Expatriados March 23
In a place too well familiar with indentured servitude, nineteen Venezuelan women and three adolescents are currently in detention for prostitution. One of their Chinese-Guayanan pimps is also behind bars. He was busted in his $20,000-monthly apartment here in Westmoorings, where his harem was being offered as part of the “elite package for discriminating gentlemen.“ Discrimination is the operative word. A Venezuelan colleague reminds me that Americans and Europeans are invariably referred to as “expatriates,“ while she is always the “immigrant,“ as if our visa status differed in the slightest.
The new arrivals from across Columbus Channel are assumed by many to be violent thugs, but they are far more likely to be the victims of crimes than perpetrators—afraid, vulnerable, with little recourse. Just as in the United States, where anti-Mexican sentiment is rising, a souring economy nurtures tribal allegiances—and the major tribes do not speak Spanish. The question arises, why should my government help somebody else when it is not helping me? These immigration opponents argue that the lifeboat is already full, and sinking, creating an otherness that belies the richness of Vene-Trini heritage. Without Latin spice in the melting pot, we would have no Parang Christmas music, nor cheese empanadas, and I would have fewer friends.
Of the 3 million Venezuelans that have escaped the collapsing neo-Bolivarian regime, it is estimated that over 50,000 have found hazardous passage to T&T. This country has no asylum policy, no established means of assistance or protection. The aliens are considered criminals, mere outlaws. When found, they are summarily placed in detention camps, then deported, but only if the pimps and gangsters do not find them first. Over 500 refugees are in custody at present. Most of them are families.
News Day recently interviewed Stuart Young, prior to the Senate vote on the PNM government’s proposed one-year amnesty. He is gracious enough not to chide the reporter for using the wrong word:
“Asked whether the illegal Venezuelan will be persecuted (oops!) if they came forward, Young said no.
“‘This is amnesty. I want to know who is here and the only way to do that is to literally grant an amnesty, which the Ministry of National Security can do because immigration decisions are taken by the ministry within the confines of the law. So yes, I am asking them to come and register. It is not come and register and I will hold you and take you to the detention centre. No, come and register and this provides a clean slate for everyone who comes and register. Thereafter we will apply the law.’”
Keith Rowley should make this case himself, especially since he is up for reelection next year, but he is presently seeking medical care in California. This hardly inspires confidence in Trinidad medicine, nor should it, since meds and expertise are in short supply, diagnoses are missed, support services fail, and the port closes on (or near) holidays too numerous to mention. Keit’ Rowley is no fool—LA is a great place to lime for a week. In the old days, parliamentary ministers kept their doctor appointments in cosmopolitan Caracas.
By announcing the new Venezuela policy, young Minister Young accepts yet another responsibility, and Rowley seems happy to delegate. It is hard to imagine why Sandals’ Resort debacle was managed by the National Security Minister, but he reminded us then that he is also the Minister of Communication, so this, and most anything else, lies within his purview. Everyday his tan chiseled mug fills the front pages— addressing gang wars, terrorist threats, Carnival oversight, humanitarian crises, prison reform—while the PM convalesces at Disneyland. They say the problem is his heart.
My Venezuelan neighbors are celebrating yet another birthday. These are the fortunate ones who have money and connections. “Yo No Se Mañana“ fills the night. Tio and Tia dance around the pool, as pink-flowered trees flutter in the evening breeze. A fellow expat sings along from the balcony. It is futile to resist the fiesta. The joyous din makes it impossible to hear the immigrant’s plea on BBC’s River, so I switch to English subtitles and read:
“We come to this country so filled with hope,
So grateful for the potential.
Yet, still they say, ‘Why do we leave our door
Blindly open to these people?’
But you migrated here, too.
You see what people here do not see.
You, of all people, see me clearly, as I see you.
See the loneliness, the isolation,
What it is like to be so far from your country and family,
What it is like to try and fit here,
How hard it is just to be.“