant survivors have few options to remain and work in the country legally if their spouse withdraws support — for example, by rescinding the H4 visa.
“It can be a very sticky situation for the victim if she’s not married to a U.S. citizen or permanent resident and if the abuser is only on a H1B visa,” said Peerally. “But if she is a victim of domestic violence, filing a police report will make all the difference in the world. She should be U Visa eligible.”
A U Visa is awarded to non-citizens who are victims of certain crimes and who have suffered mental or physical abuse due to domestic violence, sexual assault, or trafficking. It grants applicants work authorization for four years and with three years of having that authorization, they can apply for residency. Leidholdt said the U Visa is “the only immigration remedy that is viable and available to domestic violence victims.
Domestic violence survivors can apply and wait for a U Visa anywhere in the world, even in India, but the crime must have occurred in the United States.
If you or anyone you know needs help, please contact:
Narika: 1-800-215-7308
Maitri: 1-888-8624874
Raksha: 1-866-56-ABUSE
Next Door Solutions to Domestic Violence: (408) 279-2962
Violence Intervention Program: 1-800-664-5880
Domestic Violence Hotline: 1-800-799-SAFE (7233)
“A U Visa will allow them to stay and ultimately within six to seven years they can get a greencard,” added Peerally. But he warned H4 spouses that, “if they are not physically abused, and only reporting mental abuse, there’s no provision under the law to protect those people.”
An alternative is “a provision in the law to get a work permit called ‘the H4 visa for abused spouses, but that’s not a status to stay,” said Peerally. “It’s counterintuitive. You can have a work permit but if you are not legal in the country, what’s the purpose of it?”
A grace period for survivors
So, what can we do? Peerally is spearheading a petition on Change.org that calls for changing the law to give abused H4 spouses what he calls a “grace period.” Peerally, who was at the forefront of the campaign that helped H4 spouses gain the right to apply for work permits known as Employment Authorization Documents (EADs) in 2015, says he can include the grace period petition in an open letter to lawmakers if it gets enough signatures.
In a regular divorce, says Peerally, the grace period would allow time for a couple to work out their divorce. In a case that involves domestic violence, the grace period would allow the spouse that was abused to get temporary legal status, “maybe, even for two or three years.” With that legal status, abused H4 wives would be able to apply for a work permit and get a job. Peerally thinks it would give these women a cushion of time.
“They need that little break at least for three years, ‘til they can get back on their feet, until their cases are finished in family court." In custody battles, they can prove to the judge that they have a legal right to work and can support their child. It also gives them a better chance of getting custody of the child, he added.
But, before you buy the American Dream with grooms based abroad, warned Bindu Fernandes, executive director of Narika. “There are additional criteria to look at and think about in an arranged marriage.”
She cautioned families and brides: “You can’t just think — good house, green card – you have to be thinking about additional things like: Does he respect you? Are there bouts of jealousy? Are there bouts of violence? What does that mean for your relationship?”
There has to be something done at a consulate, or embassy level, urged Fernandes, who works with survivors of transnational abandonment. Manavi suggests that consulates require all women who receive visas to the U.S. attend a seminar on their legal rights and social services available in the U.S.
India’s Ministry for Overseas Affairs has published a detailed advisory for “Women deserted by NRI husbands.” It includes advice on background checks, women’s rights, and a contact — the National Commission for Women, an NRI agency — where survivors from anywhere in the world can register complaints.
However, inaction from governments stems from issues about jurisdiction, said Fernandes. “If they are not U.S. citizens, is it within our jurisdiction? International law makes it like this juggling game of passing the ball to someone else because it is not my problem, it is theirs and it keeps going on,” she said.
“It’s a situation that abusers can manipulate. This is what they take advantage of. The abuser knows that when there are multiple countries involved, no one has the energy to figure this out.”
Part 1: Priya’s Story
Part 2: Rennu’s Story
Part 3: Anjali Kour’s Story
Sandhya, the artist and mother stranded in India, received a boost when the Indian government recently issued an Interpol Red Corner Notice global warrant as Most Wanted Fugitive for Prosecution against her husband, pending his extradition to India.
But even if wives file charges in India, “extraditing NRI husbands to India to face charges is near impossible,” said Aman Usman, a Delhi high court lawyer and vice president of the AAP Legal Cell, Saket Court, New Delhi. “There is no strong law to bring them back.”
According to the U.S. Department of State, India is not a signatory to the 1980 Hague Convention on the Civil Aspects of International Child Abduction and there are no bilateral agreements regarding international parental child abduction between the U.S. and India.
“The tragedy is that there are countries, that if they are not part of the Hague convention on international abductions, you cannot even start a legal case in your country to get your child back,” said Carolien Hardbolen, an immigration specialist at Sanctuary for Families.
What survivors need
Each survivor story is a cautionary tale about Indian brides and their families mesmerized by the prospect of the American dream, packaged in a promise of marriage to a U.S. resident. When domestic violence and transnational abandonment dissolve that dream, it also puts a target on the backs of women. Without a legal marriage or immigration status, survivors risk persecution by the U.S. immigration system and the family courts.
For NRI survivors like Anjali, the road back to a life of possibilities is riddled with impossibility.
Sandhya wants immigrant spouses like herself, stranded in their native countries, to have access to lawyers and their voices heard. She wants a bill that bars “U.S. courts from hearing cases where offshore immigrant, abandoned wives have no say in courts. We need a law to help immigrant wives stranded in their native countries fight their case, be legally represented, have evidence presented, and keep immigrant rights, women’s rights, and civil rights in place.”
For Anjali, it’s a straightforward solution. “Let the fate of Indian marriages be decided in India, not the U.S. courts,” she says.
It’s not unusual for a partner to leave their spouse in the U.S., but the Indian immigrant community views estrangement as taboo; it can be traumatic for spouses, families, and children. These breakups trap immigrant survivors in an unfair struggle to beat dependency, domestic violence, and transnational abandonment. In some cases, their child’s best interests are not always well served.
Justice is often out of reach, given the limited protections in U.S. law for victims stuck abroad or in the U.S. on temporary visas they cannot control.
U.S. family law cannot change for foreign nationals. But, if immigration law can add a grace period of transition for survivors on humanitarian grounds, they can get their lives together. It would give immigrant domestic violence survivors hope to move on with dignity. It gives them a fighting chance to stay with their children.
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This is the second article in a two-part series on the impact of domestic abuse and transnational abandonment in the South Asian community, supported by the USC Center for Health Journalism and its 2021 Domestic Violence Reporting Fund, in partnership with Desi Collective, Narika, and India Currents.
We thank our mentors Catherine Stifter, Valeria Fernández and Michelle Levander at USC Center for Health Journalism for their guidance.
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Meera Kymal and Anjana Nagarajan-Butaney are grateful to the survivors who spoke to them with such honesty and courage and for the information shared by the experts and advocacy organizations.
Meera Kymal is a Founder/Producer at DesiCollective Media and the Contributing Editor at the magazine India Currents. She writes about issues that impact minority communities in the South Asian diaspora through the lens of social justice, politics, and the arts.
Meera is a 2021 and 2022 grantee from the USC Center for Health Journalism, reporting on domestic violence in the South Asian community in the ‘Desi Dost’ project. It recently won first place California Journalism Award for In-Depth Reporting and Open In-Depth Reporting from the California News Publishers Association.
In 2022, Meera won a grant to report on aging as part of the first Altavoz Lab cohort. She has received Journalistic Excellence awards from the San Francisco Press Club (2021 & 2020) and from CNPA (2021).
Anjana Nagarajan-Butaney is a writer for India Currents magazine, showcasing the stories of South Asians in the United States while exploring the social and cultural impact of issues like immigration, health, census, elections, technology and the arts. She is also a Producer/Founder of DesiCollective Media, creating multimedia (podcast, video and written) content that impacts the multiethnic, multicultural communities of the South Asian diaspora.
Anjana is a 2021 & 2022 grantee from the USC Center for Health Journalism, reporting on domestic violence in the South Asian community. This project received two - First place In-Depth Reporting California Journalism Awards from the California News Publishers Association.
In 2022, Anjana won a grant to report on aging, as part of the first Altavoz Lab cohort. She also received an award for Local Coverage of Election 2020 from CNPA.