Working thousands of miles from home 鈥� to build a new one
| CAJOL脕, GUATEMALA
Israel Vail L贸pez聽walks from room to room, treading across construction dust that powders the hardwood floor in this new home. It has high ceilings and freshly painted white walls, and he proudly turns on the lights to show his hard work.
This house and another Mr. Vail L贸pez聽is working on belong to his children, Juan and Jos茅. In 2014, they left the Guatemalan highlands to seek opportunity thousands of miles away in the United States. They don鈥檛 plan on returning anytime soon, but sending earnings home from their jobs as construction and landscape workers in New Jersey serves as a safety net should they be deported. These homes are commonly referred to as 鈥渞emittance houses.鈥�
An estimated 1.4 million Guatemalans and people with Guatemalan ancestry , sending more than $10.5 billion in remittances home in 2019. That money is used to pay school fees, put food on the table for family members left behind, or to bolster the local economies in towns and villages where employment opportunities are nearly nonexistent. Last year, more than 54,500 Guatemalans were deported back to rural communities like this one. While some migrate legally, many arrive to the U.S. as unauthorized migrants due to the difficulty in getting a visa.
Why We Wrote This
Even as deportations continue, and COVID-19 shutdowns reduce work for migrants, 鈥渞emittance homes鈥� keep rising in Guatemala鈥檚 highlands. They鈥檙e symbols of the resilience 鈥� and fragility 鈥� of the American dream.
鈥淵ou don鈥檛 know if tomorrow or the next day immigration will arrive and send them to their homeland,鈥� Mr. Vail L贸pez says of migrants like his sons. 鈥淏ut here they have a place to live. This is the idea for the Guatemalans that live [in the U.S.]鈥�
Buildings like these 鈥� often constructed in a U.S. style, with multiple stories and ornate windows, pillars, and balconies 鈥� have grown to define towns like Cajol谩, made up of 15,000 people who work largely in subsistence agriculture. Cajol谩 is a product of decades of migration and the inextricable relationship between migrants and the community they left behind. Remittances make up roughly 75% of household incomes here, community leaders estimate.
鈥淚f you鈥檙e young and you have any aspirations of buying a home ... it鈥檚 really vital that you go to the United States,鈥� says Richard Johnson, a researcher at the University of Arizona who studies Guatemala. Minimum wage in Guatemala hovers around $11 per day, and the majority of the economy depends on low-paying, informal labor.
It鈥檚 鈥渁lmost destiny鈥� that young Guatemalans will try to move abroad, he says. 鈥淥therwise, you鈥檙e looking at a life of being impoverished.鈥�
Rising cases of coronavirus in both the United States and Guatemala may shrink remittances and slow the rapid rise of the homes, but migration and deportation continue despite the pandemic. Remittances to Latin America聽 by nearly 20% in 2020. For now, construction continues in Cajol谩.
Looking out across the town, it鈥檚 easy to pick out which buildings are constructed from remittances. They are often extravagantly large compared with the modest, single-story adobe houses historically built along the rolling green hills and farmland.
Guatemala is predominantly rural, and owning land represents success. Passing a home or farm down to the next generation has deep significance in indigenous cultures here, which believe their people have a special connection to their land. It鈥檚 a motivator for many to migrate, and earn the funds to build. This is especially true in Cajol谩, where 96% of the population is Maya Mam.
Having a home 鈥� and the financial security that comes with that kind of asset 鈥� was a key reason Mr. Vail L贸pez聽migrated to the U.S. more than 20 years ago. He, too, built a remittance house.
Back then, when telephones were scarce and illiteracy rates were high, he mailed audio cassette tapes to his wife and sons, detailing in their language, Mam, how he wanted the new home to look.
Today, Cajol谩 is a checkerboard of construction, with gray brick and scaffolding alongside multicolored homes. Isidrio L贸pez聽works on one of these sites, laying down slabs of concrete and gray brick with a careful hand.
For the past six years, he鈥檚 sustained his family by building homes. He said he鈥檚 watched construction skyrocket, a reflection of Cajol谩鈥檚 remittance-based economy.
鈥淭he construction has always been growing, but especially in these last two or three years,鈥� he says, leaning on a chest-high brick wall. This jump in remittances is a product of both increased migration northward and a feeling of instability among migrants as U.S. President Donald Trump ramps up migration enforcement.
Mr. L贸pez聽owns a remittance house himself. He paid for it with 10 years of work on a New York dairy farm. He came back to Cajol谩 in 2010 once he鈥檇 saved up enough money to build his family鈥檚 home.
In Cajol谩, migration and remittances have generated economic security, infrastructure, and jobs. But experts note that these houses have an indirect effect. A remittance home may act as a safety net, but many are driven to migrate when they see such grand homes popping up around them.
鈥淚t can create [these] sort of social differentiated communities that draw more people into the 鈥榤igration economy鈥� as a means of keeping up,鈥� says Professor Johnson.
It鈥檚 something Marina D铆az, a former migrant and Cajol谩 resident, says she鈥檚 surrounded by 鈥� literally. Her tidy one-story house is wedged between buildings mimicking New Jersey suburbs and Atlanta鈥檚 classic white architecture. The majority sit vacant, changing the social structure of her town. What used to be far-reaching farmland is now covered in empty homes. Even, if the owners do return, Ms. D铆az says many won鈥檛 stick around long enough to make Cajol谩 home again.聽
A big home doesn鈥檛 change the fact that Guatemala isn鈥檛 a sustainable place to build a life for many young people, she says. There are slim economic and educational opportunities, forcing people to seek opportunity elsewhere.
From her rooftop patio, Ms. D铆az looks out at the grand buildings that stand on land once used to plant corn. 鈥淭here鈥檚 so much land that doesn鈥檛 give food anymore,鈥� she says.
But for Mr. Vail L贸pez, that very shift has transformed his family鈥檚 life and offers them hope.
鈥淢y dream was to build a place to live, and buy a place to plant,鈥� he says, seated in his white-walled remittance house.
鈥淚t was my dream, and I did it.鈥�
