Author’s Note: Details have been left out to limit any legal repercussions since it is still an active case. Without a lawyer, Sulma is unable to disclose too many details about certain parts of her story.
July 2015
Church is a sanctuary for many people, but for one Guatemalan asylum seeker, that has a completely different meaning.
Since June 11, Sulma Franco has been staying in a dorm-sized portable at The First Unitarian Universalist Church north of UT. Because of a paperwork issue in her asylum case, she has been seeking sanctuary with the church to avoid deportation. Churches have practiced sanctuary since biblical times, but there has been a recent increase in churches providing space for immigrants in the last couple of years. Traditionally, officers do not arrest people on church grounds, and a 2011 ICE memo further prohibited officials from arresting or surveilling people in “sensitive locations,” such as churches or schools.
For now, Sulma Franco finds safety in the church.
A rickety, wooden ramp leads the way to Sulma’s door. A cool rush of air immediately hits upon entering the room and keeps the humidity from entering. The space is about the size of a dorm room, with a full-size bed in the leftmost corner, opposite a five-foot book shelf and a TV propped on top. Spanish titles decorate the shelves, and a black binder of DVDs lays open on one of the planks.
The petite, dark-haired Guatemalan woman stands a little less than five feet tall, though Sulma’s desire to stay in the US reaches much higher, as she fled Guatemala to escape persecution based on her identification as LGBTQ.
The Threat of Returning Home
In Guatemala, Sulma Franco faced violence and discrimination for her involvement in an organization that worked to help other LGBTQ people. To better her family’s life as well as her own, Sulma also worked as an engineer’s assistant while pursuing a psychology degree in night classes.
“I could no longer live in Guatemala because I was part of an organization that focused on helping LGBTQ people,” Franco said during a speech at a church luncheon Sunday, July 5. “I was constantly being persecuted - being tormented - for helping my community, and that’s why I could no longer stay,” Franco said, assisted by Mizraim Belman, a Crockett High School senior and member of Deportation Defense Lead, who translated her words into English.
Not only did Sulma face these injustices, but many of them went unnoticed by the Guatemalan government. The system currently in place for recording crime, discrimination and violence lacks clarity and infrastructure, as reported by a coalition of human rights organizations in Central and North America to the UN in 2012, meaning many crimes go unreported.
At least 35 LGBT people were murdered in Guatemala between 1996 and 2006, though the “lack of official figures and social stigma of homosexuality and transexuality suggest the actual numbers are significantly higher.” the report read.
Despite recommendations from Slovenia, Switzerland and the Czech Republic to Guatemala in 2008 as part of the Universal Periodic Review Process at the Human Rights Council, there have been no changes in laws that allow for discrimination against LGBTQ individuals. In 2009, there were over 30,000 reported incidents of violence against women, not including Trans women, but only 0.2% resulted in criminal sentences.
Her Story
On July 5 the First Unitarian Universalist Church held a potluck for Sulma to tell her full story. Almost 100 people packed the church’s auditorium as Sulma spoke in Spanish from a small table on the stage. Belman served as an English translator for the predominantly English-speaking audience.
Sulma first entered the US in 2009, when ICE immediately detained her and a number of other women who had crossed the American border with invalid or expired documents. She stayed in a freezing cell, more commonly known as an Ice Box. The cell gained its name because of its uncomfortably low temperatures, with no food or blankets, much less beds. In reports, ICE officials deny the cells are that cold, saying they keep the building at an even 70 degrees, but detainees have reported their fingers turning blue and lips splitting and bleeding because of prolonged exposure to the low temperatures.
When Sulma finally found a lawyer who would help her through the asylum-seeking process, she was transferred to Hutto Detention Center in Taylor, Texas. Since Franco had no family in the US, she called her childhood friend in Houston for support. The asylum process took four months while she was interviewed for “credible fear.” Essentially, Sulma Franco had to prove that returning to her home country would result in persecution or physical harm. Once she passed that test, ICE released her, and she went to live in Houston with her childhood friend and his roommates. To retain her asylee status, she had to report to ICE every three months, which she did, earning money and making her way to Austin a few months later in that same year. In 2010, she met her partner, Gaby Isavel, a woman from Mexico who lives in Austin.
While in Austin, Sulma with Gaby worked to open a Guatemalan food truck. They aspired to raise money and help other people immigrating to the US with funds for lawyers or bond. They only had the truck for two days before Sulma had to report to the ICE office.
On June 24, 2014, Sulma reported to ICE, but something was different. With no developments in her case, she was told she would be deported back to Guatemala. “I was very scared because I kept telling the official ‘I have a lawyer, I have a process, this cannot be happening!’” she said. “So I called my lawyer and she kept telling me that everything was going to be OK, that I wasn’t going to get deported, that they couldn’t do this because of the pending court date. But that didn’t end up happening and I was detained.”
Her lawyer never showed up.
July 2015
Church is a sanctuary for many people, but for one Guatemalan asylum seeker, that has a completely different meaning.
Since June 11, Sulma Franco has been staying in a dorm-sized portable at The First Unitarian Universalist Church north of UT. Because of a paperwork issue in her asylum case, she has been seeking sanctuary with the church to avoid deportation. Churches have practiced sanctuary since biblical times, but there has been a recent increase in churches providing space for immigrants in the last couple of years. Traditionally, officers do not arrest people on church grounds, and a 2011 ICE memo further prohibited officials from arresting or surveilling people in “sensitive locations,” such as churches or schools.
For now, Sulma Franco finds safety in the church.
A rickety, wooden ramp leads the way to Sulma’s door. A cool rush of air immediately hits upon entering the room and keeps the humidity from entering. The space is about the size of a dorm room, with a full-size bed in the leftmost corner, opposite a five-foot book shelf and a TV propped on top. Spanish titles decorate the shelves, and a black binder of DVDs lays open on one of the planks.
The petite, dark-haired Guatemalan woman stands a little less than five feet tall, though Sulma’s desire to stay in the US reaches much higher, as she fled Guatemala to escape persecution based on her identification as LGBTQ.
The Threat of Returning Home
In Guatemala, Sulma Franco faced violence and discrimination for her involvement in an organization that worked to help other LGBTQ people. To better her family’s life as well as her own, Sulma also worked as an engineer’s assistant while pursuing a psychology degree in night classes.
“I could no longer live in Guatemala because I was part of an organization that focused on helping LGBTQ people,” Franco said during a speech at a church luncheon Sunday, July 5. “I was constantly being persecuted - being tormented - for helping my community, and that’s why I could no longer stay,” Franco said, assisted by Mizraim Belman, a Crockett High School senior and member of Deportation Defense Lead, who translated her words into English.
Not only did Sulma face these injustices, but many of them went unnoticed by the Guatemalan government. The system currently in place for recording crime, discrimination and violence lacks clarity and infrastructure, as reported by a coalition of human rights organizations in Central and North America to the UN in 2012, meaning many crimes go unreported.
At least 35 LGBT people were murdered in Guatemala between 1996 and 2006, though the “lack of official figures and social stigma of homosexuality and transexuality suggest the actual numbers are significantly higher.” the report read.
Despite recommendations from Slovenia, Switzerland and the Czech Republic to Guatemala in 2008 as part of the Universal Periodic Review Process at the Human Rights Council, there have been no changes in laws that allow for discrimination against LGBTQ individuals. In 2009, there were over 30,000 reported incidents of violence against women, not including Trans women, but only 0.2% resulted in criminal sentences.
Her Story
On July 5 the First Unitarian Universalist Church held a potluck for Sulma to tell her full story. Almost 100 people packed the church’s auditorium as Sulma spoke in Spanish from a small table on the stage. Belman served as an English translator for the predominantly English-speaking audience.
Sulma first entered the US in 2009, when ICE immediately detained her and a number of other women who had crossed the American border with invalid or expired documents. She stayed in a freezing cell, more commonly known as an Ice Box. The cell gained its name because of its uncomfortably low temperatures, with no food or blankets, much less beds. In reports, ICE officials deny the cells are that cold, saying they keep the building at an even 70 degrees, but detainees have reported their fingers turning blue and lips splitting and bleeding because of prolonged exposure to the low temperatures.
When Sulma finally found a lawyer who would help her through the asylum-seeking process, she was transferred to Hutto Detention Center in Taylor, Texas. Since Franco had no family in the US, she called her childhood friend in Houston for support. The asylum process took four months while she was interviewed for “credible fear.” Essentially, Sulma Franco had to prove that returning to her home country would result in persecution or physical harm. Once she passed that test, ICE released her, and she went to live in Houston with her childhood friend and his roommates. To retain her asylee status, she had to report to ICE every three months, which she did, earning money and making her way to Austin a few months later in that same year. In 2010, she met her partner, Gaby Isavel, a woman from Mexico who lives in Austin.
While in Austin, Sulma with Gaby worked to open a Guatemalan food truck. They aspired to raise money and help other people immigrating to the US with funds for lawyers or bond. They only had the truck for two days before Sulma had to report to the ICE office.
On June 24, 2014, Sulma reported to ICE, but something was different. With no developments in her case, she was told she would be deported back to Guatemala. “I was very scared because I kept telling the official ‘I have a lawyer, I have a process, this cannot be happening!’” she said. “So I called my lawyer and she kept telling me that everything was going to be OK, that I wasn’t going to get deported, that they couldn’t do this because of the pending court date. But that didn’t end up happening and I was detained.”
Her lawyer never showed up.
Life in Detention Centers
After the sudden loss of legal representation, Sulma was taken to a processing center in Laredo. “While I was at Laredo I didn’t think that it could get worse,” Sulma said. “But it was.”
For two months, Sulma stayed in a single room the size of a small auditorium with multiple other women. The curtainless showers shared the same space as the rows of beds and tables where the women would eat meals. Prisons already have limited privacy, but the cramped conditions of the centers can leave a person feeling even more exposed. Not even a studio apartment could rival the confined spaces.
When Sulma was transferred to Eloy Detention Center in Arizona, she faced a new issue, in addition to everything she had already dealt with. “It’s hard to imagine anything worse than what had already happened to me,” Sulma said. “But in Arizona, due to our sexual orientation, we were discriminated a lot.”
Since mistreatment of detainees is a common issue, Sulma was often isolated, and usually because of her sexual orientation. “Because we were bisexual or lesbian, [officers] didn’t want us near any other women because they believed that we would be assaulted or we would do something that we were not supposed to,” Sulma said.
For a total of eight months Sulma remained at Eloy, unsure of what would happen next.
Then, Sulma was given one option - to pay a $15,000 bond. She couldn’t call her family for the money so her partner, Gaby Isavel, worked tirelessly to collect the money. They were able to pay off the bond, creating a debt that could take years to pay off.
Three months after Sulma’s release and working to repay the loans, a letter arrived - calling for her deportation June 11. When asked how the process for asylum seekers leads to deportation, ICE declined to comment.
“I kept thinking ‘Why? Why me? Why again?’” Sulma said. “‘Why are all these doors closing on me and why am I still going to be deported after all the months spent in detention? After all the money that we had to gather up?’” she said. “That’s when I decided that I wasn’t going to take this without a fight.”
Sulma contacted Alejandro Caceres, the executive director for the Austin Immigrant Rights Coalition, who put her in contact with the organizations who would help her find sanctuary. One such organization included The First Unitarian Universalist Church.
The Kindness of Others
The First Unitarian Universalist Church in Austin practices what it preaches. The bathrooms are inclusive to Trans individuals, and rainbow flags adorn the doors of classrooms and that of the assistant minister, the Reverend Mari Caballero. “We have been blessed with this opportunity to truly become a sanctuary,” the Reverend Chris Jimmerson said at the church luncheon.
In the 1980s, the church helped Central American refugees travel to the airport in order to reach Canada, when people were escaping a civil war in El Salvador and Guatemala. This is the first time the church has provided sanctuary. Church authorities agreed to allow Sulma to stay, joining 24 congregations across the country providing sanctuary to immigrants. The congregation has shown a lot of positivity with all the help they have provided Sulma. “When I introduced her to the congregation, she got a standing ovation.” Jimmerson said in an email.
Although Sulma spends most of her time in the portable, she teaches Spanish every Monday and Wednesday to church members as a way of giving back to the community.
Sulma meets with visitors of all walks of life, including UT Austin students, inside of her portable, smiling and hugging them like friends meeting again after months apart.
The students who visit her belong to UT’s chapter of the University Leadership Initiative (ULI) that works to help all immigrants who come to the US, documented or not. The isolated portable and empty church make it difficult for Sulma to socialize with anyone, especially since she cannot leave church grounds. To combat this loneliness, ULI students bring food, play board games and watch Netflix in the evenings with Sulma when they aren’t searching for a new lawyer or working with the church to organize how best to care for her during her stay.
First Unitarian’s congregation put together a donation site, and numerous other organizations in the Austin community are coordinating to find a lawyer and keep Franco safe.
The community at First UU Church has been very accepting of Sulma and held a potluck for Sulma on Sunday, July 5, where she explained her story for about 100 people.
Living in Isolation
Sulma has been living in the portable for almost a month, and her partner Gaby visits as often as she can. They still struggle to repay the $15,000 to the members of her community who loaned money for the bond. No lawyers currently represent Sulma, and her two detentions deter many from taking her case.
Sulma poses no risk to “national security” and only wants to put her life back together in Austin, but lack of legal representation creates an obstacle in achieving that goal. For now, she teaches and lives at the church with the hope of overcoming such a hurdle.
While church conditions prove much more hospitable and accepting, Sulma still feels a sense of isolation. “I still have to be here, still feel like I’m being detained - trapped by four walls,” she said. “I can’t go out with my partner, I can’t go out to eat, I can’t do everyday things that I want to do.”
Church ministers and those coordinating the campaign don’t like to talk about how long Sulma will have to stay in sanctuary. They want to help her get out as soon as possible, but the main factor in coordinating a successful campaign for sanctuary requires a lawyer to say what needs to be asked for and what’s legally possible.
The church and ULI started a GoFundMe page and a petition. All the money will go toward repaying the $15,000 bond and any additional lawyer fees.
After the sudden loss of legal representation, Sulma was taken to a processing center in Laredo. “While I was at Laredo I didn’t think that it could get worse,” Sulma said. “But it was.”
For two months, Sulma stayed in a single room the size of a small auditorium with multiple other women. The curtainless showers shared the same space as the rows of beds and tables where the women would eat meals. Prisons already have limited privacy, but the cramped conditions of the centers can leave a person feeling even more exposed. Not even a studio apartment could rival the confined spaces.
When Sulma was transferred to Eloy Detention Center in Arizona, she faced a new issue, in addition to everything she had already dealt with. “It’s hard to imagine anything worse than what had already happened to me,” Sulma said. “But in Arizona, due to our sexual orientation, we were discriminated a lot.”
Since mistreatment of detainees is a common issue, Sulma was often isolated, and usually because of her sexual orientation. “Because we were bisexual or lesbian, [officers] didn’t want us near any other women because they believed that we would be assaulted or we would do something that we were not supposed to,” Sulma said.
For a total of eight months Sulma remained at Eloy, unsure of what would happen next.
Then, Sulma was given one option - to pay a $15,000 bond. She couldn’t call her family for the money so her partner, Gaby Isavel, worked tirelessly to collect the money. They were able to pay off the bond, creating a debt that could take years to pay off.
Three months after Sulma’s release and working to repay the loans, a letter arrived - calling for her deportation June 11. When asked how the process for asylum seekers leads to deportation, ICE declined to comment.
“I kept thinking ‘Why? Why me? Why again?’” Sulma said. “‘Why are all these doors closing on me and why am I still going to be deported after all the months spent in detention? After all the money that we had to gather up?’” she said. “That’s when I decided that I wasn’t going to take this without a fight.”
Sulma contacted Alejandro Caceres, the executive director for the Austin Immigrant Rights Coalition, who put her in contact with the organizations who would help her find sanctuary. One such organization included The First Unitarian Universalist Church.
The Kindness of Others
The First Unitarian Universalist Church in Austin practices what it preaches. The bathrooms are inclusive to Trans individuals, and rainbow flags adorn the doors of classrooms and that of the assistant minister, the Reverend Mari Caballero. “We have been blessed with this opportunity to truly become a sanctuary,” the Reverend Chris Jimmerson said at the church luncheon.
In the 1980s, the church helped Central American refugees travel to the airport in order to reach Canada, when people were escaping a civil war in El Salvador and Guatemala. This is the first time the church has provided sanctuary. Church authorities agreed to allow Sulma to stay, joining 24 congregations across the country providing sanctuary to immigrants. The congregation has shown a lot of positivity with all the help they have provided Sulma. “When I introduced her to the congregation, she got a standing ovation.” Jimmerson said in an email.
Although Sulma spends most of her time in the portable, she teaches Spanish every Monday and Wednesday to church members as a way of giving back to the community.
Sulma meets with visitors of all walks of life, including UT Austin students, inside of her portable, smiling and hugging them like friends meeting again after months apart.
The students who visit her belong to UT’s chapter of the University Leadership Initiative (ULI) that works to help all immigrants who come to the US, documented or not. The isolated portable and empty church make it difficult for Sulma to socialize with anyone, especially since she cannot leave church grounds. To combat this loneliness, ULI students bring food, play board games and watch Netflix in the evenings with Sulma when they aren’t searching for a new lawyer or working with the church to organize how best to care for her during her stay.
First Unitarian’s congregation put together a donation site, and numerous other organizations in the Austin community are coordinating to find a lawyer and keep Franco safe.
The community at First UU Church has been very accepting of Sulma and held a potluck for Sulma on Sunday, July 5, where she explained her story for about 100 people.
Living in Isolation
Sulma has been living in the portable for almost a month, and her partner Gaby visits as often as she can. They still struggle to repay the $15,000 to the members of her community who loaned money for the bond. No lawyers currently represent Sulma, and her two detentions deter many from taking her case.
Sulma poses no risk to “national security” and only wants to put her life back together in Austin, but lack of legal representation creates an obstacle in achieving that goal. For now, she teaches and lives at the church with the hope of overcoming such a hurdle.
While church conditions prove much more hospitable and accepting, Sulma still feels a sense of isolation. “I still have to be here, still feel like I’m being detained - trapped by four walls,” she said. “I can’t go out with my partner, I can’t go out to eat, I can’t do everyday things that I want to do.”
Church ministers and those coordinating the campaign don’t like to talk about how long Sulma will have to stay in sanctuary. They want to help her get out as soon as possible, but the main factor in coordinating a successful campaign for sanctuary requires a lawyer to say what needs to be asked for and what’s legally possible.
The church and ULI started a GoFundMe page and a petition. All the money will go toward repaying the $15,000 bond and any additional lawyer fees.