Rescuing Regina: The Battle to Save a Friend from Deportation and Death

PART I

TRAGEDY UPON

TRAGEDY

1

THEY TOOK REGINA!

Sister, we have a problem.

Hi, David. What’s the problem? David rarely calls. I cradle the phone between my cheek and shoulder and continue unpacking my groceries.

They took Regina!

What? I stop. What do you mean ‘took Regina’? Who took Regina?

Immigration!

No! I grasp the phone with both hands.

Yes! At six thirty tonight. Two policemen with guns.

I glance at my watch. An hour ago? But Regina’s done everything right. This makes no sense. Pacing back and forth, I struggle to wrap my mind around what he’s saying.

David and Regina Bakala’s home country, the Democratic Republic of Congo (formerly Zaire) in sub-Saharan central Africa, is one of the most dangerous and unstable in the world. Each of them fled after being tortured for advocating democracy. Regina was beaten, raped, and imprisoned. If sent back to Congo, she faces grave danger, even death.

I freeze. O God, what if they’ve already taken her to Milwaukee’s Mitchell International? What flashes to mind is another case, that of a local immigration lawyer awakened in the dead of night two years ago by a panicky client calling from an airport in Paris. She had been picked up by Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) and promptly put on a plane back to Pakistan. They took her newborn to the father who had tipped them off—an abusive alcoholic against whom she had a restraining order. ICE did not know her asylum petition was pending with US Citizenship and Immigration Services (USCIS). Nor did it matter anymore. I know from working with other immigrant families that once deported, the person has no legal standing in our system, so all pending petitions are simply dropped—an all-too frequent occurrence.

I’ll be right over, David! Their house is less than three miles from my upper flat, the unit I rent in a two-family house. I grab my winter jacket from the clothes tree, toss the carrots into the refrigerator, slip on boots and gloves, scoop up my purse, and fly down the stairs.

As I pull away from the curb, a wave of depression engulfs me. O God, how can I deal with this now? It’s Tuesday of Holy Week, my busiest time of year, and these six weeks of Lent have been full of tears. Longstanding digestive problems are forcing me to retire. Probable cause—childhood abuse. I’m more than tired, I’m emotionally exhausted. Writing the autobiography required for next fall’s sabbatical has dredged up years of unresolved psychological pain. I stop at the red light, feeling shaky and unsettled. Gone is the private retreat I had been banking on for Easter week.

My tires crunch over an ice-crusted patch. As I turn onto the parkway, my worry leaps to Regina: Where is she? How is she? I tighten my grip on the steering wheel.

David and Regina had come to St. Mary’s five years before, in early 2000, to have baby Lydia baptized. Regina had asked Sister Martha at her workplace to recommend a parish they could join. We tried a church called St. Jacobi’s, she told Sister Martha, but then we found out that it is Lutheran, not Catholic.

Sister had gestured across the street. Just go there, Regina. It’s close to work and to your apartment.

I was not there the day the Bakalas registered, but several women on staff delighted in the baby girl and at the prospect of a young African couple joining our suburban congregation. Regina and David never asked for help and, in fact, kept their circumstances quite private. No one knew what the new members had endured.

Regina said later about that day, When we come outside, David and me, we say to each other, ‘See how they love us? This is our church home God give to us.’

I remember how happy she was when we first met a short time later. To her delight, David, baptized an Evangelical Christian, had decided to join the Catholic Church. It was late April 2000 when they arrived in St. Mary’s front office for his initial interview for RCIA (Rite of Christian Initiation for Adults). Regina, a short, sturdy woman in a yellow turtleneck, cradled their baby in her arms like a spray of flowers. Lydia’s tiny ponytails in multicolored clips bobbed about as she squirmed to see everybody and everything in our front office. Regina feigned annoyance, but I caught flashes of delight in her eyes. Her quick smile and silky complexion were clouded only by weariness. Sorry we a little late, she said, bowing her head slightly. After her shift as a nurse’s aide, she had to drive home to change clothes and pick up David and Lydia.

I ooh-ed and ahh-ed the baby while giving Regina a sideways hug.

Behind her stood David, broad-shouldered and handsome, with tight-cropped hair, the baby’s diaper bag dangling from one hand. He looked older than his wife, his forehead marked by worry lines.

I extended my hand, using a bit of French remembered from college days. Bonjour, monsieur! Je m’apelle Soeur Josèphe Marie. David’s wide face, staid and stoic, suddenly came to life. I had to confess, Mais non, monsieur. Je ne parle pas le français—I held my index finger and thumb a pinch apart—mais seulement un tout petit peu. I introduced Bob Roesler, the gentle young man I had invited to be David’s translator and RCIA sponsor.

Meeting weekly over the summer months, we quickly became friends.

In early June, as our fifth RCIA session closed, Regina handed the baby to David and asked to speak to me privately. With head bowed and smile slight and tentative, she said, Sister, I am pregnant.

How wonderful! I gave her a spontaneous hug, but her return hug was flat. I pulled back a bit but did not let go. Her eloquent eyes would always tell me more, not only of hard-won courage but also of a persistent fear. This time I saw her fear.

David is very worry, Sister. Lydia is just now eight months. She teared up. What we gonna do? We cannot pay for a second baby.

I knew that David, preparing his asylum petition with immigration attorney Hal Block, would not be eligible for a work permit for many months. Regina was the sole breadwinner. Somehow she had managed through a difficult pregnancy back in North Carolina, but here she worked sixty-four-hour weeks juggling two nurse’s aide jobs, first shift at one facility and second shift three times a week at another. In a role reversal unusual for Congolese, David cared for their infant daughter while Regina ached for time with her little one.

Regina, you can welcome this new baby, I said. The parish will help you.

Sister, last night I had a dream. Everything is dark, dangerous. I see our little family—David, me, and Lydia—all close together like this. She curled her shoulders and arms into a huddle. We are outdoors. Nothing around to protect us. The sky is black and—she swirled her palms above her head—is like a big storm coming. We are very scare, but God come. He say not to worry. He put a big blanket around our family.

See? I smiled. God is reassuring you.

She looked straight at me, her eyes flashing from worry to faith to worry and back again. God said the blanket is St. Mary’s.

St. Mary’s? Suddenly I realized the blanket was me—me and my big mouth. There was no way I could take on more responsibilities. I forced myself to keep smiling as I hugged her.

That night I told myself, Just start. Do what you can. If you help one immigrant family, you help generations.

The next morning, our pastor, Father Art Heinze, offered rent assistance and suggested I ask the St. Vincent de Paul Society for groceries. I began scouring ads for a desk job for Regina. Within weeks, the Development Office of the Sacred Heart Fathers hired her as a donations processor. After we introduced them at weekend Masses, more folks got involved. One idea spurred another—household goods, car repairs, baby shower—and for David, English classes and driver’s lessons. When David got his work permit, Sacred Heart School of Theology hired him for maintenance, a half mile from Regina’s workplace.

Over these first six months, I learned bits and pieces of their stories.

About six weeks after Regina and David’s wedding on August 30, 1994, two of President Mobutu’s soldiers had raped then imprisoned Regina for teaching democracy in the villages around Idiofa, her hometown. Nine months later, she was again beaten and raped by his soldiers on her way to Kinshasa, the capital city, to help organize a democracy rally. After the second incident, she fled Congo by night, forbidding her helpers to mention anything to David or other family members lest they, too, be endangered.

For two and a half years, neither she nor David knew what had happened to the other.

In June 1997, David was arrested by the regime of Laurent Kabila, the man credited with overthrowing Mobutu. I remember David’s face contorting as he told of awaiting execution in a small, filthy underground cell. While Bob translated, David had pointed to his badly chipped front teeth, then demonstrated how a prison guard had used the butt of a Kalashnikov to smash them.

They did unspeakable things to me—too terrible to tell.

Laurent Kabila had turned against the coalition of military/political parties responsible for his speedy victory, unleashing the far greater, more vicious 1997 war. With an estimated four million lives lost, the Democratic Republic of Congo is still locked in conflict.

The West acts as if the Congo war were an African implosion that has nothing to do with us, but four UN reports (1998-2003) held that it was endorsed, fueled, and funded by Western economic interests, its bloody spoils in our cell phones, laptops, and PlayStations.¹

The problem is, the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC), with a land mass the size of Western Europe, is richer in resources than almost any place on the planet, holding vast stores of gold, diamonds, copper, cobalt, cassiterite, and 80 percent of the world’s coltan (vital to electronic circuit boards). Fighting to control this treasure trove, warlords and military leaders, both foreign and national, have created a self-sustaining war economy, lining their own pockets while destroying Congo. Proceeds do not reach the working people. In 2000, when I met David and Regina, the DRC’s people ranked poorest in the world—annual GDP, $86.03 per capita.²

In January 2001, Laurent Kabila was assassinated in a failed coup. Regime power-brokers named his inexperienced twenty-nine-year-old son, Joseph Kabila, president. The younger Kabila won a UN-brokered peace agreement in 2003, but the slaughter shows no sign of ending. In the deadliest war since Hitler’s massacres, 31,250 civilians are dying each month from violence or war-related causes. ³ Perhaps even worse are the ongoing atrocities—rape, torture, and genital mutilation of hundreds of thousands of women and little girls. In this war, rape is the weapon of choice.

How dare America return any woman to that fate?

2

NEVER IN AMERICA

Windows are dark, shades drawn, heavy drapes tightly closed. David once told me how frightened he was when he first saw windows in American homes so close to the ground. I park my car under the amber streetlight and pick my way over icy patches and up the concrete steps.

As he fumbles with the pesky lock on the storm door, through the foggy glass I see tonight’s agony etched in his face. I wonder what specters lurched into consciousness when he faced armed men coming for his wife.

He offers a weak smile. Ah, Sister Josephe. His jaw line and thick shoulders suggest strength, but he battles diabetes and a sharp ulcer.

Oh, David, I’m so sorry. I glance around. Where are the children?

They are sleeping. His face creases in pain. All of us were crying. But I told them, ‘We eat now, then go to sleep. Tomorrow we gonna get Mommy home.’ But I could not eat. He gestures for me to sit on the couch and takes his place next to me. What we gonna do now?

We’re going to call an immigration attorney, but first I need more information. Who actually took her?

Immigration. Three policemen, two came in the house, one stays outside.

I’m confused. Policemen? This does not sound like Immigration.

Were they wearing uniforms? Did they show you any I.D.?

No I.D. They say they gonna deport her. No uniforms, but they have big letters, P-O-L-I-C-E, on their—he runs his big hand across his chest—I don’t know how you say in English.

Vests? Bulletproof vests?

I don’t know. They wear shirts, pants, like everyday clothes. But on top of their jackets … black with big white letters, POLICE. He gestures again.

Did they have guns?

His eyebrows lift. He nods, raises his pitch. Yes! Yes!

The story comes tumbling out. In the Bakala home, because work schedules have the whole family on the road by 5:20 A.M., bedtimes are early. Before dinner, everyone gets cleaned up and ready for bed. Regina was in the shower, their meal was in the oven, the kids were playing upstairs, and David was watching French cable news. Doorbell rang. Kids came running. David opened the front door. His eyes locked on the word POLICE.

The big one, he asks me—David puffs out his chest and turns down the corners of his mouth—‘Does Andes Imwa live here?’

Andes is Regina’s official first name; Imwa is her paternal surname. Her middle name, Aboy, is her maternal surname. When she was eight, Mobutu had ordered Western-sounding baptismal names—hers is Regina Elizabeth—replaced with names of family ancestors. His campaign for authenticity tried to restore African pride after decades of colonialism, but it quickly deteriorated into a personality cult broadly derided as Mobutuism. Regina insists on using her Christian name.

I say, ‘Yes, she is here. She is in the shower.’ His voice turns gruff. The big man—the main one—has a clipboard with many papers. He cannot find Regina’s name. He go like this. David rifles through an imaginary stack. He shakes his head. I think, how many people is this guy looking for? He does not know what he is doing—too many papers, nothing in order.

With typical African hospitality, David invited them inside to sit down, but neither did.

He demonstrates how the chief officer drew himself up to full height and muscled his way close to his face. You got a gun? David said no, backing into the children. Knives? Weapons of any kind?

David blurts, No. No, showing me how he hiked his shoulders and opened his arms, palms up, fingers spread wide, his hands moving in tight circles. Nothing. Knives for kitchen, that’s all. No weapons.

Both agents moved quickly through the living room, examining shelves, and the kitchen, opening cupboards and drawers, then checking the back entryway. They searched the hallway linen closet, headed into the children’s room and closet, and, last, the master bedroom—closet, drawers. When they returned to the living room, the hefty officer drew close to David’s face. You better not be lying!

The children—are they seeing all this? I ask.

Yes! Lydia, she push close to my leg, crying.

I imagine the kindergartner, her almond-shaped eyes staring at the big man’s black gun inches from her face.

Christopher was not shy. He say to the mean one, ‘Stop talking to my daddy like that!’

My eyes widen. Little Christopher?

David grins. Yes, Christopher! The grin disappears. This man, he is not happy. When the kids start to cry, he says, ‘Take them to their room and shut the door.’ He winces. So I do.

Last spring, the Bakalas had been thrilled to put a down payment on their first home, a tiny bungalow with four small rooms and a bath that opens into a small hub—the hallway. With the children’s bedroom kitty-corner from the living room, everything could be heard clearly on either side of the hollow door—the gruff questions, the fear in Daddy’s answers, their wailing.

Then this guy, he gets close and points at me. ‘You!’ David jabs his index finger at me. "‘You are not from this country. You are not a citizen, are you? Show me your papers.’"

David hurried into the master bedroom, the agents right on his heels. Taking his briefcase from the closet, he opened it and paged through the top papers, quickly finding the judge’s decision. He pointed to the words withholding of removal.

That means I cannot be deported, David says. But the agent, he say to me, ‘Do not be so sure.’ He snaps his jaw up, imitating the officer. "‘Next time we come, it will be for you!’"

I put my hand on his shoulder. No, David. No one can force you to leave America.

He does not look convinced.

What David did not know, what I did not know, and what many others do not know is that all David needed to say was I want to speak to my lawyer. Nothing more.

The US Constitution applies to everyone in our country, including immigrants, no matter their status. Under the Fifth Amendment, both David and Regina had the right to due process, which includes the right against self-incrimination and the right to remain silent. In fact, if ICE had come to execute a warrant against a specific person, Andes Imwa, they were supposed to show David and Regina the seizure warrant for her arrest. Rifling through papers does not cut it. David was under no obligation to let them into his home without a warrant permitting them to search the home itself (Fourth Amendment against illegal seizures and searches). Furthermore, the agents’ demand that he yield his identification amounted to an illegal search of his person, also prohibited by the Fourth Amendment.

Later, I will also find out that withholding of removal is more tenuous than I thought. It stops David’s removal to only one country, Congo. It also requires the government to periodically try placing him with a third country. If the third country says yes, he must leave the United States.

Arriving in late 1997, David was too terrified to leave their North Carolina apartment lest someone in the large Congolese community betray him to Kabila. He knew nothing about the new law requiring him to apply for asylum within the first year. They moved to Milwaukee two years later, where he felt safer. Chicago’s Immigration Court postponed his hearing three times in three years. Finally, in September 2003, Judge O. John Brahos kept him on the stand for seven exhausting hours, then delayed his decision for another four and a half months. David had hoped Judge Brahos would find that his post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) constituted the extraordinary circumstances preventing him from filing on time. However, the judge wrote in his 2004 decision that, though he believed David’s testimony of torture, he did not grant asylum because he found the closing sentence of the psychologist’s PTSD diagnosis not strong enough to overcome the one-year bar. David’s fate had hinged on two words near the end of the detailed report of Dr. Joseph L. Collins: "it appears" that he meets the criteria for PTSD.

Instead, Judge Brahos granted him withholding of removal under the Immigration and Nationality Act (INA), the basic body of immigration law in the United States. This allows David to live and work here temporarily but not to apply for permanent residency (a green card) nor for the prize, citizenship. Only asylum opens the way to those treasured benefits. If he leaves for any reason, he cannot come back. Under the INA, asylum depends upon a well-founded fear of persecution, but withholding of removal demands an even higher proof, clear probability that a person’s life or freedom would be in danger.¹

Since David had already met the higher burden of proof, why would the judge deny him asylum based on something as flimsy as a one-year filing rule? When David told me, he was furious. So what does this mean? I risk my life for democracy, but now I have no country?

Within a month, Hal Block had appealed the asylum portion to the Board of Immigration Appeals (BIA), attaching a clarifying document from Dr. Collins, who insisted that his standard phrasing did not equivocate the diagnosis. In fact, Collins had based his report, point by point, on the criteria listed in The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM-IV), the bible of the American Psychiatric Association. The case is still in appeal.

David’s face tenses as he tells of Regina opening the bathroom door to see the officers’ stony faces, POLICE on their vests, guns on their hips. Her eyes flew to David. What could I do? His eyes brim.

Regina’s case had been mismanaged by three lawyers. Lawyer #1 took all her money, did the paperwork, but later refused to appear in court, saying he was not an immigration attorney. Lawyer #2, a pro bono attorney, had no time to prepare Regina for court. Not ready for adversarial questioning, she fell apart on the stand—mixed up details, wept, couldn’t remember dates. The judge denied all relief—asylum, withholding of removal, and voluntary departure. With one month to appeal, Regina trusted Lawyer #3, who met with her once, studied the previous mess, and submitted Regina’s appeal on time. This was Attorney Anne Lybeau.

The decision of the BIA is sent to the lawyer who, in turn, is to notify her client. After eight years and numerous calls to Lybeau, Regina was still waiting.

David continues, When they said, ‘We are here to deport you,’ Regina, she cry out, ‘No! I did not do something wrong!’ The chief officer, he shakes his clipboard, says today is March 22, 2005, but the order to report for deportation come from the BIA back in May 2002.

Was he saying that the Board of Immigration Appeals had already ruled in her case?

Yes. We find this out four months ago, but her lawyer still did not get the official notice. I show you the letters.

He plucks his dollar-store reading glasses from a shelf on the entertainment center, goes to the bedroom, and returns with an envelope and a fax. The envelope, dated four months earlier, is not from the BIA in Virginia but from a United States Citizenship and Immigration Services center in Nebraska that processes forms. I scan the letter. They were refusing to renew Regina’s work permit. Reason? Her asylum appeal had been denied on May 17, 2002.

David points to the date. Look, November 24, 2004. This is the first time we hear this! We were both scared. Attorney Lybeau said she never got the notice. Then she remembers she forgot to tell the BIA that she moved her office. So she apologize. She says, don’t worry, she gonna take care of it. But Regina was so afraid, she felt sick. Every time she calls, Anne Lybeau says not to worry, she’s taking care of it. David shakes his head. Regina went into our bedroom to get the proof, but when she gave it to the guy—the mean one, he just threw it on the dresser.

David hands me Lybeau’s fax asking the BIA for their official decision. See? March 4, 2005. This lawyer did nothing for three months! Look. Right here she explains this is her fault.

Again, the officer had tossed it aside.

David props his glasses above his forehead. His face contorts in anguish. When the man threw the papers, Regina’s eyes got big. She shouts, ‘No! No! I did not do something wrong!’ He describes her sitting abruptly on the speckled carpet before her legs gave way, pleading in choking sobs to the mean one towering over her. "She was crying out, ‘I must leave my husband and my two little kids? Why?’ She shouts again, ‘Please! You know I did not do something wrong. Just this lawyer make this mistake. Not me. Why you do this to me? Why?’"

I can see her head, shoulders, and open palms punctuating each plea.

Then she cross her hands over her heart like this and rock forward and back, ‘O God, please help me, please help me! Lord Jesus, please!’ I look at the other officer—the short one. I think he is with Regina. He looks like he wants to cry. David hikes his shoulders and open palms. But he’s young, he says nothing.

By this time, the kids, hearing their mother, had come into their parents’ room.

Can you believe? Christopher again tells the mean one, ‘Why you talk to my mommy like this? You gonna take my mommy to jail? Why? She did not do something wrong!’

He’s only four years old!

David smiles. His glasses slide down onto his nose, I was surprised! Regina, too. We did not know he could do something like this.

When the officer demanded to know why she did not report for deportation in 2002, Regina found her fire. I told you why! Why you not listen? she shouted. I did not get notify! Just my lawyer make this mess, not me. I gave you the letters. You did not look at them.

Typical Regina. I remember her telling me how she stood up to four of Mobutu’s soldiers when they charged onto a soccer field in Elom, her mother’s home village, shouting threats and swinging their clubs at the fifty or so folks gathered to hear about democracy. People scattered, screaming. The soldiers quickly tied Regina’s hands. Her voice was strong, insistent. "I say, ‘Why you arrest me? Why? Did I do something wrong? Tell me!’ They say, ‘You try to change people’s minds about Mobutu!’ but I say, ‘That’s not true! Did you hear me say something wrong about Mobutu? No! I am here to help these people understand democracy! I don’t talk about Mobutu.’"

You dared to argue with them?

When it’s your life, Sister, you have to speak.

David’s shoulders sag. He sets his glasses on the glass coffee table, looks down, and blows out a stream of air. Then I think Regina realized her situation. She said, ‘God, I gonna be killed! I not gonna see my husband or my children again!’ She crossed her arms over her body like this, ‘Lord Jesus, please help me!’ We were all crying.

When the pint-sized truth-speaker spoke up again, the lead officer demanded that David get the kids out. With them wailing through the flimsy door, he ordered Regina to find her passport, but the only passport she knew was the false one.

When she say, ‘I gave it to my lawyer,’ the officer, he was very angry. He ask why. Then he wrote on his clipboard and said, ‘We’re going to deport you, but not right away.’

Oh, thank God. I sink against the couch. I was so afraid it would be tonight.

No. Not tonight. He say, ‘Tonight we take you to Dodge County or to Kenosha County, whichever has room.’ David gets up to retrieve a small piece of paper from the entertainment center. He gave me these numbers to call tomorrow morning for information. You call, OK?

I recognize the Illinois area codes. Though I dutifully copy the numbers, I’m skeptical about whether either will connect me to an actual human being.

Did you ask to phone a lawyer?

Regina ask to call her attorney, but they say they do not allow phone calls.

"He lied to you, David! You always have the right to call a lawyer!"

He leans forward, elbows on his legs, hands dangling between his knees. He turns his troubled face to me. Then they took her … in her pajamas and slippers.

I jerk upright. What?

David nods, his voice echoing her horror: "She said, ‘Like this! You take me like this?’"

She panicked, begging to at least put on her underwear.

The officer refused.

I remember Regina describing to me how two soldiers of Mobutu’s elite presidential guard had dragged her by the arms, twisting and kicking, toward a stand of shrubs in the middle of a desolate savannah. Behind low-lying bushes, one clamped his hand over her mouth so that the third officer, manning the checkpoint, would not hear her screams. She shook as she told me.

When they got her pinned flat on her back, the second soldier yanked her jeans down past her knees and forced himself between her legs. She twisted and writhed as he gripped her underpants in both fists. Regina frowned as she told how he tore them off her body. Her mouth was taut. She held both her fists close together in front of her forehead, then yanked them with all her might down and out in opposite directions. Then her body sank, her hands fell limp at her sides. I saw her lower lip trembling.

She looked at me, eyes wide with tears, voice a mere whisper. It was very hard, Sister.

David’s voice is angry. "I think, What kind of men, these? They treat my wife like this!"

The chief officer wanted no more delay. He told Regina that when they were ready to deport her, they would phone David to bring a suitcase with her clothes. She asked to hug her children good-bye, but he said no.

David’s face comes alive. "But Regina, she look straight at the mean one. She said, ‘No. I