海角大神

When Jos茅 Francisco L贸pez was deported from the United States 13 years ago, he felt utterly alone.

Deportees commonly struggle with depression and feelings of isolation, but Mr. L贸pez was different. As a legal US resident, he served in the Army for two years 鈥� one of which he spent in Vietnam during the war. He was honorably discharged, and was later arrested for buying cocaine and sent to prison. But L贸pez paid double for his crime: Once his prison term was complete, he was promptly kicked out of the country.

鈥淚 felt sad鈥�. I thought I was the only one,鈥� he says of being a deported veteran, living in the border city of Ju谩rez while his children and mother are across the frontier in Texas.

But late last year, L贸pez connected with Hector Barajas, the founder of the Deported Veterans Support House in Tijuana. L贸pez was surprised to learn he鈥檚 actually one of an estimated 230 deported veterans living in some 34 countries. At 73 years old, he decided to take action, turning the second floor of his modest home into a meeting space and dorm room for other US servicemen deported from the United States. It鈥檚 modeled after the Deported Veterans Support House, or Bunker, in Tijuana, which provides camaraderie and connects vets to services like mental health support and legal aid.

鈥淭here are so many of us,鈥� L贸pez says. 鈥淲e can help each other move ahead.鈥�

Foreign-born soldiers have served in the US Army since its inception, fighting in every US war. In 2005, were serving in the active military, with about 8,000 enlisting each year.聽

Reintegrating into civilian life after service can be a challenge for anyone, and veterans of all stripes can end up on the wrong side of the law. But, for those who didn鈥檛 gain citizenship during their service 鈥� whether due to misinformation, bureaucratic mistakes, or misunderstandings 鈥� breaking the law can spell deportation after a prison term is up.

Among deportees, vets face unique challenges: from struggles with PTSD and physical injuries, to criminal gangs that target them for recruitment because of their military experience. Although many deported veterans in Mexico say they aren鈥檛 holding out hope that they鈥檒l return home any time soon, they are working to raise awareness, appealing to US lawmakers for future vets鈥� sake. And in the meantime, they鈥檙e focusing on helping their 鈥渂rothers鈥� here find purpose and a path ahead, outside the country they were willing to risk their lives for.

鈥淥ur mission is to make the transition a little better,鈥� says Iv谩n Ocon, who recently joined L贸pez in directing the Ju谩rez Bunker.聽 鈥淎t the very least, we can let them know they aren鈥檛 alone. We can make the nightmare a little less scary.鈥�

Finding community

Mr. Ocon was honorably discharged in 2004 after more than a decade of service, including time in Jordan during Operation Iraqi Freedom. But it was a tough adjustment. He couldn鈥檛 hold down a job, and became depressed, leading him toward drugs and alcohol. He asked about the status of his citizenship while in the armed services, he says, and was told it was on track. After six years in prison for aiding and abetting a kidnapping, he learned that wasn鈥檛 the case.

He doesn鈥檛 recall the judge鈥檚 exact language at his immigration hearing, but says the message was loud and clear: 鈥淢y military service didn鈥檛 count for anything.鈥�

鈥淚 felt betrayed,鈥� he says.

Many deported vets have similar stories. Some say they were promised citizenship by Army recruiters, only to face labyrinths of red tape with little guidance. Others misunderstood the oath taken to protect and serve the country when they joined the Army, believing it automatically made them a citizen.

Many found support and created a network after learning about the Tijuana Bunker. It鈥檚 an orange and tan concrete building on a quiet street in Tijuana, next door to a mechanic鈥檚 shop. The glass around the front door is covered in fliers about deported veterans and Dreamer Moms, another group of deportees who share the space. On the ground floor, a line of overstuffed easy chairs are tucked tightly between two desks and a television set. A large American flag hangs above the chairs, along with photos of soldiers and posters calling for access to pensions and health care. Upstairs, dorm-like bedrooms with single beds covered in fuzzy blankets house veterans in transition.

鈥淭he housing is important, but we鈥檙e more of a resource center,鈥� Barajas says. 鈥淲e work to help secure [Veteran Affairs] benefits, help get [Mexican] IDs, find people lawyers while they鈥檙e still in the US facing deportation. We鈥檝e even helped someone get a prosthetic foot.鈥�

Many younger vets struggle with PTSD. The veterans also frequently face new variations of discrimination. 鈥淢y whole life in the United States I was called a Wetback, and now in Mexico I鈥檓 called a Gringo,鈥� says L贸pez.

Depression is overwhelmingly common, and Barajas says he often gets calls about suicidal veterans. Ocon, in Jaurez, can relate to that.

鈥淚 found out the only way they will take us back [into the United States] is in a body bag, and I thought, well, maybe that鈥檚 the way,鈥� Ocon says, referring to the US policy to bury veterans 鈥� even those who have been deported 鈥� in VA cemeteries.聽

'No longer under the radar'

The deportation of veterans began to pick up around 1996, when the US changed its immigration laws, taking away a judge鈥檚 discretion to consider factors like military service in deciding a case, says Jennie Pasquarella, director of immigrant rights for the ACLU in California and co-author of a July 2016 report on deported veterans.

But thanks to the work of deported veterans led by Barajas, the issue is 鈥渘o longer under the radar,鈥� Ms. Pasquarella says.

Last month, a group of seven US Congressmen visited the Tijuana Bunker to learn about the experiences of deported veterans. A bill was reintroduced in Congress in March that would provide support for future possible deportees and provide a pathway home for veterans who have already been deported. So far, it has the support of 51 lawmakers.

Many of the veterans seeking support from the Bunkers draw a direct line between their crimes and the challenges they experienced reintegrating into society after military service.聽

鈥淲e made mistakes [that got us deported], but that doesn鈥檛 mean we have to pay for the rest of our lives,鈥� says Barajas, who was brought to the US as a child and gained legal residency. He enlisted at 18, and spent six years in the Army. But his honorable discharge was followed on by drug addiction, and eventually a shooting crime that would land him in prison for three years.

鈥淲e have to take responsibility for our actions. We have to try to change those laws,鈥� he says. 鈥淚f we can鈥檛 ever go home, we need to at least do our part to be productive members of the country we鈥檝e been deported to.鈥�

The Bunker has had some success stories, like the vet who received his pension after years of fighting.

鈥淚t鈥檚 not that you鈥檙e jealous, but sometimes I do wonder, 鈥榃hat about me?鈥欌�� says Barajas, who has been doing this work since his 2010 deportation.

Earlier this year, however, he got something 鈥渨orth more than a million dollars:鈥� He and two other veterans were pardoned for their crimes in the state of California. There鈥檚 still no guarantee he鈥檒l return to the US, he says, but the pardon was an important step.

鈥淢ost of us are never going home,鈥� Barajas says. 鈥淲hat can we do? Be negative? No. We just keep pushing forward.鈥�