You think they'll run that more than once? Can't have Republican voters realizing that they're being played for fools.
They want them permanently angry. And so long as YA makes posts like the one above, where he's angry at the folks coming through, and refuses to hold his own Republican party accountable?
They will NEVER fix this problem. Again: look how old this thread is, folks. Trump has managed to keep folks "mad at the Dems over the "open" border' for coming up on 12 years now.
It's clear as day that these voters will NEVER figure this out, and will be more than happy to complain about our broken immigration system for another 100 years.
So this is what I want you to say: that you fear you would be killed.” It was early March and Laure Dachelet, a lawyer based in Houston, Texas, was preparing a client who was about to present his asylum case before a judge. “I mean, they threatened to kill you several times. They put a bomb in front of your house. So the intention to kill you was pretty clear. You need to say so.”
The client, a 30-year-old man called Farid, nodded gently. It had been a long wait to get to this point. Farid had fled Afghanistan in 2014 and, after a perilous three-year journey to America that took him through a dozen countries, applied for asylum in 2017; he had yet to see a judge, seven years later. Until 2014 he had worked as a translator for the British Army and the Afghan national police at a military base outside Lashkar Gah, in Helmand province. Driving home one night, after his last day at work, he was stopped by Taliban forces.
“The Taliban beat me and then let me go,” was how Farid had initially described the incident. With Dachelet’s prodding, a longer narrative emerged. The Taliban had accused him of working with the enemy. Farid insisted that he was coming back from a doctor’s appointment. They beat him and interrogated him, but Farid stuck to his story and finally they let him go. Days later the Taliban found proof that he had worked with the British. They told Farid’s father that they would kill his son when they found him, then they bombed Farid’s home.
Dachelet, who had previously been a judge in the French family courts, explained that the judge would try to suss out whether Farid was telling the truth. She would evaluate his demeanour, watch for whether he answered or avoided questions, check whether his story was consistent with his written declaration and documents. That was always the danger for an asylum-seeker: an applicant could have all the boxes ticked, but a judge was free to decide he was lying. The more detailed your story, the more likely a judge is to believe it. But asylum lawyers need to weigh up carefully how much information their clients provide. The more they offer, the greater the possibility that under examination they will confuse or misremember events.
Farid mentioned that before they took him to be interrogated, the Taliban had covered his face with a scarf. Why had they done that, asked Dachelet?
“In Islam, in the religion, if your clothes are bloody, you cannot pray on that day, you will need to change your clothes,” said Farid. “So they didn’t want to get blood on their—”
Dachelet interrupted. “Why were you bleeding?”
“Oh, because they hit me with the back of the gun.”
“OK, this is why we need to be more detailed,” said Dachelet. “You need to say, one of them hit me in the face with the butt of the AK-47 and I started bleeding. You talk about the scarf, and the blood, and we don’t really make the connection. I know your story, you know your story. Let’s pretend the judge and the attorney for the government don’t know your story.”
She asked Farid what date he arrived in America. He thought about it before replying: “2017. August, or September.”
“July,” Dachelet said.
“July? I don’t think it was July,” Farid said.
“July is what we said on your declaration,” Dachelet said.
This mistake was concerning. A judge is on the lookout for inconsistencies in an applicant’s story – the de facto rule is that three mistakes like this can be grounds for rejection. One judge may have some sympathy for the argument that no one can remember every date and detail of their life story perfectly accurately; another may have none.
In this case, Farid’s mistake might have resulted from his confusion over how dates are formatted in America – with the month before the day – which is different from how other countries do it. But it’s exactly the kind of thing some judges could use to deny his claim. He would need to stick to July.
Dachelet explained that, in order to grant asylum, the judge would need to be convinced that Farid was likely to face persecution if he returned home. “What makes you think you might be in danger if you went home?” she asked. “This all happened ten years ago, don’t you think they’ll have just forgotten about it?
“When the Taliban took over, they announced that they were forgiving all the people, wherever you worked…[They said] we are forgiving them, they can come, they come and be peaceful,” Farid said. “A lot of people went back. Most of them disappeared.”
Farid’s case seemed undeniable. He had a terrible story, a credible fear that he would be persecuted if he were deported, both for who he was and what he had done; he had documents proving what he said was true. He had been in the country for seven years, working long hours as a truck driver, a lawful contributor to society, if not yet a full member of it. But Houston is where asylum cases come to die.
Nationally, immigration courts grant asylum in about four out of ten cases. Houston’s courts, in common with those in Charlotte, Atlanta, Kansas City and a few other places, grant asylum in one out of ten. San Francisco’s courts, by contrast, approve seven out of ten asylum claims, while New York’s courts approve six out of ten.
These disparities can be partly explained by the fact that different kinds of migrants tend to settle in different cities. More Central Americans, for instance, come to Texas; more Asians come to California. Their cases for asylum tend to be very different.
Whether or not a case is successful can also depend on the judge. A national study of disparities in asylum adjudications found, for example, that Colombian applicants who brought their cases in Miami were granted asylum by one judge in 88% of cases, whereas another – in the same building – granted it only 5% of the time.
On the one hand Farid was unlucky. According to his lawyers, the judge who would be presiding over his case had previously rejected nine out of ten asylum applications (although the huge majority of her cases had come from Central America and Mexico, whose citizens have very low rates of successful applications across the court systems).
On the other hand, he was lucky that his case had been taken on by a law firm with an impressive record in asylum cases. Dachelet works for Political Asylum Lawyers, which was founded in 2020 by Brian Manning (above), a former asylum officer. It is unusual among immigration law firms: although most take on asylum cases, very few are dedicated to them. Manning told me that out of the 39 cases the firm has seen to conclusion over the past two years, only eight have resulted in deportation.
Manning grew up in Oklahoma and came from a background much like everyone he knew: white, Christian and conservative. He played high-school football and went to church on Sundays. Most of his contemporaries stayed in their home state. But in his third year at university, Manning spent a semester in St Petersburg, Russia, and felt the world open up. He finished law school, got married and joined the foreign service, working in Croatia, Bulgaria and Chile. He and his wife adopted two boys from the Democratic Republic of Congo. Although the couple loved living abroad, they wanted to raise their children in America, near their families. Early in 2017, as Donald Trump took office, they returned home.
Manning yearned for a career where he was “actually helping people and doing a good thing”. In Bulgaria, he had visited a camp for Syrian refugees, which had given him the idea to specialise in asylum law. He got a job as an asylum officer, working for the immigration service in Houston. He spent his days conducting “credible fear” interviews: one of the first steps in the asylum process. Asylum-seekers typically have no more than an hour to convince an asylum officer that they face a significant risk of persecution if they return home. If they pass, they can apply for asylum. If they fail, they have a right to appeal against the decision before a judge.
It was a tough job. “You’re hearing stories all day about torture and terrible things happening to people,” he said, “and you either think that they’re lying to you, which is frustrating, or you believe it, and you’re like, this is how this person had to live? This is what this person had to go through? My God.” Asylum officers typically burnt out around a year and a half in, Manning said, many of them suffering from a sort of secondary ptsd.
Most of the people he interviewed were from Central America, and described terrible poverty and violence: “You won’t join my gang? We’re going to kill you. You can’t pay my extortion fee for your shop? We’re going to kill you.” But as tragic as their stories were, most of the applicants were unlikely to satisfy the authorities handling their claims. People seeking asylum in America must demonstrate that they have suffered or were likely to suffer persecution on the basis of race, religion, nationality, political opinion or membership of a particular social group.
During the two years he worked as an asylum officer, Manning was depressed by the quality of asylum lawyers he met, most of whom, he said, were lousy, lazy and ineffective. Not that he encountered them that often. Asylum hearings are civil not criminal proceedings, so the government is not required to provide a lawyer, and few applicants can afford one. Sometimes asylum-seekers were helped by lawyers from non-profit organisations, who were generally excellent, said Manning, although there weren’t enough of them.
It was this feeling – that there were deserving applicants who were being let down by the system – that drove him to start his own firm. Manning felt that his experience playing for the other side, so to speak, could help his clients navigate a system of Byzantine complexity. He reckons that specialising in asylum law makes it easier to stay on top of the frequent changes to the law, something that a firm with a wider range of immigration issues might find challenging.
One piece of advice he gives his clients is knowing when it’s OK to admit you’ve lied. Because you can apply for asylum only once you are in America, and can’t get a visa to ask for asylum, many refugees claim they are coming for a holiday, even though they fully intend to overstay their tourist visa. “This kind of lie is not held against you at an asylum hearing,” Manning said. “But it is a problem if you say at your asylum interview that you’ve never lied in connection with a us immigration matter.” That is, you can lie to get here, but not lie about having lied. This is a favourite technique, he said, of asylum officers looking for excuses to reject applicants.
Manning shares his tips on social media, including TikTok and Instagram. He’s doing it to attract business, but also to help those who can’t afford his services. The videos are professionally made, with choppy, attention-grabbing edits. “What if I told you you can pretty much win your asylum case before you ever set foot in the asylum office for your interview?” he says in one video, which takes viewers through creating an “asylum roadmap”. Most asylum officers are overworked and stressed, said Manning. They appreciate being presented with a package containing all the necessary information and legal reasoning: a written narrative, evidence to support it, and a description of the political conditions in the applicant’s homeland. It works, says Manning, “because you’ve done much of their work for them”.
Farid’s hearing took place on a Monday morning. He had the dates right this time, told his story clearly, and addressed the questions from the government lawyer directly and honestly. But there’s no such thing as an open-and-shut case, especially in asylum law. “I still get nervous, I’m certainly emotionally invested,” Manning said. “That’s natural for anyone working with these kinds of high stakes, or working with so much trauma. Did I cover everything I need to cover? Did I prepare enough for any surprises? I’ll go over it and over it.”
The hearing lasted just under an hour. “I’m inclined to grant the application,” the judge told Farid. The lawyer for the government said they would not appeal. It seemed done and dusted. Except it wasn’t, quite. Farid’s biometric information (including his fingerprints and photographs) were missing from the government’s file. Somehow, in the seven years he had been waiting, they had been misplaced. The judge couldn’t grant asylum until Farid made an appointment to have his biometric information recorded again. To get an appointment, he was told, he would have to wait only another few months.
Typical Lax Dad wrote: ↑Sun Apr 21, 2024 9:24 pm
The client, a 30-year-old man called Farid, nodded gently. It had been a long wait to get to this point. Farid had fled Afghanistan in 2014 and, after a perilous three-year journey to America that took him through a dozen countries, applied for asylum in 2017; he had yet to see a judge, seven years later. Until 2014 he had worked as a translator for the British Army and the Afghan national police at a military base outside Lashkar Gah, in Helmand province. Driving home one night, after his last day at work, he was stopped by Taliban forces.
Given Farid's three year journey through a dozen countries, it raises the question -- why didn't Farid seek asylum in the UK, where his contacts in the British Army could verify his story & vouch for him ?
Typical Lax Dad wrote: ↑Sun Apr 21, 2024 9:24 pm
The client, a 30-year-old man called Farid, nodded gently. It had been a long wait to get to this point. Farid had fled Afghanistan in 2014 and, after a perilous three-year journey to America that took him through a dozen countries, applied for asylum in 2017; he had yet to see a judge, seven years later. Until 2014 he had worked as a translator for the British Army and the Afghan national police at a military base outside Lashkar Gah, in Helmand province. Driving home one night, after his last day at work, he was stopped by Taliban forces.
Given Farid's three year journey through a dozen countries, it raises the question -- why didn't Farid seek asylum in the UK, where his contacts in the British Army could verify his story & vouch for him ?
You could ask the same question of tons of translators that helped the US military.
Why is it so hard for them to gain asylum or citizenship here? I'm sure a lot of them are seeking help in the UK / England and other countries.
We seem to enjoy hanging out other people to dry in our military escapades.
Typical Lax Dad wrote: ↑Sun Apr 21, 2024 9:24 pm
The client, a 30-year-old man called Farid, nodded gently. It had been a long wait to get to this point. Farid had fled Afghanistan in 2014 and, after a perilous three-year journey to America that took him through a dozen countries, applied for asylum in 2017; he had yet to see a judge, seven years later. Until 2014 he had worked as a translator for the British Army and the Afghan national police at a military base outside Lashkar Gah, in Helmand province. Driving home one night, after his last day at work, he was stopped by Taliban forces.
Given Farid's three year journey through a dozen countries, it raises the question -- why didn't Farid seek asylum in the UK, where his contacts in the British Army could verify his story & vouch for him ?
You could ask the same question of tons of translators that helped the US military.
Why is it so hard for them to gain asylum or citizenship here? I'm sure a lot of them are seeking help in the UK / England and other countries.
We seem to enjoy hanging out other people to dry in our military escapades.
Agree -- It's harder & longer than it should be for our Afghan ally interpreters to get into the US.
In this case, you'd think he'd have a better & faster chance in the UK, since that's who he worked with.
Sounds like he'll get in the US if his biometric data clear. Helmand was tough territory - the Brits & USMC bled there.
You think they'll run that more than once? Can't have Republican voters realizing that they're being played for fools.
