“PAPERLESS CITIZENS”: PERCEPTIONS AND PRACTICES OF CITIZENSHIP AMONG SALVADORAN RETORNADOS By Kelly Birch Maginot A DISSERTATION Submitted to Michigan State University in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of Sociology—Doctor of Philosophy 2019 ABSTRACT By Kelly Birch Maginot “PAPERLESS CITIZENS”: PERCEPTIONS AND PRACTICES OF CITIZENSHIP AMONG SALVADORAN RETORNADOS In this dissertation, I explore deported Salvadorans’ experiences of detention, deportation, reception, and reintegration, with an emphasis on the structural barriers that they face and their strategies for surviving these barriers. I also examine returned Salvadorans’ sense of belonging, perceptions of citizenship, and civic engagement practices in the United States and El Salvador in order to understand when and how deportees are able to express and enact agency. I argue that deportees’ extreme precarity and exclusion makes them “outsiders within” their sending and receiving states, which gives them valuable perspectives on citizenship and national belonging. Using in-depth, semi-structured interviews and observations with deported Salvadorans, I find that the Salvadoran deported population is segmented by migration history, gender, and age, producing distinct deported masculinities that foster—and more often constrain—deported Salvadoran men’s ability to act as change agents. My fieldwork further reveals that Salvadoran men and women develop diverse, innovative strategies for coping with deportation-related challenges such as violence, un- and underemployment, and social exclusion. These strategies include both individual and collective actions, in addition to claims of belonging and deservingness in El Salvador and the U.S. Together, these findings exemplify the central role that neoliberal globalization plays in creating productive citizens and a disposable global workforce, as well as ways in which deportees use neoliberal ideologies to advance rights claims. This project thus extends theorizing around immigrant re/incorporation, citizenship, masculinities, and agency, in addition to highlighting important implications for migration scholars and practitioners in deportee-sending and receiving states. Copyright by KELLY BIRCH MAGINOT 2019 For the loves I have lost and gained since beginning this process. Tante Elisabeth and Dad, thank you for illuminating my path. Elizabeth bell, thank you for letting me grow and write alongside you. For the women and men deported to El Salvador, who deserve so much more. And for Peter, always. v ACKNOWLEDGMENTS This project would not have been possible without the support of my colleagues, mentors, funders, friends, and family. At Michigan State University, I have been fortunate to find an intellectual home, caring community, and wonderful doctoral committee. Stephanie Nawyn, my chair, has been everything a mentor should be, providing thoughtful feedback on my research, writing, and teaching; encouraging me to dive into new opportunities; and advocating for me as a scholar, woman, and new mother. Soma Chaudhuri guided me through the publishing process and motivated me to submit my work for publication, as well as improved my understanding of qualitative research, sex and gender, and collective behavior. Brendan Mullan provided important insights on international migration and development theorizing, as well as invaluable teaching opportunities and numerous letters of recommendation. Ed Murphy challenged me to think deeply and carefully about empire, agency, and the effects of history on current experiences of immigration and deportation. Throughout my time at MSU, Sophia Koufopoulou has also provided instrumental mentorship and friendship. I thank her for helping me become a better educator, as well as inviting me into her home and family. Thank you to Stephanie, Soma, Brendan, Ed, Sophia, and all my MSU faculty, who have helped me become a better thinker, writer, speaker, teacher, and sociologist. I thank the Inter-American Foundation, MSU Sociology Department, and MSU Center for Latin American and Caribbean Studies for funding my dissertation research and writing. Without their support, this project would never have gotten off the ground. I am especially grateful to the IAF and the MSU Sociology Department, Center for Gender in Global Context, and Residential College in the Arts and Humanities for supporting my professional development. I thank the MSU Sociology and GenCen office staff for always providing a helping hand. And I vi thank my cohort and sociology graduate students for becoming not only colleagues but also lifelong friends. I have enjoyed collaborating with you, celebrating our successes, and working through challenges together. I am particularly grateful to my MSU Sociology Writing Group for writing alongside me this year. On many tough days, you were a beacon of light guiding me through the writing process and reminding me that I was not alone at the computer. In El Salvador, I had the privilege of accompanying INSAMI and RENACERES as they advocated for deported migrants and other returnees. I am especially grateful to Cesar Ríos, Juan Toledo, Hugo Castro, and the RENACERES executive board for helping me understand the Salvadoran context, landscape, and challenges associated with deportation, as well as introducing me to interview participants and opening doors throughout my fieldwork. I thank Jaime Rívas for his mentorship and expertise on Salvadoran deportation scholarship and trends. I am grateful to the Salvadoran state, Luis Romero of Homies Unidos, and civil society organizations for allowing me to observe at the Bienvenido a Casa office and attend meetings, workshops, and press conferences during my fieldwork. I also thank my friends in Dolores Medina for providing a home away from home—Flor, Fatima, Douglas, and José, thank you for inviting me into your homes and families. The roots of this project extend back to my experience at the Casa de la Solidaridad as an undergraduate student in 2008. To Trena and Kevin Yonkers-Talz, thank you for all you have done to make the Casa a space of deep learning, accompaniment, reflection, and justice, and for providing me with a place to stay during my predissertation research. Above all, I thank those deported women and men who trusted me with their stories and told me about their beliefs and hopes. Your openness, time, and energy made this project possible, and your interpretations of deportation proceedings and immigration policies are what make this dissertation meaningful and valuable. vii Finally, to my family, this was a group effort from Day One. Erin, Sarah, Erika, Corinne, Jenna, Claire, and Ryann have served as a sounding board for my frustrations and fears and cheered me along on my happiest and hardest days. Mary, John, Patrick, and the Maginots have become my family over the past seven years. Thank you for welcoming me with open arms and being there no matter what. Mary, I will be forever grateful for your generosity with your time, energy, treats, and love. Mom and Dad, thank you for teaching me to love learning, struggle for change, and maintain faith and hope. Ellen, Ian, Erika, and Oma, thank you for accompanying me on this journey and loving me unconditionally. Peter, you have never let me forget about the sheep and stopped me when I began losing sight of the forest for the trees. Thank you for making me laugh, reading countless drafts, and being my life partner. Elizabeth bell, thank you for making each day joyful and reminding me to look at the world with wonder and awe. viii TABLE OF CONTENTS LIST OF TABLES ........................................................................................................................ xii LIST OF FIGURES ..................................................................................................................... xiii KEY TO ABBREVIATIONS ...................................................................................................... xiv CHAPTER ONE ..............................................................................................................................1 INTRODUCTION ...........................................................................................................................1 THE DEPORTATION TURN .......................................................................................................4 Deportations to El Salvador ........................................................................................................5 Removal, Rejection, and Re/incorporation ..................................................................................7 IMMIGRANT AGENCY ..............................................................................................................9 RESEARCH QUESTIONS .........................................................................................................10 RELEVANCE OF RESEARCH ..................................................................................................10 CHAPTER TWO ...........................................................................................................................13 THEORY AND LITERATURE ....................................................................................................13 DEPORTABILITY AND DEPORTATION ...............................................................................14 Effects of Deportability and Deportation ...................................................................................15 IMMIGRANT INCORPORATION AND RE/INTEGRATION ................................................20 Measuring Immigrant Incorporation ..........................................................................................21 Return Migration and Re/integration .........................................................................................24 DEFINING AND MEASURING CITIZENSHIP .......................................................................27 Defining Citizenship ..................................................................................................................30 Civic Engagement, Political Incorporation, and Immigrant Integration ....................................34 Citizenship and Engagement among Return Migrants and Deported Migrants ........................38 CONCLUSION ............................................................................................................................39 CHAPTER THREE .......................................................................................................................44 METHODS ....................................................................................................................................44 METHODOLOGY ......................................................................................................................45 CONTEXT ...................................................................................................................................49 Field Site ....................................................................................................................................49 Historical Context ......................................................................................................................51 POPULATION ............................................................................................................................54 METHODS ..................................................................................................................................55 Interviews and Focus Groups .....................................................................................................56 Participant Observation and Collection of Supplemental Documents .......................................60 Data Analysis .............................................................................................................................62 POSITIONALITY .......................................................................................................................63 Reflexivity and Participatory Methods ......................................................................................66 ix CHAPTER FOUR ..........................................................................................................................68 CONTEXTUALIZING THE DEPORTATION OF SALVADORANS .......................................68 SALVADORAN—U.S. RELATIONS, 1980 TO 2001 ..............................................................69 Salvadoran Civil War, 1980-1992 .............................................................................................69 U.S. Immigration Policies, 1980 to Present ...............................................................................72 A Neoliberal Turn: Privatization, Dollarization, and CAFTA ..................................................77 CONTEXT OF RECEPTION: EL SALVADOR AS A DEPORTEE-RECEIVING STATE ....79 Deported Violence? El Salvador’s Postwar Context .................................................................79 Mano Dura Policies, Stigmatization, and Legal Violence .........................................................82 CONCLUSION ............................................................................................................................85 CHAPTER FIVE ...........................................................................................................................87 DEPORTED MASCULINITIES: SALVADORAN MEN’S GENDERED EXPERIENCES OF REMOVAL AND RETURN .........................................................................................................87 GENDER, RACE, AND REMOVAL IN U.S. HISTORY..........................................................88 BRINGING MEN INTO MIGRATION STUDIES ....................................................................90 Gender and Return Migration ....................................................................................................92 MULTIPLE MASCULINITIES IN LATIN AMERICA AND THE U.S. ..................................95 Multiple Masculinities ...............................................................................................................95 CONCEPTUALIZING DEPORTED MASCULINITIES ...........................................................98 FINDINGS .................................................................................................................................100 Disciplined Bodies: The Deportation Process .........................................................................100 Disciplined Bodies: Re/integration and Age ............................................................................103 Catalysts for Change: Positive Masculine Projects .................................................................112 DISCUSSION AND CONCLUSION .......................................................................................116 Deportation as Embodied Practice ...........................................................................................117 Reformed Deported Masculinity ..............................................................................................118 Migration, Deportation, and Emotion ......................................................................................119 CHAPTER SIX ............................................................................................................................121 CLAIMING CITIZENSHIP: DEPORTEES’ SENSE OF BELONGING AND CIVIC ENGAGEMENT IN THE U.S. AND EL SALVADOR .............................................................121 THEORIZING CITIZENSHIP IN THE 21ST CENTURY ........................................................122 FINDINGS .................................................................................................................................126 Citizenship and Belonging in the U.S. .....................................................................................126 Citizenship and Belonging in El Salvador ...............................................................................130 Citizenship as Freedom and Opportunity ................................................................................135 Celestial Citizenship ................................................................................................................138 DISCUSSION ............................................................................................................................139 “We Are Part of the U.S.” ........................................................................................................139 The Neoliberalization of Citizenship .......................................................................................140 Staking Claims in El Salvador .................................................................................................142 CONCLUSION ..........................................................................................................................144 CHAPTER SEVEN .....................................................................................................................146 RE/INCORPORATION IMAGINARIES: ACTS OF RESILIENCE, REJECTION, AND x REWORKING AFTER REMOVAL ...........................................................................................146 IMMIGRANT AGENCY AND PRECARITY .........................................................................147 Migrant Decision Making and Bounded Rationality ...............................................................149 MEASURING IMMIGRANT RE/INCORPORATION ...........................................................150 Integration Intentions ...............................................................................................................153 AGENCY AND ACTION AMONG DEPORTED SALVADORANS ....................................154 Acts of Resilience ....................................................................................................................155 Acts of Rejection ......................................................................................................................159 Acts of Reworking ...................................................................................................................161 RE/INCORPORATION IMAGINARIES .................................................................................164 DISCUSSION AND CONCLUSION .......................................................................................166 Incorporation Without Security? ..............................................................................................167 Deportation Circles: American Ethnic Enclaves .....................................................................168 Deportees as Agents of Change ...............................................................................................169 CHAPTER EIGHT ......................................................................................................................171 CONCLUSION ............................................................................................................................171 CONCLUDING THOUGHTS ...................................................................................................172 Scholarly Contributions ...........................................................................................................173 Policy and Practical Implications .............................................................................................176 Directions for Future Research ................................................................................................178 APPENDICES .............................................................................................................................182 APPENDIX A: INTERVIEW WITH RETURNEES ................................................................183 APPENDIX B: INTERVIEW WITH GATEKEEPERS ...........................................................188 APPENDIX C: FOLLOW-UP INTERVIEW FOR RETURNEES ...........................................191 APPENDIX D: FOCUS GROUP PROCEDURES AND QUESTIONS ..................................194 APPENDIX E: FOCUS GROUP SURVEY ON POLITICAL, SOCIAL, AND CULTURAL PARTICIPATION .....................................................................................................................198 REFERENCES ............................................................................................................................200 xi LIST OF TABLES Table 1. Salvadorans Apprehended, Detained, and Removed from the U.S., 2010-2016 ...............6 Table 2. Study Sample Descriptive Statistics, 2014-2016 (N=105). .............................................59 xii LIST OF FIGURES Figure 1. Salvadorans Apprehended and Removed, 1998-2016 ......................................................6 Figure 2. Salvadorans Removed from the U.S. by Criminal Status, 1992-2016 .............................7 Figure 3. Persons Removed or Returned from the U.S., Fiscal Years 1930-2016 ........................74 Figure 4. Deported Masculinities Framework ...............................................................................99 xiii Deferred Enforcement Departure Alianza Republicana Nacionalista Bienvenido a Casa program U.S. Customs and Border Protection U.S. Department of Homeland Security Dirección General de Migración y Extranjería Anti-Terrorism and Effective Death Penalty Act American Baptist Churches v. Thornburgh lawsuit ABC AEDPA ARENA BAC CBP CONAMYPE Comisión Nacional de la Micro y Pequeña Empresa DED DGME DHS DR-CAFTA Dominican Republic-Central American Free Trade Agreement FMLN ICE IIRIRA INSAMI IRCA LPR PIR RENACERES Red Nacional de Emprendedores Retornados de El Salvador SAAIF TPS UNHCR Illegal Immigration Reform and Immigrant Responsibility Act Salvadorian Association of American Intramural Football Programa Integral de Reinserción a Personas Retornadas Frente Farabundo Martí para la Liberación Nacional United Nations High Commissioner on Refugees U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement Instituto Salvadoreño del Migrante Immigration Reform and Control Act KEY TO ABBREVIATIONS Legal Permanent Residency Temporary Protected Status xiv CHAPTER ONE INTRODUCTION Juan Carlos was deported from the United States in 2015, seven months before our first interview. He was what migration scholars call a long-term settler, someone who spent a large part of their life in the host nation (see Hagan, Eschbach, and Rodríguez 2008). He had completed elementary through eleventh grade in Iowa, but, at 30, was working towards his Salvadoran high school diploma, beginning with third grade. While he and his friend Cuervo— also a long-term settler deported from the U.S.—waited for their meeting with Instituto Salvadoreño del Migrante (Salvadoran Institute of the Migrant, or INSAMI) representatives, he told us about his coursework, in which he had recently learned the meaning of the colors in the Salvadoran flag and read Salvadoran folktales for the first time. “Imagine if you were taken to China. It’s like that,” he explained to us in English. “I don’t know any of this stuff.” A few months later, Juan Carlos shared that he felt “lucky” to have passed his third, sixth, and ninth grade tests: …It was kind of hard because I was learning stuff from here, you know. All the stuff about the flag from El Salvador? It was so hard to learn that. Every little thing you see on the picture means something. I didn’t know that, to be honest. So I had to learn that, and they asked [about it] on the test, and I did pass it. Juan Carlos’s narrative is a common one among deported long-term settlers, particularly 1.5-generation immigrants who migrated as minors and spent their formative years in the receiving state1 (Coutin 2013b, 2016; Zilberg 2004, 2011). For these removed immigrants, 1 It is impossible to definitively determine age parameters for 1.5-generation immigrants, as age interacts with other characteristics and experiences (i.e. language acquisition, degree of socialization, place, and migration history) to produce distinct incorporation trajectories (Danico 1 deportation is akin to banishment or exile (see Brotherton and Barrios 2011; Zilberg 2011), a “sentence” to be served (Coutin 2016: 154). They may have few ties to their birth countries, making it difficult to find sustainable work, social networks, safe housing, and emotional support (see Brotherton and Barrios 2011; Coutin 2016; Golash-Boza 2014, 2015). Like Juan Carlos, they are strangers in a strange land, dropped into a context as unfamiliar to them as “China.” Conversely, other segments of the returned migrant population—for instance, those who were deported soon after arrival—may rejoin their families and communities after deportation but face the stigma of the failed migrant (Brotherton and Barrios 2011; Schuster and Majidi 2015) or find that the circumstances that caused their migration are unchanged or worse (see Dingeman 2018). Additional research is necessary to better understand the deported population, their inclusion and exclusion in deportee-sending and -receiving states, and their re/integration2 needs. In this dissertation, I explore how deported Salvadorans experience apprehension, detention, deportation, reception, and re/integration, including the structural barriers they encounter and their strategies for surviving these barriers. I am especially interested in their sense of belonging, interpretations of citizenship, and civic engagement in the U.S. and El Salvador, as well as their agency throughout the deportation and re/integration process. Using participant observation; in-depth, semi-structured interviews with returned Salvadorans; informational interviews with immigration activists, scholars, NGOs, and government officials; and supplemental documents, I argue that deportees are “outsiders within” the U.S. and El 2004). For clarity, I treat all those who arrived and settled in the U.S. prior to their sixteenth birthday as 1.5-generation immigrants (Rojas-García 2013: 89). 2 Technically, all deported migrants return to their country of origin, where they rejoin and reintegrate into local society. However, long-term settlers who spent their formative years in the U.S. may experience reintegration as initial incorporation, particularly if they have few or no memories of their birth country. Throughout the dissertation, I will use the terms re/integration and re/incorporation to acknowledge this possibility (see also Dingeman 2018). 2 Salvador with valuable perspectives on national membership (see Collins 1986). Despite their extreme precarity, deportees develop creative mechanisms for coping with violence, un- and underemployment, and social exclusion, in rare cases collectively organizing to counter stigma and advance rights claims (see also Headley and Milovanovic 2016). I thus examine deported Salvadorans’ narratives and beliefs about belonging, exclusion, and incorporation alongside their socio-cultural, economic, and civic practices at “home” and “abroad.” By addressing the obstacles confronting different segments of the deported Salvadoran population and deportees’ responses to these obstacles, I extend theorizing on masculinities, citizenship, immigrant re/incorporation, and agency. In chapter 5, I argue that deportation is an embodied process, which produces a range of distinctly transnational deported masculinities for Salvadoran men. These gendered pathways are linked by deportees’ violent, emasculating encounters with state agents in the U.S. and El Salvador, but they diverge according to individuals’ social locations and migration histories. Deported men react to their marginalization in diverse ways, maintaining but sometimes also shifting meanings around masculinity and fatherhood. Deported migrants similarly challenge legalistic definitions of citizenship. In chapter 6, I demonstrate how deported long-term settlers claim membership in the U.S. based on their social, cultural, and economic ties, as well as how they assert membership claims in El Salvador based on their jus soli citizenship and contributions to the Salvadoran state. Deportees draw on these claims in discussions of how they would contribute to their communities if given the chance, narratives I term re/incorporation imaginaries. In chapter 7, I introduce the concept of the re/incorporation imaginary, outlining deportees’ desired re/integration trajectories as well as their actual re/integration practices. Together, these findings reveal the central role that neoliberal globalization plays in creating productive citizens and a disposable workforce, in addition to ways 3 in which deportees use neoliberal ideologies to advance rights claims. This chapter provides context for the present project. I turn first to current immigration enforcement patterns globally and from the U.S. to El Salvador. Using data from the U.S. Department of Homeland Security (DHS), I outline the number of Salvadorans apprehended, detained, and removed from the U.S. in addition to key characteristics of the deported Salvadoran population. I then review the literature on re/integration after removal, highlighting the primary challenges facing deportees and the nascent research on deportees’ collective behavior and agency. I delineate how I conceptualize agency before laying out the study’s research questions and relevance. THE DEPORTATION TURN Over the past 25 years, Western countries have experienced a “deportation turn” as record numbers of noncitizens have been removed from the U.S. and Europe (Gibney 2008) as well as Mexico (Dominguez-Villegas and Rietig 2015). The U.S., specifically, deported more than 3.7 million foreign nationals from 2007 to 2016, an average of 375,000 annually (DHS 2018). Since 1990, changes to U.S. immigration policies have increased the number of migrants deported from the country’s interior rather than at its borders, including the removal of long-term settlers with legal permanent residency (LPR), temporary protected status (TPS), and unauthorized presence (see chapter 4; Golash-Boza 2012; Kanstroom 2007). The mass deportation of long-term settlers has created a new “American diaspora” comprised of people who were primarily raised in the U.S., speak English fluently, have few ties in their countries of origin, and are “culturally and socially American” (Kanstroom 2012: 8). More than 90 percent of those deported are from Mexico, Guatemala, Honduras, and El Salvador (DHS 2018), and most deportees are men (Transactional Records Clearinghouse [TRAC] 2014), prompting Golash- 4 Boza and Hondagneu-Sotelo (2013) to label the current pattern a “gendered racial removal program.” Deportations to El Salvador Between 2010 and 2015, the U.S. and Mexico together apprehended nearly one million migrants from the Northern Triangle of Central America—El Salvador, Guatemala, and Honduras—and deported more than 800,000 of them3 (Dominguez-Villegas and Rietig 2015). Data collection for this dissertation spanned from 2014 to 2016, during which approximately 200,000 Salvadorans were apprehended in the U.S. and roughly 68,000 were removed4 (DHS 2018; see figure 1). El Salvador receives a disproportionately high number of deportees from the U.S. for its size and population (DHS 2018). In 2014, Salvadorans were the fourth-largest national group of migrants apprehended, admitted to Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) detention facilities, and removed from the U.S., after Mexico, Guatemala, and Honduras (Baker 2017). In 2016, El Salvador remained the fourth-greatest deportee-receiving state, but Salvadorans became the third-largest national group apprehended and admitted to ICE centers (Baker 2017; see table 1). As table 1 illustrates, the numbers of Salvadorans apprehended and admitted to ICE centers have risen dramatically relative to the total number of apprehensions and admissions; in 2010, Salvadorans represented 3.75 and 7.08 percent of all those apprehended and 3 The U.S. led in the number of Central Americans apprehended from 2010 to 2014 (Dominguez- Villegas and Rietig 2015). After Mexico implemented the Programa Frontera Sur (Southern Border Program) in July 2014, partially in response to pressure and financial support from the U.S. (Isacson, Meyer, and Smith 2017), the nation began to capture exponentially more migrants. As more Central Americans in transit to the U.S. were apprehended in Mexico, the U.S. made relatively fewer apprehensions (Dominguez-Villegas and Rietig 2015). 4 Despite the growing number of Salvadorans apprehended, the number of deportations has remained relatively consistent since 2007 (DHS 2018). A conversation with a representative of El Salvador’s Dirección General de Migración y Extranjería (National Directorate for Migration, or DGME) revealed that the U.S. and El Salvador jointly determine the number of deportations, and El Salvador does not have the capacity to receive many more than it does currently. 5 initially detained, and in 2016, these numbers increased to 14.90 and 16.42 percent, respectively. Figure 1. Salvadorans Apprehended and Removed, 1998-2016 s l a u d i v i d n I 80,000 70,000 60,000 50,000 40,000 30,000 20,000 10,000 0 1998 2000 2002 2004 2006 2008 2010 2012 2014 2016 Year Salvadorans apprehended Salvadorans removed Figure created by author using the 2016 Yearbook of Immigration Statistics (DHS 2017). Table 1. Salvadorans Apprehended, Detained, and Removed from the U.S., 2010-2016 20,346 (5.33%) 20,127 (5.92%) Table created by author using DHS data (Baker 2017; DHS 2017). The percent Salvadoran of total apprehensions, admissions, and removals is listed parenthetically. 18,992 (4.57%) 17,379 (4.50%) 20,921 (4.83%) 26,895 (6.63%) 21,610 (6.61%) Most deported Salvadorans are removed for immigration violations, rather than criminal acts (Hagan et al. 2008, see figure 2). From 2014 to 2016, for example, one-third of removed Salvadorans had a prior criminal conviction in the U.S. and two-thirds did not (DHS 2018; see figure 2). Scholars have further shown that a considerable proportion of Salvadorans were settled in the U.S. for extended periods before their removal. Hagan, Eschbach, and Rodríguez found 6 2010 Apprehensions 29,911 (3.75%) 25,361 (7.08%) Initial Admissions to ICE Detention Facilities Removals 2011 27,652 (4.07%) 23,457 (5.57%) 2012 38,976 (5.81%) 30,808 (6.64%) 2013 51,226 (7.73%) 40,258 (9.14%) 2014 79,321 (11.66%) 59,933 (14.08%) 2015 51,200 (11.07%) 40,263 (13.10%) 2016 78,983 (14.90%) 57,953 (16.42%) that approximately 25 percent of Salvadorans surveyed had lived in the U.S. for more than 10 years before their deportation (2008: 70-72). Since Hagan and colleagues (2008) completed their study, the removal of Salvadoran long-term settlers has decreased; today roughly 20 percent of deportees have lived abroad for longer than seven years (Ríos 2018: 22). In sum, the Salvadoran returned migrant population is largely noncriminal and includes many individuals who have settled in the U.S. for years prior to their removal. In addition, the deported population in El Salvador is growing and aging and is likely to continue expanding under Donald Trump’s immigration policies (i.e. Cancino 2018; The Economist 2018). It is therefore critical that we strengthen our understanding of this vulnerable population and its needs. Figure 2. Salvadorans Removed from the U.S. by Criminal Status, 1992- 2016 s l a u d i v i d n I 28,000 24,000 20,000 16,000 12,000 8,000 4,000 0 1992 1994 1996 1998 2000 2002 2004 2006 2008 2010 2012 2014 2016 Year Individuals Removed with a Prior Criminal Conviction Total Removals Figure created by author using the 2016 Yearbook of Immigration Statistics (DHS 2017). Removal, Rejection, and Re/incorporation As the global American diaspora and Salvadoran returned migrant population have grown, scholars have begun to explore deportees’ experiences of removal, reception, and 7 re/integration. This research has shown that deported long-term settlers, particularly 1.5- generation immigrants, frequently encounter stigmatization and rejection in their home countries, which affects their social, cultural, and economic re/incorporation (Brotherton and Barrios 2011; Coutin 2016; Golash-Boza 2014; Schuster and Majidi 2015; Zilberg 2011; but see Golash-Boza 2015, 2016b). In nations like El Salvador, deported migrants are returned to communities where violence is endemic (International Crisis Group 2017); they are often targeted by gangs, police, and military (Brodzinsky and Pilkington 2015; Zilberg 2011); and the state offers limited protection (Fariña, Miller, and Cavallaro 2010). Research reveals that deported long-term settlers often plan to return to the U.S., especially when their families have been separated through deportation (Cardoso, Hamilton, Rodríguez, Eschbach, and Hagan 2016; Molina 2014; Slack, Martínez, Whiteford, and Peiffer 2013). Their social and economic exclusion in their countries of origin, coupled with the lives they have left behind in the U.S., are powerful motivators as they decide whether to stay or go. Conversely, for individuals removed during their journey or soon after arriving in the U.S., debt accrued during the initial migration attempt can compel remigration in an effort to settle debts by earning U.S. wages (Heidbrink 2019; Johnson and Woodhouse 2018). These findings suggest that returned migrants have diverse demographic characteristics, migration histories, and post-deportation plans (see Ríos 2018). Dingeman (2018) argues that deportees’ experiences of re/integration are segmented by individual traits, agentic behavior, social identities, and local contexts of return (see also Golash-Boza 2015), highlighting the importance of examining the returned migrant population according to its disaggregated sectors. Deported migrants arrive with varying levels of social, cultural, and economic capital (see Golash-Boza 2016b)—i.e. social networks in the deportee-receiving state, English language 8 ability, American education, savings, or financial support from loved ones in the U.S.—which can support (or, in the absence of such capital, inhibit) their re/incorporation. Deportees are able to exercise some agency despite their precarious circumstances (Golash-Boza 2016b: 328; see also Ríos 2015), yet few scholars have examined deportees’ individual agency, interpretations of citizenship, and collective behavior throughout the migration and deportation process (Headley and Milovanovic 2016 is a notable exception). This dissertation extends previous research by incorporating the voices of deported leaders, the actions of a deportee-led organization, and the reflections and practices of a diverse sample of deported Salvadorans. IMMIGRANT AGENCY I define agency as purposeful, meaningful reflection and action (see chapters 3 and 7; Coe and Jordhus-Lier 2010: 214; Long 1990: 8). Among the Salvadoran deported population, examples of agency span a wide spectrum from changing one’s hairstyle or covering one’s tattoos in order to blend in with local Salvadorans to starting a business to counter economic exclusion, purchasing a car to avoid violence on public transportation, or leaving El Salvador altogether. Because of their marginalized social position, deported Salvadorans exercise constrained agency, in which they choose from narrow, often undesirable options5. Though the outcomes of agentic acts—namely individuals’ success in achieving their goals—are important, here I am primarily concerned with deportees’ objectives and intentions. The discrepancies between their intentions and outcomes reveal not only the structural barriers they encounter (see Hauge and Fold 2016) but also their imagined incorporation—what they would do given the opportunity. Deportees’ redefinitions of citizenship and membership claims, in particular, 5 Not all deportees can exercise agency, even in its most constrained forms. Deportees may be incarcerated or killed after their return, or they may die on a remigration attempt (Fariña et al. 2010; Zilberg 2011). My exploration of deported Salvadorans’ agency therefore accounts for the structural barriers and silencing that migrants face upon removal. 9 exemplify their constrained agency and view of themselves as deserving participants with much to offer their deporting and birth nations (see Ríos 2015). RESEARCH QUESTIONS In this dissertation, I am interested in how deported Salvadorans express agency and make citizenship claims during deportation and re/integration, as well as how structural barriers constrain their decisions and actions. Like Golash-Boza, I assert that the best way to understand the complexity of mass deportation is to speak directly with deported migrants (2015: 5) and use interviews, coupled with participant observations, to answer the following: 1. How do deported Salvadorans experience and interpret the migration, apprehension, detention, deportation, and re/integration process? a. How are deportation and re/integration shaped by social locations such as gender, age, and migration history? 2. How and when do removed Salvadorans exercise agency? 3. How do deported Salvadorans perceive and practice citizenship before, during, and after their removal from the U.S.? 4. How does the deportation process affect citizenship definitions and practices, particularly in the context of neoliberalism? RELEVANCE OF RESEARCH This project advances deportation scholarship by illustrating variety within the deported population; barriers facing returned migrants; and deportees’ diverse, innovative survival strategies, as well as their definitions and negotiations of citizenship. My data corroborates past research on the precarity of deportees (e.g. Fariña et al. 2010), revealing significant structural obstacles ranging from poorly paid work and verbal harassment by police officers to 10 unemployment, homelessness, and attacks by gangs and military. I find that migrants experience these obstacles differentially according to their gender, age, and migration histories, revealing the usefulness of bringing together immigrant incorporation theory and Connell’s (1987) multiple masculinities framework. Together, these findings add nuance to current understandings of migrant and deportee precarity. Yet this project reveals that deportees do not passively accept their marginalization but instead develop mechanisms for countering stigmatization, precarious employment, and violence. Their strategies, while only rarely rising to the level of collective resistance, demonstrate the agency and resourcefulness of the returned migrant population in the absence of support from deportee-sending and -receiving states. Their discussions of citizenship and belonging, furthermore, challenge nation-based, legalistic interpretations of membership and uncover their arguments for deservingness and inclusion in the U.S. as well as El Salvador. However, both the structural barriers that deported Salvadorans encounter and their responses to these constraints underscore the power of neoliberalism and “global apartheid” over immigrant incorporation, deportee re/integration, and membership (see Golash-Boza 2015: 16). Individual agency can only take returned migrants so far without structural supports and substantial policy changes (see chapter 8). Deportees’ reflections, actions, and imagined re/incorporation correspondingly advance theorizing on agency, particularly within the context of neoliberal globalization and punitive immigration enforcement. These findings have significant social and political implications for the U.S. and El Salvador. First, the narratives presented here counter the stereotypes (i.e. that deportees are criminals or failures) that continue to limit their opportunities for re/incorporation (see Brotherton and Barrios 2011; Schuster and Majidi 2015). Second, these narratives offer 11 policymakers a blueprint for addressing deportees’ needs and fostering their re/incorporation. Third, and most importantly, the experiences of violence, economic precarity, family separation, and health challenges recounted here add to the mounting evidence against detention and deportation as an immigration enforcement strategy (see also Coutin 2016; Golash-Boza 2015; Inda and Dowling 2013). Border security through deportation remains ineffective, cruel, discriminatory, and unproductive not only for deportees and their loved ones but also for their sending and receiving societies. In chapter 2, I expand on the devastating effects of mass detention and deportation before reviewing the literature on immigrant incorporation, citizenship, and civic engagement. I begin by describing Paret and Gleeson’s (2016) precarity—migration— agency nexus, which allows me to simultaneously consider the traumas of deportation and deportees’ interpretations and action. 12 CHAPTER TWO THEORY AND LITERATURE Paret and Gleeson challenge scholars to jointly consider migrants’ precarity and agency in order to uncover dynamics around inequality and social change (2016: 277). By exploring the precarity—migration—agency nexus, Paret and Gleeson argue, we can uncover how institutions are constituted and maintained as well as how migrants navigate power structures (2016: 277-8). In this dissertation, I examine deported migrants’ precarity and agency throughout the migration, deportation, and re/incorporation process. I find that deported Salvadorans encounter substantial inequality in the U.S. and El Salvador but that they respond to their marginalization in valuable, innovative ways. I define agency as the capacity for intentional reflection and action (Coe and Jordhus-Lier 2010: 214; Long 1990: 8). Agency implies the ability to affect one’s own and others’ future thought and action, thereby contributing to social change at levels spanning from the interpersonal to the global (Long 1990: 8). Precarity describes the insecurity and instability associated with informal, temporary, or contingent employment; wages; housing; security; and, in the case of migrants, presence in a nation (see Papadopoulos, Fratsea, and Mayrommatis 2018: 201-2). Individual actors and groups’ agency is constrained by their circumstances, especially for precarious groups like noncitizen migrants and deportees. Mass deportations have produced precarity for deported migrants and their families and immigrant communities more broadly. This dissertation confirms that, upon return, deportees face un- and underemployment, stigmatization, social isolation, family separation, and verbal or physical violence. For deported long-term settlers, deportation can be likened to “exile” or a “sentence” (Coutin 2016), as individuals are removed from a place that they called home, where they were socialized in schools, workplaces, churches, families, and a range of social networks. 13 However, migrants experience removal and re/integration differentially depending on their individual characteristics, agentic behavior, and context of return (Dingeman 2018; see also Golash-Boza 2015; Medina and Menjívar 2015; Ríos 2018). Deportees are also beginning to organize in their birth countries (see Headley and Milovanovic 2016), and Ríos, executive director of INSAMI, argues that deported Salvadorans are “agents of change for community development” (2015: 22). Yet few scholars have explored deportees’ agency, social and political re/integration, and sense of belonging (Coutin 2016; Dingeman 2018; Golash-Boza 2016a; and Zilberg 2011 are exceptions). This dissertation thus extends migration and deportation research by examining deportees’ civic beliefs, actions, and collective behavior before and after removal. In this chapter, I present the dissertation’s theoretical underpinnings and key literature on deportability, removal, immigrant re/integration, civic engagement, and citizenship, closely attending to ways in which precarity and agency are woven throughout migrants and deportees’ experiences. I first address how scholars have conceptualized mass deportation, outlining the root causes of current policies and their effects on deportees and migrant families. I then review the foundations for analyzing immigrant re/incorporation, bringing together literature on integration after initial migration, voluntary return, and deportation. I focus primarily on measures of incorporation and aids and barriers to integration. Next, I explain my framework for understanding citizenship as a legal status, rights, practices, and feeling of belonging (see Bloemraad, Korteweg, and Yurdakul 2008), highlighting political and civic engagement among migrants. I conclude by discussing the dissertation’s major contributions to deportation, migration, and citizenship studies. DEPORTABILITY AND DEPORTATION Before they are deported, migrants confront hostility during their journey to and 14 settlement in the U.S., which frames their pre- and post-deportation outcomes. Current immigration policies in the Global North are central to the maintenance of global apartheid, in which mostly white and affluent people are free to cross borders and the poor are confined to their country of origin (see Golash-Boza 2015). Global apartheid would not be possible without deportation—“the physical manifestation of policies that determine who is permitted to live where” (Golash-Boza 2015: 3). De Genova (2002) adds that U.S. immigration enforcement policies and rhetoric construct noncitizens as “deportable,” or eligible for removal. Deportability—the possibility of deportation at any time—makes immigrants’ presence in the U.S. temporary and contingent (de Genova 2002). De Genova (2002) asserts that contemporary policies cannot and do not even aim to remove all undocumented migrants but instead to keep a large sector of the U.S. population deportable and thus retain a precarious, compliant workforce afraid of removal. In other words, today’s removal patterns are an integral part of the neoliberal cycle, which maintains the global capitalist project and global apartheid (Golash-Boza 2015: 3; see also Slobodian 2018). This cycle requires an expendable labor force and subsequently compels individuals to emigrate and makes their labor disposable. Together, these policies and their enforcement produce the restricted mobility and increased vulnerability of Black and Brown workers and their loved ones (Golash-Boza 2015: 16), who are disproportionately affected by mass detention and deportation6 (see Golash-Boza and Hondagneu-Sotelo 2013). Effects of Deportability and Deportation In this section, I review ways in which deportees and their loved ones are precaritized in sending and receiving states, in order to ground the dissertation’s analysis of deported 6 Deportations also harm immigrant communities by removing valuable social capital, which reduces the networks left behind and decreases involvement in local churches, businesses, and organizations (Hagan, Leal, and Rodríguez 2015). These losses are especially detrimental in communities and neighborhoods already disadvantaged by race, ethnicity, and class. 15 Salvadorans’ struggles for re/incorporation after removal. As Coutin explains, [D]eportation is not a discrete event; rather, it begins long before an individual is apprehended, through the myriad practices that make someone vulnerable to deportation in the first place. As well deportation continues long after an individual is returned, through the difficult process of readjustment, the ripple effects on family members and the continued prohibition on reentry. (2015: 674) Before they are apprehended, noncitizen immigrants’ vulnerability to deportation affects their inclusion in the host nation, and after removal, they continue to be marginalized through stigmatization, un- and underemployment, violence, and social isolation. These challenges are compounded for families separated by deportation, with negative effects for those removed as well as their loved ones still abroad. I review consequences of deportability and deportation chronologically, briefly discussing the threat of deportation prior to arrest before turning to struggles in the country of birth7 after removal and difficulties specific to separated families. The Specter of Deportability. As noted, most noncitizen immigrants will not be removed from the U.S., but all noncitizens—especially Latin American and Caribbean immigrants targeted for racialized policing—may encounter the specter of deportability, the knowledge that they could be deported at any time (de Genova 2002). Fears around deportations have tangible consequences for immigrants’ families and communities in the U.S., in addition to those who will be deported. Anxieties around apprehension negatively affect immigrants’ physical and mental health (Arbona et al. 2010; Hacker et al. 2011), access to social and educational services 7 Deportations complicate terms like “sending” and “receiving” country and “country of origin,” especially for long-term settlers removed after a lifetime in their adopted nation. For such deportees, their birth country may seem like the “receiving” state, where they may not identify as “native” (see chapter 6; see also Goodfriend 2016). To acknowledge the limits of these concepts, I use the term “country of birth” or “birth country” to describe the deportee-receiving state (i.e. El Salvador) and “deporting state” to denote the deportee-sending state (i.e. the U.S.). 16 (Abrego 2016; Pedraza, Nichols, and LeBrón 2017; Yoshikawa 2011), family relationships (Abrego and Menjívar 2011), physical movement (Menjívar 2006), and confidence in the U.S. police and court system (Becerra et al. 2017)—all of which influence their incorporation and sense of belonging in the host nation (see also Leyro and Stageman 2018). Migrants’ tenuous legal status and deportability also shape their economic outcomes, contributing to un- and underemployment, precarious labor conditions, and low wages (de Genova 2002; Massey, Durand, and Pren 2016). Direct Effects of Deportation. Deportation further precaritizes migrants, affecting their sense of belonging, health, wellbeing, and relationships. In many deportee-receiving states, deportees are stigmatized and scapegoated as criminals, gang members, or failed migrants8. Based on fieldwork with deported Somalis, for example, Nathalie Peutz (2006) asserts, [T]he deportee body is doubly stigmatized—polluted and polluting—both in the host society and at “home.” ... [D]eported bodies are suspected of carrying with them the pollution contracted abroad while also remaining anomalies at home, their forced return subverting the fetishized immigrant success story. (p. 223) Similarly, deported Dominicans are depicted as felons, dangerous Others, Dominicanyorks (an epithet used to describe Americanized members of the Dominican diaspora in New York City), and failures (Brotherton and Barrios 2011: 202-209). Removed Jamaicans and Salvadorans have been blamed for high homicide rates, although research has found no direct link between deportees and crime rates in Jamaica (Headley 2006) and most Salvadoran deportees are removed for noncriminal reasons (DHS 2018; Rivas 2015). Stigmatization—accompanied by 8 Such prejudice is not uniform across deportee-receiving nations (Golash-Boza 2015, 2016b) or within particular deported migrant populations (Dingeman 2018). In Brazil, for instance, there is little stigma attached deportation, and in Guatemala, visible tattoos, rather than one’s identity as a deportee, cause social exclusion (Golash-Boza 2015, 2016b). 17 discrimination and harassment—can inhibit deported migrants’ re/integration and catalyze remigration (see Schuster and Majidi 2013, 2015). Deportation-related stigma is connected to job market discrimination and encounters with violence, which in turn contribute to health and housing problems. Deportees frequently face un- and underemployment (see Boodram 2018b; Brotherton and Barrios 2011; Coutin 2016; Golash- Boza 2015). In Jamaica, they are fired after employers discover their deportation status, and in the Dominican Republic, they are excluded from the formal labor market because they are unable to conceal their migration history (Brotherton and Barrios 2011; Golash-Boza 2015). When they do find jobs, deportees earn significantly less than they were paid in the deporting country (Golash-Boza 2016b), which reduces their ability to provide for their loved ones and repay their debts (see Dingeman 2018; Golash-Boza 2014). Some deported long-term settlers find work in transnational call centers (see Anderson 2015), but the work is precarious (Golash- Boza 2016b), characterized by high turnover, poor conditions, and conflicts with “native” (i.e. nonmigrant) coworkers (Alarcón-Medina 2018; Goodfriend 2016, 2018). Limited career options and meager wages make it difficult for deported migrants to meet their healthcare needs and obtain housing in safe communities. As deportees age and become ill, they are unable to get the treatments they need (Boodram 2018b; see also Ríos 2018). Individuals also may turn to drugs and alcohol to cope with deportation-related stress, anxiety, and depression, exacerbating health problems (Brotherton and Barrios 2011). When deportees are returned to nations with high rates of political instability and violence, as in the case of the Northern Triangle, they may be targeted for harassment and terror at the hands of private security guards, state agents, and gang members. Using newspaper reports from El Salvador, Guatemala, and Honduras, for example, Kennedy estimated that 83 deportees 18 were murdered in 2014 and 2015—45 of them in El Salvador9 (quoted in Brodzinsky and Pilkington 2015). The Salvadoran state offers little protection to deportees, who have been threatened, stopped and searched by police and military, beaten by officers, and killed by gangs (Coutin 2016; Fariña, Miller, and Cavallaro 2010; Zilberg 2011). In most contexts, then, returned migrants are a vulnerable group whose re/integration is impeded by insufficient support from sending and receiving states as well as politicized images of deportees as criminals and failures. Deportation and Family Separation. Deportees also carry the burden that their removal has on their loved ones. Deported spouses and parents are forced to choose between two impossible options—unification in their birth country or family separation. Because deportees are often part of mixed-status families, in which members have different immigration statuses, relocating together can result in the de facto deportation of documented immigrants and U.S. citizens, who are effectively stripped of their constitutional rights in the deporting country (Boehm 2016; Kanstroom 2012; Oliviero 2013). When deportees travel alone, on the other hand, they may lose their parental rights to another family member or adoptive or foster homes (Sanmiguel-Valderrama 2013; Wessler et al. 2011). Meanwhile, after losing a loved one to deportation, families in the deporting state struggle emotionally and economically. In the aftermath of a father or husband’s deportation, mothers frequently become primary breadwinners and sole caregivers, increasing their stress levels and demands on their time, energy, and finances (Doering-White et al. 2016; Drotbohm 2015; Kerwin, Alulema, and Nicholson 2018). Children of deportees endure psychosocial and behavioral challenges including depression, anxiety, withdrawal, and negative academic consequences (Zayas and Heffron 2016). Consequently, family separation poses a substantial barrier to deportees’ re/integration 9 This is likely an undercount of the number of deportees who are killed, as police and media do not always include or accurately report deportation status. 19 and mental health. Knowing their families are struggling without them distresses deportees, many of who were previously their families’ breadwinners (Boodram 2018a; Golash-Boza 2014). Correspondingly, Cardoso and colleagues (2016) found that family separation was the most important factor affecting deported Salvadorans’ intent to remigrate (see also Molina 2014), and Boodram’s (2018a) interviews with deported fathers in Trinidad and Tobago revealed that separation resulted in depression, stress, and marital breakdown. These factors shape deportees’ post-removal experiences, as concerns for their loved ones compound the obstacles they face in their country of birth (e.g. Boodram 2018a; Golash-Boza 2014). In sum, the migration and deportation journey combine to heighten deportees’ precarity in sending as well as receiving states. IMMIGRANT INCORPORATION AND RE/INTEGRATION Immigrant incorporation10 or assimilation is the process through which members of immigrant groups and host populations become less distinct from one another over time (see Alba and Nee 2003). Historically, assimilation was considered a one-directional process, in which immigrants and their descendants adopted the local “mainstream” culture, but more recently scholars have shown that both host and immigrant communities are changed through their interactions with one another and the state (Alba and Nee 2003; Jiménez 2017). Moreover, although early twentieth-century approaches assumed that assimilation was a universal outcome for immigrant groups, Alba and Nee assert that assimilation is not inevitable and, to the extent that it occurs, shifts are incremental and often intergenerational (2003: 38). Deportee re/incorporation complicates immigrant integration and assimilation theorizing, as removal brings together a form of forced, generally unplanned migration and complex 10 Immigrant incorporation is also termed assimilation, acculturation, and integration. In this project, I use immigrant re/incorporation, re/insertion, and re/integration interchangeably. 20 relationships with sending and receiving states. According to community activist Pablo Alvarado, individuals deported from the U.S. to El Salvador are transferred “de un estado policial a otro estado policial (from one police state to another),” having been apprehended and detained by state agents in the U.S. before they are fingerprinted and photographed by police in El Salvador (quoted in AudiovisualesUCA 2013). Deportations from the U.S. to Mexico and the Northern Triangle also reverse long-established South—North migration flows, and the deported migrant population is rapidly expanding and changing, generating diverse re/integration pathways after return (Dingeman 2018). Immigrant incorporation scholarship would be advanced by bringing deportees’ experiences from the margins to its center. Specifically, I argue that, while deported Salvadorans are extremely vulnerable, they claim space and rights as valuable members of their sending and receiving communities. Deportees develop individual as well as collective strategies for re/integration, with varying levels of success. In this section, I thus review immigrant incorporation as it relates to deportable and deported migrants, closely attending to key measures of incorporation and contexts of reception. I then turn to citizenship and political and civic integration. Measuring Immigrant Incorporation What does immigrant integration look like? Alba and Nee (2003) suggest that language acquisition, socioeconomic position, academic achievement, residential change, and intermarriage are key indicators of incorporation (2003: 216). Naturalization is another significant measurement for first- and 1.5-generation11 settlers; immigrant groups’ citizenship rates reveal their level of full integration into the polity (Bloemraad 2006; DeSipio 2011). 11 1.5-generation immigrants are individuals who spent their formative years in the host nation. In this project, I treat all of those who arrived in the U.S. before turning 16 as 1.5-generation immigrants, unless they were deported soon after their initial migration (Rojas-García 2013: 89). 21 Immigrants’ civic and political incorporation is evidenced by citizen-specific (i.e. voting, running for office) as well as non-specific action (i.e. volunteering, participating in local organizations, or attending protests or demonstrations) (see Amuedo-Dorantes and Lopez 2017; Bloemraad 2006; DeSipio 2011). Migrants’ identification with the receiving state provides further evidence of integration; for instance, Coutin’s (2013b, 2016) interviews with deported 1.5-generation Salvadorans demonstrated that localized U.S. knowledge was considered proof of “being there” and belonging (see also Golash-Boza 2016a; Zilberg 2004, 2011). Explaining Immigrant Incorporation. Incorporation depends on a constellation of factors including individual attributes, agency, resources, and the context of reception, which Portes and Rumbaut (2006) term modes of incorporation (see also Portes and Zhou 1993). Portes and Rumbaut note that immigrants’ motivation, knowledge, skills, and resources influence their economic outcomes in the receiving state, but these effects vary as micro-level characteristics intersect with local policies, labor markets, and ethnic communities (2006: 91-4). Immigrant groups’ naturalization rates are inseparable from their history, state policies, and international relations. In the case of Salvadorans and Guatemalans in the U.S., systematic denial of asylum and refugee status in the 1980s and 1990s resulted in low citizenship acquisition and high numbers of TPS recipients with “liminal legality” in the receiving country (Menjívar 2006, 2008). Their tenuous legal status has influenced their economic, social, and civic incorporation (Menjívar 2006, 2008), in addition to their removal rates. Deportability—especially among Latin American and Caribbean settlers disproportionately targeted for removal—affects integration by limiting families’ access to medical services, schools, and other social welfare programs (see Enriquez 2015; Pedraza et al. 2017); preventing domestic and international travel; restricting job opportunities and social mobility (Menjívar 2006); and curbing participation in local 22 organizations (Hagan, Rodriguez, and Castro 2011). States’ distinct approaches to immigrant incorporation generate different rates of citizenship attainment and civic engagement. Compared with the U.S., for example, Canada’s official policy of multiculturalism and state support for settlement have increased naturalization levels and political incorporation (Bloemraad 2006, 2015). Meanwhile, the U.S. economy’s differential treatment of workers by race, ethnicity, gender, and immigration status—like labor markets’ distinct treatment of deportees in many deportee-receiving states—affects economic incorporation, particularly for Black and Brown men (Golash-Boza 2015; Golash-Boza and Hondagneu-Sotelo 2013). Modes of incorporation thus significantly affect all measures of immigrant integration. For Salvadorans and other Central Americans in the U.S., xenophobia and punitive immigration policies are central barriers to inclusion. Immigration Status and Immigrant Generation. Incorporation trajectories also hinge on immigration status and generation, with differences between undocumented immigrants, LPRs, TPS holders, and citizens, as well as between first-, 1.5-, and second-generation immigrants (Abrego 2011). Portes and Zhou (1993: 76) argue that scholarship on the first generation offers little insight into second-generation immigrants, whose socialization and outlook differ from their parents and caregivers. The authors assert that the children of immigrants in the U.S. do not integrate uniformly but instead enter society along one of three pathways—(1) the white middle class, (2) permanent poverty and the local underclass, or (3) their ethnic communities. This segmented assimilation results in downward mobility for members of the second generation who join native-born populations marginalized by race and class (Portes and Zhou 1993). While scholars have disputed the generalizability of the segmented assimilation approach (Nawyn and Park 2019; Valdez 2015; Waldinger and Feliciano 2004), it provides a useful, albeit rudimentary, 23 typology for understanding the integration of second-generation Salvadorans in the U.S. and, arguably, first- and 1.5-generation Salvadorans, as well (see Dingeman 2018; Menjívar 2008). Rojas-García further asserts that Generation 1.5, who she considers involuntary migrants because they were taken to the receiving state by their parents or caregivers as minors, do not necessarily follow the same path as first- or second-generation immigrants due to their tenuous legal status and scant family resources (2013: 88). Child and adult immigrants’ divergent introductions to local society contribute to their different incorporation pathways. Upon arrival, adults primarily join the workforce and children enroll in schools. At work, undocumented immigrants experience substantial marginalization, but schools curb the salience of unauthorized status, at least temporarily (Gleeson and Gonzales 2012). These institutions therefore construct separate experiences of illegality for adult migrants and 1.5ers (Gleeson and Gonzales 2012; see also Abrego 2011). The diversity across and among immigrant generations complicates immigrant incorporation theorizing and has important implications for scholarship on re/integration after deportation. Age at initial migration, legal status, and socialization intersect with contexts of reception and demographic factors to shape incorporation trajectories in the receiving state, which in turn influence deportees’ re/integration pathways in the birth country. Return Migration and Re/integration Like initial integration in the receiving state, re/adaptation in the country of origin is shaped by contexts of exit and modes of incorporation, for forced as well as voluntary returnees. Ruben, van Houte, and Davids (2009) conceive sustainable return migration as “a process of mixed embeddedness,” which refers to “the ways how individuals find and define their position in society, feel a sense of belonging and possibilities for participation in society” (2009: 910). Embeddedness comprises three interconnected dimensions—economic, social network, and 24 psychosocial embeddedness. Potential for embeddedness is influenced by individual factors (e.g. age, gender, education, and religion); position in the migration cycle (i.e. migration motivations, length of settlement, and return conditions); and pre- and post-return assistance offered by state, private, and non-governmental organizations (p. 914). Ruben et al.’s (2009) fieldwork with involuntary migrants highlights the importance—and frequently the lack—of integrated support before and after return. To be effective, the authors argue, assistance programs should provide not only financial aid but also information, entrepreneurial support, employment recruitment, and psychosocial assistance (p. 932-3). Beyond involuntary returnees, Cassarino (2004) provides a framework that explains the post-return outcomes of an increasingly heterogeneous body of return migrants (i.e. returnees ranging from rejected asylum seekers and deportees to retirees and entrepreneurs). His approach emphasizes two elements—preparedness and resource mobilization (Cassarino 2004). According to Cassarino, preparing for return requires “time, resources and willingness on the part of the migrant” (2004: 271). Migrants differ in their willingness and readiness to return home, as well as their access to tangible and intangible resources, such as economic capital, contacts, relationships, and skills (p. 271). Circumstances in the origin country and the host nation affect returnees’ preparedness and influence how they mobilize the resources available to them. Medina and Menjívar (2015) show that circumstances in the two countries are inseparably linked: enforcement policies and immigration laws significantly affect returnees’ citizenship and legal status in the host nation and correspondingly their “context of return” and re/incorporation in the country of origin. Cassarino disaggregates return migrants into three categories based on their levels of preparedness (2004: 273-5). Those with high levels of preparedness return with savings, 25 networks, and marketable expertise; as such, they are able to carry out projects and re/adapt to their country of origin. Those with low levels of preparedness were unable to meet their goals in the host nation and bring few savings. Upon return, they have few resources that can be invested in the country of origin and may depend on moral and financial support from loved ones. Those with no preparedness and no considerable resources—here Cassarino includes deportees—face difficult conditions at home and may consider remigration. Cassarino’s approach usefully highlights the diversity of the return migrant population, though his discussion of deportees is cursory and merits extension. Re/incorporating Deported Migrants. As with return migrants more broadly, scholars have increasingly highlighted differences among deportees. For example, Golash-Boza found that, while deported migrants were stigmatized in Jamaica and the Dominican Republic, there was no such stigma in Brazil, where returned migrants were welcomed as potential workers (2015: 254-5). Her interviews revealed that migration history, skills attained abroad, and family separation also influenced re/integration (2015: 255). Moreover, using a longitudinal survey with deported and voluntary returnees in León, Mexico, Hagan, Wassink, and Castro found convergences in labor market pathways and social mobility outcomes across deportation status, which they attributed in part to the Mexican state’s neutral treatment of deportees and other return migrants12 (2019: 174). During their initial wave of interviews, deported participants were more likely than other returnees to enter the informal labor market and work undesirable jobs, but five years later, both groups had experienced substantial mobility. Successful reintegration, 12 Conversely, Medina and Menjívar (2015) found that U.S.-born children of returnees experienced difficulties when they accompanied their parents to Mexico. Noncitizen youth and their families encountered anti-foreigner sentiment, convoluted school enrollment processes, and the unjust seizure of identification documents (p. 2130-1). These findings demonstrate the nuances of contexts of return, in addition to the blurred boundaries between voluntary and involuntary return. 26 in their case, hinged on acquiring and mobilizing human and economic capital, combined with time and an open context of return. These findings suggest that, despite deportees’ precarity, they exercise agency in some circumstances (see also Golash-Boza 2016b). Dingeman (2018) reveals that migrants deported to the same country experience segmented paths of re/integration, shaped by the interaction between contexts of return, individual characteristics, social identities, and agentic behavior (p. 118, 119). In El Salvador, she found that national affiliation and perceptions of deportee criminality were the best predictors of socio-cultural and economic re/integration. Those men who described stronger membership in the U.S.—“U.S. nationals”—differed from those who claimed primary membership in El Salvador—“Salvadoran nationals.” U.S. nationals were significantly more likely to report being harassed and stereotyped as criminals based on their appearance, speech, and body language. Their economic outcomes also varied, unlike Salvadoran nationals who faced a consistently precarious economic situation but less othering. Ríos (2018) similarly highlights the diversity of the deported migrant population in El Salvador and asserts that such recognition is necessary for meeting the needs of different returned groups. Ríos classifies deportees according to their migration and deportation type—express deportation, catch and release, deportation order, criminal act, TPS and other temporary statuses, deported children, and those removed along the migratory route (2018: 15-16). These results suggest that scholars interested in post-deportation re/incorporation must attend to the contexts of removal and return, as well as age at first migration, length of stay in the deporting country, reason for removal, time elapsed since return, and other individual-level and social network factors. DEFINING AND MEASURING CITIZENSHIP Citizenship is a key indicator of immigrants’ full incorporation in the state, and civic 27 engagement is a central expression of their agency. In countries like the U.S., Bloemraad (2006) suggests, ...the glue that binds strangers is citizenship in the political body. Citizenship is not only a legal status that accords rights and benefits, but it is also an invitation to participate in a system of mutual governance, and it can be an identity that provides a sense of belonging. (p. 1; see also Bloemraad et al. 2008: 154) Status citizenship does not guarantee substantive citizenship, and vice versa. Racial, ethnic, and sexual minorities in the U.S. have struggled for the right to belong long after acquiring legal citizenship, and noncitizen immigrants have felt and acted like citizens despite their precarious status (Bosniak 2006; Coutin 2016; Golash-Boza 2016a; Nakano Glenn 2011; Rosaldo 1994). In the U.S., noncitizens—including deportable immigrants—have access to some social welfare programs, and they often participate in practices associated with membership, such as paying taxes; working; owning their home; and attending protests, school board meetings, and other civic and political events. For example, only three rights separate LPRs from citizens—the rights to vote, hold public office, and not be deported13. LPRs can live their lives exercising nearly all the rights of citizens, blurring the line between citizen and alien, but this blurry line rapidly comes into focus in light of the hundreds of thousands of LPRs who are deported in spite of their extensive ties to their adopted country (Golash-Boza 2016a: 1576). To explain these messy boundaries between inclusion and exclusion, scholars have explored citizenship’s various components and iterations. Bloemraad defines full citizenship as the acquisition of legal citizenship—naturalization—coupled with engagement in the local 13 Some noncitizens in the U.S. can vote in local elections (Dixon et al. 2018), and certain citizens, such as those convicted of felonies, are often disenfranchised (Bosniak 2006). In practice, then, the only immutable distinction between citizens and LPRs is that citizens are not deportable (Golash-Boza 2016a: 1579). 28 political system, which she terms participatory or substantive citizenship (2006: 5); Bosniak labels these “thin” and “thick” citizenship, respectively (2006: 87). Marshall (1992 [1950]) uses social citizenship to describe people’s access to social programs and societal inclusion. Brettell (2006) adds that citizenship entails not only an identity and access to rights but also responsibilities to the state. Rosaldo (1994) and Flores and Benmayor (1997) employ cultural citizenship to emphasize that ethnic groups form communities and make rights claims, gradually transforming meanings of participation and inclusion. At the same time, Brodie (1997) asserts that membership in the neoliberal state has become increasingly individualized, unattached to social structures and resource provision. This market citizenship is based on one’s participation in the waged economy and purchasing power; in a neoliberal capitalist system, independent agents “earn” their citizenship through their labor market performance and participation (van Houdt, Suvarierol, and Schinkel 2011). As these interpretations suggest, citizenship is socially constructed, mutually constituted, and challenged through micro-level interactions and people’s relationships with social structures (Nakano Glenn 2011: 2). Deportees epitomize the limitations of current citizenship construction. This dissertation shows that deported Salvadoran long-term settlers claim membership in the U.S. based on their deep roots in their adopted home, while they simultaneously claim rights and belonging in El Salvador based on their legal citizenship. In both contexts, deportees assert that they have earned a right to belong through their contributions to the state, economy, and local community. In the following section, I discuss contemporary interpretations of citizenship, specifically social, market, and cultural approaches. I then outline ways that migration scholars have measured immigrants’ political membership, civic engagement, and incorporation. Throughout, I highlight theorizing and findings on the citizenship, political incorporation, and agency of deportees and 29 other return migrants in their birth countries and host nations. Defining Citizenship Social Citizenship. Marshall (1992) divided citizenship into three elements—civil, political, and social. He traced the development of English citizenship to the end of the nineteenth century: in England, civil rights were established in the eighteenth century, followed by political rights in the nineteenth and social rights in the twentieth, beginning with the creation of public elementary education. Social citizenship refers to an individual’s inclusion within society and their right to participate fully and equally in public programs (Marshall 1992), such as education, medical care, housing, or libraries. Marshall did not anticipate that noncitizens would hold citizenship rights (Wayland 1996) and instead conceptualized social rights as progressing linearly from legal citizenship. However, noncitizens often enjoy some access to membership and social welfare programs in the host nation, and Chauvin and Garcés- Mascareñas suggest that social rights may in fact form “the precarious infrastructure of political agency and the contentious harbinger of civil equality” (2012: 254). Noncitizen youth, for example, may attend public schools where their immigration status is relatively inconsequential14 (see Gonzales 2011). Deported Latin American and Caribbean migrants may correspondingly have a strong sense of belonging and social citizenship in the U.S. (Brotherton and Barrios 2011; Coutin 2013b, 2016; Golash-Boza 2016a; Zilberg 2004, 2011). During interviews with Coutin, for instance, deported Salvadoran youths frequently referenced “sites, knowledge, and experiences that placed them in the United States” (2016: 143). They described U.S. school experiences, work histories, and the names of local places that had been important to them as they grew up. Notably, social citizenship influences political and cultural citizenship, as a feeling 14 Noncitizen youths’ protection from illegality is partial and temporary. After they leave school and enter adulthood, students “age into exclusion” (Gonzales 2011). 30 of inclusion may increase one’s likelihood of civic engagement (Flores 2003). Neoliberalization and “Earned” Citizenship. While social citizenship rights were extended throughout the twentieth century, they have been largely retracted in the early twenty- first (Brodie 2008). In a neoliberal context, Brodie (1997) argues, membership is based not on one’s legal status but on their economic power and participation in the waged economy—market citizenship. Unauthorized migrants are encouraged to prove they are “good illegals”—and thereby become candidates for legalization—through their economic reliability and fiscal contributions, in addition to noncriminal conduct, identity stability, and bureaucratic traceability (i.e. paying taxes or holding a job contract) (Chauvin and Garcés-Mascareñas 2012: 247-9). Yet groups marginalized by their immigration status, race, class, gender, or sexuality are disadvantaged in the labor market and thus have reduced access to citizenship claims, often despite their legal rights. For example, Grace, Nawyn, and Okwako found that Burundian refugees in the U.S. were not guaranteed even the basic services like water and electricity to which they were entitled; instead, “[m]oney emerged as the only undeniable and enforceable source of rights” (2017: 54). In the absence of state-funded programs and resources, refugees relied on their loved ones and community relations to overcome barriers to access (Grace, Nawyn, and Okwako 2017). As industrialized nation-states have increasingly emphasized individual responsibility, they have simultaneously “sacralized” citizenship, attaching greater weight to national identity, values, and community (van Houdt et al. 2011). Van Houdt, Suvarierol, and Schinkel (2011) suggest that Western European nation-states have advanced forms of neoliberal communitarian citizenship (see also van Houdt and Schinkel 2014) Individuals are expected not only to be economically self-sufficient, but also to meet cultural and moral criteria, which may range from 31 knowledge of national history and institutions to playing an active role in one’s community or sharing national values. In the United Kingdom, for instance, prospective citizens are encouraged to contribute to their communities by volunteering (p. 417), and in France, naturalizing citizens are expected to internalize the republic’s core values15 (p. 418). Neoliberal communitarian citizenship “raises the stakes” for new members, who are compelled to continually prove their worthiness as citizens and their commitment to the nation-state (p. 425). Meanwhile, citizenship regimes serve as an effective strategy for population management at the national and international level (van Houdt et al. 2011: 423). The concept of “earned citizenship” has important implications for immigrants and their allies, who have leveraged such rhetoric into claims of belonging despite their noncitizen and even irregular status (Patler 2018; Zimmerman 2015). For example, Patler’s (2018) analysis of anti-deportation campaigns throughout the U.S. revealed that undocumented student organizations use “citizenship frames” to challenge deportation orders and build support for pro- immigrant policies. Activists dispute removals using normative ideologies of citizenship that highlight individuals’ active engagement, identification with U.S. values; and social and cultural integration, including educational achievement and work histories, coupled with humanitarian concerns. Patler found that these frames reflected and in turn influenced U.S. laws and policies, uncovering how undocumented immigrants can “[enact] their own political existence” and impact broader conceptualizations of national membership (2018: 111). Yet while such frames contest boundaries between citizens and noncitizens, they also reify messages about “good” or 15 These expectations are evaluated and enforced differently in various national contexts (van Houdt et al. 2011). In the U.K., for example, volunteer work is not required, but it can help prospective citizens to accelerate their journey toward citizenship (p. 417). During the application process, the U.K. monitors applicants for their positive and negative contributions to British life, which may earn them points or slow their progress, respectively. In many countries, new citizens also must take tests and profess their allegiance during naturalization ceremonies. 32 “deserving” citizens, marginalizing immigrants who do not fit this mold (Patler 2018). Cultural Citizenship. Parallel to the rise of neoliberal citizenship, marginalized populations have organized for their rights, asserting their collective national membership. Flores (2003) and others (see also Flores and Benmayor 1997; Rosaldo 1994) use the term cultural citizenship to describe the process by which groups “define themselves, form a community, and claim space and social rights”16 (p. 297). Pakulski further asserts that cultural citizenship claims include “the right to presence and visibility (vs marginalisation); the right to dignifying representation (vs stigmatization); and the right to propagation of identity and maintenance of lifestyles (vs assimilation)” (1997: 80). Cultural citizenship combines elements of social and political citizenship and serves as an organizing mechanism for groups who have been denied access to full citizenship rights and recognition (Pakulski 1997). This is made possible by shared stories, collective memories, goals, and solidarity; for example, Flores (2003) asserts that Latino cultural citizenship draws on the shared history, experiences, needs, and collective identity of Chicanos, Mexican-Americans, and other Latinos in the U.S. Cisneros (2013) adds that cultural citizenship is performative, exemplified through collective symbols and acts such as displaying a flag or attending public ceremonies. Together these authors suggest that, by enacting cultural citizenship, marginalized populations transform society’s definitions of membership and belonging (see also Nakano Glenn 2011). Similarly, Zimmerman’s interviews with Central Americans in the U.S.—both citizens and noncitizens—demonstrate that activists’ demands for legalization contest narrowly defined understandings of citizenship by emphasizing its participatory dimensions (2015: 29). 16 Flores (2003) and Rosaldo (1994) provide one of several interpretations of cultural citizenship, which vary according to the author’s discipline and their conceptualization of “cultural” (see Pawley 2008 for a comprehensive discussion of these differences). 33 Ong (1996) extends cultural citizenship to include not only the practices of individual agents and communities but also their interactions with the state. According to Ong, cultural citizenship comprises “the cultural practices and beliefs produced out of negotiating the often ambivalent and contested relations with the state and its hegemonic forms that establish the criteria of belonging within a national population and territory” (1996: 738). Groups’ citizenship practices are constrained by the parameters determined by the state, which are based on racialized and classed interpretations of membership. Ong correspondingly argues for an intersectional approach to citizenship construction, accounting for immigrants’ race, ethnicity, and location in the global economy; to these axes, Yuval-Davis (2011) adds gender. Beaman also emphasizes that citizenship regimes marginalize certain populations, producing full and second- class citizens (2016: 852). “Deportable” migrants and their loved ones, who are disproportionately profiled and targeted by police and migration officials, are arguably second- class citizens in their host nations. Furthermore, removed long-term settlers develop cultural citizenship in the deporting state, even though they lack legal citizenship. As discussed, deported Jamaican LPRs felt they belonged to their communities and families in the U.S. (Golash-Boza 2016a), and removed 1.5-generation Salvadorans experienced deportation as “banishment” from the place that they called home (Coutin 2013b, 2016; Zilberg 2004, 2011). We know less about deported migrants’ attainment of social rights, political engagement, and cultural citizenship after their resettlement in their birth country—a gap filled by this project. Cultural citizenship thus provides a useful lens for considering the experiences of deportees before and after removal. Civic Engagement, Political Incorporation, and Immigrant Integration Civic and political engagement are prime expressions of agency and elements of immigrant incorporation. Broadly conceived, civic engagement refers to active participation in 34 public life (Putnam 2000), such as reading the local newspaper, attending church services and community meetings, raising money for charity, and volunteering, along with explicitly political actions including writing or calling politicians, signing petitions, advocating for neighborhood initiatives, attending political rallies, and voting (Dixon, Bessaha, and Post 2018: 369; Ebert and Okamoto 2013: 1269). According to Ong and Meyer, political incorporation further denotes “the capacity to mobilize effective political action in response to perceived political opportunities in a host country” (2004: 4, emphasis removed). Political incorporation has traditionally been measured through naturalization (Bloemraad 2006), voting behavior (Pachon and DeSipio 1994), political views (Fraga et al. 2012; Leal 2007), and party affiliation (Barreto 2007; Fraga et al. 2012). However, while naturalization and voter activity are central in facilitating immigrant incorporation, a sole focus on these indicators excludes immigrants ineligible for formal citizenship (Dixon et al. 2018). Dixon, Bessaha, and Post therefore advocate a conceptual framework that separates those who are eligible to vote (naturalized citizens and second- generation immigrants) from those who are ineligible (TPS and visa holders, LPRs, and undocumented immigrants), in order to deepen understandings of immigrant incorporation (2018: 372). Recently, scholars have extended research on immigrants’ civic and political incorporation to encompass a range of actions available not only to citizens but also to noncitizen residents. In the host nation, noncitizens can attend public protests and rallies (see Beltrán 2009; Inda and Dowling 2013), participate in community organizations and ethnic associations (Brettell and Reed-Danahay 2012; Pastor et al. 2016; Vanderkooy and Nawyn 2011), lead political campaigns (Mahler and Siemiatycki 2011), or join local organizations such as trade unions and parent-teacher associations (DeSipio 2011). Researchers have also begun to explore 35 the effects of contexts of reception (Amuedo-Dorantes and Lopez 2017; Bloemraad 2006; White 2016) and immigration status (Abrego 2011) on political engagement and claims making. White (2016) revealed that Latino voter turnout increased after jurisdictions’ enrollment in the Secure Communities program, suggesting that stricter immigration enforcement may catalyze mobilization among racialized groups. Amuedo-Dorantes and Lopez found that intensified enforcement lowered voter registration rates among U.S. citizens from mixed-status households, but it increased their involvement in volunteer work, indicating that such citizens disengage from the formal electoral process but remain civically active (2017: 2225). The mobilization of undocumented activists in particular shows that deportable immigrants can be highly involved and, in some cases, successfully combat their marginalization (Coutin 2003; Nakano Glenn 2011; Patler 2018). Flores (2003) and Inda and Dowling (2013) add that noncitizens engage in “migrant counter-conducts,” practices that challenge their exclusion and criminalization, ranging from mundane activities—for example, alerting one’s friends about a traffic checkpoint—to riskier actions such as publicly coming out as undocumented. In sum, the deportation turn has significantly influenced the civic and political participation of immigrants, their loved ones, and native-born individuals racialized as “illegal” (De Genova 2002), prompting my assertion that deportees can be civically active before and after removal. Political Engagement in the Sending State. While living in the host country, immigrants may also participate in electoral and non-electoral activities in the sending state. Guarnizo, Portes, and Haller (2003); Levitt (2001); and Wiltberger (2014) have found that immigrants conduct a variety of civic and political actions in their country of origin. For example, they may encourage family members to vote, offer financial contributions in the form of remittances, act as members or leaders of political parties and charities, or take part in electoral campaigns and 36 rallies. Guarnizo and colleagues (2003) found that, compared with Dominican and Colombian immigrants, Salvadorans in the U.S. were especially likely to be members of hometown associations, provide money for community projects, and participate in charity organizations active in their home country. Wiltberger (2014) additionally found that Salvadoran immigrant community activists have made demands on the Salvadoran government, calling for the state to provide services for immigrants living abroad as well as for those in transit to the U.S. or returning to El Salvador voluntarily or as deportees. These demands are especially influential in light of Salvadoran immigrants’ contributions to El Salvador’s economy; in 2016 alone, Salvadorans abroad sent home more than 4.5 billion U.S. dollars (Banco Central de Reserva de El Salvador [BCR] n.d.)—the equivalent of 17.1 percent of the nation’s gross domestic product (DeSilver 2018). The Salvadoran diaspora’s economic power is evidenced by Salvadoran politicians’ frequent visits to diasporic communities in the U.S. and the passage of an overseas voting bill in 2013 (see Paarlberg 2019). Immigrants also share social remittances, such as norms, practices, identities, and social capital (Levitt 2001). In a study of Dominican immigrants in Boston, for example, Levitt (2001) found that, even though immigrants reported only marginal participation in U.S. politics, they infused their Dominican hometown of Miraflores with new political ideas and expectations (p. 148). Though Levitt’s participants were ambivalent about the effects of migration on the political system in the Dominican Republic, her results suggest that the migration process can affect immigrants’ understanding of political participation, rights, and belonging. These findings highlight how immigrants shape meanings and practices associated with citizenship, political incorporation, and civic engagement in both sending (Córdova and Hiskey 2015; Wiltberger 2014) and receiving states (Bloemraad 2006; Nakano Glenn 2011; Patler 2018). 37 Citizenship and Engagement among Return Migrants and Deported Migrants While deportees are a highly vulnerable population, scholars and activists are beginning to question when and how they contribute to their birth countries (Ríos 2015) and fully rejoin societies despite seemingly insurmountable obstacles (Hagan et al. 2019; Headley and Milovanovic 2016). Hagan and colleagues assert, “[D]eported migrants are an adaptable and resilient population whose divergent mobility pathways can be largely explained by human agency and the skills and resources acquired abroad and mobilised upon return” (2019: 171). Ríos (2015) similarly advocates for the recognition that returned long-term settlers are change agents with knowledge and skills to offer their birth country. The National Organisation of Deported Migrants (NODM), a nationally registered, deportee-owned NGO in Jamaica that aims to build social capital for deported migrants, models one potential trajectory for deported activists and agents of change (Headley and Milovanovic 2016: 68). The NODM uses education and civic engagement to promote deported Jamaicans’ citizenship rights and facilitate their economic integration. Yet other studies have shown that deportees and voluntary return migrants are often unable to mobilize due to their marginalization in the country of birth. Dingeman-Cerda and Rumbaut (2015) found that deported Salvadorans carry social remittances but generally lack the social capital needed to share them. Pérez-Armendáriz (2014) adds that, while migrants abroad affect nonmigrants’ political beliefs and behaviors, return migrants are less influential. This is because émigrés’ social ties with nonmigrants are more cohesive and asymmetrical than those of their returning counterparts. While voluntary and deported returnees in Mexico initially hoped to contribute to public and political life in their communities, they soon disengaged from public life, because they lacked support from non-migrant friends and family members (Pérez- 38 Armendáriz 2014). These conflicting findings underscore the need for further research on civic and political re/integration among deported migrants. I correspondingly interview unaffiliated as well as civically engaged deportees (i.e. members of the PIR group, RENACERES, INSAMI, and Homies Unidos). I find that collective action among deported Salvadorans is rare but increasing, with many unaffiliated deportees expressing interest in becoming more involved in their local communities. CONCLUSION In this chapter, I have reviewed central ways of understanding the recent deportation turn, immigrant and returnee re/integration, citizenship, and civic engagement, highlighting how deportable and deported migrants are precaritized and exercise agency during migration, settlement, deportation, and re/integration. This scholarship uncovers high levels of social and economic precarity among deportable and deported populations, which inhibit their sense of belonging in both contexts. Migrants’ immigration and deportation statuses intersect with their race, ethnicity, gender, and class, alongside other social locations, to compound their marginalization (de Genova 2002; Golash-Boza). In the current neoliberal context, Black and Brown poor and working-class men, in particular, are vulnerable to precarious employment, apprehension, deportation, and violence (Golash-Boza and Hondagneu-Sotelo 2013). However, migrants and deportees do not passively accept their marginalization but struggle for survival, inclusion, and recognition at home and abroad (see Headley and Milovanovic 2016). For example, undocumented youth activists in the U.S. and members of the NODM in Jamaica make membership claims and engage in counter-conducts to combat their criminalization and stigmatization (Flores 2003; Headley and Milovanovic 2016; Inda and Dowling 2013; Patler 2018). They publicly reconstruct themselves as members of the U.S.- 39 American and Jamaican polities, respectively—in the case of undocumented migrants, risking arrest or deportation in pursuit of social change. Zimmerman’s (2015) discussions with U.S.- citizen and noncitizen Central American activists further reveal ways in which they have purposefully redefined citizenship to support their demands for legalization. Yet, while considerable research has explored immigrant claims making, agency, and advocacy in the host country, less is known about these trends in deportee-receiving states, despite the creation of deportee-led advocacy organizations in El Salvador, Mexico, Guatemala, Honduras, and Jamaica. In this project, I advance theorizing around migrants’ citizenship definitions, membership claims, and political and civic engagement by examining deportees’ beliefs, intentions, and actions before and after removal. The literature presented here shapes my framework in three primary ways: first, Dingeman’s (2018) segmented re/integration approach calls attention to the need to further disaggregate the deported migrant population. I respond to this call by examining the effects of gender, age, migration history, and other social locations on deported Salvadorans’ re/incorporation after removal. Second, de Genova (2002) and Golash-Boza’s (2015) arguments that deportability and deportations sustain global racial and class inequality prompt me to consider the effects of neoliberal globalization on deportees’ membership claims and modes of incorporation. Lastly, the lack of research on deported migrants’ agency, civic engagement, and collective behavior, coupled with Headley and Milovanovic’s (2016) study of the NODM, demonstrate the need for scholarship on deportees as potential change agents (Ríos 2015). I extend political and civic engagement scholarship by exploring migrants’ actions alongside their beliefs and imagined or aspired re/incorporation (i.e. what they wish they could do after return). Together, these factors enable me to provide a multi-faceted illustration of deported Salvadorans’ 40 divergent experiences, beliefs, practices, and desired engagement, accounting for both their precarity and potential as change agents. Immigrant incorporation scholars have consistently demonstrated the central role of modes of incorporation for determining immigrants’ integration pathways (see Portes and Zhou 1993). Contexts of reception and return shape immigrants and deportees’ economic, socio- cultural, and political incorporation, as well as their access to citizenship rights and recognition (Golash-Boza 2015; Medina and Menjívar 2015). Local contexts interact differently with immigrants and returnees’ individual and group-level characteristics, such as race, ethnicity, nationality, class, gender, sexuality, religion, immigration status, and migration history (Dingeman 2018; see also Ríos 2018). My dissertation further reveals the effect of age on re/integration trajectories, especially as it interacts with gender to produce distinct deported masculinities. Though all deportees encounter precarity, exploring the differences among various segments of the removed migrant population reveals that they carry different levels of social, cultural, and financial capital, such as networks in their birth countries or skills learned abroad, which affect their re/incorporation pathways and capacity for agency (see Golash-Boza 2016b; Hagan et al. 2019). Return migration theorizing should consider deportees’ diverse characteristics rather than treating them as a homogenous group. For instance, Cassarino’s (2004) typology assumes that deportees have made no preparations for their return. This is frequently true, but some deportees begin preparing to return while in detention or even before, if they know that removal is a possibility. Deportees’ families in El Salvador and the U.S. also may help them prepare, as in the case of immigrant parents who emigrated with the intention of returning to El Salvador at some point, sent remittances, and built homes or even businesses abroad. Integrating deported migrants 41 more thoroughly into Cassarino’s (2004) framework would highlight the role of family and social network support in preparing for return. The literature synthesized here also suggests the possible forms that individual and collective agency can take—and, more significantly, their limits—within a neoliberal context. In its emphasis on individual self-reliance (e.g. “pulling oneself up by one’s bootstraps”), neoliberal ideology opens the possibility of noncitizen membership through immigrants’ productivity and economic value. Paying one’s taxes and bills arguably earns one the right to belong, regardless of immigration and citizenship status (Brodie 1997; see also García 2018). This ideology thus appears to offer a space to immigrants, the majority of whom participate in the labor force (see Hagan, Eschbach, and Rodríguez 2008). However, deportation embodies neoliberalism’s failed promise of emancipation through economic independence (see also Golash-Boza 2015; Goodfriend 2016). Not only are deportations used to suppress wages and maintain inequality globally, but on the micro level, they also deny immigrants the inclusion that they have “earned” throughout years of working in the U.S. and other deporting states17. Neoliberalism continues to constrain deported migrants in their birth countries, where structural adjustment policies have often dismantled social welfare programs and produced inflation, precarious employment, and low wages (see chapter 4). Analyses of immigrants and deportees’ sense of belonging, civic engagement, and re/incorporation must consider the effects of neoliberalism in contexts of removal as well as return. Deported Salvadorans’ profound precarity also caused me to question if and when such migrants are able to exercise agency (see Coutin 2016; Ríos 2015). My findings reveal that 17 While this may seem self-evident to scholars familiar with neoliberalism and its consequences for poor and marginalized populations, it is not necessarily obvious to those immigrants who encounter its direct effects after years of being immersed in its ideology. 42 deportees are sometimes able to act as change agents in small but significant ways (Ríos 2015). More often, however, they express imagined re/incorporation trajectories, describing ways in which they would contribute to their communities, economies, and societies if given the opportunity. These results have important implications for immigrant incorporation theorizing, because, with the exception of economic and academic aspirations (e.g. Boccagni 2017; Perreira and Spees 2015; Portes, McLeod, and Parker 1987), researchers have rarely examined migrants’ intended integration trajectories (but see Hauge and Fold 2016). The discrepancies between deportees’ intended and actual practices also have practical implications for policymakers, as they highlight structural barriers preventing integration. Finally, exploring imagined or intended incorporation offers a nuanced way to study agency, independent reflection, and action among deportees as well as other migrants and vulnerable populations. This dissertation thus advances scholarship on citizenship, immigrant incorporation, and civic engagement, revealing the value of bringing deported migrants from the margins to the center of migration studies. 43 CHAPTER THREE METHODS In this dissertation, I use ethnographic methods to explore how deported Salvadorans experience apprehension, detention, deportation, reception, and re/incorporation, as well as how they define and perform citizenship in the host nation and their country of origin. Because of their encounters with inclusion and exclusion at “home” and “abroad,” deported migrants offer valuable insights into national membership and civic engagement. Depending on their migration history, social networks, and demographic factors, they may be “outsiders within” either—or both—the United States and El Salvador. As precarious migrants in the U.S., they are racialized and rendered deportable (de Genova 2002; Golash-Boza 2015), represented as undocumented migrants in popular media (Dixon and Williams 2015), and disproportionately targeted by police and immigration officials (Armenta 2017; see also Gómez Cervantes, Alvord, and Menjívar 2018; Menjívar, Gómez Cervantes, and Alvord 2018). As deportees in El Salvador, they are labeled criminals or failures (Dingeman 2018; Zilberg 2011). Despite their exclusion, however, they often feel a sense of belonging in homes, families, communities, and even nation-states (Coutin 2013b, 2016). Returned migrants thus provide a unique lens into citizenship, incorporation, and nation. In this chapter, I outline my research design, sample, and the study’s context. I first explain my methodological approach, which combines an actor-oriented paradigm (see Long 1990, 2015) and tenets from feminist standpoint theory (Collins 2009; Harding 2001). I then turn to the research site, historical context, and population. I explain El Salvador’s value as a site for deportation research, including its high removal rates and re/integration programming. I highlight two salient events—the 2014 Central American “migrant crisis” and the 2016 U.S. 44 presidential election. Next, I discuss the Salvadoran returned migrant population and study sample. I then review my methods—interviews, focus groups, participant observation, and supplemental documents—and data analysis techniques, before discussing my positionality. METHODOLOGY This project is rooted in two interlocking assumptions. First, deportees have “outsider within” status in their countries of origin and removal, as evidenced by both deported 1.5- generation immigrants who experience deportation as banishment (Brotherton and Barrios 2011; Zilberg 2011) and newly arrived migrants, whose introduction to the U.S. includes apprehension and detention, often coupled with verbal harassment and force (Phillips, Hagan, and Rodriguez 2006). Collins18 explains that outsiders within “occupy a special place—they become different people, and their difference sensitizes them to patterns that may be more difficult for established sociological insiders within” (1986: S29). Deported Salvadorans’ outsider within status in the U.S. and El Salvador enables them to understand citizenship, belonging, migration, and the U.S.- American and Salvadoran justice systems in a way that insiders cannot. Correspondingly, deportees should be brought from the margins of migration theorizing to its center. Second, deportees exercise agency, despite their marginalization. Following Giddens (1984), Harding (2001), and Long (1990), I assert that even under extremely coercive conditions, deported individuals have agency—“knowledgeability, capability and social embeddedness associated with acts of doing (and reflecting) that impact upon or shape [their] and others’ actions and interpretations” (Long 1990: 8). Based on deportees’ unique viewpoints and constrained agency, I employ an actor-centered approach throughout this study. 18 Collins is describing the outsider within status of Black women sociologists, but she concludes that a variety of individuals, such as Black men, other people of color, working-class people, and white women, can learn from Black women’s experiences (1986: S29). Racialized noncitizen migrants and deportees arguably also have outsider within status. 45 Institutions in the U.S. and El Salvador play central roles in the lives of deportees. The U.S. determines their continued physical absence through expulsion and threats of incarceration upon re-entry, and deportation shapes their financial situation through lost jobs, savings, and belongings. In El Salvador, government programs and resources can aid deportees’ re/incorporation (see Rietig and Dominguez-Villegas 2015), but heightened policing restricts their mobility while exclusion from the local workforce inhibits their economic re/integration. It is crucial to consider the role of social structures in the lives of deported Salvadorans, who are vulnerable to verbal harassment, physical violence, unemployment, stigmatization, and poor health (see chapter 2). Yet these external obstacles do not completely control returned migrants. In El Salvador and other deportee-receiving states, deportees challenge their marginalization by leveraging language skills acquired abroad into call center jobs (Golash-Boza 2016b), hiding their deportation status, critiquing their birth country, or remigrating (Coutin 2016; Schuster and Majidi 2015). In some nations, deportees have joined forces and collectively confronted their exclusion (see Headley and Milovanovic 2016). Deported Salvadorans similarly asserted their agency in my interviews and observations. For example, during a 2014 focus group with returned ex-gang members, Jorge suggested that he and others like him can develop theories about migration. The Red Nacional de Emprendedores Retornados de El Salvador (National Network of Returned Entrepreneurs of El Salvador, or RENACERES) governing board further argued that “solo un deportado entiende y comprende el drama humano de la deportación” (only a deportee knows and understands the human tragedy of deportation), meriting their organization a seat at the table with civic and political leaders. Consequently, deportation research must account for social structures as well as individual and collective agency. 46 Actor-oriented approaches assume that social change stems from the interface between social actors and structures (see Giddens 1984; Long 1990). According to Giddens’s (1984) theory of structuration, agents constantly reproduce and change structures, while structures also reproduce themselves; structures are constantly made and remade through their negotiations with agents. Similarly, Long argues that, in contrast to the linear determinism of structural theories, “A more dynamic approach to the understanding of social change is ... needed which stresses the interplay and mutual determination of ‘internal’ and ‘external’ factors and relationships, and which recognizes the central role played by human action and consciousness” (1990: 6). As such, Long (1977) argues for a combination of actor and historical-structural approaches. Paret and Gleeson (2016) add that migration provides a particularly valuable lens into agency and precarity, which they define as contextually specific forms of insecurity and vulnerability maintained by social structures (see chapter 2). The authors suggest that examining migrants’ experiences helps us understand inequality and how social change happens (pp. 277, 278). They advocate for scholars to consider the relationships between precarity, migration, and agency— the precarity—migration—agency nexus. In this dissertation, I use interviews and observations to work outwards from the lived experiences of deportees and explore their engagement with structures that foster and, more frequently, constrain their actions. An actor-centered paradigm enables me to recognize moments of agency, struggle, and social change, while accounting for precarity and social control. Feminist standpoint theorists encourage us to bring marginalized and exploited groups to the center of our work, both as an intellectual pursuit and a political project (Collins 1986, 2009; Harding 2001). Harding asserts that humans are active agents and knowers, adding that oppressed populations gain knowledge through struggles against their oppressors (2001:149). 47 She argues that, in a socially stratified society, political activism by and on behalf of exploited populations strengthens the objectivity of research results. According to Harding, “Only through such struggles can we begin to see beneath the appearances created by an unjust social order to the reality of how this social order is in fact constructed and maintained” (2001: 150). In other words, marginalized individuals and groups have agency, and their shared standpoint, or social situation, and experiences of inequality are especially valuable for theory building. These assertions suggest that those outside of national membership can shed light on what such membership means, particularly when they organize collectively as in the case of RENACERES. Intersectional feminist thinkers (Collins 2009; Crenshaw 1991; Yuval-Davis 2011) reveal that standpoints are not homogenous across all members of a particular group. Collins (2009) and Crenshaw (1991) instead stress that gender interacts with other identities—i.e. race, class, sexuality, nationality, and immigration status—to produce distinct social locations and encounters with injustice. Because layers of prejudice and discrimination may compound one another, oppression cannot be reduced to one uniform type; for instance, women of color experience gender oppression differently than white women, and undocumented men and women experience illegality in distinct ways. Deportation research subsequently benefits from considering deportees’ diverse social locations, such as gender, sexuality, class, and age (see also Dingeman 2018). Collins (2009) and Harding (2001) emphasize that feminist scholarship seeks to produce social justice and transformation. In this study, I have prioritized research questions with the potential for social change and empowerment. I aimed to ask questions relevant to precarious migrants, detainees, deportees, and their loved ones and therefore drew on participatory methods (outlined below). In sum, this project uses an actor-centered approach to explore the lived 48 experiences, beliefs, and practices of deportees, closely attending to their encounters with inequality and struggles for social change. I now turn to the context in which this research took place—the field site, historical context, and population—before outlining my methods. Field Site CONTEXT I completed fieldwork for this dissertation in and around San Salvador, El Salvador, in 2014 and 2016. El Salvador is characterized by high rates of violence, un- and underemployment, and emigration to the U.S. and other countries, as well as a weak national infrastructure and authoritarian governance (see chapter 4). The country also has a rich history of collective organizing and mobilization, including some of the largest insurrections and protest movements in Latin America (Almeida 2008). Mobilization by the economically and socially marginalized drove El Salvador’s transition to democracy (Wood 2001), highlighting the nation’s tradition of social transformation from below. El Salvador’s high emigration rate has resulted in a significant diasporic population that plays an important role in the Salvadoran economy through remittances and correspondingly has a powerful voice on the nation’s political stage, making El Salvador a valuable site for research on immigrant organizing in the home country (e.g. Paarlberg 2019; Wiltberger 2014). El Salvador is simultaneously important for crimmigration19 research, as it regularly receives large numbers of deported migrants. In 2014, Salvadorans comprised the fourth-largest national group of migrants apprehended, admitted to ICE detention facilities, and removed from the U.S., after Mexico, Guatemala, and Honduras. In 2016, El Salvador remained the fourth-greatest deportee-receiving state, but Salvadorans 19 Crimmigration refers to the merging of immigration and criminal law (Stumpf 2006). Crimmigration is expanding globally through increased policing at national borders and within nation-states, and it is linked to the racialization and gendering of groups such as Black and Brown men (Menjívar et al. 2018; see also Golash-Boza and Hondagneu-Sotelo 2013). 49 surpassed Hondurans to become the third-largest national group apprehended and admitted to ICE detention centers (Baker 2017). These numbers are particularly troubling considering that El Salvador’s population is substantially smaller than that of Guatemala or Honduras—6.1 million compared with 14.9 and 8.7 million, respectively (World Population Review 2018). El Salvador is home to innovative, albeit limited, programs, resources, and organizations for deported adults.20 The Bienvenido a Casa (Welcome Home, or BAC) program, housed during the research period at Monseñor Óscar Arnulfo Romero International Airport, is the longest- running large-scale reception program for deportees in the region (Dirección General de Migración y Extranjería [DGME] no date; Rietig and Dominguez-Villegas 2015). It was established in 1999 by Catholic Relief Services and the International Organization for Migration to aid newly arriving deportees with information and funding to travel to their homes, referrals to social service providers, trauma counseling, and job placement (see Hagan, Eschbach, and Rodriguez 2008). Today, the program is run by the Dirección General de Migración y Extranjería (National Directorate for Migration, DGME) and provides a meal, medical assistance, transportation, referrals for education or job placement services, and temporary housing to those in need. My interview participants suggested that the BAC provides only cursory reception services, rather than long-term reintegration support (see also Hagan et al. 2008), though its proponents argue that it is an exemplary model for the region (DGME 2018). Additionally, government agencies, civil society organizations, and religious groups have developed numerous reintegration initiatives to provide psychosocial support and aid deported 20 In this project, I explore reception and reintegration services for deported adults, although there are similar programs for children and adolescents run by government agencies, civil society organizations, and religious ministries. For a comprehensive review of reception and reintegration resources available to deported children, adolescents, and adults throughout the Northern Triangle, see Rietig and Dominguez-Villegas (2015). 50 small business owners. In 2016, government and civil society leaders began the Programa Integral de Reinserción a Personas Retornadas (Comprehensive Reinsertion Program for Returned Persons, or PIR), a pilot program to help deportees create or grow enterprises, during which participants attended biweekly courses and crafted proposals for a micro-business they planned to open or expand. Successful participants were awarded $1,500 in startup funds at the end of the six-month period. The Salvadoran Lutheran Synod created a similar program for deportees in rural areas, though on a smaller scale. Groups like Homies Unidos and RENACERES have emerged to advocate for various segments of the returned migrant population, such as ex-gang members and deported youth and entrepreneurs, respectively. Meanwhile, organizations such as Hungry Church and the Salvadorian Association of American Intramural Football (SAAIF), while not explicitly geared toward deportees, have provided an outlet for those who feel otherwise unwelcome in El Salvador and who miss U.S. culture. These groups offer deportees a chance to speak English, share meals and Bible study, play American football, volunteer with at-risk youth, and meet people who share their experiences and interests. These diverse initiatives make El Salvador a valuable site for exploring deportee re/incorporation, agency, and organizing. Historical Context I collected data for this study during two phases—an exploratory period in June and July 2014, followed by 10 months of fieldwork beginning in February 2016. Media and politicians in El Salvador, in the U.S., and internationally frequently discussed immigration flows and enforcement throughout both phases, due in large part to increased numbers of Central American migrants journeying north and also due to the dynamics of the 2016 U.S. presidential election. In 2014, the number of unaccompanied minors (UACs) and families apprehended at the southern 51 U.S. border rose exponentially, peaking in June with the apprehension of 10,622 UACs and 12,772 families (U.S. Customs and Border Protection [CBP] 2014; DHS 2014). Over the course of Fiscal Year 2014, U.S. Customs and Border Protection apprehended more than 68,000 family units21 and 68,000 UACs, the vast majority of whom came from the Northern Triangle of Central America (CBP 2014; Stinchcomb and Hershberg 2014: 6). Throughout June and July 2014 news sources in the U.S. and Europe subsequently produced myriad reports about a Central American migrant or refugee crisis with headlines like “‘Flee or Die’: Violence Drives Central America’s Child Migrants to US Border” (Tuckman 2014) and “Here’s How the U.S. Sparked a Refugee Crisis on the Border, in 8 Simple Steps” (Planas and Grim 2014). El Salvador’s major newspapers—La Prensa Gráfica (2014), El Faro (Martínez 2014a), El Diario de Hoy (ACAN- EFE 2014), and Diario Co Latino (Griffith 2014)—reported on the crisis during the same period. The increased flows prompted U.S. President Barack Obama to declare the issue a humanitarian crisis and schedule a meeting between U.S. Vice President Joe Biden and leaders of the Northern Triangle states in Guatemala during June 2014 (Obama 2014). Immigration issues also played a prime role in the 2016 U.S. presidential campaign season, as well as after the election of Donald Trump. Throughout his campaign, Trump maintained an explicitly anti-immigrant position and racialized “illegal immigration” as Latino (Lamont, Park, and Ayala-Hurtado 2017). He announced his candidacy in June 2015 with a speech that referred to Mexican migrants as criminals, drug dealers, and rapists, and in a presidential debate in October 2016, he described his plan to arrest and deport migrant men: “We have some bad hombres here, and we’re going to get them out” (Ross 2016, emphasis added). 21 A “family unit” is any individual (either a child under 18 years of age, parent, or legal guardian) apprehended with a family member, according to the DHS (CBP 2014). Most family units consist of a woman with one or more minor children (Stinchcomb and Hershberg 2014). 52 Among Salvadorans, his campaign generated concerns about mass deportations and the future of TPS; Salvadorans in the U.S. and El Salvador questioned whether the program could be canceled and what might happen if it were not renewed after its 2018 expiration date (see Quiñónez and Barrios 2016; Univision 2016). Trump’s racialized language and proposed policies produced international media coverage; sowed fear among immigrants (Waldinger 2018); and mobilized Latino voters, advocacy groups, and non-profit organizations (Wilkinson 2018). The 2014 migrant crisis and 2016 U.S. presidential election contributed to Salvadoran and U.S. societies’ increased awareness of deportations, immigration policies, and their effects on prospective migrants and deportees. In El Salvador, Salvadorans learned about these issues from newspapers and television, in addition to their communication with friends, family, and associates in the U.S. My research participants frequently mentioned child asylum seekers and refugees, Donald Trump, and Hillary Clinton during our conversations and interviews, asking me who I was voting for, who I thought would win the election, or offering their opinions on candidates and events. For instance, at the beginning of one interview, a deported 1.5-generation immigrant and call center worker asked if I planned to vote for Trump. When I responded that I did not, he laughed and told me that we could continue the interview; if I had been a Trump supporter, he would have ended it. Another participant confided that he had been encouraging family members with U.S. citizenship to vote against Trump. RENACERES and INSAMI representatives were often interviewed by reporters, who asked them to comment on the election and the situation facing families, child asylum seekers, and TPS recipients. In these interviews and their meetings with civic and political leaders, RENACERES and INSAMI representatives pointed to the possibility of increased removals as a reason to expand protections and resources for returned migrants. The campaign season and flows of migrating families and youth were 53 ubiquitous in my interviews and observations, creating an environment where immigration policy and enforcement had tangible effects not only for my participants but also for their loved ones and communities. POPULATION The adult Salvadoran returned migrant population is a diverse group whose experiences differ along the axes of gender, ethnicity, sexuality, class, age, ability status, and migration history (see Dingeman 2018; Ríos 2018), though there are some notable trends among them. While the deportation rate among women has increased recently (TRAC 2014), more than 90 percent of deported Salvadoran adults are men22 (see Ramos, Campos Morán, Bolaños, and Calles Minero 2013). Deported adults are relatively young, primarily between the ages of 18 and 30 (Hagan et al. 2008). Ramos, Campos Morán, Bolaños, and Calles Minero found that approximately 75 percent of deportees are returned at 35 years old or younger, with a sharp decrease in deportations after age 40 (2013: 32). Most deportees are removed for noncriminal reasons (see DHS 2018; Rívas 2015). From 2014 to 2016, one-third of deported Salvadoran adults had a previous criminal conviction in the U.S., substantially lower than the rate of criminal status among the total deported population, which ranged from 40 to 43 percent (Baker 2017: 9). The average migrant expelled to El Salvador, therefore, is a working-age man without a criminal record. Migration factors—i.e., age at initial migration, time spent in the host country, and immigration status—are central determinants of deportee experiences and outlooks (see 22 The DHS does not publish deportation rates by gender, so it is impossible to specify longitudinal changes in removal rates. However, surveys conducted at the BAC (Hagan et al. 2008; Ramos et al. 2013) coupled with a Transactional Records Access Clearinghouse (TRAC) report (2014) suggest that the rate of deportations among women has increased among both Salvadorans and removed migrants of all nationalities. 54 Dingeman 2018; Ríos 2018). While a considerable minority of Salvadoran adult deportees are recent arrivals, Hagan, Eschbach, and Rodríguez found that approximately one-fourth of Salvadorans had lived in the U.S. for more than 10 years before their removal (2008: 70-72). Since Hagan and colleagues (2008) completed their study, the rate of deportations among long- term settlers has decreased, but currently one in five deportees has lived abroad for more than seven years (Ríos 2018: 22). Among those deportees apprehended from the interior of the U.S., specifically, roughly 80 percent were employed before their deportation (Rívas 2015), and 72 percent of working deportees previously sent remittances home (Hagan et al. 2008). Salvadoran long-term settlers frequently face family separation as a consequence of their expulsion from the U.S. (Hagan et al. 2008), increasing their likelihood of remigration (Cardoso, Hamilton, Rodríguez, Eschbach, and Hagan 2016). These characteristics reveal a few of the divisions among the Salvadoran deported population, which shape individuals’ re/integration trajectories (Dingeman 2018), civic practices, and beliefs about belonging (Coutin 2016). METHODS In this project, I used qualitative methods to investigate deported Salvadorans’ experiences of removal, sense of belonging, and citizenship practices in the U.S. and El Salvador. I began with a month-long exploratory study in summer 201423, during which I observed at the BAC and conducted individual and group interviews with 13 returned migrants, in addition to informational interviews with gatekeepers and deportees’ loved ones. In 2016, I returned to the field site as an Inter-American Foundation (IAF) Grassroots Development Fellow 23 This project was funded by a Tinker Field Research Grant from the Michigan State University Center for Latin American and Caribbean Studies. 55 and completed 92 interviews with deported and voluntary returnees24; 10 months of participant observation with RENACERES; three focus groups; and informational interviews with scholars, activists, religious leaders, and representatives from NGOs, civil society organizations, government agencies, and the private sector. Over the research period, I also gathered relevant documents, pamphlets, documentaries, interviews, and reports from RENACERES, INSAMI, and other organizations to supplement my original dataset. In the following subsections, I will review my use of interviews, focus groups, participant observation, and supplementary documents and provide a brief description of my sample and research sites. Interviews and Focus Groups I conducted semi-structured, in-depth interviews with 105 Salvadoran return migrants (13 in 2014 and 92 in 2016). Of these 105 participants, 99 were deported and six were migrants who described their return as voluntary. However, of these six, only two had been authorized to live in the U.S.; the other four were undocumented or lost their legal status when they were convicted of a felony, which contributed to their decision to return to El Salvador.25 During interviews, respondents and I discussed their journey to and settlement in the U.S.; experiences of apprehension, detention, deportation, reception, and reintegration; sense of inclusion and exclusion; and definitions and practices of citizenship. I also asked them about their emotional and physical health, perceived encounters with discrimination and injustice, and relationships 24 While my interest is in deported migrants, my fieldwork revealed that, in certain cases, voluntary returnees and forcibly removed migrants encounter parallel circumstances after their reentry to El Salvador, especially when they join organizations and initiatives that aim to improve the re/incorporation outcomes of deported migrants, like Homies Unidos, RENACERES, or the PIR pilot project. In addition, participants occasionally labeled themselves as voluntary return migrants but then described previous deportations or situations that were arguably compulsory. Undocumented status, for example, caused migrants to return if they were afraid of deportation or struggled to find sustainable work without a legal status. 25 I met these six respondents through programs and initiatives geared toward deportees, including RENACERES, the PIR, Homies Unidos, and an online forum for call center workers. 56 with loved ones and their broader communities. A draft of the initial interview schedule was translated into Spanish by a bilingual Salvadoran and then shared with members of RENACERES and INSAMI, who provided comments on the schedule length, topics, and phrasing. With participants’ consent, interviews were audio-recorded and later transcribed using notes, audio files, and Express Scribe software. Interviews ranged from 30 minutes to three hours, with most lasting 1.5 to two hours, and were conducted in Spanish, English, or a combination of both languages. Depending on the participant’s preference, we met at cafes, restaurants, the RENACERES office, or, in rare cases, individuals’ homes or workplaces. In December 2016, I followed up with a subset of interviewees using three focus groups, four individual interviews, and informal conversations. Focus groups revealed how deportees responded to one another’s comments about re/insertion, belonging, and political engagement, triangulating data from one-on-one discussions. Individual check-ins with respondents showed how their re/integration trajectories had unfolded over time26. During interviews, I offered participants refreshment and compensated them with a $5 phone card, in addition to reimbursement for transportation ($0.50—$5.00, depending on the participant’s route) and a sample of Café Global coffee27. Compensation was important for this project, as it was a way to show interviewees that I valued their contributions and recognized the sacrifices they made to meet with me. 26 Follow-up interviews would ideally occur over a longer timeframe and with a larger sample. However, interviews with PIR participants before and after they received the seed funds provided insights into the immediate effects of successfully completing the program and opening their small business. Participants also developed new romantic relationships and had children over the course of the research period, which impacted their sense of belonging and re/incorporation in local communities. 27 Café Global is a product developed by RENACERES and INSAMI in order to provide financial support for deported Salvadorans. The board intentionally chose coffee, a traditional Salvadoran crop, to represent themselves to political, civil, economic, and religious leaders. 57 Recruitment and Study Sample. To compile a diverse sample, I recruited participants through multiple channels. In 2014, I approached deportees at the BAC during my observations, as well as through local gatekeepers. Interviewees then introduced me to friends who had also been deported and were interested in discussing their experiences. In 2016, I began recruiting with the help of RENACERES and INSAMI28, whose executive board members agreed to speak with me and present me to other returnees at events and PIR class sessions. I developed additional connections with call center employees by visiting a transnational call center in San Salvador. A deported recruiter there shared that deportees had recently opened English language schools (see Weiss and Patiño 2017) and created an online forum for call center agents, which serves not only to advertise jobs and network with other agents but also to provide information relevant to the call center community’s membership—many of whom are returned migrants. With the moderator’s permission, I posted an invitation to participate in the study, which bolstered my sample of 1.5-generation immigrants and other long-term settlers (see table 2). These multiple recruitment channels yielded a diverse convenience sample comprised of people with varied migration histories, careers, ages, family situations, and education levels (see table 2). I purposely sought out deportees who were part of programs, initiatives, and grassroots organizations in order to understand social, cultural, and civic re/integration, so my sample is more educated and engaged than the overall Salvadoran returned migrant population. Thirty- three participants (31.4 percent) took part in the PIR project, and 12 (11.4 percent) were active members of RENACERES. Eight (7.6 percent) attended Hungry Church, and seven (6.7 percent) had been members of Homies Unidos during the 1990s or early 2000s. Forty-five (42.9 percent) 28 INSAMI is a transnational association that advocates for Salvadoran migrants in El Salvador and abroad. INSAMI helped found RENACERES in 2014 and continued to partner with the nascent organization during and after the research period. The groups shared office space and other resources, co-organized events and workshops, and jointly developed networks. 58 were currently working or had previously worked in call centers, five of whom were also English teachers. In order to examine deportees’ experiences of integration, inclusion, and exclusion in the U.S. and El Salvador, I oversampled deported long-term settlers with lengthy stays in both nations. Correspondingly, my participants had spent longer in the U.S. than the average deportee; 54 (51.4 percent) had been abroad for more than 15 years before returning to El Salvador. For this reason, respondents also disproportionately migrated during the Salvadoran civil war, rather than the postwar period. Oversampling long-term settlers had considerable effects on the dissertation’s findings not only because deportees’ re/integration trajectories diverge according to migration history (see Dingeman 2018) but also because their civic socialization is shaped by their context (i.e. in El Salvador, the U.S., or both nations). Significantly, my recruitment streams enabled me to speak with deportees who had been in El Salvador for an extended time since their last deportation. More than 75 percent of participants had been in the country for over a year at the time of our interview, and 39 percent had been there for more than five years, allowing us to move past the initial reception phase to explore the longer-term re/incorporation of deportees. Table 2. Study Sample Descriptive Statistics, 2014-2016 (N=105) Characteristic Mode of Return Deportation Voluntary Gender Male Female Age 18-24 25-29 30-39 40-49 50-59 60 and older Unknown Number 99 6 99 6 4 11 41 27 12 4 6 Percent 94.3 5.7 94.3 5.7 3.8 10.5 39.0 25.7 11.4 3.8 5.7 59 Table 2. Study Sample Descriptive Statistics, 2014-2016 (cont’d) Year of Initial Migration 1974-1992 1993-2000 2001-2010 2011-2016 Unknown Years in United States 0 to 1 More than 1 to 5 More than 5 to 15 More than 15 Unknown Years Since Last Deportation 0 to 1 More than 1 to 5 More than 5 to 15 More than 15 Unknown Highest Level of Schooling Elementary or Middle School Some High School High School Graduate Some College Technical or Undergraduate Degree Unknown Family Situation Parent to Children in U.S. Parent to Children in El Salvador Partner in U.S. Partner in El Salvador Parents Living in U.S. Parents Living in El Salvador 61 12 15 13 4 14 8 20 54 9 29 29 31 10 6 12 19 24 28 8 14 48 46 9 45 45 21 58.1 11.4 14.3 12.4 3.8 13.3 7.6 19.0 51.4 8.6 27.6 27.6 29.5 9.5 5.7 11.4 18.1 22.9 26.7 7.6 13.3 45.7 43.8 8.6 42.9 42.9 20 Participant Observation and Collection of Supplemental Documents I triangulated interview data with observations at the BAC and with RENACERES29, including formal meetings, events, downtime, and recreational activities. Throughout the research period, I visited the BAC five times, where I observed the reception process of newly 29 I conducted additional participant observations with members of Homies Unidos, though these were less frequent, as Homies was inactive during most of the research period. 60 arriving deportees and spoke informally with them about their migration and return. These visits showed me the BAC’s reception procedures as well as the interactions between deportees, immigration officials, health workers, and police. Participant observations with RENACERES shed light on the organization’s mission; protocols; and relations with local and international leaders, media, and other returned migrants. I was present for board meetings, interviews with journalists and documentary filmmakers, workshops with NGOs and government officials, a demonstration in defense of Salvadoran migrants, and social gatherings such as a Thanksgiving celebration and the wedding of a RENACERES member and his longtime partner. I also collaborated with RENACERES on a variety of projects throughout 2016, including a blog post about Father’s Day and family separation (RENACERES 2016); grant proposals; descriptive statistics for interviews and the 2016 Vía Crucis del Migrante (Way of the Cross of the Migrant); and the presentation of my initial findings for scholars, activists, NGOs, and government officials; in addition to quotidian office tasks. During observations, I took notes, which were then used to record typed field notes. I reflected on my observations in field notes as well as conversations with informants and other scholars. While observing RENACERES and other organizations, I collected published and unpublished documents such as promotional materials, public letters, documentary films, news stories, and grant applications. These items complemented and corroborated my original dataset, allowing me to confirm basic information about events (i.e., chronology, relevant numerical data such as number of participants in a program or the amount of funding from a grant) in addition to the explicit mission, goals, and identity of clubs and organizations. Copies or photographs of these items were kept in digital files and later analyzed along with data from interviews, observations, and focus groups. 61 Data Analysis Field notes, interview and focus group transcripts, and supplemental documents were analyzed with NVivo software, and descriptive statistics were coded and analyzed using Excel. I began with a primarily inductive coding scheme but emphasized the following, based on my research questions: 1. How do deportees describe their migration, apprehension, detention, deportation, and reintegration process? a. What forms of vulnerability and discrimination do deportees face before, during, and after their deportation? 2. How and when do deportees exercise agency? a. How do deportees respond and react to their experiences of migration, apprehension, detention, deportation, and reintegration? 3. How do deportees perceive and practice citizenship? a. According to deportees, what are the rights and responsibilities associated with citizenship? b. According to deportees, what does it mean to “belong” to a nation or community? c. How do deportees practice social, cultural, and political citizenship? 4. How does the deportation process affect citizenship definitions and practice, particularly in the context of neoliberalism? Initial analysis revealed additional themes and factors that resonated across the study sample, including the impact of violent encounters, religion, sports, and neighborhood settlement on the re/integration process. These items were incorporated into subsequent rounds of coding. During 62 my analysis I also considered respondents’ social locations, such as migration history, gender, age, occupation, English ability, education level, and relationship and parental status. POSITIONALITY My data collection, analysis, and interpretation were shaped by my intersecting identities, including nationality, race, gender, class, age, and education, coupled with my family’s high mobility lifestyle. My father’s career as a teacher for the U.S. Department of Defense Education Activity caused my family to reside outside of my citizenship country—the U.S.—until I was 17 years old, making me a “third culture kid” (Useem and Downie 1976; see also Pollock and Van Reken 2001). During my childhood and adolescence, we moved to four countries and lived near U.S. military bases in Europe and Asia, where my siblings and I attended U.S. schools. When I began my first year of college, my parents and sister returned to Europe and lived there until 2018. As a third culture kid, therefore, I encountered physical separation and emotional distance from my nuclear as well as extended family. My upbringing also influenced my sense of belonging, home, and place (Lijadi and Van Schalkwyk 2017), helping me understand the complicated relationship between legal citizenship and substantive membership. My experience was mediated by citizenship privilege and socioeconomic status. Because my family members and I are U.S. citizens, we cannot be deported; I have never feared or faced forced family separation, job loss, or the forfeiture of our material possessions. Unlike most (but not all) of my research participants, my family’s income enabled us to visit each other every few years, and my passport allowed me to travel internationally. For instance, when my father was diagnosed with cancer in 2017, I visited him three times before he died a year later; conversely, participants in my study were unable to visit sick and elderly relatives or attend their funerals. My citizenship also enabled me to travel to and from El Salvador without risking my freedom or 63 my physical, emotional, or psychological safety, and, within El Salvador, offered me the shelter of the U.S. Embassy, so I was less likely to be harassed by state agents or harmed by gang members compared with my Salvadoran counterparts. These factors allowed me to move relatively easily throughout the country, unlike my research participants, whose domestic and international mobility were constrained. My race, class, education, gender, and age further distinguished me from my participants during the data collection period. As a white woman I am generally protected by police officers and immigration enforcement agents, rather than targeted by them. As a middle-class, grant- funded doctoral candidate, I had class privilege that separated me from my respondents, who were frequently un- or underemployed. My class, race, and citizenship privilege undoubtedly affected my entrée in El Salvador and my interactions with respondents, many of whom also felt like outsiders from Salvadoran society. Some deported long-term settlers met with me because they wanted an opportunity to speak English, missed their home in the U.S. (see also Coutin 2013b), or perceived my privileged position as politically useful for changing U.S. immigration policy. On the other hand, some deportees were suspicious of my whiteness and U.S. citizenship and asked me directly if I was affiliated with ICE or if I was Trump supporter, as noted above. Because of these participants’ past persecution by immigration officials and the U.S. state, I answered their questions candidly, expressing my opposition to Trump’s proposed immigration policies and mass deportations more broadly30. Additionally, I was a young, childless woman observing and interviewing a majority 30 If I had not disclosed my views on immigration enforcement and anti-immigrant rhetoric, participants may have felt uncomfortable sharing their stories; some told me explicitly that they would have ended the interview. Furthermore, our conversations touched on sensitive subjects such as family separation, violent encounters, financial instability, and mental health, so it was important that my participants knew I rejected the system that contributed to their marginality. 64 male population. Though I was married during the research period, my spouse’s absence caused some participants to see me as single and subsequently a potential date (see also Arendell 1997). Arendell found that “gender work was ever present and predominant” in her interviews with divorced men (1997: 363), and Pini’s (2005) fieldwork with male agricultural leaders revealed the need to recognize and analyze the gendered dynamics of data collection, particularly for researchers interested in gender and sexuality (2005: 214). In my interviews, some men arguably felt reluctant to express the pain associated with their detention and removal from the U.S., but many participants offered detailed, emotional accounts and afterwards stated that the interview had been cathartic—perhaps because I am a woman and hence assumed to be less critical of their emotional expression (Arendell 1997: 347-8). Participants may also have stressed their independence and agency as part of their gender performance. The gendered nature of my data collection was further complicated by my collaboration with RENACERES, an organization primarily led by older men who felt responsible for my safety and wellbeing. My status as a younger woman combined with high levels of violence in El Salvador caused RENACERES leaders to worry when I traveled alone via public transportation to meet with participants. My research funding came from the same organization that awarded a grant to INSAMI and RENACERES for their work with deported entrepreneurs—the IAF. Therefore, though I rarely felt unsafe traveling or meeting with research participants, I had a responsibility to my partners at RENACERES, who may have faced repercussions if I were harmed in the field. My gender, age, race, and nationality required me to not only be critical and reflexive throughout my fieldwork but also to have a safety plan in place (see Sharp and Kremer 2006), while simultaneously attempting not to reify the inaccurate and unjust assumption that deportees are violent criminals. 65 Reflexivity and Participatory Methods Rather than ignore or erase my social location, I employed certain strategies to foster a deeper awareness and interpretation of my partial perspective. First, I used reflexive field notes to interrogate power dynamics between my research participants and myself (see Thorpe 2005). In the field and after returning home, I thought and wrote about power, privilege, and marginalization in order to improve my analysis. I addressed gaps in my Spanish language and Salvadoran cultural awareness by working closely with Salvadoran colleagues and deported informants for translation and interpretation, in addition to asking clarifying questions during informal conversations and interviews. I also used member checks with RENACERES members and other advocates and representatives of the Salvadoran returned migrant population to improve my understanding and share power over the data analysis, interpretation, and dissemination with my respondents (see Lather 1991; Kirsch 1999). In December 2016, I presented my preliminary findings and analyses to a subset of retornados (returned migrants or returnees) and local experts, including NGO workers, scholars, government officials, and religious leaders. During these presentations and discussions, I requested feedback, took notes, and asked clarifying questions in order to revise my analysis and interpretation. Following the completion of this dissertation, I will return to El Salvador with my revised results, meet with collaborators, and continue to solicit informants’ suggestions, which will be integrated into future publications. In this chapter, I have reviewed my methodology, positionality, research design, sample, and the project’s context. Drawing from actor-oriented approaches, feminist methodologies, and participatory research, I used qualitative methods to explore deported Salvadorans’ experiences of immigration, removal, and return. By accounting for participants’ agency, interpretations, and 66 institutional constraints, along with using interviews, focus groups, observations, and supplemental documentary analysis, this study offers a holistic, multi-faceted depiction of deportation from the U.S. to El Salvador, as well as ways in which deportees become “paperless citizens” at home and abroad. I now extend my discussion of the research site by outlining the social, political, and historical factors that contribute to the current contexts of removal and return for Salvadoran deportees, before turning to the study’s central findings. 67 CONTEXTUALIZING THE DEPORTATION OF SALVADORANS CHAPTER FOUR During El Salvador’s 12-year civil war (1980-1992), the U.S. played a prominent role by training Salvadoran military personnel and providing more than six billion dollars in financial aid to the Salvadoran government (Grandin 2006; see also LaFeber 1983). The war had devastating consequences for Salvadorans, 75,000 of whom were confirmed killed; 9,000 of whom were disappeared; and over one million of whom were displaced, despite the nation’s relatively small size and population (see Byrne 1996; Dyrness and Sepúlveda 2015). Consequently, increasing numbers of Salvadorans began to flee to the U.S. and other nations in the late 1970s and early 1980s (Montes 1987, 1988), and high emigration rates continue today.31 Currently, as many as 20 percent of all Salvadorans reside outside of the nation’s borders, and some scholars argue that the diasporic population is as high as 25 or even 30 percent (Cordova 2005; Baker-Cristales 2004; see also López 2015). In this chapter, I review the social, political, and historical underpinnings that shape Salvadorans’ experiences of migration, settlement in the U.S., deportation, and re/integration. I begin by outlining key historical events that have contributed to current emigration and deportation patterns, including the Salvadoran civil war, dollarization and trade liberalization, and post-war waves of expulsions from the U.S. to Latin America. I then turn to the contemporary socio-political context in El Salvador, paying particular attention to “mano dura” (iron fist) policies aimed at ending gang violence, the stigmatization of deportees in media and political rhetoric, and present migration causes and trends. Throughout, I emphasize the role of 31 Salvadoran out-migration began in the early twentieth century, but the number of migrants exponentially increased during the 1970s and 1980s (for a history of Salvadoran migration see Menjívar 2000). 68 the U.S. and Salvadoran states in producing precarity among the deported migrant population, as well as Salvadorans and Salvadoran-Americans’ struggles for justice in both nations. SALVADORAN—U.S. RELATIONS, 1980 TO 2001 Before turning to the contemporary context of expulsion from the U.S. and reception in El Salvador, I address four historic factors that shape today’s context of return and re/integration for newly arriving deportees32: (1) the Salvadoran civil war and U.S. influence, (2) Salvadoran emigration and U.S. political response, (3) post-war immigration policies spurring massive deportations from the U.S. in the 1990s, and (4) neoliberal reforms of the 1990s and 2000s. Salvadoran Civil War, 1980-1992 Throughout the 1970s, tensions grew between the Salvadoran economic and military elite and grassroots activists, including students, labor organizers, and catechists. In the early 1970s, El Salvador witnessed fraudulent elections, violent repression and intimidation of leftist organizers, and decreasing aid for social welfare and development programs (Menjívar 2000; Viterna 2013). During this period, activists and suspected communists increasingly were disappeared or publicly killed by soldiers and members of death squads, many of whom had been trained by U.S. military officers regionally or at the School of the Americas in Fort Benning, Georgia (Gill 2004; LaFeber 1983). The U.S. simultaneously supported the Salvadoran military financially, providing weapons, airplanes, and helicopters, with the ostensible aim of preventing a communist revolution (Rabe 2012). Within this context, leftists gradually considered the possibility of armed struggle rather than peaceful protest (Almeida 2008). By 1980, five leftist 32 The roots of U.S. action in El Salvador were planted in the 1920s and 1930s, when U.S. financiers began to control the Salvadoran railway system and the U.S. government solidified what would become its anti-communist approach in Latin America throughout the twentieth century—protecting capitalist leaders at seemingly any and all cost. For a full historiography of twentieth-century U.S. intervention in El Salvador, see Gould and Lauria-Santiago (2008); LaFeber (1983). 69 groups had combined to become the Frente Farabundo Martí para la Liberación Nacional (Farabundo Martí Liberation Front, or FMLN), the guerrilla army which would fight the Salvadoran military for the next 12 years and eventually become a political party of the same name. Partially in response to the formation of the FMLN, conservative economic elites formed the Alianza Republicana Nacionalista (Nationalist Republican Alliance, or ARENA) in 1981. The civil war officially began in 1980. Like the confrontations of the 1970s, the war was characterized by impunity, human rights violations, and widespread terror, as well as the forced conscription of young men. Military units employed tactics such as surveillance, interrogation, property destruction, abduction, torture, rape, assassination, and dismemberment, often against civilians (Coutin 2003). By 1992 more than 75,000 Salvadorans had been killed, and an additional one million had been displaced, either internally, to neighboring countries and refugee camps, or north to the U.S. (Byrne 1996; Cordova 2005). Wartime violence was distinctly gendered, raced, and classed; women were frequently the victims of sexual violence (Abrego 2017; Aron, Corne, Fursland, and Zelwer 1991), young men were forcibly conscripted into the army, and campesinos were disproportionately targeted in mass murders (Wood 2003: 9). Meanwhile, the U.S. continued to play a central role in Salvadoran politics and military action by providing instruction, tactical expertise, and weapons to the Salvadoran army. By 1992, the U.S. government had spent more than six billion dollars—the equivalent of a million dollars a day—to finance the military’s counterinsurgency campaigns, which targeted not only guerrillas but also civilians, including intellectual and religious leaders like Archbishop Oscar Romero and six Jesuit professors from the Universidad Centroamericana (UCA) who were executed with their housekeeper and her daughter, Elba and Cecilia Ramos (Grandin 2006). Yet, despite the military’s greater strength, they were unable to soundly defeat the guerrillas. The war 70 ended January 16, 1992, with the Chapultepec Peace Accords brokered by the United Nations. The civil war, accompanied by an economic crisis and political repression, caused emigration to rise sharply in the 1970s and 1980s (Montes 1987, 1988). From 1950 to 1990, the population of Salvadorans in the U.S. more than quintupled (Menjívar 2000: 54). However, in spite of well-documented and highly publicized human rights violations in El Salvador, few Salvadorans were accorded refugee status by the U.S. government, and individuals were instead treated as “depoliticized labor migrants” (Menjívar 2006: 1009). In El Salvador as in Guatemala33, the U.S. could not recognize emigrants as deserving refuge or asylum while supporting the military regime because doing so would effectively have been acknowledging that the state was committing human rights abuses with U.S. endorsement34 (Menjívar 2006). Central American migrants were able to apply for asylum once they stepped onto U.S. soil, but during the 1980s fewer than three percent of Salvadoran and Guatemalan applicants had their requests approved (Menjívar 2006: 1010). In an analysis of two asylum cases from the 1980s involving Salvadoran asylum seekers in the U.S., Gorman (2017) illustrates the intentionality behind U.S. treatment of Salvadoran emigrants; the government’s legal interpretations of asylum and refugee categories were prominent sites of border control, which 33 Like El Salvador, Guatemala experienced an extensive civil war, which spanned from 1960 to 1996. In Guatemala the U.S. also supported military dictators accused of committing human rights atrocities such as the eradication of whole indigenous communities (see Grandin 2004, 2011). For these reasons, Guatemalan and Salvadoran migrants faced comparable contexts of reception in the U.S. Conversely, emigrants fleeing supposedly communist governments (i.e. Cuba, Nicaragua, and Vietnam) more frequently encountered opportunities for legal migration and naturalization (Gonzalez 2011; Menjívar 2000). 34 According to the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR), refugees must have a well-founded fear of persecution based on one of five social categories—race, religion, nationality, political opinion, or membership in a particular social group (UNCHR 2018). Their birth nation must also be unable or unwilling to protect them (see International Justice Resource Center n.d.). In the Salvadoran case, the U.S. refused to declare that the Salvadoran state—its ally—was unwilling or unable to protect its people—let alone that it was the primary agent persecuting them. 71 allowed the state to exert increased power over those it was required to protect, in spite of the previously determined UNHCR classifications. Gorman concludes, [L]egal definitions are not a static backdrop against which other forms of bordering work occurs. Rather they are dynamic sites that both respond to and produce socio-spatial relations, delineating the threshold of humanitarian categories and thus the meaning and consequences of cross border movement for specific groups. (2017: 44) Abrego adds that such definitional choices silenced the traumas of Salvadoran asylum seekers, which have never been “legally confirmed” by the U.S., denying them a justification for their need to heal (2017: 76). Salvadorans’ legal nonrecognition translated into invisible wounds, the absence of resettlement and integration support at the state level, and high rates of irregular or impermanent migration status. U.S. Immigration Policies, 1980 to Present Salvadoran and Guatemalan immigrants and their allies actively challenged their precarious legal status, lobbying for refugee status and eventually securing TPS for those who entered the U.S. before September 19, 1990. When TPS expired in 1992, its recipients were permitted to apply for Deferred Enforced Departure (DED), a temporary stay of removal implemented by executive order (Coutin 2007; Wilson 2018). Meanwhile, from 1985 to 1990, Salvadoran and Guatemalan settlers along with a group of religious and refugee-service organizations filed the American Baptist Churches v. Thornburgh lawsuit (known as ABC), which was settled in 1990 and provisioned additional migrants with the right to de novo asylum interviews under rules designed to ensure credible fear hearings (see Coutin 2003: 17). ABC, TPS, and DED prevented individuals from being deported but did not foster permanent settlement or full access to resources in the U.S. People with ABC and TPS struggled to settle 72 comfortably, because they were unable to travel freely, sponsor migrating kin, and access many government services, which left them in a state of “legal limbo” or liminal legality, an “uncertain status—not fully documented or undocumented but often straddling both” (Menjívar 2006: 1001). TPS had an uncertain future and was a confusing process; immigrants sometimes chose not to renew their status because they were worried that they would be denied and subsequently deported35 (Menjívar 2006). In addition to TPS, DED, and ABC, some Salvadorans and Guatemalans were granted amnesty under the Immigration Reform and Control Act of 1986 (IRCA), but the majority were ineligible because they arrived in the U.S. after the act’s cutoff date of January 1, 1982—years before the wars in their countries reached their height36 (Menjívar 2000). U.S. policies toward El Salvador and Salvadorans during the civil war therefore had a profound impact on migrants’ context of reception in the U.S., which shaped later outcomes, such as naturalization and expulsion rates, network ties, and incomes (Kanstroom 2007; Menjívar 2000). U.S. migration and foreign policy have similarly affected the children of Salvadoran asylum seekers (Coutin 2007; Zilberg 2007, 2011). In the years following the 1992 Peace Accords, U.S. immigration policies increasingly disadvantaged noncitizen migrants—especially young, working-class men of color (see Golash- Boza 2015; Golash-Boza and Hondagneu-Sotelo 2013). Beginning in the early 1990s, the U.S. 35 TPS recipients’ fears came to fruition in January 2018, when the Trump administration announced that TPS for Salvadorans would end in September 2019 (Jordan 2018). In February 2019, a court injunction stopped the termination of TPS for El Salvador, Haiti, Nicaragua, and Sudan, whose protections have been extended through January 2020 (DHS 2019). As of the development of this dissertation, it is unclear what will happen to the approximately 200,000 Salvadorans slated to lose their status if the program expires. 36 While IRCA enabled nearly three million undocumented immigrants in the U.S. to adjust their status, it also augmented funding for immigration enforcement and increased discrimination against undocumented migrants (Heyman 1998). As the Salvadoran case demonstrates, moreover, immigrants from different countries of origin had differential access to the IRCA legalization program. 73 began to expel migrants at exponentially rising rates (see figure 3). Figure 3 shows the number of individuals removed and returned37 from the U.S. beginning in 1930, illustrating that formal removals—deportations—jumped from approximately 30,000 is 1990 to 51,000 five years later, reaching 114,000 in 1997 and surpassing 200,000 in 2003 (DHS 2017). In 2014, when I began this project, more than 405,000 individuals were deported from the U.S., and in 2016, when the bulk of the data was collected, roughly 340,000 individuals were removed. As noted, deportation rates have not only risen steeply since the 1990s, but they have also targeted younger, poor and working-class Black and Brown men in what Golash-Boza and Hondagneu-Sotelo (2013) describe as a “gendered racial removal program.” Figure 3. Persons Removed or Returned from the U.S., Fiscal Years 1930-2016 1,800,000 1,600,000 1,400,000 1,200,000 1,000,000 800,000 600,000 400,000 200,000 0 1 9 3 0 1 9 3 1 9 1 9 4 4 0 5 5 1 9 1 9 1 9 5 0 5 5 6 0 1 1 9 6 9 7 5 0 1 9 7 5 1 9 8 0 1 9 8 5 1 9 9 1 9 2 2 2 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 5 0 9 5 2 0 1 5 0 Removals Returns Figure created by author using the 2016 Yearbook of Immigration Statistics (DHS 2017). 37 The DHS disaggregates expulsions into removals and returns. Removals are formal deportations based on an order of removal. Removed individuals face administrative or criminal consequences for reentry into the U.S. Returns are the movement of noncitizens out of the U.S. without an order of removal and thus without additional consequences for reentry. As figure 3 demonstrates, the state’s preference for removals and returns has shifted over time and with particular historical and socio-economic contexts. Deportations (i.e. removals) are currently the state’s preferred method of expulsion. 74 The growing numbers of deportations correlate closely with U.S. policy changes, beginning with the Immigration Act of 1990, which expanded the definition of an aggravated felony to include previously minor offenses, increasing the pool of deportable migrants by criminalizing what had previously been considered misdemeanors (see Kanstroom 2007; Golash- Boza 2012). The definitional reach expanded further in 1996 with the passage of the Illegal Immigration Reform and Immigrant Responsibility Act (IIRIRA) and the Anti-Terrorism and Effective Death Penalty Act (AEDPA), which extended the crimes that rendered one deportable to include several nonviolent offenses (Golash-Boza 2012), increased the grounds for deporting LPRs and TPS holders, and instated mandatory detention for asylees while they waited for their case to be decided (Kanstroom 2007). IIRIRA also created the 287(g) program, which gave local police the authority to work with ICE to find and detain “criminal illegal aliens,” though the policy was not widely used until after the September 11, 2001 attacks. IIRIRA’s policies were retroactive, so immigrants who had previously committed an aggravated felony and completed their sentence were subject to deportation—even when their attorney had advised that they plead guilty to avoid jail time, not telling them (often not even knowing) that such clients could later be deported for such a plea. These laws increased extended border control and post-entry social control by focusing attention and resources on removing migrants from the interior of the U.S. rather than from along its borders. In practice, this resulted in a deportee pool increasingly pulled from long-term settlers, which created a new American diaspora of immigrants who had spent their formative years chiefly in the U.S., rather than their countries of origin (Kanstroom 2012; see also Coutin 2016). Menjívar and Abrego (2012) assert that these draconian policies, which weave criminal law into immigration law, have produced legal violence in the lives of Central American 75 immigrants by hindering their long-term incorporation prospects in U.S. society (see also Abrego and Menjívar 2011). Legal violence includes elements of structural, symbolic, and physical violence, but it is further sanctioned and legitimated through its embeddedness in legal practice, making it appear “normal” and “natural,” despite its contribution to the climate of insecurity, exclusion, and suffering among migrants and their families (Menjívar and Abrego 2012: 1387). Legal violence follows deportees to El Salvador, where mano dura policies often impede their re/integration efforts and ability to exercise agency. Deportations continued to climb sharply in the aftermath of the 2001 September 11th attacks with the Homeland Security Act of 2002, which restructured the Immigration and Naturalization Service and made the DHS responsible for immigration control and enforcement. Alongside the USA PATRIOT ACT of 2001 and the Real ID Act of 2005, the Homeland Security Act greatly augmented the DHS budget, increased detentions and deportations, and spurred a record number of raids in community spaces, homes, and workplaces (Capps, Castañeda, Chaudry, and Santos 2007; Golash-Boza 2012)—again targeting relatively settled migrants and those employed in working-class environments where raids were most likely to occur. The increased application of 287(g) and later the 2008 “Secure Communities” program, which aimed to identify arrested noncitizens eligible for deportation by running their fingerprints through the DHS database, further blurred the boundaries between immigration and criminal law, fueling popular associations of migrants with criminals and terrorists and making immigrants even more vulnerable to the legal system (Menjívar and Abrego 2012: 1394-95). Together, these policies did exactly what Golash-Boza (2015) argues they were intended to do—remove Black and Brown working-class men who served as disposable labor in the neoliberal capitalist system. Among Salvadorans and Salvadoran-Americans, such policies were particularly powerful due to 76 low rates of naturalization and legal nonrecognition in the U.S., which produced a particularly hostile context of reception, characterized by limited institutionalized support and economic hardship (Menjívar 2000, 2006; see below). A Neoliberal Turn: Privatization, Dollarization, and CAFTA While immigration policies shaped Salvadorans’ outcomes in the diaspora, conservative Salvadoran and U.S. economic leaders pressed for neoliberal reforms in El Salvador, including trade liberalization, deregulation, and dollarization. These policies influenced migrants’ context of exit and deportees’ context of return, as they heightened the need for migrant remittances and produced economic instability, inflation, un- and underemployment, and meager wages (see Garni and Weyher 2013; Madrid 2009; Towers and Borzutzky 2004). Like immigration policies, those most marginalized by these economic changes were the poor and working class, who encountered economic violence because of—and while benefiting—the elite capitalist class (Garni and Weyher 2013). Throughout the 1990s, El Salvador’s ARENA-led government, aided by international bodies like the International Monetary Fund and World Bank, executed a rigid neoliberal economic model. The Salvadoran government began the voluntary and gradual dollarization of its economy in 1995 by eliminating all restrictions on financial operations in U.S. dollars. Formal dollarization followed in 2001, when the U.S. dollar took the place of the colón as El Salvador’s official national currency amidst and in spite of widespread protests (see Garni and Weyher 2013; Towers and Borzutzky 2004). El Salvador became the first country to ratify and implement the Dominican Republic-Central American Free Trade Agreement (DR-CAFTA) in December 2004 and March 2006, respectively. These reforms quickened the privatization of El Salvador’s economy, and elites sold interests (for instance, in telecommunications, banking, 77 transportation, and electricity distribution) to private players in the U.S., Asia, and Central and South America (Garni and Weyher 2013: 66; Segovia 2005). Advocates of dollarization and DR-CAFTA—particularly ARENA leaders and their allies in the financial and manufacturing sectors—argued that such reforms would generate economic growth, lower interest rates, control inflation, and increase foreign direct investment. In practice, these policy changes served the interests of powerful actors invested in the global capitalist system and compounded the marginalization of poor and working-class Salvadorans (Madrid 2009; Towers and Borzutzky 2004; see also Garni and Weyher 2013). Towers and Borzutzky (2004) showed that dollarization has increased structural inequality, and Garni and Weyher (2013) corroborated that adopting the dollar made the canasta básica (basic food basket) more expensive while suppressing wages. DR-CAFTA had a similarly negative impact, with devastating effects on El Salvador’s productive structure (Madrid 2009). Neoliberal reforms were especially damaging to agricultural families and communities, expanding the importation of previously local crops like rice and beans and weakening national industry (Garni and Weyher 2013; Madrid 2009). In light of the growing need for U.S. dollars and poor employment prospects at home, Salvadorans continued to emigrate and aid their loved ones in El Salvador with remittances (Garni and Weyher 2013; Gammage 2006). As noted in chapter 2, in 2016 members of the Salvadoran diaspora provided El Salvador with over 4.5 billion U.S. dollars in remittances (BCR n.d.)—equal to 17.1 percent of the nation’s gross domestic product (DeSilver 2018). Concurrently, the interests of local and transnational elites—frequently based in the U.S.— continued to take precedence over the needs of the local people. Thus, economic and political factors in the U.S. and El Salvador combined to generate extreme structural violence in the lives 78 of Salvadoran migrants and their loved ones during both the civil war and post-war periods. As the next section demonstrates, the structural violence that marked the 1990s was also embodied through threatened and actual physical violence, which displaced thousands of Salvadorans and produced new waves of asylum seekers. I begin by discussing the roots of the current gang phenomenon, which link past and present violence in El Salvador. I then address the present political and socio-economic context, the world that deportees enter and asylum seekers flee, highlighting mano dura policies and the marginalization of the deported population. CONTEXT OF RECEPTION: EL SALVADOR AS A DEPORTEE-RECEIVING STATE Deported Violence? El Salvador’s Postwar Context During and after the civil war, Salvadoran migrants and their dependents often settled in resource-poor U.S. cities and neighborhoods characterized by residential segregation, un- and underemployment, racialized policing, and gang violence. Migration to cities like Los Angeles and San Francisco often resulted in integration challenges for Salvadoran youth, who encountered racism from their peers and police, in addition to isolation when their parents worked long hours to offset the difficulties they faced as precarious migrants (see Menjívar 2006). For some young people, gang affiliation was the answer, and they joined and later formed gangs, particularly Calle Dieciocho (18th Street) and Mara Salvatrucha (MS-13), in order to survive ethnic hostility and create a community or family where they felt they belonged (Zilberg 2011; see also Levenson 2013). Following the 1992 Peace Accords and increasing exponentially after IIRIRA and AEDPA went into effect, the first waves of alleged gang members were deported to El Salvador and the rest of the Northern Triangle38. When they first arrived, these deported youths were 38 Not all deportees in the 1990s were affiliated with gangs, but in this section I am primarily referring to those who identified as gang or ex-gang members. 79 disoriented and isolated, having left their families and adopted home in the U.S. Some of them had few memories of El Salvador, and the memories they did have were of a landscape now irrevocably transformed by the war (Zilberg 2004, 2011). They frequently hoped to start over after their deportation, but discombobulation, alienation, and stigmatization prompted some of them to return to the gang lifestyle with which they were familiar—and which they subsequently popularized among nonmigrant Salvadorans (Wolf 2017), implementing clicas (gang chapters) that closely resembled the California gang style39 (Fariña, Miller, and Cavallaro 2010; Zilberg 2011). Over the course of the 1990s and into the twenty-first century, these gangs grew in size, geographical reach, power, and impunity. Currently, there are more than 300 clicas and an estimated 60,000 active gang members in the country (El Diario de Hoy 2015), although these official estimates may be undercounted, as they reflect only individuals who have encountered law enforcement (Wolf 2017: 11). Gangs have an approximate social support base of 500,000, consisting of former members, active collaborators, and other sympathizers, as well as current members (International Crisis Group 2017: 8). Rates of homicide, extortion, sexual assault, and other violent crimes have risen alongside the evolution of Salvadoran gangs. For instance, the Policia Nacional Civil (National Civil Police, or PNC) registered 5,278 murders in 2016, comprising a homicide rate of 81.2 per 100,000; though this number was significantly lower than the 2015 rate—104 per 100,000—it still marked El Salvador as the most homicidal country in 39 While deported gang members helped hone gang culture and structure, they did not create the Central American gang “crisis” (Wolf 2017: 104-105). As Levenson explains in her discussion of the Guatemalan case, North American gang slogans, clothing styles, hand signals, and vocabulary had already reached Central America through popular media and immigration (2013: 42-43). Moreover, political instability, crumbling infrastructure, limited job prospects, and the widespread availability of weapons in the postwar period preceded the creation of contemporary Salvadoran gangs (see Hume 2007; Wolf 2017). 80 Latin America (Gagne 2017). Youth and women are particularly vulnerable in El Salvador, which has the highest femicide rate in the world, at 8.9 homicides per 100,000 women in 2012 (Wilkinson 2015; Yagoub 2016). A 2015 UNHCR study with Mexican and Central American women refugees and asylum seekers revealed that women from across the region are at risk for assaults, threats, disappearances, and domestic violence, in addition to femicide (UNHCR 2015). High rates of violence, coupled with economic instability and family separation, have prompted new migration flows (see Ramos et al. 2013). Not all these crimes are committed by gang members. State agents and individual actors also perpetrate violence, and there is evidence that some murders officially attributed to gangs were committed by police or military (Valencia, Martínez, and Caravantes 2015; see also Martínez 2016). Similarly, while popular and political rhetoric sometimes suggests that the high homicide rates “just” reflect gang members killing other gang members, Valencia, Martínez, and Caravantes (2015) have uncovered instances in which civilians were also victims of state- sponsored and gang violence. Gang violence is compounded by socio-cultural, economic, and political factors (Hume 2007), including the nation’s widespread availability of guns, high levels of precarious employment, structural problems, dollarization, history of violence, and authoritarian governance. Fariña, Miller, and Cavallaro assert that the Salvadoran state’s weak institutions— particularly the limited formal spaces available to the political opposition as well as the judicial system, national police, and prison system—have fostered “conditions of violence, insecurity, and lawlessness that permeate public life,” which contribute to contemporary gang violence in El Salvador (2010: 12). In an analysis of El Salvador’s current media coverage of gangs, Wolf (2017) finds that media outlets rely on the “imported gang theory” that gangs are an import from 81 the U.S. through deportation. She counters, first, that Salvadoran gangs existed before the postwar deportations began and, second, that deported gang members who remained active in MS-13 or 18th Street after return often did so because the state neglected to create rehabilitation programs and social insertion opportunities. Wolf concludes that the imported gang theory lacks evidence and that Salvadoran street gangs “[emerge] from socially marginalized communities and [comprise] largely local youth” (2017: 105). In sum, youths, gang members, and deportees have been unjustly blamed for a broad array of social problems that are more accurately rooted in political, economic, and military structures directed by Salvadoran and U.S. elites. Such structures have translated into symbolic, physical, and legal violence in the lives of Salvadoran deportees through mano dura policies and the stigmatization of deported migrants in the media and political rhetoric—which increase deported Salvadorans’ fears of return, internal displacement, and decisions to flee. Mano Dura Policies, Stigmatization, and Legal Violence In July 2003, then-president Francisco Flores launched Plan Mano Dura, under which gang members would be systematically arrested with the aim of restoring order in affected communities and lowering violent crime rates (see Hume 2007; Wolf 2017: 49-53). The plan included graffiti removal, street policing by joint police and military anti-gang squads, and massive area police sweeps to find and detain suspected gang members—all of which were widely publicized in the popular press, effectively framing Mano Dura as a successful policy through ample coverage of these “spectacular showdowns” (Wolf 2017: 50). These components were accompanied by Ley Anti Maras, a temporary anti-gang law that classified gang membership as a crime punishable by prison time for anyone over the age of 12. This legislation violated constitutional guarantees and international human rights norms by lowering the age of 82 legal responsibility to 13 and requiring no evidence at the time of the arrest, in practice allowing police to detain anyone they suspected of gang affiliation based on features like tattoos, language, or clothing—features also common among deported 1.5-generation immigrants, who were disproportionately affected by this and similar legislation (Coutin 2007; Zilberg 2011). Human rights defenders and opposition politicians resisted the law, and judges released a majority of the detainees due to lack of evidence. Ley Anti Maras was eventually ruled unconstitutional, though this ruling came only a few days before it was set to expire. In 2004, when ARENA leader Antonio Saca became president, he enacted Plan Súper Mano Dura, which in many ways extended mano dura practices such as the arbitrary detention of suspected gang members based on tattoos and other cosmetic features40. Under the leadership of Mauricio Funes and Salvador Sánchez Cerén, the nation’s first and second FMLN presidents, the government continued to develop anti-gang policies reminiscent of the mano dura approach, once more leaving prevention and rehabilitation an afterthought. In April 2016, El Salvador’s Legislative Assembly passed another set of harsh reforms aimed at street gangs, which criminalized negotiation and dialogue with gangs, as well as explicitly classified them as terrorist organizations41 (see Tabory 2016). Those in support of mano dura argued that the approach removed dangerous gang members from the streets, lowered the homicide rate, and increased tranquility in local 40 The Súper Mano Dura plan aimed to include prevention and rehabilitation programming for at- risk youth and ex-gang members, respectively, but these measures were feeble and poorly funded, resulting in few fundamental policy changes (see Wolf 2017: 53-64). 41 In June 2017, the Salvadoran Legislative Assembly passed Decreto 717 (Decree 717), a policy reminiscent of mano dura that was specifically aimed at deportees who are alleged gang members. Decreto 717 compels these individuals to register with the Salvadoran government and report their activities bi-weekly at their local police precinct (Asamblea Legislativa de la República de El Salvador 2017; García 2017). This policy is indicative of the Salvadoran state’s related concerns about gang members and deportees. While Decreto 717 was not in effect during the research period, it is likely to affect deportee re/incorporation in the future (see chapter 8). 83 communities. Conversely, Wolf asserts that the program was “utterly ineffective” in securing convictions or controlling crime, revealing that the homicide rate actually rose from 2003 to 2004, when the policy was implemented (2017: 51). Plan Súper Mano Dura was also a “resounding failure” at reducing crime, though like its predecessor, it remained popular due partially to extensive positive media coverage (Wolf 2017: 64). These findings are all the more significant considering that, when Plan Mano Dura was first introduced, there had been no recent spike in gang violence and the homicide rate had been decreasing. Arguably, the Flores administration introduced the policy to maintain ARENA’s command of the Salvadoran state rather than produce effective gang prevention, control, and the rehabilitation of former gang members (Wolf 2017). In the early twenty-first century, the FMLN was gaining momentum and threatening ARENA’s long-standing political primacy, particularly in light of economic instability that made the FMLN appealing to voters. By cultivating the idea that street and gang violence were the nation’s most pressing problem and pioneering an aggressive and highly publicized response, ARENA preserved its rule for an additional five years—at great cost to the Salvadoran public and working-class male youths. Not only has the program contributed to the criminalization and stigmatization of such young men, but it is also unlikely to generate any substantial reduction in gang violence and undermines the nation’s democracy (Hume 2007; Wolf 2017). The mano dura approach produced profound legal violence in the lives of both active gang members and those suspected of having gang ties, such as poor and working-class young men from marginalized neighborhoods and deportees whose body language, clothes, tattoos, and accents marked them as criminals (Coutin 2007; Fariña et al. 2010; Hume 2007; Wolf 2016; Zilberg 2011). Alleged gang members continued to be stigmatized and maltreated if they lived in 84 certain zones, demonized in the popular media and pursued by police, military, and political leaders—and, in the case of gang-affiliated deportees, rival gangs (Zilberg 2011). At their most extreme, popular perceptions of gang violence and lawlessness incited extrajudicial killings of gang members, not only by anti-gang extermination squads but also civilians who took the law into their own hands, in one case “justifying their act [the lynching of three gang members] by claiming that Súper Mano Dura ‘did not work’” (Wolf 2017: 73; see also Fariña et al. 2010). These actions constitute legal violence in the lives of return migrants and nonmigrants, as it is the law that permits, perpetuates, and arguably encourages the scapegoating, policing, harassment, and unjust incarceration of assumed gang members. Today, these populations continue to be profiled and subjected to stop-and-search practices that are often accompanied by verbal harassment, beatings, and other violence (Fariña et al. 2010; Wolf 2017; Zilberg 2011). In response, government leaders, NGOs, churches, and returned migrants have developed reception and re/incorporation programs that aim to protect and assist deported Salvadorans (see chapter 3). Returned migrants and their advocates have also challenged their mistreatment in individual and collective ways, as I address in chapters 6 and 7. CONCLUSION Historically and presently, the U.S. context of exit and Salvadoran context of return have produced a hostile, often dangerous environment for deportees. Beginning in the late 1970s, unrest and civil war in El Salvador drove massive numbers of internal displacement and emigration, and American cold war policy prompted the U.S. to support the Salvadoran state and military while closing its doors to most Salvadoran asylum seekers. As the war ended, increasingly harsh U.S. immigration policies led to new waves of deportations to Latin America, while El Salvador’s recent trauma, hollowed-out infrastructure, neoliberal economic approach, 85 postwar violence, and mano dura policies influenced deported Salvadorans’ modes of re/incorporation. With these political and historical roots in mind, I now turn to the current experiences of deported Salvadorans, beginning with an exploration of how deportees’ encounters with precarity and violence are shaped by their gender, age, and migration histories. 86 DEPORTED MASCULINITIES: SALVADORAN MEN’S GENDERED EXPERIENCES CHAPTER FIVE OF REMOVAL AND RETURN Hundreds of deported Salvadoran men arrive from the U.S. and Mexico each week, shackled at their hands, waist, and feet throughout the journey. Their chains are removed before they set foot on Salvadoran soil, but at the reception center, they are “welcomed” by police officers that photograph and fingerprint them to check their criminal background. As they try to settle into quotidian life in El Salvador, many report threats and attacks by local gang members, as well as incidents of harassment from police, armed guards, and soldiers (Coutin 2013b, 2016; Fariña, Miller and Cavallaro 2010; Zilberg 2011). Rather than provide them with protection from violent encounters, the state historically has ignored or even contributed to their stigmatization and criminalization (Fariña et al. 2010). These experiences are persistent reminders of state and social control in the lives of deportees, who are primarily young, poor men of color. Golash- Boza and Hondagneu-Sotelo (2013) have argued that contemporary trends in U.S. immigration policy implementation constitute a “gendered racial removal program” that disproportionately affects Black and Brown men, particularly those from Latin America and the Caribbean. However, few studies have examined ways in which deportation and re/incorporation are gendered processes for deportees and their loved ones (Boehm 2016; Boodram 2018a, 2018b; Dingeman et al. 2017; Golash-Boza 2014 are notable exceptions). In this chapter, I bring together theorizing on migration and masculinities to explore ways in which deported Salvadoran men experience and interpret immigrant detention, removal, reception, and re/integration. Following Golash-Boza and Hondagneu-Sotelo (2013) and Moloney (2012), I assert that immigration control and enforcement are shaped by gender, race, ethnicity, class, and nationality, which affect migrants’ encounters with the deportation regime. I 87 argue that deportations produce a range of marginalized masculinities, which are jointly constructed by the U.S. and Salvadoran states, societies, and deportees and their loved ones. I introduce the concept of deported masculinities to describe the various re/integration pathways open and, more often, closed to deported Salvadoran men, whose experiences illustrate the gendered challenges associated with removal and return, particularly among groups targeted for harassment and violence at home and abroad. I begin with a brief review of the gender, migration, and deportation literature before turning to scholarship on multiple masculinities (Connell 1987, 1995) and Latin American and Latino masculinities. I then discuss distinct ways that deported Salvadoran men’s gender practices are constrained during removal and re/incorporation—through the policing of their bodies, precarious work, and unemployment. These examples reveal ways in which gender intersects with other social locations, such as age, relationship status, and parental status, to generate unique obstacles and opportunities for different segments of the returned migrant population (see Dingeman 2018). I conclude by considering moments in which deportees resist their marginalization through reconstructions of positive deported masculinities. GENDER, RACE, AND REMOVAL IN U.S. HISTORY Race and gender have always affected the creation of U.S. immigration policy, intersecting with social concerns about foreign policy, national security, the economy, morality, social class, and national membership (Moloney 2012: 4). As early as 1790, citizenship was defined by race and gender, and the 1875 Page Law and 1882 Chinese Exclusion Act further limited nonwhite migrants’ settlement in the U.S. Specifically, the Page Law put constraints on the migration of unmarried women from China to the U.S., implying that they were likely to engage in prostitution, and the Chinese Exclusion Act enabled the exclusion or deportation of 88 Chinese laborers who were determined likely to become public charges, carry a contagious disease, or were convicted of a crime involving moral turpitude (Moloney 2012: 31; see also McKeown 2008: chapter 5). The Chinese Exclusion Act was implicitly directed toward Chinese men, who represented the vast majority of Chinese labor migrants in the nineteenth century (Moloney 2012). These policies laid the foundation for prohibiting an immigrant group—in this case, Chinese settlers—from entering the U.S. based on their nationality and gender. Late- nineteenth-century anti-immigrant policies are echoed today when noncitizen migrants are apprehended in workplace raids at construction sites or factories; these raids exclusively occur in working-class environments, many of which are populated by men of color with precarious legal statuses (Golash-Boza 2015). Migrants also tend to be apprehended in other spaces dominated by men, such as prisons, labor pools, and public streets42 (Hagan, Eschbach, and Rodriguez 2008). In effect, the racialized, gendered removal of Latino men filters out certain groups, affects the racial composition of the U.S. population, and retains a malleable immigrant workforce (see de Genova 2002; Golash-Boza 2015). Golash-Boza and Hondagneu-Sotelo explain, “The new [constructed immigration] danger is masculine, one personified by terrorist men and ‘criminal aliens’” (2013: 273), which has facilitated the passage of increasingly draconian immigration policies. De Genova (2002, 2007) adds that contemporary U.S. policies rely on the characterization of migrant “illegality” as Mexican so that a stereotypically Latino phenotype becomes the basis for apprehension and detention; consequently, racial profiling is 42 Detention and deportation rates for women and girls have increased since 2014, particularly among recently arrived women and children who migrate for family reunification or to flee from violence (Gogolak 2016; Hiskey et al. 2016; UNHCR 2015). The growing population of deported women and girls in El Salvador and the Northern Triangle represents an important direction for future research, because their immigration journeys; asylum cases; and experiences of detention, reception, and reintegration are distinctly gendered and often colored by domestic and sexual violence (see Dingeman et al. 2017). 89 used to deport disproportionate numbers of Latin American and Caribbean migrants (Golash- Boza 2012). Because “Mexican-looking” migrants are rendered “deportable” via the perpetual possibility of deportation, they are more likely to act as obedient workers and less likely to make political claims for themselves (de Genova 2007). The state’s persecution of migrant men of color and attempts to suppress their political engagement indicate that they have valuable contributions to offer gender and migration scholars. BRINGING MEN INTO MIGRATION STUDIES In the 1980s migration and gender scholars began to call for the incorporation of women’s experiences into migration studies (see Mahler and Pessar 2001; Morokvasic 1984). The resulting literature shattered the assumption that men migrated while women stayed home and provided insights into immigrant families, networks, and incorporation. Pessar and Mahler have subsequently noted that it is not sufficient to simply replace male respondents with female ones, which essentially “[treats] gender … as the variable sex” (2003:814). Instead, gender should be considered a central organizing tenet of migration. Hibbins and Pease further encourage research that explores the experiences of male migrants as men with gendered experiences, rather than “non-gendered humans” (2009: 5). In this chapter, I respond to this call by examining how deportation and re/integration are embodied, gendered processes for Salvadoran men. Previous studies have shown that migration is a gendered process for men and women. For example, in Hondagneu-Sotelo’s study of undocumented Mexican women and men’s migration and settlement patterns, the author found that, among young single men, the journey north was a “patriarchal rite of passage” into adulthood (1994: 83), while married men who migrated alone often did so to provide for their families financially. Similarly, Broughton (2008) 90 found that poor men from rural Mexico responded to migration pressures with one or a hybrid of three fluid masculine stances—traditionalist, adventurer, and breadwinner—through which they could adapt to social and economic dislocations and meet instrumental and identity goals (2008: 574). The traditionalist responded to social changes and resultant struggles by prioritizing family and community connections, traditional gender roles, and watchful fathering; the adventurer saw the northern journey as an escape to independence, advancement, and excitement; and the breadwinner undertook the burdens and indignities of migration to fulfill family obligations. For Salvadoran mothers and fathers, northward migration was also a sacrifice they made when they had few or no alternative ways to provide for their children (Abrego 2014). In sum, for Mexican and Salvadoran men, northward migration represents a gendered process rooted in local conceptions of what it means to be a man and father. The migration process can affect gender norms in diverse ways (Hondagneu-Sotelo 1994; Pessar 2005). Pessar outlines three possible outcomes for gender ideologies after migration: first, migrants may challenge and renegotiate pre-migration gender ideologies, relations, and practices; second, migration may result in the acceptance of counter-hegemonic gender regimes that were available before migration; or, third, migration can reproduce or even intensify original gender beliefs and norms (2005: 6). For instance, based on interviews with Guatemalan transnational migrants and their families, Montes (2013) argues that migration—both the challenges of the journey and family separation—became an opportunity for Guatemalan transnational fathers to reflect on their family relationships and counteract negative traits associated with masculinity, such as being unemotional, non-nurturing, or aggressive. According to Montes, “[R]ather than being passive individuals subjugated to cultural structures, these men exercise an agency that allows them to step away from culturally expected masculine identities,” especially in light of 91 the harsh living conditions they encounter through migration (2013: 487). Abdi (2014) also finds that the context of reception shapes gender constructions; in her ethnography with Somali refugees in Minnesota, she found that women resisted patriarchal ideologies that limited their bargaining power, but they also criticized women’s use of 911 services in part because of fears around men’s arrest and deportation. Thus, racialized gender ideologies in the receiving state— i.e. Somali men’s racialization as Black and subsequent targeting by U.S. police and ICE agents—influence whether and how migration transforms thought and action around gender. Gender and Return Migration More recently, Girma (2017) has encouraged a systematic inclusion of gender and other forms of stratification in return migration literature, and researchers have begun to consider men’s experiences of migration and return as gendered processes (e.g. Hansen 2008; Negi et al. 2018; Suh 2017). Men’s disadvantaged position in the receiving state compared with their privilege at home often results in their stronger desires to return relative to their female counterparts. Among Somali men, for instance, return migration can be imagined as a way to recreate “lost images of masculinity and femininity” (Hansen 2008: 1109). Yet return is not always accompanied by men’s anticipated status improvement, particularly if they deplete the funds they earned abroad (see Hansen 2008; Negi et al. 2018; Suh 2017). As Hansen notes, diaspora Somali men are often unable to find permanent employment and are accused of losing their identity, bringing foreign ideas, and having “kitchen problems,” or arguments with their wives about who should be responsible for cleaning and care work (2008: 1123-4). Negi and colleagues found that migrant men’s return to Mexico was “emotionally complicated” and “disappointing” (2018: 388), and the majority of their participants were considering a return to the U.S. for economic reasons (p. 389). Similarly, Chávez, Edelblute, and Korver-Glenn’s 92 interviews with men in Mexico who had worked as roofers in the U.S. revealed emotional tensions between their simultaneous frustration with the Mexican labor market and happiness with family reintegration, prompting the authors to argue that “the migration process—to and from the U.S.—is filled with emotional and economic significance” and feelings about family as well as work (2016: 144). Arguably, these hardships are compounded for deportees, whose “homecoming” is compelled by the U.S. and who encounter additional stigmas after return. Gender and Deportation. Like gender and return migration more broadly, the nascent scholarship on the gendered experiences of forced return has uncovered four challenges facing deported men43—precarious work or unemployment, stigmatization, violence, and the emotional trauma of removal44 (Boodram 2018a, 2018b; Dingeman et al. 2017; Golash-Boza 2014). I advance this literature by introducing a framework for conceptualizing men’s gendered and embodied experiences as they intersect with other social locations. Based on interviews with deported Jamaican LPRs, Golash-Boza (2014) argues that men face a gendered stigma when they are deported not only because they cannot fulfill the traditional masculine roles of providing for themselves and their families but also because they are unable to suppress their emotions. Golash-Boza emphasizes that deportation causes a sense of alienation and isolation, in addition to shame among men who have previously supported their loved ones but now become emotionally and financially dependent on others due to limited employment opportunities, family separation, and stigmatization (2014: 71). Boodram (2018a) correspondingly finds that fathers 43 Golash-Boza (2015; see also Dingeman 2018; Ríos 2018) shows that the deported migrant population is not homogeneous, which suggests that these challenges are unique to particular modes of incorporation. 44 While women are removed at much lower rates than men, Dingeman et. al's (2017) exploratory study of deported women found that their experiences are also distinctly gendered. Mothers face the stigma of the neglectful mother and frequently encounter gender-based violence. 93 deported to Trinidad and Tobago face distinct emotional and psychosocial challenges following separation from their children, struggles which are exacerbated by unaffordable internet and phone networks that restrict communication. Boodram (2018b) reveals that aging men confront additional difficulties as they attempt to re/integrate in Trinidad and Tobago, including not only psychosocial and emotional challenges but also economic hardship and poor health. In many contexts, removed men experience frequent encounters with violence as well as high rates of drug and alcohol abuse compared with non-deported men (Brotherton and Barrios 2011; Brouwer et al. 2009; Zilberg 2011). First, because of the conflation of deportation status with gang affiliation in El Salvador, specifically, deported long-term settlers may be threatened, beaten, or killed by gangs or police, especially if their clothing, tattoos, mannerisms, speech, or hairstyles mark them as deportees (Zilberg 2011; see also Fariña et al. 2010). Their precarious economic situations and unfamiliarity with local neighborhoods place them at additional risk; they may be financially compelled to live in vulnerable areas or accidentally enter unsafe zones, where both state agents and gang members will be suspicious of them. Second, deportees’ emotional trauma coupled with limited social ties and narrow access to drug and alcohol rehabilitation programs heighten their addiction risk. For example, Brouwer et al. found that deported injection drug users in Tijuana, Mexico, reported more frequent drug injection and less interaction with medical or treatment services, compared with their non-deported counterparts (2009: 4). In sum, deported men’s gender combines in a unique way with their citizenship and immigration status in the deporting country to produce a distinct form of precarity, which constrains their ability to complete the hegemonic masculine project of remaining unemotional and rational while providing for family members financially (see below). These social locations 94 intersect with social class; race; ethnicity; sexuality; nationality; age; relationship, parental, and ability statuses; and contexts of removal and return to produce what I term deported masculinities. I now briefly outline key literature on multiple masculinities as well as Latin American and Latino masculinities before presenting the deported masculinities framework. MULTIPLE MASCULINITIES IN LATIN AMERICA AND THE U.S. Multiple Masculinities Though patriarchy confers all men some benefits, these advantages are dispensed differentially among men per their race and ethnicity, socioeconomic status, sexuality, nationality, citizenship status (Connell 1995), and age (Hearn 2011). To address these intersections of male identification with race, class, sexuality, and other social locations, Connell (1987, 1995) argues for a hierarchal framework of multiple masculinities. According to Connell (1995), in any given society, one form of hegemonic masculinity occupies a position of authority and confers access to patriarchal power (but see Coles 2009 on the possibility of multiple dominant masculinities), while subordinated masculinities are marginalized by their intersecting social locations. The hegemonic form of masculinity remains in power primarily through cultural constructions, institutionalization, and the delegitimization of alternatives (Connell and Messerschmidt 2005: 846). Consequently, definitions of hegemonic masculinity change over time and across places and cultures (Connell 1987), suggesting that migration—specifically forced migration such as deportation—will affect men’s gendered experiences, performances, and expectations. Latin American and Latino Masculinities. Salvadoran, Latin American, and Latino45 45 Many studies referenced here center Chicano, Mexican migrant, or Mexican-American men. While there are differences between these and Salvadoran masculinities, many participants in this study lived in Latino neighborhoods where Salvadorans represented only a small percent of 95 masculinities share many characteristics but differ in subtle ways, with important consequences for deported Salvadoran men. Across the Americas, primary indicators of hegemonic masculinity include one’s ability to financially provide for dependent family members (Alcalde 2011; Dreby 2010; Gutmann 2003; Hondagneu-Sotelo 1994) as well as exhibit rationality and control over one’s emotions (Golash-Boza 2014, 2015). Fatherhood is central to masculinity constructions throughout Latin America, though meanings around fatherhood range from solely financial support to active participation in the lives of one’s children (Gutmann 2003: 15; see also Viveros Vigoya 2003). In El Salvador specifically, Abrego explains that fatherhood is associated with “authority, protection, and guidance of the family through participation in the public sphere” (2014: 10). When marginalized fathers are unable to provide for their families, they can maintain their masculinity in other ways, such as repressing emotions, demonstrating physical strength, or signaling their freedom (2014: 10). Scholars of both Latino and Latin American masculinities challenge us to look beyond machismo and recognize the diversity of masculine projects and performances in Latino communities and Latin America (e.g. Hurtado and Sinha 2016; Mirandé 1997; Viveros Vigoya 2003, respectively). Latino Masculinities and Policing. Like their counterparts in Latin America (see Gutmann 2003), Latino men’s experiences of gender in the U.S. are intimately linked with race, class, and social institutions (see Hurtado and Sinha 2016; Rios 2009, 2011). For instance, Hurtado and Sinha’s (2016) research with Latino college-educated men revealed a shared feminist consciousness and commitment to ending gender oppression, prompting the authors to call for an intersectional approach to Latino masculinities that extends beyond inaccurate, racialized discussions of machismo. Simultaneously, the criminal justice system perpetuates the population. Therefore, it is appropriate to consider a pan-Latino experience among certain segments of the Salvadoran deported population (i.e. deported 1.5-generation immigrants). 96 gendered violence on poor and working-class Latino youth in urban centers, prompting some boys to respond with hypermasculinity in order to avoid becoming vulnerable to harassment on the streets (Rios 2009, 2011). Rios found that youths were encouraged to enact a positive working-class masculinity that emphasized “hard work, law abidance, and an acceptance of subordinate social conditions,” but this gendered performance was not accessible to them because of high rates of unemployment and criminalization (2011: 133). Latino men’s profiling as “illegal,” regardless of their citizenship status, further constrains their access to hegemonic masculinity in the U.S. For example, in a study of Latino men’s attitudes toward domestic violence, Alcalde (2011) found that Latino masculinity in Kentucky was constructed in response to migration, as well as women’s behaviors and peer pressure. For Alcalde’s participants, migration conferred certain privileges—improved employment opportunities and earning power—but this source of privilege was precarious because they could be laid off at any moment or pulled over while driving “simply because they looked Latino” (2011: 457). The author thus emphasizes that racial discrimination and structural forces shape Latino men’s experiences of and attitudes about masculinity. Reformed Barrio Masculinity. Flores (2014) found that Latino men who left street gangs performed “reformed barrio masculinity” by distancing themselves from past gang involvement and embracing domesticity—conventional participation in the home and labor market. These men—often the sons of Latino immigrants whose fathers’ forms of “‘ranchero’ culture” were not applicable to their lived experiences in urban centers—had previously turned to gangs and drug dealing to earn honor, income, status, and protection (Flores 2014: 4-5). Flores’s findings suggest that “racial identity is not crystallized across adulthood” but can change as men leave gangs to embrace their roles as nurturing fathers, husbands, and sons (2014: 10). Because 1.5- 97 generation immigrants are socialized into U.S. culture and society alongside their second-plus generation counterparts (see Gleeson and Gonzales 2012; Gonzales 2011), a subset of the deported migrant population have engaged in the hypermasculinity of the street described by Rios (2009, 2011) as well as the reformed barrio masculinity introduced by Flores (2014). Overall, deported Salvadoran men’s experiences illuminate how neoliberal globalization; migration; and racialized, gendered policing produce gendered expectations across borders. CONCEPTUALIZING DEPORTED MASCULINITIES Bringing together Connell’s (1987) multiple masculinities framework and literature on Latino and Latin American men’s diverse experiences and performances of masculinity, I argue that deported men encounter a range of gendered experiences, which I term deported masculinities. These gendered pathways are linked by deportees’ violent, emasculating encounters with immigration enforcement agents, police, and military in the U.S. and El Salvador, but they diverge based on individuals’ social locations (i.e. race, ethnicity, class, sexuality, age); temporal and geographical locations (i.e. time in and experiences with the deportee-sending and -receiving states); and relationships with the state(s), authority figures and institutions, communities and organizations, and loved ones (see figure 4). In essence, this framework demonstrates that migrants’ perceptions and performances of masculinity are simultaneously constituted by their experiences in and relationships with the deporting state and birth country, as well as their social networks and individual agency. Removal preserves but also transforms gendered projects begun before migration and during settlement. This project makes three important contributions to scholarship on migration, deportation, and masculinities. First, deported Latinos and Latin Americans’ gendered experiences are valuable in and of themselves, because they complicate traditional Latin 98 American migration flows, in which northward migration is a “patriarchal rite of passage” into adulthood (Hondagneu-Sotelo 1994: 83; see also Broughton 2008). Arguably, deportees are prevented from completing these patriarchal projects. Similarly, studies about return migration have frequently found that migrant men want to return to their birth countries at higher rates than their female counterparts, but deportation is commonly experienced as banishment (Zilberg 2011) or failure (Golash-Boza 2014), rather than a return to patriarchal privilege. Thus deportees’ gendered experiences challenge understandings of gender that have been produced using scholarship on initial and voluntary return migration. Second, bringing deportees into the multiple masculinities framework further contributes to Connell and Messerschmidt’s (2005) call 99 for research on transnational masculinities by revealing gendered trajectories produced by forced transnationalism (Golash-Boza 2014). Third, the deported masculinities framework presented here provides a way of categorizing and examining deportees’ gendered experiences, which can be used by future deportation scholars to explore the wide array of masculine and feminine projects generated by removal. FINDINGS My interviews, observations, and supplementary data analysis show that deported Salvadoran men’s experiences are gendered not only during migration, apprehension, and detention, but also during reception and long-term re/integration into Salvadoran society, suggesting the primacy of the state(s) in deportees’ lives as well as the diversity of deportees’ gendered experiences and expressions. In this section, I address several ways in which removed men experience deportation as a gendered process, including (1) the disciplining of deported men’s bodies during and after their initial reception; (2) the age discrimination of deported men over 35; and (3) precarious employment among deported 1.5-generation youth. I end with a brief discussion of ways in which Salvadoran deported men have forged new masculine identities and performances that contest their social stigmatization and exclusion. Disciplined Bodies: The Deportation Process Removed migrants of all ages and generations shared experiences of confinement and restraint in detention and during deportation and reception, which contributed to feelings of frustration and indignity, in addition to physical discomfort. Narratives emphasized being dirty, cold, and unable to bathe, as well being bound for hours at a time; in effect, men’s bodies served as the canvas on which their subordination was enacted. Prior to their deportation, detainees were often held in hieleras (air-conditioned cells in immigrant detention centers known as 100 “iceboxes”), where they were denied access to blankets, showers, and, in some cases, private restrooms. Carlos Alberto (3646), an aspiring graphic designer and small business owner who had spent nine years in the U.S. with TPS, recalled that, during a return attempt, Border Patrol agents placed him in the “hieleras—coolers. They are very cold, very, very, very cold. ... There is no water; everything is dirty; you don’t have anything to keep yourself warm.” Another deportee’s anonymous, unpublished account of his removal, which a local NGO leader shared with me, states, “The sanitary services were in view of everyone, without walls or anything separating them from the rest of the cell.” Whenever someone used the toilet, the room would immediately begin to smell like urine or excretion. The same individual further recounts being required to fully undress in front of his fellow inmates, though he was grateful “to return to [his] own underwear, yellow t-shirt, shorts, and sneakers.” Several respondents recalled being unable to bathe or brush their teeth before returning to El Salvador. During a conversation at the BAC, a recently arrived deported long-term settler47 explained, “We come [to El Salvador] filthy. We couldn’t shower for three days.” Jose Luis (35), a 1.5-generation immigrant who spent 30 years in the U.S. and was deported twice, described the night before his last deportation as “horrible:” “no sleep, in a cell with about 25 or 30 people, metal benches, we couldn’t even brush our teeth, we couldn’t even shower. ... Basically, we had to sleep in the chair [in Florence, Arizona, because we couldn’t get processed].” For migrants who had been apprehended during an attempted border crossing, moreover, their clothes—which they wore while crossing rivers and deserts—may have been muddy or ripped, and they wore 46 Ages are listed parenthetically following participants’ names. 47 I use “long-term settlers” to describe migrants who spent five years or longer outside of El Salvador after initially migrating as children, adolescents, or adults. This distinction is also used by RENACERES to classify its membership. Deported recent migrants include all those who lived abroad for fewer than five years. 101 these throughout their deportation proceedings. Deported migrants’ physical appearance and their inability to choose how to present themselves upon return are especially disconcerting when they are reunited with loved ones—sometimes for the first time in decades—as well as when they are interacting with authority figures such as immigration officials and police officers. Handcuffs and Metal Benches. The bodies of detainees and deportees are physically disciplined (Foucault 1995) when they are held in small rooms and later bound. Many deported migrants report that the night before they left the U.S. they were held in crowded rooms where they are unable to sleep. In these cells, there is limited metal bench space and some detainees are forced to stand. When they are later removed from the detention center, they are shackled at the hands and feet and occasionally chained at the waist. The written account described above states, “In this state, movement of the hands and feet is extremely limited. We spent 18 or 19 hours like that.” Other respondents similarly recall being chained or handcuffed anytime they were moved from one location to another, including during bus rides and flights. The written narrative continues, “The seats [on the bus] were very uncomfortable and we could barely fit our legs in front of us… The body is not accustomed to being in that state. For me, it was a kind of torture.” He added that agents told them they were handcuffed so that they would be “contained,” but he felt that this was a poor excuse. Overall, deportees remembered their inability to move freely and naturally with frustration and anger and considered it a symbol of their subordinated social location, especially during their flight to El Salvador: On the flight, a guard said that in case of emergency the oxygen masks would come down and we should put them on. I thought, “How are we going to do that with these chains?” I imagined what would happen in the case of an accident. Shouldn’t it be against international aviation laws to keep passengers chained during a flight? What was the 102 justification for transporting us like this? The fear that we would rebel [against the guards]? Or was it so that we would not hurt one another? … Would the agents have had time to unchain all of the detainees in the case of an emergency? The answer came a little later when we had 45 minutes left before landing in El Salvador. One by one, they began to remove the chains. It took about half an hour, and that was partially because the Hondurans stayed chained to continue their flight to Tegucigalpa. Numerous respondents echoed these reflections during interviews and informal conversations. Andrés, a 60-year-old RENACERES board member who had lived in the U.S. and Canada for 24 years, showed me his wrists and asked, “How can I reach my hand to the oxygen? I can’t even reach my food to my mouth.” Like the account above, several asserted that, had there been an accident, the guards would have been unable to unchain them in time. Disciplined Bodies: Re/integration and Age Once they arrived in El Salvador, deported long-term settlers further reported being closely monitored and frequently stopped and searched by police and military. Community activist Pablo Alvarado described this as a transfer “de un estado policial a otro estado policial (from one police state to another)” (qtd. In AudiovisualesUCA 2013). Deportees’ experiences of El Salvador as a “police state” were shaped by their gender identity, class, and deportation status, usually indicated by their clothing, tattoos, body language, and Americanized Spanish accents. Deported long-term settlers, especially 1.5-generation immigrants, often attributed this treatment to their status as deportees. Albert, a 31-year-old deported 1.5-generation immigrant who had been an LPR and small business owner before his removal, asserted, You're being profiled by the police, because you have tattoos or they see the different—, the way you dress yourself. Over here, you're misjudged by society based on how you 103 dress or how you look. There's a lot of, let's say discrimination, but not in the way of racism, but in personality. They profile you without even knowing you. He further clarified that he believed this discrimination was rooted in his deportation status, connecting it to the related challenge of finding a job as a deportee. Deported migrants’ potential paths to social, economic, and cultural incorporation were further influenced by age, which intersected with the social stigma of deportation and gender to determine their employment options as well as their encounters with police, armed guards, and soldiers. Recently arrived deportees were alerted to the possibilities of violence upon arrival or even before leaving the U.S. José Manuel, who had lived in the U.S. for 30 of his 35 years, recounted that his parents had told him, “You can’t go back over there [to El Salvador]!” because they were worried about crime and gangs. Miguel Ángel, a 27-year-old who emigrated when he was 10 years old and had been deported twice, noted that, during his police interview, officers accused him of being a gang member and told him that he would “most likely get shot in the street.” The doctor on call also warned him not to ride the bus, as gang members would rob and attack him because of his tattoos. José Roberto (49), a leader of Homies Unidos and ex-member of the 18th Street gang who returned to El Salvador in the 1990s, explained, “Some people come deported and are killed two, three hours after arriving. There are people waiting for them outside at the airport when they get here.” He further asserted that gang members might notice deportees on the bus and threaten them or physically attack them. While all Salvadorans are at risk for violent encounters, deported long-term settlers are particularly vulnerable because of their personal styles, tattoos, and body language, which are locally coded as gang symbols, in addition to their unfamiliarity with the public transportation system and geographical context. Lack of financial capital compounded these factors. Those who could not afford to live in safe areas 104 settled in neighborhoods where they were unknown to local police and gang leaders, causing suspicion. However, those who had (or appeared to have) returned from the U.S. with financial capital were targeted for robberies or extortion. By looking like they were from the U.S., therefore, deportees were vulnerable to multiple forms of physical violence. Several conversations with participants at the BAC and social events demonstrated that fear of violence was common among returning deportees, but it was particularly pervasive among young men whose age, gender, upbringing in the U.S., and deportee status rendered them suspect. For example, while participants of all ages had been robbed or mugged, for participants under the age of 40, threatened and actual violence were a daily concern. Emiliano, a 41-year-old call center recruiter who was deported after 24 years in the U.S. and who now runs an online forum for deportees and other call center workers, used to share the obituaries and memorials of community members who had been killed but eventually stopped because it was so demoralizing. By the end, he felt as if he were posting another obituary “every week.” Similarly, multiple research participants recalled being beaten or held at gunpoint, and many had lost a deported brother, cousin, or friend to violence since their deportation. Cesar (37), a 1.5- generation immigrant with five children in the U.S., reported being attacked by gang members on two occasions—first, when his car broke down and, second, while driving to work with a friend. According to Cesar, he was attacked because of his tattoos and because he and his car were “confused for someone else:” I was driving and my car broke down, so I was trying to get help. I had the hood up, and one guy was trying to help me. I was looking for jumper cables, and then two guys came up, and one had confused the car for someone else. They came up, I didn’t know they had guns and they were gangbangers. It was night, 10 p.m., five blocks from here. And all of 105 a sudden, he’s tripping on the car and then he suddenly pulled a gun on me and had it in my face. ... That was December 13, 2014. That was the first time. ... The second time I was with a friend. I had met a friend who was from the U.S., too. We used to work as mechanics. I’d pick him up every day at 7:00 to work. March 5, I had just picked him up from his house and we saw five—we had crossed a block down is where that happened [pointed down the street]. We slowed the car down at a speedbump, and they stopped and put guns in the windows. My friend got hit five times in his chest, and I got shot once in the side. After they left, my friend was still alive, and I put him in the ambulance. He died like an hour and a half after that. It was all bad after that. It was all bad. For Cesar and others, echoes of past traumas and threats of future violence were ubiquitous. Social Stigma and Police Presence. The social stigma associated with deportation and deportees also affects older and younger men differently. While male deportees are at risk for violence, public perception treats them as violent offenders. As a government official in the Departamento de Atención al Migrante (Department for Attention to the Migrant) and deported respondents explained, Salvadorans define “crime” differently that U.S.-Americans (personal communication, 2014). In El Salvador, a “criminal” is a person who has victimized others through a dangerous offense such as rape, murder, or armed robbery, while detainees in the U.S. are labeled criminals for nonviolent, arguably victimless crimes like driving without a license. The connotation of “criminal” does not translate easily, causing assumed and actual criminal deportees to be feared or maltreated. For younger deportees, this manifests most often as police harassment and brutality, while older deported men experience it as unemployability. For instance, after he was shot, Cesar moved to a small town and purchased a gun for protection, because “they were still looking for me.” When the police and military saw his gun, they beat 106 him so badly that he lost several teeth, before incarcerating him with members of the gang that killed his friend. During the five days that he was inside, Cesar recalls, “I was sure I wasn’t going to make it.” Carlos Antonio (42) and Victor Manuel (37), who are both heavily tattooed, 1.5-generation immigrants who were deported in their 30s, similarly described being followed by security guards while shopping as well as getting “funny looks” when they went out of their homes. Carlos Antonio explained that he and other deportees were treated like “outcasts:” “The first thing they [other Salvadorans] do is stereotype me [points to tattoos], my clothes, my tattoos… Oh man, as soon as they see me, they’re like, ‘Oh my God!’ It’s messed up.” During lunch at a restaurant on Lake Coatepeque with Carlos Antonio, Victor Manuel and his partner and daughter, and another deported friend, several other customers looked at us frequently; Carlos Antonio explained that this was normal and that it was because of their tattoos as well as the presence of me and another young female Anglo researcher. As we drove to their home after lunch, we further witnessed the stigma that deportees face regularly. We were seated in the bed of the truck, and an armed police officer pulled us over and asked Carlos Antonio to get out of the vehicle. He was patted down and asked if he was gang affiliated or carrying weapons. Frustrated, Victor Manuel called out of the window and the officer threatened to arrest him. Though the tense moment passed quickly, afterwards all three men were visibly upset. “This happens every day,” Carlos Antonio stated, “every day.” Again, Carlos Antonio’s interlocking statuses as a younger deported Salvadoran man placed him at a disadvantage. He could not argue with the police officer despite his sense that the traffic stop had been unlawful and unjust. This disrupted his performance of masculinity and his conceptualization of himself as action-oriented and independent, further elements of U.S- American and Salvadoran hegemonic masculinities. Alejandro (41), who migrated at the age of 107 six and was a participant in CONAMYPE’s reintegration program, outlined the unique challenge of leaving prison in the U.S. and returning to El Salvador. He explained, [B]asically the mentality [in prison] is don’t take nothing from no one, you know what I mean. If somebody tells you something or disrespects you, you have to fight. And the reason I’m saying that is because it affects you outside [of prison], you know, because like I said, back here, that’s why a lot of guys, they get into trouble because you come out institutionalized, with that mindset ... I mean, you’re not gonna let a little 13, 12-year-old boy want to tell you what to do. And the thing is here, these kids, they’re trained, you know, “If they don’t do what you say, you kill them.” ... So that causes that issue here. And it just messes with you, you know, your manhood. I mean, it really messes with you. In other words, Alejandro suggests that, unlike in the U.S. prison system, where men use physical fights to defend themselves, in El Salvador attempting to fight with gang-affiliated youth can result in gunfire. Navigating these divergent gendered expectations can have devastating psychological and material results for deported long-term settlers. Unproductive Citizens: Older Deportees. Informational interviews with local scholars as well as interviews and conversations with reintegrated deportees demonstrated that unemployment was a significant struggle for all male deportees, who were often overlooked for jobs because of local perceptions of deportees as gang members and criminals. The BAC offered employment assistance, but it tracked deportees into specific working-class jobs with few opportunities for mobility—working in call centers, for example—which many older deported Salvadorans rejected as insulting or stressful. Salvadoran job advertisements regularly include applicant parameters by gender and age (i.e. they are looking for someone under the age of 35). Josué, a RENACERES board member who was 50 years old at the time of our interview, 108 recalled being told by a government official that he and other RENACERES members were unemployable because they were “past productive age.” Several of them were unemployed a year or longer before receiving seed funds from the government to start their own businesses. Some tried call center work, but they argued that it was unhealthy and unsustainable for men of their age, because it entailed long hours of sitting in front of the computer and the pressure to sell products and keep clients on the line was stressful. Cero (42), who had been deported six times, most recently in 2016, worked in construction while living in the U.S. and lacked the computer skills required by call centers. He argued that older deportees encounter discrimination for multiple reasons—age, education level, and deportation status: “I have been here four months, and I haven’t found a job. One, because I don’t have the education. I only completed ninth grade, and any job wants a high school diploma. ... And men older than 30 cannot get work.” He added, Look, those of us who came from the U.S., they discriminate against us more because we were in the U.S. and they say, “Ahh, they were over there, and they didn’t do anything...” Also because many of us went [to the U.S.] early and we didn’t finish our studies. And because the work in the U.S. is not the same work as here. ... You do everything here differently. .... Here there isn’t sheetrock. Here there isn’t roofing. ... There are many jobs, but they do the jobs very differently here compared with the U.S. Cero’s comments highlight the interconnected challenges facing working-class Salvadorans who migrated as young men and built careers rooted in the U.S. Through removal, they face social stigma and ageism, and their work histories and skills are effectively erased. Their frustration at unemployment is thus heightened by their shift from breadwinner to dependent as well as their move from dignified employee to unemployed and unemployable; most members of RENACERES and other deported long-term settlers had worked steady jobs, 109 for example in construction, factories, or sales, earning livable salaries, starting retirement funds, and sometimes sending remittances or paying into U.S. social security accounts, and now they found themselves marked as “unproductive” and facing the possibility of getting older without a safety net or any recognition of the career that they built. For instance, Josué (50) had begun working within two weeks of arriving in the U.S. in 1986, eventually earning enough to buy and remodel his own home, raise four U.S.-citizen children, and support his parents in El Salvador. Similarly, Alejandro (41), a 1.5-generation immigrant involved with RENACERES and the CONAMYPE program, opened a carpet cleaning business that enabled him to buy a house and car for his wife and daughter in the U.S. as well as send remittances to his son in El Salvador. Yet after his removal, he “put in at least 15 curriculums [resumes] to a lot of positions ... and I haven’t had one call. Not even one call.” Tellingly, Felix, a call center agent in his late 30s who had lived in the U.S. for more than 20 years before his removal, asserted, … [I]f you look out in the streets, and you see there's a lot of people that do what is called here an informal job, where they have some sort of income that isn’t regulated… Why is that? Of course, there aren't enough jobs to go around. And who are actually doing those kinds of jobs? It’s not as common as it used to be back in the ’80s, when it was mostly children. Now, it's children past school hours or on the weekend. And lots of elderly people. And pretty much by the time you've hit 50, to [Salvadoran] society you're basically useless. Though he was employed in a call center and provided for two children who lived with him, he articulated the challenge of maintaining financial stability while growing older in El Salvador. Employment in Call Centers: A Young Man’s Game. While older male deportees 110 combatted ageism and social stigma to search for work, younger male deportees also struggled against unemployment and underemployment. Those long-term U.S. settlers who had never worked in El Salvador expressed shock at low salaries that curtailed the economic freedom they once knew. Those who spoke English found work in call centers, where recruiters always seemed to be hiring. However, they quickly learned that deportees are the front lines of precarious call center labor, “buffers” who are hired when clients ask for additional agents and fired months or even weeks later, ostensibly because their profile does not match the company’s needs. Call centers increasingly employ background checks of U.S. and Salvadoran criminal records, so younger male deportees see diminishing opportunities for rehiring and still fewer chances to advance as instructors, supervisors, or recruiters. These background checks were more and more frequently accompanied by polygraph tests and physical exams, in which applicants were stripped and searched for gang-affiliated tattoos. Lucas (32), a tattoo artist and call center agent, estimated that he had worked in four or five call centers since his deportation in 2009. According to Lucas, call centers are “pretty much the most decent job a deportee can get ... here in this country.” When he was on the market for a new job six months earlier, he was hired for a U.S.-based account that would have paid double or triple the Salvadoran minimum wage, ...but once they did the background check, it was over for me. Which hurt. It really did hurt. ... It angered me a lot because ... I passed all the tests, the psychological test, the tech support questions, the four interviews with the managers. And just because of that [my background in the U.S.], I didn’t get the job. ... And like I said, it limits me and other people in my situation as well, because like I said, I’m not the only one in that situation. On separate occasions, Lucas had undergone a physical examination and been asked to take a polygraph test at his own expense. These practices were so humiliating that some research 111 participants refused to apply for any jobs where they were required; this act of agency correspondingly limited their employment options. Again, the barriers of precarious labor and unemployment are compounded by age and gender, as well as parental and relationship status: as deported men settle down and form families in El Salvador, they seek stability and aim for permanent work positions, which are becoming progressively more difficult to find. Those deportees with families in the U.S., meanwhile, expressed aspirations to become economically self-sufficient so that they could move into secure neighborhoods and safely host their visiting children. Catalysts for Change: Positive Masculine Projects The above examples demonstrate deportees’ marginalized place in El Salvador, but participants rarely responded passively to their marginalization. Instead they found ways to exert their agency in detention centers, during deportation proceedings, and once they returned to El Salvador, often in gendered ways (see also chapter 7). As Collins (2009) argues, vulnerable individuals and groups find innovative, albeit occasionally small or quiet, ways to maintain their dignity and advance their political or social projects. For instance, in response to portrayals of aging deportees as “unproductive,” RENACERES members publicized their qualifications and work experience in news stories, radio programs, and public presentations, asserting that deportees are “productive citizens” with unique skills and gifts to share with their non-migrant peers. At the public launch of Café Global, local coffee packed and sold by RENACERES, Andrés (60) welcomed the audience and shared the organization’s vision: Our vision is that each of us that has been returned reintegrates into a productive life. At my age, I am no longer employable. So what waits for me? What was waiting for me for the future? I still have a future. I believe I have a future, and I’m sure of that. ... We are 112 not criminals. I always say that, and I will always say it. Because this is the stigma that we had and that we still have. We want to be productive citizens. Andrés’s emphasis on productivity and insistence that “we are not criminals” exemplifies how RENACERES counteracts the gendered stigmas facing deported men. At the individual level, deported fathers strove to nurture relationships with their children in El Salvador and the U.S. by offering emotional, psychosocial, and, when possible, material support. Those separated from their U.S.-citizen children maintained channels of communication by reaching out via text, phone, or social media, in spite of costly telephones and internet, complicated relationships with co-parents, and difficulties explaining their absence. At the RENACERES office, Josué stayed informed about his children’s school events and activities by reviewing the school website and calendar. Albert, who had been the primary caregiver to his two children before his deportation, spoke to his girls regularly and was planning to send for them. He recalled painfully the disruptive effect his removal had on his younger daughter, who expressed suicidal thoughts at school: That was real tough, hearing that from your daughter, and ... I would blame myself, you know. But in the meantime I talked to her and everything, and I told her mom, “Look, make her feel loved. If anything, just talk to her, tell her how much you love her ..., because that’s one thing you have to do.” Albert’s sister, a psychologist, helped him understand how to help his daughter, and he reported that “she’s doing fine now. Thanks God, she’s fine.” Other men had children in El Salvador after their deportation, which provided another opportunity for active parenting. Pedro (36), a 1.5-generation immigrant who had been deported in 2006, was a call center agent, tattoo artist, and single father to three sons. He explained, 113 “Basically now I just try to be the best I can for my kids. We go to church together.” He later added, “I love it here because my kids are here. My kids make my life more tolerable. First God makes it worth everything, then my kids. Then my dad. If I didn’t have my kids, I’d probably be thinking about going back.” As a single father, Pedro struggled to keep a job and find safe, affordable housing, but as his narrative shows, becoming a father was central to his identity. Redemptive Transnational Deported Masculinities. Other deported men, particularly those who had settled in the U.S. as children, youths, or young adults, forged positive, transnational masculine identities through cultural channels such as sports or churches. For example, the SAAIF league consists of six full-contact men’s teams, as well as five women’s flag football teams, most of which are coached by deported players. In 2016, each of the men’s teams included about five deported players (personal communication, 2016). Players consider one another family, and games are a uniquely transnational space where U.S.-American music, tattoos, and NFL jerseys are welcome, and men are in control of their bodies and gender performance. Male deportees and voluntary return-migrants serve substantial leadership positions within SAAIF, as they coach the “girls’” teams and teams of young adult men from at- risk neighborhoods, in addition to acting as referees and play-callers. In fact, the athletes are required to participate in volunteer work as team members. For example, Beto, a 38-year-old 1.5- generation immigrant who had been offered a football scholarship before his removal from the U.S. in 2001, described himself as a leader in the football community. When the football program began to lose steam in the early 2000s, he fought to keep it alive: “I started carrying practically the team on my shoulders, right. I was scheduling games, I was talking to sponsors, I was, you know, setting up games at the stadiums, I was carrying the equipment around everywhere with me, I was always recruiting, you know, because I knew what football meant to 114 me.” He and other deported players encouraged the rest of the players to have the discipline— work out, go to bed early, arrive at games on time—to physically and mentally prepare for the sport. Watching the program grow was especially empowering, as Beto recalled: Never let anybody tell you [that] you can’t do it, because we had that when we were beginning. We had that for years and for so many years, we didn’t have any support. … Now, … when we have good games, sometimes we get up into the 1500, 2000 people that come see us. That's a start. … [I]t’s a big, big improvement, from having only your family relatives to 1500 or 2000 people watching you, watching a football game? And its emotional, it's fun, because that's what you're there for, you want your fans to back you up and you want to play for them, you want to give them a show. Beto was also dedicated to caring for his five children, who he considered his primary “love and responsibility.” His children motivated him at work and prevented him from attempting to return to the U.S., as “[he] would never leave [his] kids.” The SAAIF is loosely affiliated with Hungry Church, a local evangelical spiritual community led by deported Salvadorans, most of whom were incarcerated before their return to El Salvador. Hungry claims to “love those others fear to love” and, in 2016, created shirts that state, “If your momma doesn’t love you, we do.” The idea for Hungry was borne of a collaboration with a U.S.-American ministry active in San Salvador but has developed a character that responds to the social stigma that many “criminal” deportees face upon their return to El Salvador. They support newly arrived deportees through Diaspora Ministry, hold weekly Bible studies, and come together for family-style dinners. Many members are deported men who attend with Salvadoran nonmigrant partners and translate all sermons and discussions into Spanish for non-English speakers. The Hungry community plays with past and current identities 115 as “soldiers” from the streets and “soldiers” for Christ, forming a church—and masculine identity—that transcends national boundaries. Hungry leaders also mentor and support at-risk youth. One afternoon, when I was visiting the ministry leaders, Paolo, a 38-year-old who had been deported after 30 years in the U.S., came in, flustered. He had been with a group of at-risk teens when the police stopped them. When a police officer shoved one of the boys, Paolo confronted him, reminding him that these were children. However, these agentic masculine performances do not negate the extreme precarity of most deportees, who faced hunger, thirst, and narcotraffickers on their migration journey; inhumane treatment in immigrant detention centers; the emotional trauma of family separation; and poverty, unemployment, and violent encounters with police and gangs in El Salvador. Moreover, as Alejandro’s comments indicated, some expressions of agency and masculinity that were accepted or even expected in the U.S. could have fatal consequences for deported men. Perhaps in part for this reason, leaders of Homies Unidos, RENACERES, Hungry Church, and the online forum for call center workers reported tragedies facing their members, ranging from robberies and internal displacements to homicides. José Roberto, an anti-gang activist and leader of Homies Unidos, died in what friends described as a suspicious motorcycle crash in 2016, and Jeovany Alexander Miranda, a founding member of RENACERES, was shot to death in front of his wife and son in 2015. Lucas and Miranda’s deaths were profound losses to their families and communities, as well as return-migrant activism and advocacy more broadly. DISCUSSION AND CONCLUSION In this chapter, I have shown ways in which deported Salvadoran men are marginalized through their specific locations at the intersections of race and ethnicity, class, gender, nationality, and citizenship status, as well as age and migration history. Deported men in El 116 Salvador have diverse gendered experiences of removal and return, but they share common encounters with the U.S. and Salvadoran “police states” which render them vulnerable, prompting me to introduce a framework of multiple deported masculinities shaped by the deporting and deportee-receiving states, individuals’ diverse social locations, agency, and relationships with institutions, state agents, communities, and family members in both nations. Together, deportees’ place(s) on this matrix generate differential gender socialization patterns and access to (or denial of) agency. This study further responds to Noguera and Hurtado’s assertion that Latino men have been “glaringly” absent from scholarship on masculinity and that their vulnerabilities have been rendered invisible (2012: 5), by demonstrating what it means to be a (Salvadoran and Latino) man in the face of extreme precarity and marginalization. I also extend Connell’s (1987, 1995) multiple masculinities approach by revealing ways in which mass deportation produces transnational marginalized masculinities created, in large part, by deportee- sending and –receiving states. Finally, these examples offer insights into how forced removal is an embodied process among men, as well as how deportation translates and transforms men’s experiences and performances of masculinity across national borders. Deportation as Embodied Practice Deportation was an embodied practice for deported migrant men, whose physical selves were disciplined in detention, deportation proceedings, reception at the Salvadoran International Airport, and as they attempted to re/integrate in El Salvador. Men’s emasculation in immigrant detention centers, as exemplified in their lack of privacy and inadequate space, was replicated when they had their fingerprints and photographs taken at the BAC after arrival in El Salvador. These processes are ostensibly meant to be purely administrative and bureaucratic—to house “illegal aliens” until they can be removed from the country, to catalog returned migrants and 117 keep the nation safe from violence—but they reveal contempt for Brown, working-class men’s bodies in the U.S. and El Salvador. Through deportation, and in particular through encounters with state agents, police, and military in both the deporting and deportee-receiving state, removed men continue to be treated as an excess labor force, rather than human beings. Deported masculinities are subsequently marginalized masculinities, though their differential experiences across age, class, and migration histories reveal divergent levels of precarity. Reformed Deported Masculinity However, deportees do not passively and silently accept their emotional or embodied subjugation. Beto, Pedro, and Paolo’s gendered performances highlight their nurturing roles within families, teams, and communities. Beto provides emotional and material support to his five children, and he is unwilling to vacate this role through remigration, even though he feels he belongs in the U.S., rather than El Salvador. Similarly, he self-identified as the leader of his teams, both as a quarterback and coach. He taught team members to discipline their bodies in preparation for games and describes “carrying … the team on his shoulders,” embodying his positive leadership role. Similarly, Paolo was willing to put his physical body between the police and at-risk youth, despite knowing that such encounters could end in physical violence or incarceration. Beto and Paolo’s care for their loved ones thus reveal ways in which Flores’s (2014) reformed barrio masculinities are imperfectly translated and transformed across national borders. Like ex-gang members in California, Beto, Pedro, Paolo, and others prioritized domesticity and turned inward to their families, teams, and faith communities as protective, caring father figures after removal. These participants frequently had direct encounters with the U.S. criminal justice system before removal and left the streets either before or after their apprehension in the U.S., subsequently focusing on family, football, and faith. Yet these men’s 118 reformed deported masculinity did not simply replicate Californian reformed barrio masculinities. Rather, deported long-term settlers’ precarity on the Salvadoran streets compelled them to continue confronting violence when necessary not for their own sake, but in their role as fathers, leaders, coaches, and mentors—heightening their risk of encountering violence in the process. Thus, ex-gang members and deportees with direct experiences in the U.S. criminal justice system strategically drew on the hypermasculine performances they had developed on the streets in the U.S. to protect the most vulnerable among them. Migration, Deportation, and Emotion The findings here have important implications for our understandings of the relationship between migration, emotion, and masculinity. In contrast to deported Jamaican men’s shame around expressing their emotions (Golash-Boza 2014), a subset of the deported men I interviewed spoke openly about their fears, frustration, and sadness at failing to remain in the U.S. A number of participants stated that they do not talk about their deportations with anyone, often saying that they felt that there was no one that they could trust. However, another group expressed the trauma of return with me and others. For example, Ignacio, a 60-year-old member of the RENACERES executive board whose deportation separated him from his ex-wife, children, and grandchildren, provided an introduction at the December 2016 presentation of my research. In his introduction, he told the audience how I had met his adult son and daughter-in- law when I had been in Texas in August. When I returned to El Salvador, I told Ignacio about the visit and shared the photographs that his family and I had taken together. His voice broke as he shared the relief it had been to him as a father to know that I had seen his son in person and could confirm that he was doing alright. He and other members of RENACERES described deportation as a “drama humano” (human tragedy) and spoke openly about the frustrations associated with 119 removal. Samuel, a 29-year-old call center agent who had emigrated as a baby and had an arm and leg amputated in the U.S. after a car accident, told me that he and his girlfriend had cried together as they mourned the death of several friends. These instances suggest that there are spaces in which deported Salvadoran men are normalizing emotional expressions, particularly those involving family separation, harassment, and violence. This trend is arguably linked to deportees’ distinct modes of re/incorporation. For example, RENACERES members’ expressions of pain challenged negative depictions of deportees and underscored their need for resources from the state and civil society. Samuel and his community’s close and constant proximity to violence and loss, on the other hand, necessitated and normalized grief, fear, and anger in certain circumstances. Future research is needed to better understand these varied emotional approaches to migration, settlement, and removal, and what such traumas mean for the framework of multiple deported masculinities. 120 CLAIMING CITIZENSHIP: DEPORTEES’ SENSE OF BELONGING AND CIVIC ENGAGEMENT IN THE U.S. AND EL SALVADOR CHAPTER SIX “When we have looked for jobs [in El Salvador], they ask us, ‘And why don’t you go back?’ … And they said the same there [in the United States] when they didn’t like us. They said, ‘Well, why don’t you go back to your country?’ And now they say the same thing here. What is the reason for being Salvadoran then?” -Nicolás (Prensa INSAMI 2015) Long-term settlers deported to El Salvador often experience removal and return as a simultaneous rejection from the United States and El Salvador (see Coutin 2016; Zilberg 2011). They are formally barred from one nation-state—the U.S.—and forcibly moved to another, where they experience stigmatization and discrimination by potential employers, society, and the state (Coutin 2013a, 2013b, 2016; Zilberg 2004, 2011). For deported Salvadorans like Nicolás, a RENACERES member and long-term settler to the U.S., such prejudices echo the racism, anti- immigrant discourse, and rejection they encountered as precarious immigrants in the U.S. Deportees are intimately familiar with exclusion from both states and provide significant insights into questions about membership, belonging, and nation. However, few scholars have explored what citizenship and belonging mean for deportees, and the nascent research available has centered members of the new “American diaspora” (Kanstroom 2007)—long-term settlers deported after a lifetime in the U.S., frequently with few roots in their country of citizenship (see Coutin 2013b, 2016; Golash-Boza 2016a; Goodfriend 2016; Zilberg 2011). Yet deportees’ feelings about membership span a wide spectrum, as do their ties to sending and receiving states, particularly among adult migrants and those who remain in El Salvador rather than attempting to remigrate after removal. In this chapter, I turn to deported Salvadorans’ definitions of citizenship and sense of belonging in El Salvador and the U.S., using interviews with deported migrants and 121 supplementary documents from deportee advocacy groups such as RENACERES and INSAMI. Like Coutin (2013b, 2016), Zilberg (2011), and others (Brotherton and Barrios 2011; Golash- Boza 2016a; Goodfriend 2016), I find that deported 1.5-generation immigrants claim membership in the U.S. based on their memories, experiences, and ties to people living there, and they often feel unwelcome in their country of nativity. I further find that deported long-term settlers assert claims of membership, deservingness, and rights in El Salvador, based on jus soli citizenship as well as their contributions to the Salvadoran state. These claims are reiterated by removed recent migrants, who consider themselves “100 percent Salvadoran.” While staking claims of belonging, deportees define citizenship not only as a legal process but also as a performance and access to freedom and opportunity. These results suggest that migration, deportation, and re/integration complicate conversations about citizenship, individual and collective rights and responsibilities, and the state, offering implications for migration scholars, citizenship theorists, practitioners, and policymakers. THEORIZING CITIZENSHIP IN THE 21ST CENTURY The deportation of long-term settlers with established lives in the host nation (i.e. families, school and work histories, retirement funds) starkly exposes the paradox of citizenship as a legal status compared with citizenship as a set of rights, practices and participation, and sense of belonging or identity (Bloemraad, Korteweg, and Yurdakul 2008: 155-156; see also Bloemraad and Sheares 2017). As noted in chapter 2, in the aftermath of World War II, Marshall (1992 [1950]) disaggregated citizenship into three elements—social, legal, and political—in which social citizenship comprised access to social services and sense of belonging. Through participation in state-sponsored programs like public schools and libraries, individuals enjoyed improved access to political, civil, and legal rights. As social welfare programming has 122 weakened in the twenty-first century, scholars have noted that rights previously provided by the state are instead becoming available for purchase (Brodie 1997; see also Grace 2013; Grace, Nawyn, and Okwako 2017). Membership in the neoliberal state is increasingly characterized by market citizenship, based on “a disembodied individualism, unattached to social structures, and … contingent upon participation in the waged economy” (Brodie 1997: 239). Attaining market citizenship is especially difficult for individuals and populations disadvantaged by their immigration status, race, ethnicity, gender, class, and sexuality, who are rendered “rightless,” “stateless,” and “voiceless” through economic disempowerment (Deckard and Heslin 2016: 301- 302). Such neoliberal interpretations assume that legal citizenship must be “earned” through one’s labor market performance and contributions (van Houdt, Suvarierol, and Schinkel 2011; van Houdt and Schinkel 2014), which enables immigrants to argue for their inclusion in the polity while simultaneously reifying neoliberal ideas about the relationship between subjects and the state (Gálvez 2013). In some cases, emphasizing the performativity of citizenship has allowed immigrant activists to assert their collective membership in a national community despite their precarious legal status (Zimmerman 2015), though neoliberal citizenship also absolves the state of responsibility, instead charging individuals with proving their worthiness as independent actors (Gálvez 2013). Among marginalized populations, de jure citizenship frequently becomes detached from de facto citizenship (i.e., rights, practices, and feelings of belonging). Long-term immigrants deported to Latin America and the Caribbean have often developed a strong sense of belonging and substantive citizenship in the U.S. prior to their removal despite their noncitizen status (Coutin 2013a, 2013b, 2016; Golash-Boza 2016a; Zilberg 2004, 2011). For example, in Coutin’s (2013b, 2016) interviews with 1.5-generation Salvadoran deportees, the respondents recalled 123 “normal” childhoods in the U.S. and experiences of working, attending school, paying taxes, and speaking English. Similarly, child migrants later deported to the Dominican Republic self- identified as “Americans” and “New Yorkers,” leaving their “selves” in the U.S. after removal (Brotherton and Barrios 2011: 197-8). Deported young men in San Salvador argued that their forced removal was akin to “banishment” from their home in the U.S. to El Salvador, a foreign and unfamiliar country (Zilberg 2004, 2011: 129-130). Golash-Boza suggests that LPRs in particular can blur the line between citizen and noncitizen because they have almost all the same rights as legal citizens, making their deportation an especially stark reminder of the primacy of the state in granting or denying membership (2016a: 1576). Deported long-term settlers experience the disjuncture between legal and substantive citizenship in both directions, first when they obtain de facto citizenship in the receiving state despite a precarious legal status and, later, when they lack de facto citizenship in their native country despite their juridical status. Despite the uncoupling of legal citizenship from state-based rights, legal citizenship remains an analytically useful and politically valuable category—particularly in light of mass deportations (Golash-Boza 2016a). Bloemraad and Sheares suggest that legal citizenship be approached as claims making, because, although noncitizens can and do make claims of rights and belonging, asserting claims is easier for citizenship holders, who are more likely to be viewed as deserving (2017: 855). The authors argue that a claims-making approach to citizenship requires scholars to see individuals in relation to external actors, such as the state, other citizens, collectivities, and institutions. They further explain, Citizenship ... makes it possible for individuals, families or groups of people to make claims on the state as citizens, be it through appeals to rights, by invoking membership in an imagined community, by underscoring participation in collective endeavors, or 124 engaging in citizenship acts and discursive appeals. (Bloemraad and Sheares 2017: 855) Citizenship as claims-making is especially useful for understanding the relationship between deported Salvadorans and the Salvadoran state, economy, and society. Deportees’ dual inclusion and exclusion in their sending and receiving states makes them an important population for elucidating theories of citizenship and immigrant incorporation. Their narratives reveal the limitations of narrow, state-based conceptions of membership and illustrate the fragmentation of citizenship into its separate components—legal status, rights, practices, and identity. Previously, deportation scholars have explored citizenship among 1.5- generation immigrants and LPRs who were primarily raised in the U.S., often with only tenuous roots in their countries of origin48 (Coutin 2013a, 2013b, 2016; Golash-Boza 2015, 2016a). I extend such research by addressing how first- and 1.5-generation immigrants think and feel about citizenship as they struggle to re/integrate into Salvadoran society. Specifically, I ask how deported Salvadorans define and perform citizenship in the U.S. and El Salvador, where they feel they belong, and whether their feelings change through the deportation process49. Findings reveal that deported Salvadorans make claims of belonging in both nations, advancing our understanding of national membership, claims making, and the neoliberalization of citizenship. 48 Deported 1.5-generation immigrants are a theoretically significant group but currently comprise a minority of deportations to El Salvador, the majority of which occur in Mexico or soon after arrival in the U.S. (Ríos 2018; Rívas 2015: 52). Scholars must consider the experiences of those deported after a recent journey to the U.S. and those who spent their childhood and early adulthood in El Salvador. Research is also needed with those who were removed from the U.S. during the 1990s and 2000s and who have since remained in El Salvador, as attitudes and beliefs likely shift during the re/integration process. 49 Findings are inconclusive on this last question because of participants’ varied interpretations of the interview question as well as their partial memories of past feelings and beliefs. The salience of deportation further ranges across migration history, age, and other demographic factors and personal encounters, so what some participants experienced as a traumatic turning point in their lives, others lived as one of a series of important moments. 125 Citizenship and Belonging in the U.S. FINDINGS Paperless Citizens. Tomás (50), a RENACERES board member and PIR participant, first entered to the U.S. as an exchange student in 1983. He later went back to attend college and stayed for 30 years, not returning to El Salvador until his deportation in 2015 at the age of 50. Tomás recalls, “I never pretended to be a U.S. citizen, but I felt like one, you know what I mean, because I spoke in Spanish probably once a week. ... All my friends were Americans from the beginning.” Tomás’s social and economic networks were comprised primarily of native English speakers and U.S. citizens, including his ex-wife and an immigration lawyer that he continued to assist with translations, appeals, and other documents even after returning to El Salvador. Barbas (47), who migrated to the U.S. when he was 10 years old and had been deported five times since losing his residency, feels like he and other deportees belong in the U.S. because of their time and connections there: “We were raised in the U.S., and we are part of the U.S. Our children are U.S. citizens, our mom and dad .... are naturalized citizens.” Following his deportation, Barbas’s two daughters remained in the U.S. His only family in El Salvador was a brother who had also been deported and who was incarcerated at the time of our interview. Tomás and Barbas’s expressions of belonging and membership in the U.S. were repeated by numerous other participants who initially migrated as children, adolescents, or young adults. Such long-term settlers asserted their membership in the U.S. based on their family and community ties as well as their full integration into U.S. society—they were raised there; they speak English, attended U.S. schools, and worked in the U.S.; and their beliefs and attitudes were shaped by their upbringing abroad. Several participants referenced their feelings about and experiences with the U.S. military, wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, and September 11th terrorist 126 attacks as evidence of their Americanness. During a joint interview in 2014 with Victor Manuel (37) and Carlos Antonio (42), both deported 1.5-generation immigrants, Victor Manuel, who had been deported in 2008 after 29 years in the U.S., recalled, “We were just watching The Lone Survivor about four guys in Afghanistan. When the Taliban were shooting the Americans, I got really emotional. I know I’m not from there, but those are my people.” He then turned to Carlos Antonio, a friend and roommate who had lived in the U.S. for 27 years and been deported twice, and remarked, “She [Kelly] is like, ‘He’s crazy; he’s Salvadoran and he’s crying for an American.’” Diego (51), who trained to enlist in the U.S. National Guard before resigning to spend more time with his family, defined citizenship as feeling like you are part of a place. Part of a group, part of a family. ... You know, I wrote to one of the judges [from my removal hearing] and told him, on 911 when we were attacked, I felt the pain just like anybody else, and I was so mad I wanted to go, like, I wanted to be trained and go back and fight for the country. Not just for the country but for my family, for what I believe. ... I was never called [to serve], but I felt like I would defend – I was about to say my country – to the best of my ability. Multiple respondents had children in the U.S. military, planned to join the Armed Services themselves, or participated in Junior Reserve Officers’ Training Corps (JROTC). After graduating from high school and the JROTC program, for instance, Luciano (53), who had been deported in 2006 after 33 years abroad, began the process of joining the U.S. Navy, where he learned that he was barred because he was not a U.S. citizen. Like Diego, he emphasized that his aim to enlist was rooted in a desire to “serve [his] country.” Citizenship Definitions. Deported long-term settlers’ definitions of citizenship further illustrate their sense of themselves as members of the U.S. When asked what makes a citizen, 127 participants occasionally described the legal process of citizenship attainment (i.e. spending x number of years in the U.S., becoming a resident, passing a citizenship test, etc.) but more frequently referenced feelings of belonging or participatory acts. As Diego explained, citizenship is “not just paperwork, it’s not just an ID. To me it’s more like feeling like you are part of a place.” Victor Manuel added, You shouldn’t define citizenship just because you were born over there. Instead on your acts. I mean, everyone makes mistakes, but are you ready to move on? We’re not perfect—far from perfect. But as long as you’re not killing, murdering, child molestation—that crosses the line—but the ones who use dope are mostly white, and you get caught and that’s it? They go beyond the guidelines. They got my name and they’re like, “This guy’s not even from here [El Salvador], but let’s toss him out to El Salvador.” Victor Manuel, who immigrated to Houston, Texas, as a toddler and was removed at age 31 for a drug charge, clearly demonstrates the disjuncture that many deported child migrants feel between their deep roots in the U.S. and contemporary grounds for deportation. Moreover, his comments about criminality, which were reiterated by other respondents, reveal deportees’ belief that their crimes did not merit removal, either because the crimes with which they were charged were nonviolent; they had already served time, paid fines, and were now law-abiding members of society50; or because they were deported for immigration-related offenses. “Everything the Americans Were Doing, I Was Doing.” Victor Manuel and others described particular actions that citizens do, such as paying taxes, working hard, caring for loved ones, and following local laws, which they described doing themselves: they served as key, 50 Because U.S. immigration policies are applied retroactively, immigrants who were previously ineligible for removal became deportable after the passage of increasingly draconian laws beginning in 1990 (see chapter 4). 128 sometimes sole caregivers for their children and elderly relatives; participated in the U.S. economy as workers and consumers; and paid into social security and taxes. Felipe (60), who lived in the U.S. for 25 years and was returned in 2010 at 55, recounted a detailed work history in the U.S. and asked me to search online for the hotels where he had worked during our interview. He proudly remembered being selected to host high-profile clients at the Paris Hotel, including U.S. presidents Barack Obama and George H. W. Bush. Carlos Antonio, a 1.5- generation immigrant whose deportation separated him from six U.S.-born children and his mother, argued, [A citizen is] somebody that went to elementary school over there, somebody that went to middle school, ... somebody that used to pay their taxes. ... I did all that. I supported my kids; I wasn’t getting no child support. My kids wanted clothes, I'd buy them clothes. Toys... I’d buy them clothes, everything—toys, food. My ex-wife, she had jewelry, she had cars, everything. I was doing everything an American was doing, you know what I mean? Anything, everything that the Americans were doing, I was doing. Carlos Antonio describes growing up in the U.S., paying taxes, and providing for his family with abundance—and without assistance—before saying that he did “everything an American was doing.” These definitions of citizenship were consistent across child, adolescent, and adult migrants, as well as long-term settlers and individuals deported shortly after their arrival in the U.S., suggesting shared meanings across El Salvador and the U.S. While deported settlers generally described quotidian forms of participation in the U.S., rather than political engagement, they also referenced being part of their communities; helping out; getting along with others; being committed; and working “for change,” often by volunteering at church or with marginalized populations like young, elderly, and homeless 129 people. For example, Tony Martínez (31), who emigrated at 12 in 1999 and was deported in 2013, took part in JROTC, through which he and other youth served in a night watch program and brought people meals. He also volunteered with disaster relief in 2005, following Hurricane Katrina. Furthermore, a handful of respondents described explicitly civic and political action. For example, when Luciano’s local library was slated to close, he went door-to-door in his community carrying flyers and encouraging his neighbors to sign a petition to protest the closure. Julio Cesar (40), a 1.5-generation immigrant deported for the third time shortly before our interview in 2014, participated in the Ceasefire Movement in Oakland and San Francisco. He asserted that he should have been given an opportunity to stay in the U.S. because of his community engagement: I’m in photos with the mayor of Oakland, the police chief, the Ceasefire Movement, in the streets helping others, with the churches, cooking for the homeless. I think they shouldn’t have put me in Immigration fighting for years, given me a chance, bail... Others, such as Eric (42), Carlos Antonio (42), Diego (51), and Felipe (60), were members of labor unions that advocated for their rights as workers. Citizenship and Belonging in El Salvador Social and Economic Exclusion. When deportees feel they belong in the U.S., what is their relationship with their country of birth (i.e. legal citizenship)? Long-term settlers that considered the U.S. home often noted that they did not belong in El Salvador, where they experienced stigmatization, discrimination, and social exclusion (see chapter 5). During a May 2016 discussion with Juan Carlos (30) and Cuervo (34), both 1.5-generation immigrants argued that they hated to be called deportees, because it made them feel “less,” like “a little piece of trash.” Juan Carlos, who lived in the U.S. for 19 years and had a visible tattoo, added, “They 130 [other Salvadorans] make you feel like an immigrant in your own country.” As RENACERES member Nicolás explained in a short INSAMI documentary (Prensa INSAMI 2015), people in El Salvador ask deportees, “Why don’t you go back?” just like U.S.-Americans asked them when they migrated to the U.S., prompting him to question, “What is the reason for being Salvadoran, then?” José Roberto (49), a Homies Unidos leader who returned to El Salvador in 1992 and worked closely with deported ex-gang members, concurred: They [other Salvadorans] don't see you as a migrant who went to work and help support yourself or to send remittances. No, they see you as someone who went, screwed up, and got deported. So they see you partially as a failure, but if you are in the U.S. working and sending money, you're a hero. These sentiments paralleled deported long-term settlers’ complaints that they are victims of profiling, heightened policing, and violence in El Salvador, where they report being fired from jobs for no apparent cause; pulled over by police or military; forced to remove clothing while officers search for tattoos; and threatened, beaten, or killed by state agents or gang members (see chapter 5). In addition, José Roberto suggests that anti-deportee prejudice is all the more insulting because it erases deported immigrants’ contributions to their families and communities. Removed Salvadorans’ economic precarity and exclusion from the workforce also affected their sense of belonging in El Salvador. As illustrated in chapter 5, older long-term settlers struggled to explain gaps in their local work history to potential employers. Without connections or support, they spent months or years searching for stable jobs and felt that other Salvadorans viewed them as failures. When deportees were hired, poor wages made it difficult to sustain themselves and their families. For instance, Luciano, a 1.5-generation immigrant who had attended community college classes and owned a successful business in the U.S., worked in call 131 centers and had explored the possibility of teaching English in El Salvador. He told me that he had been offered a position in a private academy that paid $300 monthly, or $10 a day. “It’s a lot of work for $10 a day. And people do it. I am shocked that teachers here earn $300, $400 a month... One is not used to working so much for so little.” Other participants similarly stressed the disparity between the minimum wage51 and the canasta básica (basic food basket), contrasting potential wages in El Salvador with what they had earned for comparable work in the U.S. This Is Our Country—We Have Rights! Deportees still staked claims of membership in El Salvador, even as they described missing the U.S., planning to remigrate, or decrying their treatment by the state and “native” (i.e. nonmigrant) Salvadorans. These claims varied across migration history. Deported child and adolescent migrants asserted their legal Salvadoranness as they recalled encounters with exclusion, almost ironically musing, “This is my country.” For instance, Cuervo, who had visible tattoos, protested his harassment by police and military officials, who have pulled him over and asked, “What are you doing here?” He shared that he responds, “What do you mean, ‘What am I doing here?’ This is my country, so I'm going to my job.” Juan Carlos, who had not personally been harassed, recalled speaking with someone who had been beaten by a police officer, allegedly without cause. Juan Carlos asked the other man, “How come you let yourself [get] beaten? You could have told them, like, ‘Hey, I have laws [that defend me].’” However, the victim replied, “Oh, no, aquí en El Salvador, there’s nothing like that. It doesn’t work here,” and warned him that to respond in such a way would result in derision or additional violence. Juan Carlos remarked, with some incredulity, “What about our laws? I mean, like, we are citizens from here. We have a right, you know, to say something or to 51 El Salvador’s minimum wage in 2016 ranged from $200 to $300 monthly, depending on work category, while the basic basket reached $590 (Labrador 2017). 132 protect ourselves, but I don't know. There's no law here or nothing like that.” Juan Carlos and Cuervo’s statements were echoed by other long-term U.S. immigrants who also accompanied descriptions of stigmatization, rejection, or violence with wry reminders that this was happening in “my” country, “where I’m from,” among “my people.” Such statements illustrate deportees’ awareness of the dissonance between their legal Salvadoran citizenship, on one hand, and their ability to access rights in El Salvador, on the other. Cuervo and Juan Carlos both attended school in the U.S.; their comments and similar statements from other participants hint that, while they also encountered prejudice, discrimination, and violence in the U.S. before their removal, they had been socialized to challenge their marginalization and to expect some modicum of protection from the state and judicial system52. Salvadorans who migrated as adults or were deported directly from the border also commonly referenced their Salvadoran citizenship, rights, and contributions to El Salvador. Some had sent remittances to loved ones in El Salvador while they lived abroad and always planned to return, although they hoped to do so once they had achieved their goals, such as building a home or raising funds for a business, as well as paid any debts they accrued during the migration journey. A flyer publicizing RENACERES declares, “[We] deportees are well-born Salvadorans,” adding, “[We] deportees yesterday contributed with remittances, now with our experience,” promoting the Salvadoranness of deportees and their past and present contributions to the state. Andrés (60), a RENACERES leader who lived in Canada and the U.S. for 24 years before his removal in 2014, noted that he feels Salvadoran and that “the more I contribute, the more Salvadoran I feel.” While RENACERES members are not representative of all deportees— 52 For example, numerous long-term settlers reported that they or others detained with them challenged their mistreatment in immigrant detention with formal written complaints or informal conversations with supervising guards. In rare cases they participated in hunger strikes to oppose their poor conditions. 133 they are older, more educated, and more locally engaged than average—their collaborations with local politicians, business leaders, NGOs, and media outlets give them an international platform that makes their messaging especially meaningful. RENACERES’s arguments for membership and legitimacy were reiterated by nonmembers as well as participants in other organizations, like Homies Unidos. During a focus group with Homies participants who had been deported in the 1990s, Marco Antonio, a 54 year old deported in 1994, defined citizenship as “the contribution that, well, that’s what we are trying to do, contribute something for the development of our country, which is the charge of a good citizen, right? And we’ve been doing that for years through the organization.” He then listed Homies’s actions, which included giving talks about conflict resolution, mediation, and the prevention of sexually transmitted infections, as well as providing at-risk youth with vocational workshops. David (36) and Dagoberto (32), who had been in the U.S. for five years and less than one year, respectively, held leadership roles in their local community development associations (asociaciones de desarrollo comunitaria) after their removal. Individuals unaffiliated with formal organizations described serving their communities in El Salvador, as well. Carlos Alberto, a 36-year-old who had been deported four times, participated in a local radio show for at-risk youth, and Fern (33) and his friends led cultural fieldtrips for young people, so they would spend time getting to know their country rather than getting into trouble. Carlos Alberto and Fern had spent nine and 1.5 years in the U.S., respectively. Deported long-term settlers also supported their communities, for example by serving as coaches and referees with the SAAIF, which runs a league for at-risk youth. Such instances reveal the valuable contributions of deportees to their communities as well as their sense of themselves as members of Salvadoran society. 134 “100 Percent Salvadoran.” Many deportees, particularly adult migrants, recent arrivals to the U.S., and deportees who returned to El Salvador in the 1990s or early 2000s, described themselves as feeling Salvadoran and Central American, rather than (U.S.) American53. Homies Unidos members called themselves “Salvadoran proud,” and Juan José (42), who was deported twice from Mexico and once from the southern U.S. border, asserted that he was “Salvadoran at heart... native Salvadoran.” A small subset of 1.5-generation immigrants also highlighted their feelings of belonging in El Salvador. Julio Cesar, a 40-year-old who left El Salvador at the age of 14 during the civil war and was deported in 2014, remarked that he is “100 percent Salvadoran. Central American.” Though he felt he belonged in the U.S. because his mother and children are there, “I believe a bigger percent from here. From El Salvador. I’m from here. This is my land. I was born at the end of this street.” I interviewed Julio Cesar only days after his removal to El Salvador, and during our meeting, he introduced me to the mayor of his town and showed me his home and neighborhood, describing his plans for getting involved with his community. Citizenship as Freedom and Opportunity While deported Salvadorans frequently associated citizenship and belonging with feelings of inclusion/exclusion, they stressed two additional elements of membership—freedom and opportunity. Deportees differed on whether they felt restricted in the U.S., El Salvador, or both nations. Several individuals experienced deportation and return to El Salvador as a rush of freedom, because they were legal citizens unable to be deported, rather than precarious migrants fearing apprehension; others felt free in El Salvador because they were no longer incarcerated or housed in detention centers. Javier (37), who spent 25 years in the U.S. before his deportation in 2007, recalls that, because of his criminal record and loss of LPR status in the U.S., he was “on 53 Such participants sometimes asserted that they were American, not because of an association with the U.S. but because El Salvador is part of the American continents. 135 the run, always going to sleep thinking about if they would come for me. I sleep better here.” His fear of deportation had restricted his social and political participation in the U.S.; he wanted to participate in immigration reform marches and start a family but did not do so because he knew he could be removed. Since his deportation, he had gotten married, had children, and opened his own business, through which he employed multiple deported long-term settlers. Conversely, many participants felt suddenly confined by deportation, because they were afraid of harassment and violence from state agents and gangs. Oscar (33), a high school graduate who spent his adolescent years in Virginia, explained, Citizenship in the U.S. is like being free, practically. You can go wherever you want without problems. Citizenship in El Salvador, being a Salvadoran citizen is a pride. I like it, but it has its risks, too. It’s like being free and being imprisoned, because here you cannot walk everywhere freely. One is not totally free here. Oscar’s account highlights the freedom of movement that accompanies citizenship in the U.S., which he believes is absent in El Salvador due to high rates of violence (see chapter 2). Paolo (38) and other deported child migrants mentioned feeling so unsafe that they avoided public transportation and particular neighborhoods in El Salvador, although driving could also result in being stopped and harassed. When deported long-term settlers first arrived in El Salvador, they often stayed indoors, uncomfortable venturing beyond their house, block, or neighborhood. In extreme cases, deportees became internally displaced after receiving death threats. Deported Salvadorans thus asserted that freedom was a crucial component of membership, but it was often unattainable—in the U.S. because of their precarious immigration status and in El Salvador despite their legal citizenship. Both the U.S. and El Salvador could therefore become spaces of immobility where participants felt unwelcome and trapped. 136 Needs from the State. Deportees claimed that their belonging was inhibited not only by insecurity but also by lack of opportunities, which many considered a failure on the part of the Salvadoran government, especially in light of their legal citizenship and contributions to the state. In February 2016, for instance, declassified U.S. DHS documents revealed that the U.S. government provided El Salvador with $41.03 for each returned Salvadoran—a total of more than five million dollars over the previous six years (see Guevara 2016). Members of RENACERES questioned where these funds went and argued that they should be used for the long-term re/integration of deportees, rather than initial reception services54. Individuals called for expanded opportunities to work, study, become certified in specialized fields, access loans and credit, and start their own businesses. They also sought equivalency programs that would formally recognize their skills and academic credentials gained abroad, such as construction expertise or a U.S. diploma. Cuervo, who found that the only jobs available to him were in call centers, shared, The only thing I really, really, really wish—and it would make it better for every single one of us—is for this country, for the government, to give us an opportunity to show the way we are. Like, giving us a job no matter if we got tattoos, no matter if we got earrings, no matter the way we got our hair cut, no matter the way we dress. Just for them, like, it would make me feel like, “You know what, you was far away from your country, and now you’re like family, you’re coming back. No matter your situation, how or why you’re coming back, feel welcome.” For them to give me an opportunity, or to give an opportunity to every single one of us, just to be ourselves, like, “This is who I am, this is what I want, and this is what I can do.” 54 Despite RENACERES’s requests for information about the funds, they had not received an answer at the conclusion of the research period. 137 Deportees’ sense of insecurity and confinement compounded their limited economic re/integration pathways, producing struggles they considered the charge of the state. Celestial Citizenship During a Bible study meeting with a group of Salvadorans and visiting U.S. citizens, including several deportees, we read a passage from Paul’s letter to the Philippians: “But our citizenship is in heaven, and from it we await a Savior, the Lord Jesus Christ.” After the reading, a participant added, “And that’s a citizenship you can’t be deported from,” followed by chuckles throughout the room. Notably, this Christian faith community, Hungry Church, had been founded in part because deported long-term settlers attempted to join local Salvadoran churches and felt stigmatized by other congregants. Hungry’s mission statement, correspondingly, is “loving those whom others fear to love” (Hungry Church n.d.). During the research period, Hungry members formed a reception ministry for newly arriving deportees, Diaspora, which meets returned migrants at the airport and helps them find employment, housing, and a church community (Hungry Church n.d.). A small subset of participants drew direct links between citizenship, sense of belonging, spiritual teachings, and faith. Julián (33), who had spent 10 years in the U.S. and been deported in 2012, explained, “In the eyes of God, we are all citizens. Of flesh and blood.” He added that the Bible requires people to follow earthly laws developed by state governments. Similarly, when asked to define citizenship, 60-year-old Felipe, who had spent 25 years in the U.S., argued that borders should not exist, but rather that we should see every person individually, “as God made the world.” Julián and Eric (42) rooted their sense of belonging in their relationship with God, with Eric explaining that he does not really feel he belongs in El Salvador or the United States: “The only citizenship I want is to be with God.” Significantly, Eric, a member of Hungry 138 Church, widower, and 1.5-generation immigrant, had recently been threatened by gang members, which forced him to clandestinely move his family to a different neighborhood. In other words, violence banished him from his home in El Salvador after deportation banished him from his home in the U.S., perhaps extinguishing his faith in the power of the state. Eric was one of the initiators of the Diaspora ministry and continued leading it after his displacement. These participants’ statements represent divergent political interpretations of spirituality and religion, but they share an assumption that citizenship extends beyond national borders. DISCUSSION Like other members of the “American diaspora”, long-term settlers deported to El Salvador encounter their removal as exile and argue that they belong in the U.S. Additionally, deportees’ claims for rights, access, and deservingness in El Salvador extend meanings of membership. Despite feeling like “immigrants in [their] own country,” deported long-term settlers challenge their marginalization in El Salvador based on their legal citizenship. Deportees’ assertions of their value as productive neoliberal citizens in the U.S. and El Salvador further highlight the false allure of neoliberalism—that citizenship can be earned through economic independence and integration—as well as challenge scholars to consider how deportees and other precarious migrants use neoliberal ideologies to assert their membership and claim rights at “home” and abroad. “We Are Part of the U.S.” For deported long-term settlers like Luciano, Tomás, Victor Manuel, Diego, and Barbas, deportation is analogous to exile or banishment from their homes, loved ones, colleagues, and way of life. Such deportees asserted that the U.S. was their home because of their family connections and community ties there, “[appealing] to notions of jus nexi” citizenship (see 139 Golash-Boza 2016a: 1582). As Barbas argued, “We were raised in the U.S., and we are part of the U.S.,” linking his and other deportees’ belonging to their time spent in the U.S. and their U.S.-citizen relatives. Victor Manuel’s emotional response to The Lone Survivor, Felipe’s encounters with celebrities and other high-profile clients at the Paris Hotel, and participants’ connections to the American military served as additional evidence of their U.S. membership. The Neoliberalization of Citizenship Deported Salvadorans’ citizenship claims and definitions are consistent with contemporary beliefs that national membership is earned through actions, good moral character, and incorporation into local institutions (see Chauvin and Garcés-Mascareñas 2012; García 2018; van Houdt et al. 2011; Zimmerman 2015). In the United Kingdom, France, and the Netherlands, van Houdt, Suvarierol, and Schinkel found that naturalized immigrants must “earn” their citizenship and continuously “prove [their] worthiness as a citizen” (2011: 425). Similarly, Chauvin and Garcés-Mascareñas asserted that, in Europe and the U.S., irregular migrants become “less illegal” and more “deserving” by avoiding crime, contributing fiscally, and becoming economically reliable (2012: 249; see also Chauvin and Garcés-Mascareñas 2014). Correspondingly, Victor Manuel asserted, citizenship acquisition should be based “on your acts,” rather than birthplace. He, Carlos Antonio, and other Salvadoran deportees argued that citizenship entails paying taxes, working, taking care of one’s family, and following local laws. Yet their experiences also reveal the limits of such conceptualizations: despite proving their deservingness by maintaining good relationships with employers, clients, and loved ones; attending U.S. schools and churches; serving time for past convictions; and paying taxes, the 140 U.S. still removed them55. Market Citizenship. Within the contemporary neoliberal context, individuals’ membership is primarily predicated on their purchasing power and participation in the waged economy (Brodie 1997: 239). Deported Salvadorans frequently discussed their work histories as evidence of their belonging, referring to specific employers, clients, or skills acquired at work, as in Felipe’s account of serving U.S. presidents Bush and Obama. Carlos Antonio’s claims that he was financially supporting his spouse and children, not receiving child support, and “doing everything an American was doing” imply that he had successfully met the ideals of market citizenship by looking after his family on his own, without depending on the state or his partner (Brodie 1997). His and similar accounts demonstrate neoliberal discourses linking citizenship acts, capitalism, and individualism, in addition to gendered expectations of men and fathers. Meanwhile, RENACERES and José Roberto’s emphases on deportees’ past remittances reveal how they earned market citizenship in El Salvador while abroad, as well as how recognition of their contributions evaporated after removal. Deportees consistently implied that market citizenship was more accessible in the U.S. than El Salvador, because of high levels of precarious work, unemployment, and chronically low wages in their native country. Given the neoliberalization of citizenship and participants’ extensive work experience in the U.S., their limited access to jobs and reduced pay impeded their sense of belonging in El Salvador, especially among men who had previously considered themselves self-sufficient family breadwinners. Significantly, these removed long-term settlers 55 For this reason, long-term settlers have historically been protected by discretion in deportation cases, which permits judges to consider immigrants’ rehabilitation, remorse, family support, and ties to their country of origin when deciding whether to deport them (see Golash-Boza 2016a). Following the 1996 passage of AEDPA and IIRIRA, judges could no longer employ discretionary power in aggravated felony cases. 141 treated the U.S. as their reference point; they judged the insufficient wages in El Salvador against their higher earnings at “home” in the U.S. These narratives show not only that deported long- term settlers think of the U.S. as home but also that opportunities for economic advancement play a central role in making a home for oneself, particularly among migrant men. Similarly, Cuervo asserts that economic opportunities enabling him to be true to himself would make him and other deportees feel welcome in El Salvador, hinting that without dignified work, fair wages, and recognition, deportees could not enact neoliberal citizenship and maintain their identities. Notably, participants implicated the Salvadoran state in this process. Rather than being solely the responsibility of individuals, market citizenship could only be attained in conjunction with supportive policies and programs. Staking Claims in El Salvador RENACERES’s statement that they are “well-born” Salvadorans who offer the state foreign-earned capital; Juan Carlos’s belief that “we [deportees] are citizens from here. We have a right … to say something or to protect ourselves;” and Marco Antonio’s description of Homies Unidos members’ contributions to the state are reminiscent of Bloemraad and Sheares’s (2017) conceptualization of citizenship as claims making. These and other participants implicitly argued the legitimacy of their claims of membership in El Salvador, either through their birthright, in the case of Juan Carlos; their practices, in the case of Marco Antonio; or both, in the case of RENACERES. Other respondents claimed Salvadoranness based on their culture, memories, and experiences in El Salvador, analogous to 1.5-generation immigrants’ assertions of belonging in the U.S. based on the time they spent there. Most significantly, deportees argued that their status as return migrants enhanced rather than weakened their potential contributions to El Salvador, because they could use what they 142 learned in a “developed” country like the U.S.—for instance, English language skills and innovative construction techniques—for the good of the nation. In other words, deportees claimed that their time in the U.S. should be leveraged as social remittances for the Salvadoran economy. However, Bloemraad and Sheares further assert that “[a] flip side of claims-making is recognition” (2017: 855, emphasis added). Deportees’ frequent complaint that they are unwelcome in El Salvador suggests that, while they continue to assert their citizenship rights and deservingness, their membership is not usually acknowledged by the Salvadoran state or society, constraining their ability to impose their agency on others. RENACERES and similar organizations are challenging deportees’ stigmatization and invisibility in El Salvador and other deportee-receiving states (see chapter 7), but such advocacy is in its infancy and current citizenship claims have resulted in little widespread social change. Claims Making in the Neoliberal Era. These findings and previous scholarship indicate that the individuality prized in a neoliberal context can allow precarious migrants and deportees to make membership claims and challenge the primacy of the state but can simultaneously uphold restrictive notions of individual responsibility, flexibility, and entrepreneurship (Gálvez 2013; García 2018). Gálvez argues, The willingness of undocumented immigrants to assume on their own backs the weight of deportability is the quintessence of neoliberal citizenship. Having demonstrated and proven mobility and flexibility in stringent and hostile contexts, immigrants turn these capacities toward an argument for inclusion: ‘vinimos a trabajar’ [we came to work], and ‘contribuimos’ [we contribute]. (2013: 733) My findings suggest that removed migrants continue to enact neoliberal citizenship through the deportation process. For instance, RENACERES’s images of themselves as “well-born” 143 Salvadorans who offer up their contributions to the state, such as remittances and work experience, uphold neoliberal ideals of self-sufficiency and entrepreneurial spirit. Still, RENACERES’s struggles for the political protection of deportees as a vulnerable population, like Cuervo’s call for the state to provide more opportunities, reiterate that deported Salvadorans call on the state to create, at the very least, parameters that foster their individuality and integration. These findings support Gálvez’s assertion that there is “a potential for a radical politics of inclusion” within immigrants’ decoupling of citizenship from the nation-state (2013: 734), as well as Zimmerman’s finding that Central American community activists in the U.S. were able to “redefine, contest and unsettle dominant ideologies of citizenship,” rather than simply reaffirm existing power structures (2015: 39). Deportees’ claims on the Salvadoran state and society therefore signify limited but promising efforts towards incorporation. CONCLUSION This chapter aimed to understand how deportees think about and perform citizenship as a legal status, sense of belonging, and set of practices. I find that deported Salvadorans’ feelings of Salvadoranness and Americanness vary widely, and they make claims of membership, deservingness, and rights in their sending and receiving states, upholding, expanding, and challenging neoliberal and market citizenship ideologies. These results extend previous migration research that has primarily examined deportees’ social and cultural citizenship in the U.S. (i.e. Coutin 2016; Golash-Boza 2016a; Zilberg 2011), highlighting the diversity among returned migrants and the varied forms of agency they exhibit despite major barriers to participation. Furthermore, these findings have important implications for policymakers in deportee- sending and receiving states. In the U.S., Salvadoran deported long-term settlers’ 144 incorporation—social, economic, cultural, and even political—as well as their claims of belonging, should be considered in state policies. Deportees’ arguments for inclusion and experiences of exclusion in the U.S. suggest that twenty-first century deportation levels constitute “an irrational excess of securitization,” an unjust punishment akin to exile56, particularly for 1.5-generation immigrants and other long-term settlers (Coutin 2016: 161-162; see also Zilberg 2004, 2011). Their narratives also reveal the deep pitfalls of current ideologies around citizenship, which would suggest they merit inclusion rather than removal. Moreover, as the journey north becomes more dangerous, the sentences for reentry lengthen, and the homeland security state extends its reach throughout the U.S. and Mexico, deported migrants are increasingly likely to stay in El Salvador rather than return to the U.S. Accordingly, their relationships with their birth country—not to mention their U.S.-citizen loved ones’ relationships with the U.S.—become more important for scholars, theorists, practitioners, and policymakers. As RENACERES members declare, “We are here now. That’s what they [members of the state] need to know” (Prensa INSAMI 2015). The question thus becomes, how and when will deported Salvadorans be recognized, and how will the U.S. and Salvadoran states’ interactions with deportees continue to shift meanings around citizenship and belonging? 56 Deportation can also become a “death sentence,” especially for those who have are targeted by gangs, police, and other state agents or those who left Central America seeking asylum (Stillman 2018; Zilberg 2011; see also chapter 5). 145 RE/INCORPORATION IMAGINARIES: ACTS OF RESILIENCE, REJECTION, AND REWORKING AFTER REMOVAL CHAPTER SEVEN Previous scholarship has shown that deported migrants struggle to re/incorporate into their countries of origin, because of social stigma and criminalization (Brotherton and Barrios 2011; Schuster and Majidi 2015); family separation (Boodram 2018a; Golash-Boza 2014); un- and underemployment (Dingeman 2018; Golash-Boza 2015); and, in contexts like El Salvador, fears for their safety (Fariña, Miller, and Cavallaro 2010; Zilberg 2011). Deportees often plan to remigrate rather than reintegrate, especially if they have family in the deporting country (Cardoso, Hamilton, Rodríguez, Eschbach, and Hagan 2016; Molina 2014; Slack, Martínez, Whiteford, and Peiffer 2013). Despite these obstacles, some deportees remain in their country of origin, particularly in light of increasingly stringent immigration enforcement and the treacherous land-based migration journey (Martínez 2014b; Slack and Whiteford 2011). Moreover, the earliest waves of deported 1.5-generation settlers in El Salvador are aging, as are their parents—many of whom have supported them with remittances since their removal from the U.S. As the returned migrant population in El Salvador and other deportee-receiving states grows and ages, so does the urgency to understand deportees’ re/integration needs, intentions, and practices, for their communities, policymakers, and migration scholars. In this chapter, I explore deported Salvadorans’ re/integration strategies, closely attending to their civic and political dis/engagement. Following a brief literature review, I address retornados’ post-return aspirations and action, including their existing engagement; plans to leave or settle in El Salvador; and potential contributions to the Salvadoran state, economy, and society. While deportees encounter considerable obstacles in El Salvador, my interviews show that they respond to these barriers in diverse, innovative ways. I find that deported long-term 146 settlers develop individual and collective strategies for avoiding violence, stigmatization, poverty, and unemployment. They often assert their value to El Salvador as workers and citizens, describing imagined integration trajectories that are impeded by their social and economic exclusion. Their actual and imagined re/integration pathways thus reveal strategies of resilience and reworking (Katz 2004) as well as rejection of their birth country. These results are important for policymakers and immigrant incorporation theorizing, as they challenge us to consider migrants’ desires and intentions alongside their actions and experiences. Such an approach enables us to simultaneously recognize the agency of precarious migrants and the social structures that constrain them. IMMIGRANT AGENCY AND PRECARITY Paret and Gleeson (2016) encourage scholars to jointly consider immigrants’ precarity57 and agency58 in order to uncover dynamics around inequality and social change (see chapter 2). Current immigration policies and mass deportations from the U.S. and Europe have made noncitizens’ presence in such states particularly precarious (see de Genova 2002; Golash-Boza 2015). Contemporary migrants frequently face multiple layers of precarity in the host nation, including tenuous legal status; labor and workplace precarity; and life precarity (i.e. poor access to housing, transportation, education, security, and sense of belonging) (Papadopoulous, Fratsea, and Mavrommatis 2018: 201-2). Piper, Rosewarne, and Withers add that migration is not a pathway into precarious work but often an extension of the precarious economic conditions that initially drove emigration (2017: 1093). Migrants experience “a protracted precarity wherein 57 Precarity is insecurity and instability associated with employment, wages, housing, and, in the case of migrants, presence in a nation-state (see Goldring and Landolt 2013; Standing 2011). 58 Like Coe and Jordhus-Lier, I define agency as intentional, purposive, meaningful action (2010: 214), as well as conscious reflection and the ability to change one’s own or others’ thinking (Long 1990: 8). 147 [they] move between two modalities of precarity, one at home and one abroad” (Piper, Rosewarne, and Withers 2017: 1090). Removed migrants are returned to these conditions through deportation (see Brotherton and Barrios 2011; Golash-Boza 2015, 2016b). While migrants encounter substantial hardship, they do not passively accept structures of power but carefully navigate and, at times, disrupt them (see Inda and Dowling 2013; Paret and Gleeson 2016). For example, in response to contemporary policing in the U.S., undocumented immigrants and their allies have engaged in migrant counter-conducts to reject criminalization, assert their dignity as human beings, and highlight their contributions to society (Inda and Dowling 2013). Migrant counter-conducts range from mundane acts such as alerting one’s networks about traffic checkpoints to riskier actions including demonstrations, court challenges, labor organizing, or coming out as undocumented (2013: 23-27). Such public practices are particularly significant in a context that does not recognize migrants as legitimate speaking subjects and instead expects them to remain silent and docile (Inda and Dowling 2013: 27). To explain individuals’ diverse responses to their marginalization, Katz (2004) disaggregates three forms of action—resilience, reworking, and resistance. Acts of resilience are survival strategies that enable individuals and groups to cope with their quotidian circumstances, while acts of reworking alter structural constraints to make their lives more livable. Practices of resistance draw on and produce a critical consciousness to confront oppression (2004: 243-57). Katz’s (2004) typology thus allows for varying levels of agency, from tactics that enable individuals and their families to “get by” without disturbing the status quo to collective actions that transform exploitative systems. This chapter argues that, despite of their marginalization, deported Salvadorans participate in acts of resilience and reworking, individually and collectively. Migrants’ strategies for managing risk and uncertainty are not always emancipatory, but 148 they reveal forms of constrained agency (Paret and Gleeson 2016: 282; see also Papadopoulos et al. 2018). For instance, in some cases immigrant workers compete with and police one another, rather than challenge their supervisors, but in others, they expose employer abuse (Paret and Gleeson 2016: 282). Precarious migrants may not actively engage in resistance, but their everyday practices of resilience and reworking, especially in the workplace, can become “transformative trajectories” that evolve over time, depending on individuals’ subject positions, structural constraints, and personal attributes; these individual-level practices may gradually merge to form a stronger oppositional response (Hauge and Fold 2016). However, Golash-Boza (2016) found that deportees encountered extremely precarious conditions in Guatemala. While her participants leveraged their foreign-earned social and cultural capital (i.e. English ability and education) into relatively well-paid call center jobs, their employment options were limited to these centers, which were characterized by frequent turnover, high stress, and long hours, prompting her to argue that deportees’ human capital is “squandered in the stifling work conditions of the call center” (2016: 339). Migrant Decision Making and Bounded Rationality Migrants’ decisions to emigrate, return to their home country, or remigrate after removal exemplify their constrained agency. Rejecting the neoclassical approach that posited migrants as isolated, rational actors who make decisions based purely on the costs and benefits of moving, migration scholars have shown that these decisions are made within families and communities, accounting for structural barriers as well as needs (Abrego 2014; Massey et al. 1993; Nawyn, Reosti, and Gjokaj 2009). Potential and precarious migrants are compelled to make choices in the face of narrow options, incomplete knowledge and misinformation, time constraints, and pressure from loved ones and peers. Their decision making is shaped by their social, physical, 149 and situational contexts and their perceptions of their circumstances—a process scholars have described as bounded rationality (Chin and Finckenauer 2012: 63; see also Hoang 2011). The decision to migrate without one’s family, in particular, is so difficult that Abrego is hesitant to call it a “strategy,” which implies “full cognizance and control over the situation”: “[I]n most of these cases, parents are initially hesitant to undertake migration and pursue it only when they are convinced it is better than local possibilities for survival” (2014: x). Yet migrants’ decision making reminds us that they are not simply victims of forces beyond their control but also actors who develop creative techniques for “getting by” and moving forward. For example, removed migrants resist their deportation by returning to the deporting country to reunite with families or resume jobs, despite risks of violence, incarceration, and re-deportation (Coutin 2016: 158). Decisions to move subsequently expose precarity and inequality in sending and receiving states (i.e. limited employment; political persecution; and threats of violence, arrest, and removal) as well as migrants’ capacity for intentional, albeit constrained, decision making. MEASURING IMMIGRANT RE/INCORPORATION In this chapter, I consider deported migrants’ resilience, reworking, and resistance strategies after removal, exploring if and how deportees re/integrate into El Salvador. My interviews show that deportees find ways to re/integrate and often forge new career paths and communities in the process, although their incorporation is partial and precarious. As outlined in chapter 2, immigrant integration is shaped by modes of incorporation—contexts of reception, individual attributes, agency, and available resources (Portes and Rumbaut 2006). Deportee re/integration is also influenced by these factors, in addition to the context of return (Dingeman 2018; see also Golash-Boza 2015; Medina and Menjívar 2015). In El Salvador, Dingeman (2018) found that deportees’ re/integration trajectories were principally produced by their 150 national affiliation and perceptions of criminality; those who described stronger membership in the U.S.—“U.S. nationals”—had particular experiences and exhibited distinct homemaking and coping behaviors (i.e. strategies for crafting spaces of belonging, in the case of homemaking behaviors, or simply surviving, in the case of coping strategies), as did their Salvadoran- identified counterparts. Similarly, immigrant generation (first, 1.5-, or second-generation) produces distinct paths of re/incorporation (see Abrego 2011; Dingeman 2018). Wachter and Fleischmann (2018) disaggregate immigrant integration into structural, social, and cultural branches. Structural integration includes incorporation into a society’s core institutions (i.e. the educational system or labor market), while social integration suggests immigrants’ interactions with the native population and local social life. Cultural integration involves acquiring elements of a society’s culture (i.e. language) and consuming local media (Wachter and Fleischmann 2018). An additional branch, civic and political integration, is comprised of engagement with the political system, evidenced by voting, running for office, joining a political party, attending protests, or community organizing (Bloemraad 2006; Dixon, Bessaha, and Post 2018). Indicators of structural, social, cultural, and civic integration include socioeconomic position and academic achievement, intermarriage and other relationships with the local population, language acquisition, and voting, respectively (Alba and Nee 2003; Bloemraad 2006; Wachter and Fleischmann 2018). Immigrants’ settlement intentions, sense of belonging, and naturalization further indicate as well as engender incorporation. For example, naturalization is a measure of integration as well as a bridge to other forms of incorporation, such as political interest, voting, and political knowledge (Hainmueller, Hangartner, and Pietrantuono 2015; Street 2017). Wachter and Fleischmann (2018) additionally found that immigrants to the Netherlands who intended to stay were more socially and cultural integrated than their 151 counterparts who intended to leave; stayers had relatively more contact with native people, were more proficient in Dutch, and consumed more local media. Over time, immigrants who planned to stay also increased their proficiency in Dutch relative to those who planned to leave. To understand deportee re/integration specifically, scholars have examined economic incorporation (Hagan, Wassink, and Castro 2019; Golash-Boza 2016b), sense of belonging (Coutin 2013b, 2016; Dingeman 2018; Golash-Boza 2016a), social exclusion (Brotherton and Barrios 2011; Golash-Boza 2014; Schuster and Majidi 2015), and plans to return to the U.S. (Cardoso et al. 2016; Molina 2014). Studies have concluded that deportees struggle to re/integrate economically in most deportee-receiving states (Brotherton and Barrios 2011; Dingeman 2018; Golash-Boza 2014, 2015), although Hagan, Wassink, and Castro (2019) found that over time, deported Mexicans’ economic outcomes paralleled those of voluntary returnees; both deported and voluntary return migrants’ long-term success in Mexico depended on human and financial capital, rather than deportation status. Research with deported 1.5-generation immigrants in Central America and Mexico has also shown that deportees leverage their English language ability and U.S. cultural capital into relatively lucrative call center jobs, but the work is precarious and emotionally taxing (see Dingeman 2018; Golash-Boza 2016b). Significantly, deportees are stigmatized in most, though not all, countries of origin (see Golash-Boza 2015, 2016b). Their social stigmatization contributes to un- and underemployment (Brotherton and Barrios 2011; Dingeman 2018), a sense of rejection from nonmigrants (Coutin 2016), and intentions to remigrate (Schuster and Majidi 2015). Long-term settlers are especially likely to have remigration plans (Cardoso et al. 2016; Molina 2014; Slack et al. 2013). Slack, Martínez, Whiteford, and Peiffer found that, among migrants deported to Mexico, 37 percent who viewed the U.S. as their home intended to attempt a border crossing again in the next week, and 70 152 percent of those who considered the U.S. their home planned to cross again in the future (2013: 15). After removal, deported migrants often face extreme precarity and a sense of dislocation from their “home” (the deporting country), which limit their opportunities for re/incorporation. Integration Intentions Immigrants’ integration intentions and aspirations are understudied and largely absent from the immigrant incorporation literature: given the chance, how do settlers imagine themselves fitting into their communities? What knowledge and skills do they believe they bring? What barriers stymie their integration plans, and what organizations, policies, and initiatives aid them? Previous research on immigrant aspirations has primarily focused on the occupational, income, and academic goals of immigrants for themselves and their children (see Portes, McLeod, and Parker 1987; Portes, Vickstrom, Haller, and Aparicio 2013), such as the negative effects of undocumented status on immigrant youths’ aspirations (Gonzales 2011; Perreira and Spees 2015) and ways in which economic aspirations change over time (Boccagni 2017). Hauge and Fold compare migrant and native-born workers’ intended and actual labor market participation and conclude that discrepancies between employment intentions and action reveal the structural constraints confronting laborers as well as their resultant reworking practices (2016: 125). Scholars have also explored immigrants’ intentions of naturalizing (Massey and Akresh 2006), settling permanently in the sending state (Wachter and Fleischmann 2018), and returning to their countries of origin (Carling and Pettersen 2014). Within the return migration literature specifically, scholars have found that immigrant men’s hopes of returning to privileged positions in the homeland are not always fulfilled (Hansen 2008; Suh 2017). For example, returning Somali men are accused of bringing foreign ideas, forgetting their culture, and losing their identity, rather than recognized for the expertise they have gained (Hansen 2008). 153 In this chapter, I argue that deportees’ intended re/incorporation trajectories expose not only the barriers preventing their incorporation but also their innovative tactics for navigating these obstacles. Using interviews and focus groups with deported Salvadorans; informational interviews with experts, NGO and government workers, and immigrant advocates; and observations with RENACERES, I find that deported Salvadorans’ incorporation imaginaries illustrate their perceptions of themselves as independent actors with valuable skills and expertise. While deported Salvadorans are not usually politically engaged after removal, they frequently are, or intend to become, socially, culturally, economically, and civically active. Moreover, their political dis/engagement and decisions to return to the U.S. or migrate to new receiving countries comprise a new agential strategy; in addition to acts of resilience and reworking, deportees respond with acts of rejection. I thus advance discussions of immigrant intentionality and deportee agency. These findings also have policy implications for deportee-sending and receiving states as they reveal deported migrants’ struggles after return, re/incorporation needs, and self-identified contributions to their communities. I now turn to deported migrants’ coping strategies and homemaking behaviors (Dingeman 2018) in El Salvador, first reviewing their actual practices of resilience, rejection, and reworking (see Katz 2004) and then exploring their imagined re/integration trajectories. AGENCY AND ACTION AMONG DEPORTED SALVADORANS Deported Salvadorans developed individual as well as collective coping mechanisms after their removal to El Salvador. These actions ranged from instrumental acts of resilience— survival strategies for avoiding violent encounters, unemployment, and social stigmatization—to acts of reworking, which counteracted the harsh circumstances that inhibited deportee re/integration in El Salvador. Alternatively, some deportees responded to their situation by 154 rejecting their country of origin, such as through remigration or by disengaging from the formal political system. These strategies, while not always successful, demonstrate deportees’ creative and varied responses to their hostile context of return as well as their solidarity with one another. Acts of Resilience Deported Salvadorans’ most frequent expressions of agency were coping mechanisms that helped them stay alive and “get by” in El Salvador. One common strategy among deported long-term settlers was to avoid being recognized as a deportee, either by changing their appearance or withholding their deportation status. For example, Jacob, a 1.5-generation immigrant who spoke very little Spanish when he was deported to El Salvador in 2010, explained that he made several changes to his appearance that helped him avoid negative interactions with police and state agents: “I've managed to change a lot of things, like the way I dress, the way I handle myself, the way I cut my hair… There's a lot of things that I've done to kind of just, not stand out.” Because of the conflation of tattoos with gang affiliation and, consequently, deportation, other deportees had their tattoos removed or covered them with long sleeves and pants. Paolo (38), an ex-gang member who had lived in the U.S. since he was two years old and had several visible tattoos, shared that he started to dress differently and “cover up a bit” after his return. For ex-gang members whose tattoos were too extensive to remove, he added, another option was to cover them with a new image or pattern that would not be indicative of gang membership. Tomás (50), who traveled to the U.S. in 1984 as an exchange student and returned for college, was deported in 2015. After his removal, he moved in with his mother, who told him not to tell anyone that he was a deportee. When asked if people treat him differently because of his deportation status, he added, “I don’t tell people [I’m deported]. I usually don’t tell people, because yes, I’ve seen – especially in my group of friends – how they 155 talk about people that get deported.” Because of his family’s social class and his personal style, education, and Spanish fluency, he could pass as a voluntary returnee, but this pathway was not available to all deportees, especially those who were assumed to be (criminal) deportees based on their clothing, mannerisms, and speech. Public transportation was considered an especially precarious space for all Salvadorans, including deportees. Carlos Alberto (36) recounted, They [gang members] have killed a lot of people [on the bus]. ... That’s the one thing that affects basically all of us Salvadorans who travel by bus – the insecurity. ... You don’t know how you will get to work, if you will arrive well or badly. When possible, deported Salvadorans traveled by taxi, carpooled, or purchased cars or motorcycles. Deported call center agents who could not afford to buy their own vehicle or hire a taxi instead displayed their work badges as they traveled on buses in order to avoid altercations with police, military, and gangs. However, this strategy was not always successful. During an interview with Beto (38) at a café outside of one of San Salvador’s main call centers, Emiliano (41) stopped by to say hello and reported that Chris, another call center community member, had recently been killed while wearing his badge and added that he was not the first to be killed with his badge on him. This alarmed Emiliano, a call center recruiter who had created a call center online forum so that call center workers—many of whom were deported—could stay in contact with one another. For Emiliano, the badge was proof of employment and productivity, which should have served as armor against harassment. Collective Acts of Resilience. Deported migrants helped one another cope after removal by providing each other with instrumental and emotional support. Deported long-term immigrants who had settled in El Salvador occasionally opened their homes to other returned 156 migrants. When I interviewed Carlos Antonio (42) a week after his deportation in 2014, for instance, he was staying with Victor Manuel (37), because he had no family connections in El Salvador. Similarly, Emiliano, who sometimes visited the airport to recruit newly arrived deportees for call center jobs, had recently invited three of them to stay with him, because they had nowhere else to go and were “defenseless,” expressing the trauma of being separated from their families. Several other participants roomed with other deportees when they moved to San Salvador to begin call center jobs. RENACERES members and PIR participants also cared for one another in various ways, such as carpooling or hiring or referring each other when they had the opportunity. For example, after Francisco (45), a PIR member who had lived in the U.S. for 25 years, opened a small restaurant, RENACERES and INSAMI representatives ate there and later hired him to cook for the organization’s annual Thanksgiving celebration. David (36), a PIR participant who had spent five years in the U.S., lived near the airport that housed the BAC, so deported friends spent the night at his house when they were not released in time to catch the bus. David also served his local, rural community through his transportation business: There is no transportation service there, so the people suffer. Children walk about an hour and a half to go to school. ... [Through this business] I will be able to put food on my family’s table, and they [community members] will be able to take their children to school, the sick to the clinic. David, a leader of his community development association, actively sought to support his family, deported friends, and neighborhood. “The Deportation Circle.” As part of their re/integration efforts, deported long-term settlers formed communities that are best labeled U.S.-American ethnic enclaves, in which they 157 spoke English, listened to U.S.-American music, watched U.S. television and sports, and shared resources. Beto, a SAAIF coach and quarterback, described finding an “English-speaking community” that helped him adjust to life in El Salvador. Similarly, when asked what helped her feel like she belonged in El Salvador, Ana María, a deported 1.5-generation woman, replied, “The deportation circle. We all make each other feel at home.” For Ana María, the “deportation circle” was comprised of removed long-term settlers, such as call center agents and members of SAAIF teams who still considered the U.S. home. She later added that one member of the circle was a taxi driver who provided rides to their community, because he knew the dangers of riding the bus as a deportee. She reflected, “We all understand each other and do our best to help each other out.” Because it was football season, she shared her excitement that she had plans to go to Buffalo Wild Wings with other members of her circle in order to watch an NFL game. Samuel (29), a 1.5-generation immigrant who lost an arm and leg in an automobile accident before his deportation, recalled feeling “very anxious” in El Salvador until he heard people outside his apartment speaking English. He introduced himself to them and they became his “best friends”, a “family” of five deported call center workers: They took me in. [When I first met them, it] was the 21st of December, and I remember I cried almost every day ’cause I was away from my mom; it was my first Christmas I was gonna be away from them [my parents]. .... On the 24th at 11:59, I was crying on my couch... I was all alone in this new country, and I hear a knock at the door, and it’s those same guys. Those same guys bought me a Christmas present and told me to go with their families to go get some dinner, and I was just... I cried, you know. I cried and I still love them. ... They’ve been there ever since. They’re still there. It’s huge; those guys are huge for me. ... I’ve tried to help them out as much as I can as well, and we’ve all been there 158 for each other. Sometimes we’ve gotten to the point where we didn’t have food at either one of our houses, you know, because of the economic turmoil around here, and we’ve shared boiled eggs together when that’s all we’ve had to eat. We’ve cried together, we’ve laughed together in these past two years. ... We’re family. Samuel recounted that meeting them was a “big, huge relief,” which alleviated his worries about where he was, who surrounded him, and what his next steps should be. Deported long-term settlers’ “deportation circles” and enclaves ranged from “mini Americas” that were uninterested in Salvadoran culture and politics to communities like Hungry Church and RENACERES that were intentionally bilingual, bicultural spaces that celebrated the Salvadoran-American experience. For instance, Thanksgiving dinner at the RENACERES house included quintessential U.S. dishes like mashed potatoes and pie but also Salvadoran roast chicken and rice. At Hungry, similarly, all services and Bible studies were bilingual, and deported members were often accompanied by “native” spouses and their children. These examples demonstrate how the Salvadoran deported population uses individual as well as collective survival strategies to counteract their extreme precarity and social exclusion. However, as Chris’s death exposes, these mechanisms are not always successful. Acts of Rejection Deported 1.5-generation immigrants and other long-term settlers sometimes responded to exclusion in El Salvador by rejecting their birth country, most notably by leaving the country59, forming U.S.-American ethnic enclaves (see above), or rejecting the formal Salvadoran political 59 Deportees often expressed desires to return to the U.S. or migrate to another country of origin, but it was not always a rejection of El Salvador. Some deportees would have preferred to stay in their native country but were compelled to leave for financial reasons, to reunite with their families, or to escape from violence. In this section, I am referring specifically to individuals who expressed wanting to leave El Salvador through expressions like “I’m not comfortable here,” “I don’t belong here,” or “I hate this country.” 159 system. Ana María, who emigrated to the U.S. with her mother and sisters at four years old, did not intend to stay in El Salvador: My plans are not to be here. My plans down here are probably just to make something out of it, go to school. So, it's like, my plans are not to build a home here, not to build nothing here, because I still want to go home. … I don’t feel comfortable here. During our interview Ana María frequently repeated this last phrase—“I don’t feel comfortable here”—which she connected not only to missing her family and home in the U.S. but also fears of local gangs, stigmatization, and sexual harassment. She was one of only a handful of participants who planned to return to the U.S. without papers, explaining, “If I don’t get my papers back, I’m still going home. I’m willing to risk it.” Jacob asserted, “I’m trying to save as much as I can and then move on. I was thinking of Uruguay. I have buddies there and they say great things. Or Spain... I’m definitely not staying here.” Both Ana María and Jacob were participating in local society at the time of our interviews. Ana María was attending school and had plans to start college classes. She had been offered a position teaching English at a local university and was in a romantic relationship with another deportee. Jacob had played football in the SAAIF league, worked at a call center, and had a “native” Salvadoran girlfriend. Yet their social exclusion, coupled with fears of violence, family separation, and, in Ana María’s case, homesickness, made settlement in El Salvador inconceivable. Removed long-term settlers often disengaged from formal politics in El Salvador60, choosing not to vote or join political parties because of political corruption, out of disinterest, or because they felt their participation was ineffective. Santiago, a 31-year-old 1.5-generation 60 In 2016 deportees frequently reported following the U.S. presidential election. Those with friends and family in the U.S. expressed fear for their loved ones and, in a small number of cases, encouraged U.S. citizens to vote against Trump. 160 immigrant who had participated in ROTC and attended an immigration march in the U.S. prior to his deportation, stated, “I don’t participate [in politics] because of the corruption. So I don’t want to give my vote [to any of the parties].” Mateo, a 47-year-old who was deported in the 1990s, did not vote in Salvadoran elections because “they [local politicians] don’t do anything… They’re not interested in helping anybody.” However, he added that he would like to be the mayor of his town, because he “[knows] the problems facing the community.” Conversely, Beto had voted in El Salvador but asserted that El Salvador is “one of the most corrupt countries in the world. You want to believe in people, but they let you down.” Felipe (60), a RENACERES board member who had also been in a union in the U.S., became disillusioned with politics after his removal from the U.S. When he first returned, he participated in a local political party, helping out and serving as a security guard. However, “like everything: A politician offers, and they do not solve anything.” In other words, deportees exhibited agency in deciding when and how to engage politically. When they did not participate in the electoral process, it was commonly a conscious choice rooted in their interpretation of Salvadoran politics. Acts of Reworking Deported migrants reworked their circumstances in important ways, individually and collectively. Deportees worked together to counteract the stigmatization and criminalization of the removed migrant population as well as their un- and underemployment. One of RENACERES’s central goals was to challenge the depiction of deportees as criminals and failures. They did this through their interviews with local and international media, presentations for government officials, and promotional materials that represented themselves as Salvadoran citizens and change agents. At the 2016 Vía Crucis del Migrante (Migrant’s Way of the Cross), RENACERES members created a station that showed how deportees are first received at the 161 Bienvenido a Casa office; they wore baggy clothes, carried potato sacks filled with their belongings, ate pupusas, and drank cans of soda. Juan Toledo, the president of RENACERES, shared, “This is how we arrive,” pointing to his clothing and sack, before proclaiming, “We are not criminals. We are not criminals.” At workshops and board meetings, RENACERES members also discussed and critiqued various terms for deportees, ranging from “deportado” (deportee or deported) to “deportista” (a play on words literally meaning athlete) or “retornado” (returnee or returned). The label “deportado” was rejected by many board members because of its negative connotations, although immigration activists who met with the organization suggested it was the most accurate term and subsequently useful for claiming rights. Informally, Ignacio (60) and others used the tongue-in-cheek “deportista,” which implied strength and action. Policy and Program Proposals. RENACERES leaders also developed policy proposals that would combat deported migrants’ stigmatization and poor employment prospects. In 2015, they publicly declared themselves a “vulnerable population” (Diario Co Latino 2015) and in 2016, wrote a letter to the Salvadoran Legislative Assembly proposing the inclusion of deported migrants as a vulnerable population alongside women, children, people with disabilities, and indigenous groups. By labeling deportees as vulnerable, some members of the executive board argued, they would improve their access to jobs, social security, medical assistance, and other needs. However, proclaiming themselves a vulnerable group was uncomfortable for other members, who felt the term portrayed them as victims, rather than independent agents. RENACERES and INSAMI additionally advocated for deported Salvadorans as laborers who brought valuable experience (see Ríos 2015). Rather than view them as failed migrants and criminals, deported activists asserted, El Salvador should see them as the opposite—laborers who returned from with U.S. with knowledge of advanced techniques and machinery in fields such as 162 construction and business. RENACERES participants and non-participants alike argued that their lived experiences in a “developed” nation could contribute to the economic and social development of El Salvador, which some long-term settlers called a “third world country.” To help them harness these skills, RENACERES and INSAMI advocated for initiatives that would foster their growth as entrepreneurs. They collaborated with the Comisión Nacional de la Micro y Pequeña Empresa (National Commission of Micro- and Small Business, or CONAMYPE) and the Ministerio de Relaciones Exteriores (Ministry of Foreign Affairs) to create the PIR pilot program, which supported approximately 100 return migrants around the country, most of whom had been formally removed from the U.S. (see La Prensa Gráfica 2016). RENACERES and INSAMI also called for equivalency programs that would offset deported long-term settlers’ inconsistent resumes in El Salvador by certifying their expertise in certain techniques or fields. In 2016, together with the Swiss Embassy and civil society organizations, INSAMI inaugurated their first certification program, “Nuevas Oportunidades” (New Opportunities), which aimed to certify deported Salvadorans with construction experience61. While these projects were small in scope and funding, they show that RENACERES has played a vital role in creating national re/integration programming for deportees. Informal Acts of Reworking. Individual deportees and their social networks also participated in reworking actions, albeit less often than RENACERES. Emiliano, the call center recruiter introduced above, recounted the history of call centers and English language schools in El Salvador and argued that deported long-term settlers had revolutionized the call center and English teaching industry, contributing to the increasing numbers of schools and call centers, as well as more effective teaching methods: “Who made all those changes [to English teaching] was 61 After the research period ended, the program completed the certification of 14 return migrants from the U.S. and Mexico with construction skills (see Swisscontact 2017). 163 deportees, because the ones who were doing the training was the deportees.” The school owners took credit for these changes, but, Emiliano added, the deportees were “on the front lines getting those kids ready [to work in call centers]. … Why? Because we came and maneuvered the ways and changed the ways of teaching.” While deportees were often underpaid as English teachers, Javier (37) and Gabriel (38) were able to leverage their teaching skills and native English into prominent positions; Javier founded an English school that has grown from one room to two buildings, and Gabriel was hired as the academic coordinator of another academy. Javier in particular provides an illustrative case of reworking, as he sought to recruit and hire deportees as coaches when he could afford them. As an educator, he was dedicated to “helping people out, helping them find jobs,” and this practice extended from his students to his staff. Sebastián (40), a graffiti artist who was deported in 1997 and participated in Homies Unidos and Hungry Church, mentored at-risk youth and helped a lot of young people to exit gangs. He had worked with graffiti artists and mayors throughout the country, through which he believed he had had “a large impact on El Salvador.” While Emiliano, David, Javier, Gabriel, and Sebastián’s stories represent only a small proportion of the returned migrant population, they demonstrate ways in which returned migrants see themselves as valuable members of Salvadoran society with the potential to improve not only their own circumstances but also those of newly arriving deportees. When combined with RENACERES and INSAMI’s successful implementation of initiatives to re/incorporate deportees into the Salvadoran economy, these findings uncover a considerable range of agency and action among the Salvadoran deported migrant population. RE/INCORPORATION IMAGINARIES These findings reveal that some deported Salvadorans exhibit substantially more agency 164 than was previously recognized. However, the deportees introduced above represent a minority of deported migrants, many of whom remain victims of economic precarity, criminalization, stigmatization, and violence, in addition to the emotional and physical trauma associated with migration, settlement, and removal. While these barriers limit potential pathways to socio- cultural, economic, and civic re/incorporation, deportees of all types asserted their potential to be agents of change (see Ríos 2015) in addition to their aspirations of contributing to Salvadoran and U.S. society. In a 2014 focus group, Cristian, who been part of Homies Unidos and later earned a law degree, shared that his dream was “to generate sources of employment for those people that were in my conditions, so they can at least put beans on the table.” If given the opportunity to apply for a U.S. visa, he explained, he would like to go back, but only to work temporarily so that he could bring investments to El Salvador. Douglas, a deported 1.5- generation immigrant who had a newborn son in El Salvador, expressed, I’d really like to go help kids, coach basketball, soccer, especially kids who are disabled. Build a foundation, a charity. Those are things I’d love to do. It’s not just about getting the [economic] opportunity but also about helping others, helping broken families, families who have lost their loved ones. Help them get by every day. Douglas’s brother—also a deportee—had been killed by gang members months before our interview, leaving behind a wife and son, and Douglas himself had recently been kidnapped and robbed by gang members, who forced him to close his small business. Cero (42), who was homeless at the time of our interview and had recently been attacked by gangs, wished that he could become a preacher and said that he had often considered writing a book about his life as a migrant. Beyond aspiring to help others at the interpersonal level, deportees also wanted to change 165 U.S. and Salvadoran societies and policies more broadly. For example, Carlos Alberto (36), who had lived in the U.S. for nine years and been deported twice, had led a youth group for at-risk teenage boys in Virginia, and, in El Salvador, served as a volunteer with Radio Luz, a Catholic radio station. He argued that the U.S. needed to end deportations and lamented, “I would like to be able to do something [about immigrant detention and deportation]. Something for everyone. But from here, I can’t.” As described above, Mateo wanted to become the mayor of his town, and Cuervo and Juan Carlos wanted to start a group or a union in the call center where they worked. Juan Carlos explained, “There’s a lot of people who would be willing to help… Everybody wants to help.” They and other call center agents were particularly interested in changing policies about hiring and firing so that their criminal records in the U.S. could not be held against them. Notably, long-term settlers frequently employed development discourse to express their potential contributions to the state. For instance, Lolo, who migrated in his late teens, said that he felt like he had “[gone] 100 years [into the future] and come 50 years back in time.” Like many others, he encouraged the government to make use of deportees: “There’s deportees who had jobs, who had skills. Good people. They can be used. They can teach English.” These examples hint at the social, cultural, financial, and political capital that deportees bring from the U.S., in addition to their encounters with precarity before, during, and after their migration and removal. While their actions were constrained, they imagined ways in which they could re/incorporate into Salvadoran society as well as transform it. In certain cases, they were able to make these visions a reality. DISCUSSION AND CONCLUSION In this chapter I contribute to scholarship showing that deportees are a heterogeneous population within and across national borders (Dingeman 2018; Golash-Boza 2015; Ríos 2018). 166 My interviews and observations reveal that deported migrants have different capacities and strategies for coping with and, in some cases, changing, their adverse circumstances. Their distinct, innovative strategies and support of one another uncover ways in which deportees are social and political beings and how they have begun to form diasporic U.S.-American ethnic enclaves. These findings further uncover the role of emotion and belonging in immigrant re/incorporation, suggesting that immigrants—in particular, deportees—can become structurally, socially, culturally, and perhaps civically integrated without a sense of membership or security in the host or deportee-receiving nation. Together, these findings provide a nuanced picture of the deported population in El Salvador, especially removed long-term settlers and 1.5-generation immigrants. These individuals and organizations like RENACERES offer some success stories and models of deportee re/incorporation, but they also remind us of the profound precarity that deportees encounter in light of their deportation status, social isolation, unfamiliarity with the local landscape, and general insecurity in El Salvador. Incorporation Without Security? Wachter and Fleischmann (2018) disaggregated immigrant incorporation into structural, social, and cultural branches. To these, I added civic or political incorporation (Bloemraad 2006), such as voting, party affiliation, volunteerism, and participation in marches or protests. According to these metrics, some deported long-term settlers had re/integrated in El Salvador, albeit unevenly and precariously. They found jobs, either in call centers or by starting their own businesses, in the case of PIR participants. They also attended churches or joined local clubs or sports teams, and they frequently formed new friendships, romantic partnerships, and had children with “native” Salvadoran partners. Over time, even those who did not speak Spanish fluently when they first arrived could develop a Salvadoran accent and become accustomed to 167 their surroundings, strategically and intentionally assimilating into the local culture by changing their styles and mannerisms. However, as Ana María and Jacob’s narratives revealed, these forms of incorporation, while necessary for survival, were not enough to make deported long-term settlers feel comfortable in El Salvador. Fears of violence, homesickness, and social exclusion prevented them from feeling at home and frequently left them considering remigration. Ana María explained, “I have my own stuff; I have my own bed, my own kitchen, my sofas, my apartment. But when I come home, it’s like, I feel like I’m coming back to my cell.” These results suggest that immigrant incorporation literature must consider the emotional element of integration (i.e. feeling like you belong or are welcome) (see also Golash-Boza 2016a), as well as threats of violence in the context of reception and return. In dangerous contexts, incorporation is likely to be felt differently than in safer zones. These findings also implicate the state and social structures in the potential re/incorporation trajectories of deportees. It is not enough for deported migrants to change their clothing, hair, or mode of transportation. The state must provide protection and treat deportees as citizens to loosen their constraints and foster their re/incorporation. Deportation Circles: American Ethnic Enclaves Simultaneously, deportees’ sense of belonging sometimes stemmed from their social networks, which included other deportees, voluntary return migrants, and, occasionally, U.S. citizens in El Salvador. Kanstroom (2012) has argued that mass deportations from the U.S. have created a new “American diaspora” dispersed across the globe. In El Salvador, a top deportee- receiving state, this has produced what Ana María termed “deportation circles,” ethnic enclaves in which deportees can find psychosocial and material support, ranging from getting together for a Fourth of July barbeque or football game to moving in together or referring one another for 168 jobs. These enclaves also created new markets and deportee economies, which helped some deported settlers to craft original re/incorporation pathways. The deported taxi driver that Ana María described and Javier’s English school relied on the deported community for clients and coaches, respectively. Other deportees built small businesses around call centers, such as coffee or hotdog stands. Interestingly, deportations to El Salvador have produced a spectrum of ethnic enclaves, ranging from “mini Americas” that reject their birth countries to binational communities that produce new forms of Salvadoran-Americanness for both deportees and their “native” loved ones. More research is needed to better understand these enclaves, their role in deportee re/integration, and their effects on non-deported Salvadorans. Deportees as Agents of Change Perhaps most importantly, deported long-term settlers’ narratives and actions reveal that, in contrast to their portrayal as criminals, gang members, and failed migrants, they consider themselves agents of change with unique skills and expertise. Through their productivity at work; engagement in organizations like churches, sports teams, PIR seminars, and RENACERES; and imagined future re/incorporation trajectories, deportees asserted their humanity and agency. RENACERES leaders, in particular, publicized positive portrayals of deportees as “well-born Salvadorans” and citizens, precaritized through stigmatization, unemployment, and violent encounters. These actions served as powerful deportee counter- conducts that arguably contributed to the Salvadoran state and civil society’s development of deportee re/integration programming. Participants’ aspired and imagined re/incorporation further revealed both the structural constraints that prevented such re/integration—such as gang threats, police harassment, limited access to resources like bank loans, and unemployment—in addition to the social capital and ingenuity that the U.S. and El Salvador squander when they expel and 169 exclude deported settlers. Yet deportees’ use of development discourse positing El Salvador as “a hundred years behind” the U.S. highlights the tension between deported and non-deported Salvadorans and the U.S. and El Salvador more broadly. Deported long-term settlers frequently asserted that non- migrant Salvadorans believed that they—i.e. deportees—thought they were superior to other Salvadorans. As Schuster and Majidi (2015) argue, deportees’ rejection from their birth nation can generate their subsequent rejection of their birth nation. The reconceptualization of deportees as productive, successful and noncriminal also generates tension within the Salvadoran deported population and relies on a problematic definition of deservingness (see chapter 6), which is not emancipatory for all deportees. If deportees deserve rights and recognition because they are not criminals and failures, where do deportees with criminal records and debt fit in? Deportee— native coalitions and collaborations across segments of the returned migrant population thus require a balance between celebrating deportees’ contributions and diversity while simultaneously valuing Salvadoranness. 170 CHAPTER EIGHT CONCLUSION At the time of my second interview with Juan Carlos, his girlfriend had recently given birth to their first child, and he was finishing his high school degree while working at a call center, trying to save enough to rent a house for the three of them. He explained that he was “getting in love with this country [El Salvador]:” I love my country. I wish, you know, to be honest with you, I wish I can accomplish all my stuff here. And one day, if I do get my papers, then… but if I have a life here, I just want to go visit. … Because right now I’m kind of getting in love with this country. Over here, you know, you don’t worry about the snow. … If you have a car, you can go everywhere, you know? And you won’t even get in trouble. And I like the birds. So many different birds in here every day. … But you’re never gonna feel like over there. Never. Because over there is all your childhood, you know. All my childhood. A year later, Juan Carlos sent me a video of his high school graduation and told me that he had moved to the town where he was born, a community known for being free of gang activity. He had been compelled to quit his call center job because it had become “too dangerous” and was subsequently looking for work. Juan Carlos’s post-deportation journey exemplifies the constrained agency of deported Salvadorans, especially long-term settlers removed after a lifetime abroad. He had actively searched for educational opportunities in El Salvador and studied for more than a year to earn his diploma. He had hopes for his future, such as earning another degree and finding sustainable work outside the call center. He “love[d his] country” and planned to build a life there with his partner and their child. However, his options were limited by threats of violence in San Salvador 171 and poor employment prospects in safer areas. Significantly, his love for El Salvador did not change his sense that he belonged in the U.S., where he had spent his childhood, attended middle school, and gone to prom. Life in El Salvador would “never … feel like over there.” CONCLUDING THOUGHTS In this dissertation, I have explored deported Salvadorans’ experiences of deportation, reception, and re/integration, as well as their sense of belonging, interpretations of citizenship, and civic engagement at “home” and “abroad.” By searching for deportees’ expressions of agency alongside their precarity, I found that, although they were highly marginalized in El Salvador, they responded to their social and economic exclusion in varied, creative ways, developing coping mechanisms that ranged from dressing in local styles to starting their own businesses. In addition to these individual mechanisms, deported Salvadorans developed collective survival strategies throughout the deportation and re/integration process such as translating for non-English speakers in detention centers, sharing taxis to avoid the bus, living with fellow deportees, and hiring other returned migrants to work for them. Deported long-term settlers have also joined and initiated organizations that fostered varying levels of re/incorporation, including RENACERES, Homies Unidos, SAAIF leagues, Hungry Church, and online forums. Deportees’ narratives around belonging and citizenship further uncovered ways in which they challenged thin, legalistic definitions of membership in the U.S. and reworked meanings of citizenship and national belonging in the U.S. as well as El Salvador, claiming space and rights in both nations. Deportees’ actions did not prevent them from encountering extreme forms of precarity, such as harassment, violence, un- and underemployment, stigmatization, and criminalization. Indeed, their survival strategies did not always keep them alive, as in the case of Jeovany 172 Alexander Miranda, José Roberto, and Homies Unidos leaders (see Gámez 2015; Lovato 2015; Zilberg 2011). Yet, like Dingeman (2018), Golash-Boza (2015), and Ríos (2018), I found that deported Salvadorans did not experience precarity uniformly. Their post-removal pathways differed by migration history, gender, age, and family relationships, among other factors, prompting me to examine the development of deported masculinities among removed men. My participants’ narratives suggest that deportation and re/integration are dehumanizing gendered processes enacted primarily on men’s bodies, with particularly destructive consequences for younger men at risk of violence and older men facing sustained unemployment. These findings have valuable implications for scholars as well as policymakers and practitioners. Scholarly Contributions As Paret and Gleeson (2016) assert, scholarship that simultaneously considers migrant groups’ precarity and agency reveals important dynamics around inequality, injustice, and struggles for social change. Correspondingly, this project demonstrates the possibilities and boundaries of acting while constrained by the deporting state and birth country, contributing to literature on citizenship, gender, and immigrant re/incorporation as well as broader understandings of the relationship between collective behavior, national belonging, and neoliberalism. First, I advance nascent research on the heterogeneity of the deported migrant population (Dingeman 2018; Golash-Boza 2015; Medina and Menjívar 2015; Ríos 2018). I introduce ways in which deportees’ re/integration pathways vary by age, complementing Dingeman’s (2018) theory of segmented re/integration. I bring together theorizing on multiple masculinities (Connell 1987), immigration enforcement, and deportation to illustrate how gender identities are jointly shaped by deportee-sending and receiving states and negotiated by deported migrants and their loved ones. These findings are particularly significant given that deportations 173 reverse Latino men’s historical northward migration flows, which profoundly affected gender dynamics in Latin America and the U.S. (e.g. Broughton 2008; Hondagneu-Sotelo 1994). Moreover, these results extend Connell’s (1987) multiple masculinities framework by showing how gender is re/constructed within transnational contexts characterized by marginalization at both ends. By disaggregating the deported population by age and migration history, I am also able to examine deportees’ claims to rights, resources, and belonging in the U.S. and El Salvador, as well as their civic and social engagement before and after deportation. Bringing deportees from the margins to the center of citizenship studies exposes the primacy of the nation-state in precarious migrants’ lives but also suggests that deported long-term settlers can and do challenge narrow, juridical definitions of membership by asserting jus nexi claims in the U.S. (see Golash- Boza 2016a) and jus soli claims in El Salvador. Deportees wove neoliberal beliefs about market citizenship (Brodie 1997) into their claims on both states, revealing beliefs that the U.S. should recognize their earned citizenship and El Salvador should make enacting market citizenship more accessible through increased opportunities and decreased violence. Furthermore, deported Salvadorans’ diverse forms of engagement contest portrayals of deportees as a homogeneous group of victims while accounting for the specific structural barriers facing various segments of the population. My concept of the re/incorporation imaginary illuminates these barriers and deported migrants’ visions of themselves as change agents. Re/incorporation imaginaries thus provide nuance to our conceptualizations of immigrant re/integration and agency. This study additionally extends scholarly understandings of deportation as a gendered racial removal program that expels excess labor from the Global North (Golash-Boza 2015; Golash-Boza and Hondagneu-Sotelo 2013). I explore how this gendered, raced, and classed 174 neoliberal project continues to affect deported migrants after their removal (see also Golash- Boza 2014). I find that neoliberal policies like dollarization and free trade limit deportees’ opportunities for economic mobility while neoliberal ideologies shape their sense of themselves as productive members of the U.S. and El Salvador, especially among men whose identities are tied to their labor market participation and breadwinner status. Deported men’s frustrations surrounding the skills and credentials they attained abroad exemplify their paradoxical position within the global economy; in the U.S., they learned to operate technologically advanced machinery and often undertook physically demanding, dangerous work (for example, in construction or mechanics), but through deportation, their work histories are erased and their skills become unrecognizable to local markets. INSAMI, RENACERES, and their partners are working to certify deportees’ foreign-earned skills, but their current invisibility underscores how xenophobia in the U.S. and deportation-related stigma in El Salvador, compounded by neoliberal policies and gender norms, generate unique contexts of removal and return that shape re/integration outcomes. The erasure of deported migrants’ histories—not only work histories but also lived experiences throughout the migration journey, settlement, apprehension, and detention—are all the more significant when situated historically within Salvadoran-U.S. relations. U.S. nonrecognition of human rights violations during the Salvadoran civil war contributed to low naturalization rates, prolonged legal nonexistence (Coutin 2003), and unacknowledged mental and physical scars for Salvadorans and Salvadoran-Americans (Abrego 2017). As deportees continue to advocate for their rights and presence in El Salvador, additional research will be needed to explore whether and how they leverage their collective memory to advance rights claims and challenge inequality. This dissertation therefore provides a foundation for theorizing 175 deportee re/integration and agency which is contextual, actor-centered, and intersectional. Policy and Practical Implications Deportees’ narratives of violence and exclusion have significant implications for policymakers and practitioners in the U.S. and El Salvador. First, as Coutin (2016), Golash-Boza (2015, 2016a, 2016b), and Kanstroom (2012) have asserted, deportation represents an unjust punishment, rather than the administrative action that its defenders purport it to be, especially among deported 1.5-generation immigrants and other long-term settlers. Deportation causes significant trauma for such deportees by generating family separation, precarious work and unemployment, and encounters with violence. For deported migrants who have not lived in El Salvador for most—or any—of their adult life, removal forces them to navigate a new geographical terrain and unfamiliar health, social welfare, and public transportation systems. These structural barriers often prompt deportees’ remigration (see Cardoso et al. 2015; Molina 2014), suggesting that mass deportations are not only cruel but also ineffective. Because of these challenges, the present study joins the chorus of scholars and activists calling for an end to deportation and a pathway to citizenship for potential settlers. Until these policy changes are enacted, U.S. government leaders should reintroduce the use of discretion in deportation cases in order to allow judges to recognize immigrants’ remorse, family support, and connections in the birth country when deciding whether or not to issue an order of removal (see Golash-Boza 2016a). Discretion, while akin to putting a Band-Aid over a gunshot wound, would provide a modicum of protection for those most precaritized by deportation. These findings and other research on gang-related violence in the Northern Triangle (Gagne 2017; UNCHR 2015) also provide powerful evidence that the U.S. should reverse its 2018 decision to deny asylum on the basis of gang threats (see Benner and Dickerson 2018). 176 Policy Implications in the Deportee-Receiving State. Until the flow of deportations is stopped, the deported migrants’ narratives discussed here form a blueprint for policymakers and practitioners in El Salvador and similar deportee-receiving states who seek to support deportee re/integration. Deportees have numerous needs that the state should consider—namely, precarious employment, stigmatization, threats of violence, and poor access to safe housing and medical treatment. As discussed above, deported migrants’ skills and expertise are not always clear to employers in El Salvador, a disjuncture that RENACERES and INSAMI leaders argue could be rectified through equivalency and certification programs. Similarly, call center workers frequently asserted that they needed protection from what they viewed as unjust firings based on their criminal background in the U.S. Correspondingly, El Salvador could introduce policies to protect local workers from transnational corporations. Additionally, the Salvadoran state must challenge the stigmatization and criminalization of deportees by ending mano dura approaches to crime62 and rejecting policies like Decreto 717 (Decree 717, described below) that intensify the policing of deported long-term settlers. RENACERES members assert that the Salvadoran and international media could also contribute to the destigmatization of deportees through depictions of their diversity, humanity, and lived experiences. The U.S. media should similarly challenge, rather than reproduce, racialized images of Latino migrants as criminals and “illegal aliens.” Finally, to combat harassment and violence against deportees, Salvadoran police and military should be sensitized to the characteristics of the deported population and trained to conduct stops unobtrusively and peacefully. Suggestions for Practitioners. Deported migrants also have material needs that should be 62 While mano dura policies are not aimed at deportees, they disproportionately affect deported 1.5-generation immigrants and other long-term settlers whose tattoos, clothing, hairstyles, mannerisms, and residence in poor and working-class neighborhoods make them targets for the Salvadoran police and military (see Fariña, Miller, and Cavallaro 2010; Zilberg 2011). 177 met after their removal. As removed 1.5-generation immigrants reported, deportation could be disorienting, particularly for individuals unfamiliar with the local context. They therefore proposed re/orientation programming that would teach newly arrived deportees about the local bus system, culture, employment options, and how to stay safe in El Salvador.63 Additionally, removed long-term settlers and recent arrivals requested resources that would mitigate their financial challenges, poor health, and insecurity, such as food assistance; bank loans; shelters in safe, accessible areas; and health insurance. The U.S. should aid in this process by making social security benefits available to deportees who have paid into them while working in the U.S. For deportees who arrive without a Salvadoran identification card or passport, fee waivers would also contribute to re/incorporation efforts by legitimizing their presence in El Salvador. As this extensive list of needs implies, re/integration programming in deportee-receiving states like El Salvador must be multifaceted, attending not only to deportees’ economic re/incorporation and financial wellbeing but also to their sense of inclusion and security in El Salvador. Directions for Future Research The findings presented here suggest three directions for future research: first, the effects of demographic shifts in the deported population and changing contexts of return following Donald Trump’s election in the U.S.; second, deportation and re/incorporation as gendered and family-centered processes (see also Boehm 2016); and, third, deportee-led advocacy and deportees’ impact on the state and Salvadoran society. Changing Demographics and Policies. Trump made his anti-immigrant position a major component of his presidential campaign and has proposed multiple anti-immigrant policies since his election. In addition to his plans to build a wall along the U.S.-Mexico border, he attempted 63 Homies Unidos provided similar services during the late 1990s and early 2000s, but they were unable to continue their work when they lost their funding. 178 to end TPS for El Salvador, which immigrants and their allies worried would cause the deportation of up to 200,000 Salvadorans (e.g. Cancino 2018). His administration has also infamously separated child migrants from their parents and held them in makeshift detention centers (see Wood 2018). While a court injunction blocked Trump’s cancellation of TPS and removal rates under Trump have remained relatively consistent with rates under Obama’s presidency (see DHS 2017), widespread uncertainty about the future of TPS, fears of mass deportations, and Trump’s criminalization of migrants in the media arguably have transformed the context of removal and return for deported Salvadorans, as evidenced by the passage of Decreto 717 by the Salvadoran Asamblea Legislativa (Legislative Assembly) in June 2017. Decreto 717 specifically targets deportees who are presumed gang members and requires them to register with local police stations, which track their names and activities and limit their mobility (Asamblea Legislativa de la República de El Salvador 2017; García 2017). Consequently, scholarship is needed to assess the post-election context of return and its effects on deported long-term settlers’ precarity and re/incorporation. For example, researchers could examine Salvadorans’ attitudes toward deportees and deportation to evaluate whether and how they stigmatize deportees, where these attitudes originate, and what might change their minds. Research is also needed to better understand the new segments of deportees who have been traumatized by their migration journey and family separation at the border. Deportation, Gender, and Family Relations. Deportation as a gendered and family- centered process merits further consideration. Removals result in family separation and the formation of new families, which are arguably accompanied by shifting gender norms. Migration scholars would benefit from adopting Boehm’s (2016) ethnographic family-centered approach to deportee resettlement by interviewing and observing deportees along with their children, 179 spouses, and parents in the U.S. and locally. How is the re/integration process shaped by forming new families in El Salvador? What do relationships between deported and “native” Salvadorans look like? These partnerships are likely to generate uniquely bicultural families, gender relations, and understandings of membership, as evidenced by participants who were teaching their children English and planning to return to the U.S. with them. Family members in the U.S.— especially U.S.-citizen children, spouses, and parents—are also affected by the deportation of their loved ones (see chapter 2). How does the family separation produced by the U.S. shape their understanding of citizenship, national identities, and political practices? In addition, this dissertation has shown that deportation and re/integration are embodied processes for men. Future research could extend these findings in two ways—first, with observations in highly gendered spaces like call centers and, second, with interviews with deported women. Call centers are prominent sites for the re/integration of deported long-term settlers in Central America—an overwhelmingly male population. Yet in other contexts call centers have been predominantly staffed by women agents, yielding research on women’s voices and experiences in call centers (i.e. Mishra 2017; Ng and Mitter 2005). The findings presented here suggest that, for deported men, the call center environment can also generate new meanings around masculinity and emotion work. Future research should explore gender construction and maintenance in transnational call centers, attending closely to ways in which call centers discipline men’s bodies and voices. Finally, as women are apprehended, detained, and deported at increasing rates, comparative work is needed to address how their experiences are similar to and different from their male counterparts, in addition to how femininity is re/constructed during removal and return (see also Dingeman 2018; Dingeman et al. 2017). Deportee-Led Advocacy and the State. My interviews and observations with 180 RENACERES revealed the development of new deportee-led advocacy groups in El Salvador as well as across the Northern Triangle and Mexico. While I was in the field, RENACERES members began to form partnerships with Honduras, Guatemala, and Mexico, with the goal of forming a network of returned-migrant-led organizations that would advocate for the rights of deportees and migrants throughout the region. In the time since I ended my data collection, RENACERES and other organizations have implemented new and innovative re/incorporation programming for deportees, such as INSAMI and RENACERES’s Clínica Integral de Atención a Retornados (Holistic Care Clinic for Returnees). Future research should chart the creation of these initiatives, playing close attention to ways in which deported leaders and activists serve as “agents of change” (Ríos 2015), draw on collective memories of removal and return, and challenge the treatment and depiction of deportees in and around El Salvador. Will their activism engender recognition of the deported migrant population and thus loosen some of the constraints that currently limit their re/incorporation? 181 APPENDICES 182 APPENDIX A: INTERVIEW WITH RETURNEES64 When noted below, questions are specific to different groups, defined as Recently Arrived (0-6 months in El Salvador), RENACERES Members (6 or more months in El Salvador and members of RENACERES), and Comparative Participants (6 or more months in El Salvador and not members of RENACERES). 1. Can you tell me the story of your migration to the US? a. Probing questions: When did you migrate? How many times? How long were you in the US? Where did you live? b. Why did you migrate? i. What did you hope to accomplish from migrating? Do you feel like you were able to accomplish some or all of these goals? 2. Tell me about your life while you were in the US. a. Probing questions: Where and how did you settle there? How would you describe your community and/or social network there (neighborhood, school, work, family, neighbors, friends, other relationships)? Were any of them migrants? b. How did people treat you while you were in the US (friends, coworkers, police, teachers, bosses)? c. Did you feel like you belonged there? Why/why not? d. Did you try to get citizenship, residency, NACARA, or TPS in the US? Why/why not? i. If yes, what steps did you take? 64 An earlier draft of this schedule was used with research participants in 2014. 183 e. While you lived in the US, how did you think and feel about deportations? (Did you ever think about them? How often?) 3. Please tell me about your detention and deportation experience. a. When/how did it happen? b. How were you treated throughout the process (for example, by the police, INS agents, detention guards, lawyers)? c. What are some of the feelings you had throughout the process? Which feelings were strongest? d. Did you have a trial? i. If so, please describe it for me. Do you feel like the trial was fair? What was your lawyer like? e. Were you detained? If so, when and where? i. What was your experience like in the detention center, with guards? What about with other detainees? Your loved ones? ii. How was your health during your detention and deportation? If you needed a particular medical treatment, did you receive it? 4. Now, please tell me about your experience since your return to El Salvador. a. Probing questions: What have been doing since you returned? Who are you living with? Who are you spending time with? b. What are your relationships like now with your family? Friends? (Probing questions: how often do you talk to them? What are your interactions like? How do you feel like they see you?) 184 c. Do you have any friends, family members, or acquaintances who were also deported? Approximately how many? What is your relationship like with them? d. How have you been feeling since your return? Which feelings are the strongest? e. How has your health been since your return to El Salvador? If you need a particular medical treatment, have you received it? f. Do you plan to return to the US? i. Will you return to the US even if you have to do so without legal papers? 5. Now that you have returned to El Salvador, do you feel like you are treated differently than other Salvadorans based on your status as a deportee? If so, how? a. What are some ways that people here (for example, the government, your community, NGOs, colleagues, church, etc.) have helped you to feel like you belong here? Why were these actions helpful? b. What are some ways that people here have made you feel like you don’t belong? c. What are some programs, laws, or actions that would help you as you try to settle back into life in El Salvador? i. Probing questions: What government or bank programs would be helpful? What about actions on the US side? ii. Recently arrived deportees: Are you planning to participate in RENACERES and/or INSAMI? Why/why not? If yes, how do you plan to participate? d. RENACERES members & comparative participants: Describe your experience with INSAMI. 185 i. Probing questions for RENACERES members: How did you learn about it? How have you been involved with INSAMI and/or RENACERES? Do you have plans to get more involved? ii. Probing questions for Comparative participants: If you haven’t been involved with INSAMI, why not? Do you plan to get involved with INSAMI and/or RENACERES? Why/why not? If yes, how? 6. How would you define “citizenship?” What does “citizenship” mean to you? a. Probing questions: What are the characteristics of a “citizen?” What does one have to do to be a citizen? b. How would you describe being a citizen in the US? El Salvador? Can you think of any specific examples? i. How is life in the US different for people who are not legal citizens, compared with those who are? How are the experiences similar? ii. Do you think migrants in the US are treated fairly when it comes to citizenship? Why/why not? c. Do you feel like a citizen of the US and/or El Salvador? Why/why not? i. What kind of “citizenship” activities did you participate in while you lived in the US? What about now that you live in ES? 1. For example: attending a march/protest; voting; volunteering in your community; going to meetings at schools, churches, or town halls; participating in a hometown association, political party, union, etc. ii. Do you feel like you belong in the US and/or ES? Why/why not? 186 d. Have your thoughts or feelings about citizenship changed since you were deported? If so, how? 7. Do you feel more U.S. American or Salvadoran or something in between? Why? a. Has your sense of being American, Estadounidense, and/or Salvadoran changed since you returned to El Salvador? 8. Do you have anything more that you would like to add? 9. Demographics: a. Gender: b. Occupation (in the US and in El Salvador): c. Education level: d. Religion: e. Age: f. Citizenship status (in US and El Salvador): g. Do you have any children? If so, how many? Where do they live, and where are they legal citizens? h. Are you married or in a relationship? If so, where does your partner/spouse live, and where is s/he a citizen? i. If you know any other returnees, do you think they would be interested in being interviewed? If so, can you give me their names and phone numbers? a. Name(s): b. Email address(es): c. Phone number(s): 187 APPENDIX B: INTERVIEW WITH GATEKEEPERS65 This interview schedule was used with gatekeepers, including leaders, volunteers, and employees who worked with deported Salvadorans. 1. How did you start working with Salvadoran migrants, returnees, and deportees? a. How long have you been working with migrants and deportees? b. Have you yourself ever migrated? If so, why did you return to El Salvador? c. Do you have loved ones (family members, friends) who have migrated? Been deported? 2. What is your role at work? a. How often do you interact with deportees and/or their families? In what capacity? 3. Talk me through an “average day” at work. a. Probing questions: Who do you interact with? What tasks do you work on? Where does the day take you? 4. How does _______ (the NGO or government organization the interviewee is part of) work with deportees? a. What are its goals? b. What services does it offer? c. What challenges does _____ face? d. What does the organization do well? What could it do better? 5. Tell me about the deportees you work with. a. Probing questions: Have they usually settled in the US before their deportation? How would you describe their morale? 65 An earlier draft of this schedule was used with research participants in 2014. 188 b. Would you describe them as Estadounidense (US-American), Salvadoran, American, or something else? c. What is the gender of most of the deportees you work with? 6. How do Salvadorans think of deportees in general? a. Do you think that deportees are treated differently than other Salvadorans in any ways? If so, how? i. What stereotypes do they face? b. Are male and female deportees treated differently? If so, how? Are their experiences usually similar or different? In what ways? 7. How would you define citizenship? a. What makes someone a citizen? b. Do you think of deportees as Salvadoran citizens? Why/why not? 8. How do deportees and other return migrants fit into Salvadoran society? a. Probing questions: How does/can Salvadoran society benefit from deportees? How do/can Salvadoran government and other agencies help deportees to reintegrate? What are the challenges associated with deportation for Salvadoran society, deportees, and their families? 9. Do you have anything to add? Any recommendations for my study (books to read, videos/documentaries, concepts, people to talk to)? 10. Demographics: a. Gender: b. Occupation: c. Education level: 189 d. Religion: e. Age: f. Citizenship/nationality: 190 APPENDIX C: FOLLOW-UP INTERVIEW FOR RETURNEES 1) What do you want people to know about what it is like to live as a migrant in the US? (Probing questions: People in El Salvador? In the US? People thinking of migrating? Your loved ones?) a. Probing questions: i. What were some challenges of settling into life in the US? ii. What are some things that helped you settle into life in the US? 2) Now I want to turn to your experiences in detention centers in the US, Mexico, and other countries. What do you want people to know about what it’s like to be in a detention center? (Probing questions: People in El Salvador? In the US? People thinking of migrating? Your loved ones?) a. Probing questions: i. What were your relationships like with other detainees in the detention center? ii. What were your relationships like with guards and officials in the detention center? iii. What were the hardest parts of being detained? iv. What helped you to get through your experience in the detention center? 3) What do you want people to know about what it is like to be deported? (Probing questions: People in El Salvador? In the US? People thinking of migrating? Your loved ones?) a. Probing questions: i. How did you feel when you first returned to El Salvador? 191 ii. Did you feel like you belonged in El Salvador when you first got back? iii. How did people treat you when you first got back? (Probes: At the Bienvenido a Casa, in your home, your community, by police, potential employers, friends?) iv. What are some things you needed when you first got back? Do you feel like you got some or all of these things? 4) What do you want people to know about settling back into Salvadoran society? (Probing questions: People in El Salvador? In the US? People thinking of migrating? Your loved ones?) a. Probing questions: i. What are some things that have helped you settle back into Salvadoran society? ii. What are some things that have made it more difficult to settle back into Salvadoran society? iii. What advice would you have for people when they are trying to reintegrate into Salvadoran society? iv. What do you need now that you are trying to settle back into Salvadoran society? v. Do you feel like you belong in El Salvador now? vi. Since our last interview, have you thought about migrating again? Why/why not? 1. Are you thinking of migrating without papers (undocumented)? 192 5) Now I want to turn to your thoughts about citizenship and some of the political, social, and cultural activities you have done, either here or in another country. 6) Complete survey 7) Which of these activities have you done (here or in another country)? a. Probing questions: i. Do you/did you do any of these activities frequently? ii. Did any of these activities help you to feel like you belonged in the US? iii. Do any of them help you feel like you belong here in El Salvador? iv. Are there any things you think are missing from the list? (What would you add to this list, based on your experience?) v. Are there any things on the list that you wish you did more? 1. If so, why haven’t you participated in them? 8) What does it mean to be a “citizen?” a. What should someone do to be a good citizen? b. What rights do citizens have? What rights should they have? c. What does it mean to you to be a citizen who has been deported (in the US? In El Salvador?)? 9) Is there anything you would like to add? 193 APPENDIX D: FOCUS GROUP PROCEDURES AND QUESTIONS 1) Refreshments and introductions 2) Informed consent process (after initial description shared previously in person or by phone) 3) Icebreaker a. First name or pseudonym b. Where did you live when you migrated? How long did you live there? c. What is your favorite thing about El Salvador? What is your favorite thing about the United States? 4) Small group or individual brainstorming on the following topics: a. What do you want people to know about what it is like to live as a migrant (in the US or other countries)? b. What do you want people to know about what it is like to be in a detention center? c. What do you want people to know about what it is like to be deported? d. What do you want people to know about settling back into Salvadoran society? 5) Using brainstorms, begin whole group discussion: a. What do you want people to know about what it is like to live as a migrant? (Probing questions: People in El Salvador? In the US? People thinking of migrating? Your loved ones?) i. Probing questions: 1. What were some challenges of settling into life in the US? 2. How did people treat you while you lived in the US? 3. Did you feel like you belonged in the US? Why/why not? 194 b. Now I want to turn to your experiences in detention centers in the US, Mexico, and other countries. What do you want people to know about what it’s like to be in a detention center? (Probing questions: People in El Salvador? In the US? People thinking of migrating? Your loved ones?) i. Probing questions: 1. What were your relationships like with other detainees in the detention center? 2. What were your relationships like with guards and officials in the detention center? 3. What were the hardest parts of being detained? 4. What helped you to get through your experience in the detention center? c. What do you want people to know about what it is like to be deported? (Probing questions: People in El Salvador? In the US? People thinking of migrating? Your loved ones?) i. Probing questions: 1. How did you feel when you first returned to El Salvador? 2. Did you feel like you belonged in El Salvador when you first got back? 3. How did people treat you when you first got back? (Probes: At the Bienvenido a Casa, in your home, your community, by police, potential employers, friends?) 195 4. What are some things you needed when you first got back? Do you feel like you got some or all of these things? d. What do you want people to know about settling back into Salvadoran society? (Probing questions: People in El Salvador? In the US? People thinking of migrating? Your loved ones?) i. Probing questions: 1. What are some things that have helped you settle back into Salvadoran society? 2. What are some things that have made it more difficult to settle back into Salvadoran society? 3. What advice would you have for deported/returned people when they are trying to reintegrate into Salvadoran society? 4. What do you need now that you are trying to settle back into Salvadoran society? 5. Do you feel like you belong in El Salvador now? 6. Have you thought about migrating again? Why/why not? a. Are you thinking of migrating without papers (undocumented)? 6) 10-minute break 7) Now I want to turn to your thoughts about citizenship and some of the political, social and cultural activities you have done, either here or in another country. a. Individually complete surveys 196 b. Reflection on survey (using poster): Which of these activities have you done (here or in another country)? i. Probing questions: 1. Do you/did you do any of these activities frequently? 2. Did any of these activities help you to feel like you belonged in the US? 3. Do any of them help you feel like you belong here in El Salvador? 4. Are there any things you think are missing from the list? (What would you add to this list, based on your experience?) 5. Are there any things on the list that you wish you did more? a. If so, why haven’t you participated in them? c. What does it mean to be a “citizen?” i. What should someone do to be a good citizen? ii. What rights do citizens have? What rights should they have? iii. What does it mean to you to be a citizen who has been deported (in the US? In El Salvador?)? 8) Thank participants and close the focus group. 197 APPENDIX E: FOCUS GROUP SURVEY ON POLITICAL, SOCIAL, AND CULTURAL PARTICIPATION Pseudonym: ____________________________________ Use an X to mark each of the following activities that you have done in the US, El Salvador, or another country. Before In the destination After returning migrating country (the US or to El Salvador another country) Went to school Played on a sports team Participated in a youth group Gone to church Participated in a church group Done volunteer work Participated in a community group Been a leader in a community, church, work, or school group Participated in a union Sent remittances to loved ones Took part in an HTA/hometown association Read or watched the news to keep up with events in the US 198 Read or watched the news to keep up with events in El Salvador Read or watched the news to keep up with international events Talked about politics or local events with your friends or family Taken a trip to explore El Salvador Taken a trip to explore the US or another country Voted in an election Been part of a political party Participated in a parade Participated in a protest or demonstration Other: 199 REFERENCES 200 REFERENCES Abdi, Cawo Mohamed. 2014. “Threatened Identities and Gendered Opportunities: Somali Migration to America.” Signs 39(2): 459-483. 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