Rocío’s Three Dreams
Rocío Calderón is a Bolivian migrant who was a victim of trafficking. She will soon open her food truck Sumaj Bolivian Street Food. Photo by Noelle Haro-Gómez
After being trafficked and spending two years in an immigration detention center, a Bolivian woman rediscovers her American dream through food and service
Editor’s note: To read a version of this story in Spanish click here.
Rocío Calderón remembers her grandmother every time she makes empanadas. “How proud she would be of me today,” she muses out loud.
Calderón works as a chef at The Tumerico, an acclaimed restaurant in Tucson, Arizona. But she has bigger dreams: Later this year she hopes to roll out her own food truck later this year featuring her Bolivian grandmother’s recipes.
Bolivia is Calderón’s homeland. It’s where, at age 10, she started learning to cook, and it’s the place she left as an adult to come to the United States, confident in her plan to go home in six months. That was seven years ago.
Calderón speaks slowly and quietly. Her calm demeanor could easily be mistaken for indifference, but it’s actually a mask; she says she is still trying to heal. The 45-year-old mother of three spent two years at the Eloy Detention Center in Arizona, a large facility that holds and processes suspected undocumented immigrants.
During the time she was held, Calderón learned how common labor trafficking is in the United States. It’s a form of modern-day slavery: individuals perform work or services, intimidated by force, fraud, or coercion. But Calderón also discovered that for some victims, there are greater injustices. Despite the crime that had been committed against her, the U.S. immigration system treated her first as a person without the right to stay or work in the country.
Today, her focus is on healing the ache in her heart through her passion for food and cooking, and for helping other migrant women who are in detention. Still, when she talks about her time in Eloy, the memories break her. Her hands stiffen and her eyes fill with tears that she struggles to hold back.
"All that I experienced changed my way of thinking. Now, I feel I even have a purpose in life," says Calderón.
The International Labor Organization (ILO) estimates that at any given time at least 12.3 million people worldwide are victims of forced labor, and 2.4 million of them are also victims of trafficking. The U.S. State Department estimates that 14,500 to 17,500 people are trafficked into the United States each year.
False promises
Calderón says that in her native Bolivia she was a businesswoman and enjoyed a comfortable, middle-class life. After a divorce, she cooked up a plan to come to the United States for a short time and earn the dollars she would use to start the catering business she had dreamed of.
“I was separated from my husband, he kept everything, and I wanted to start from scratch," she says. "In Bolivia I already had a job that had been offered to me to manage a catering service, but I didn't have the capital."
A friend who lived in the United States offered her a job caring for an elderly man in California. She was promised a salary of $20 to $30 an hour, at least 40 hours a week. She would live with the patient and have no major living expenses. The idea was too tempting to refuse. She said goodbye to her three daughters, promised to return after six months, and took a flight with a ticket that the friend bought for her. It was the spring of 2014.
"All that I experienced changed my way of thinking. Now, I feel I even have a purpose in life."
This was not the first time that Calderón had visited the United States. She had traveled before to Miami and New York for business and tourism, but always for short periods of time. She remembers that she was admitted to the country with no issues; no one questioned her. They gave her an I-94, the Department of Homeland Security Arrival/Departure Record issued to foreigners who are admitted to the U.S. That form serves as a permit to remain in the country for six months. It was perfect for her planned stay.
"The first weeks were quiet, but later it was a bit confusing, because it was not what we had agreed. (My friend) was not paying me," says Calderón.
At first, her friend explained that she was also waiting to be paid. Calderón believed her.
“I brought a little money, so I was spending my money. And after time passed and she didn't pay me I said: ‘what's up?’ And when I asked her, then she threatened me, she told me that I could not do anything, and she was not going to give me anything. So, I wanted to go back to Bolivia because I said ‘Well, I'm wasting my time here, I didn't come for this. I'm going back home.’”
A plea for help gone wrong
Calderón says she called the airline to try to confirm her departure flight and was told that the person who made the original reservation, her friend, had changed the date and she had missed her flight. She then tried to reconcile with the woman. When that failed she started thinking of filing a complaint for labor abuse, non-payment of her salary, change in working conditions and immigration threats.
“I was afraid because she threatened me, she told me: ‘if you are going to report me, I am a citizen, you are a tourist, and they are going to deport you.’ I did not know what to do and I did not know anyone, and I did not speak English, which was the worst because I could not communicate with anyone or ask," she said.
"Since I was a foreigner, I said I'm going to go to Immigration. So I went and told them to help me. I went to the border, to San Isidro (California). I told them to help me because of what was happening to me and that I wanted to go back to Bolivia, but I didn't have the money to buy the ticket.”
Calderón says she told her whole story to Customs and Border Protection (CBP) agents. Instead of offering help, the agents focused on how she had worked in the United States without a work authorization.
"They arrested me, and I didn't know what was happening, I was shocked," she recalls.
They sent her to the “cooler,” the hielera, the room that migrants complain about while they are in detention because the facilities are extremely cold. Those who have been detained there also talk about overcrowding, a lack of hygiene, and inadequate food, water, and medical care.
“I saw people from different countries who came there through the desert and sometimes had wounds on their feet or arms, cuts. It was a place of great suffering. I was very shocked because I didn't know what was happening around me. Since I am from Bolivia, in South America, you don't hear much about what happens here on the border. So for me it was something very new, very painful.”
“I was afraid because she threatened me, she told me ‘if you are going to report me, I am a citizen, you are a tourist, and they are going to deport you.’”
Calderón says she signed a voluntary deportation order without knowing what it was because all the documentation was in English. She recalls asking to speak to someone from the Bolivian consulate. Then she had a second interview with a different immigration agent who explained her rights and who realized that she signed the paperwork without knowing what she was doing. He tore up the documents in front of her and asked her if she wanted to fight her case. She answered ‘yes.’ But there was a catch: the opportunity to plead her case would come with a price. Calderón would have to remain in detention.
She was transferred to the Eloy Detention Center in Arizona, in the fall of 2014.
“When I arrived and I saw that it was in the desert, I got scared because I said ‘where am I?’ It looked like a jail. I was even more scared because I said ‘what I am doing here,’” she said.
Life in detention
Inside the detention center, she found support from other women who understood her situation. She was the only detainee from Bolivia. Most of the women were from Mexico, Honduras, Guatemala, El Salvador and Haiti.
Soon Calderón had her first hearing with an immigration judge. She was told that she could be paroled, released from detention while her case made its way through the immigration system, but she’d need to find a sponsor within 10 days. The problem was, she didn’t know anyone. She would have to fight her case from inside Eloy. According to the organization Freedom for Immigrants, there are 3,456 migrants in detention across the U.S., similarly waiting for a sponsor.
The Eloy Detention Center, an hour’s drive from Phoenix, and 160 miles from the border. It’s run by the private corporation CoreCivic. Photo by Martiza L. Félix
Inside the detention center, during a “Know your Rights” presentation, Calderón met with advocates from The Florence Project, an organization that provides free legal and social services to detained adults and children under threat of deportation. She listened to the attorneys talk about violence, abuse and trafficking and she felt they were describing exactly what she had gone through. That is how she came to understand that she was a victim of labor trafficking.
According to the U.S. State Department, labor trafficking includes “recruiting, harboring, transporting, providing, or obtaining – involved when a person uses force or physical threats; psychological coercion; abuse of the legal process; a scheme, plan, or pattern intended to hold a person in fear of serious harm; or other coercive means to compel someone to work.”
In Calderón’s case, that “person” was her friend, the abusive trafficker -- and the only one she knew in the U.S. “And that was a big reason why she stayed detained for so long,” said Rekha Nair, an attorney who worked with the The Florence Project and helped Calderón with her case.
“She was eligible for bond (that would have allowed her to be released from detention while her case went through the immigration legal system),” Nair says. “But to get a bond, you need a sponsor. That sponsor usually needs to have legal status in the United States and needs to submit evidence to the judge that they're willing to support you. And for the longest time, Rocío didn't have anybody.”
Nair, who now directs the Phoenix Legal Action Network, advised her to apply for a T visa, often granted to people who have been victims of sex or labor trafficking.
The Department of Homeland Security can grant up to 5,000 T visas each year, but in a typical year only just over a thousand are requested. The visa lasts for four years, and the recipient is eligible for a temporary work permit and can later apply for permanent residency.
But before applying for the visa, Calderón’s priority was to get out of detention. That proved to be difficult.
"The bail they put her on was very high - $20,000 - and that was very frustrating, because she deserved to fight her case outside and it was very hard to raise the money," says Kristina Schlabach, who eventually became Calderón’s sponsor. Schlabach works with Casa Mariposa, an organization that provides aid and support to migrants in detention centers in Arizona.
“We accompanied her to the courts so that they would realize that she was not alone,” says Schlabach, who is also a pastor at a Mennonite church in Tucson.
The processing time for a T visa petition can exceed five years. In other words, it’s possible that petitions submitted in November 2015 are only now being evaluated.
Another complication was that Calderón might be deported while her application for a T visa was pending. This is because, in addition to applying for the visa, Calderón had applied for asylum protection, to buy time. She knew she didn't have a strong case, and her asylum bid was denied. ICE could have deported her at any time.
“The T visa expresses the requirement that you be in the United States at the time it's granted and that your continued presence in the United States be related to your trafficking,” Nair explained. “She had to stay in detention to be able to get it.”
According to the U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services (USCIS), the current processing time for a T visa petition can take up to five years. In other words, it’s possible that petitions submitted in November 2015 are currently being evaluated. There are more than 3,400 T visa petitions pending.
This year the federal government issued new guidance which calls for a “victim-centered approach” to cases like Calderon’s. The new policy is intended to remove the threat of deportation for anyone who has applied for a T visa, while a case is pending.
Almost two years after her arrival in Eloy, and very close to Christmas, she got her visa. She thanked God. Calderón never heard back from the friend who brought her to the U.S. She says she doesn't want to know what happened to her. She hopes justice was served but does not know if the friend faced any consequences for the labor trafficking that she committed.
Rocío Calderón’s food truck will soon be ready. Sumaj is a Quechua word meaning “something good.” . She’ll be allowed to park the truck and to use the kitchen at La Chaiteria to prepare her food. Photo by Noelle Haro-Gómez
Calderon’s eldest daughter had already moved to the United States to be close to her. After the holidays, Calderón wanted to return to Arizona to help other migrant women who, like her, face immigration cases alone and in detention.
"I am a person of great faith and right now all the desires of my heart are being fulfilled, everything that I dreamed of when I was in detention," she says.
Despite her ordeal, Calderón is grateful that she found her purpose. She started as a volunteer at Casa Mariposa and now works part-time with the organization. She advises detained migrants, and sometimes just keeps them company. With the pandemic, in-person visits are suspended, but she manages to make them feel that they are not alone.
"I write letters to them, because I have been there and I received a letter with some words that strengthened me, and it was as if a person was there telling me that she was with me," she explains.
Finding her purpose was her first dream; her second is almost ready. Her food truck is called Sumaj, which in Quechua means something good, something rich and delicious.
"I want to sell Bolivian street food, salteñas, which are very well known, very popular, which are those meat or beef empanadas, some stuffed (with) potatoes, quinoa; many recipes," she says.
Her third dream, to become a permanent legal residence in the U.S, is getting closer. After spending three years on a T visa, Calderón applied for a green card. Due to delays in processing caused by the pandemic, however, the application has taken longer than usual.
"It will come, I am sure it will,” Calderón says. “And I will be here, waiting patiently for it."
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Maritza L. Félix is a freelance journalist, producer and writer in Arizona. She is the founder of Conecta Arizona, a news-you-can-use service in Spanish that connects people in Arizona and Sonora, Mexico primarily through WhatsApp and social media. She is the co-founder, co-producer and co-host of Comadres al Aire.
She is an JSK Community Impact Fellow at Stanford, IWMF Adelante, Feet in 2 Worlds, EWA, and Listening Post Collective Fellow and a co-host of Take The Lead’s 50 Women Who Can Change the World of Journalism 2020. She is currently a media leader of the Executive Program in News Innovation and Leadership in Journalism at the Craig Newmark Graduate School of Journalism at the City University of New York.
Noelle Haro-Gómez is a bilingual freelance photojournalist based in Tucson, Arizona. She has worked across the U.S. as a staff photographer for Public Opinion in Pennsylvania and the Tri-City Herald in Washington state.