In a cramped
downtown Toronto office, Alvaro Orozco sits across from his
lawyer, El-Farouk Khaki. The doe-eyed Orozco, a native of
Nicaragua who at 21 could easily be mistaken for a
teenager, smiles as he shows off the medal he just
received for participating in the five-kilometer run at
April's North America OutGames in Calgary. Orozco has
also brought back a gift for Khaki, a piece of
amethyst crystal the young man says will bring
"good energy."
Without his own
remarkable energy, Orozco might not be in Canada--or
anywhere. Raised by an alcoholic father who beat him daily
for being gay, Orozco ran away from his home and
family in Managua, Nicaragua's capital, in
1998, just before he turned 13. He hitchhiked up the
Pan-American Highway through four countries and swam
the Rio Grande river into Texas. Once in the United
States, Orozco was held in detention centers in Texas
and then bounced from Dallas to Miami to Buffalo until he
reached Toronto in January 2005. There he filed for
asylum on the grounds that he would be persecuted for
being gay if he had to return to Nicaragua.
But in October
2005 a member of Canada's Immigration and Refugee
Board--an official of one of the most liberal
governments in the world--rejected
Orozco's asylum claim because she did not believe he
is gay. Such a denouement may seem implausible,
especially given the arduous life of Orozco, who was
20 at the time. But for countless gay and lesbian asylum
seekers worldwide, it's all too ordinary.
"I was
stunned by the decision," says Khaki, who did not
represent Orozco at the time but has since gotten his
deportation, originally scheduled for February 2007,
postponed until August while an appeal is prepared.
Many in the
Canadian media are echoing Khaki's questions about
the ruling and the reasoning behind it. There's
a precedent for granting asylum on the basis of sexual
orientation in Canada as well as in the United States
and other countries. However, in making her decision, the
immigration official, Deborah Lamont, cited the fact
that Orozco had not been sexually active with other
men--as if sexual activity were the only
"proof" of his gay orientation.
"If you
are straight and you don't have sex--are you
any less straight?" Khaki asks. "Some of
the questions he was asked during the refugee hearing
were just inappropriate. How can you ask a 20-year-old why
he hasn't been sexually active since the age of
12?"
Unfortunately,
Orozco's prior team of public defenders was not
equipped to argue his case before Lamont--who,
to make matters worse, conducted the hearing by
videoconference from her office in Calgary. It wasn't
until February 2007, when the young man was about to
be deported, that Khaki, a well-known gay Muslim
activist, came aboard. With his help, Orozco may just
manage to stop running at last.
Why can't
Orozco go back to Nicaragua? The answer reads like a
suspense novel. Born in 1985, Alvaro knew at 7 that he
was gay. His father--who regularly beat the
child's mother--realized it too. So he started
beating the boy in hopes of making him straight.
"If...any one of you is a faggot, I will
kill you with my own hands," Orozco recalls his
father telling him and his four brothers.
"On
TV," he adds, "I saw that it was illegal in my
country to be gay." In 1992, Nicaragua amended
its penal code to make homosexuality punishable by up
to four years in prison.
As Orozco goes
on, he begins to stutter. It happens every time he talks
about these things. "I was so scared," he
says. "I remember going to church--my
family is Catholic--and many times I heard the priest
say that gay people will go to hell. It was then I
knew I had to leave, that I couldn't grow up
here. I couldn't wait until I was 18."
He ran away, even
though his friends thought he was crazy to do so. "I
was in military school," he says, "and my
favorite subjects were history and geography. So I
took a few maps out of one of my geography books and
mapped out my trip."
He hitchhiked his
way through Honduras, El Salvador, Guatemala, and
Mexico. At each stop he would go to the local church and
tell them the story of the violence he suffered at the
hands of his father. Members of the church would give
him shelter, feed him, and help him find odd jobs. He
never mentioned his sexual orientation for fear that the
good church people would turn their backs on him.
Orozco swam
across the Rio Grande and set foot on American soil in 2000
in Texas, where he was picked up by U.S. immigration
officials and thrown into a detention center for
illegal alien minors in Brownsville. He was 14 and
spoke no English.
Soon Orozco was
transferred to a facility for homeless and immigrant
minors in Houston run by Catholic Charities. Officials there
told him that the U.S. government did not want illegal
minors to become citizens. Orozco met with an
immigration officer who even threatened to sabotage
any asylum claim. So he escaped from the facility and landed
in Dallas, where he lived with a Nicaraguan family for
a year, working odd jobs in gardening and
construction, and at a lamp factory. He also joined a
church-affiliated Boy Scout troop.
It seemed as if
Orozco was finally starting a life of his own. But on
learning that authorities in Texas were aggressively going
after illegal immigrants--it was after 9/11 by
then--he decided he'd do better in a city
with a larger Latino population. While on a trip to Disney
World in Orlando, Fla., with his Scout troop, Orozco
slipped away and took a bus south to Miami.
During his five
years in the United States, he had tried without success
to get a lawyer to take his case. To make matters worse, he
was so used to hiding his sexual orientation, he never
told anyone he was gay. He didn't realize that
his case might have been stronger if he had mentioned
the violence he'd suffered because he was gay.
In the end, it
was Canada, not the United States, that captured
Orozco's imagination. On the Internet he found
information about Canada's immigration laws and
gay-friendly political environment. He took a bus from
Miami to Buffalo, N.Y. With the help of Buffalo-based Vive,
an interfaith group at the Canadian border that helps
refugees from around the world, and its shelter, La
Casa, he settled in Toronto.
In those
cosmopolitan environs, Orozco began living as an openly gay
man for the first time. He made gay friends; he joined
a gay church. He enjoyed freedom he could never have
imagined back in Nicaragua.
Then in October
2005 the refugee board rejected his asylum claim, and
everything changed again. "I found the claimant left
Nicaragua in order to secure a better future for
himself elsewhere and fabricated the sexual
orientation component to support a nonexistent claim for
protection in Canada after having already been
rejected in the United States of America for his past
dysfunctional family life," Lamont wrote in her
ruling.
"As a
result, I found the claimant could return to Managua, find a
place to live away from his abusive father, and that
there is no more than a mere possibility the claimant
would be persecuted there."
Orozco's
first reaction was visceral. "I was scared,"
he says, his stutter worsening. "I remember
what happened back home. It's not easy for me,
thinking about my father. I can't imagine going back
there. And I didn't understand why [Lamont]
didn't believe I am gay."
A February 2007
editorial in the Ottawa Citizen, the daily newspaper in
Canada's capital city, questioned the board's
conclusions. "The question to ask Alvaro Orozco
is not whether he's had romances with men," it
read. "The question is whether he'll face
persecution as a homosexual if he returns to
Nicaragua.... There may indeed be valid reasons for
Canada to turn down this application. But it is
unreasonable to demand proof of love life from young
people who ask for asylum based on sexual
orientation."
El-Farouk Khaki,
43, is not what one might expect. His practice is housed
in a dingy office building atop a pizza joint on the
outskirts of Toronto's gay neighborhood. On the
day of this interview, his purple-and-black plaid
jacket is paired with black leather pants. He wears
multiple rings and earrings--and a goth-looking
black-and-silver wristband.
Born in Tanzania,
Khaki was 7 when his family had to flee because his
father became a target of the dictatorial government. Their
displacement--first to London, then to Vancouver,
Canada, where he eventually went to law
school--makes him unusually sympathetic to a
clientele dominated by gay and lesbian asylum seekers.
"My own
journey was that of a person of color, an immigrant, and a
Muslim," Khaki says. "Then by coming out, I
became a minority within a minority." But, he
adds, "I'm still privileged in many ways, so
it is my responsibility to use that privilege to open
doors for others."
Orozco's
case, he says, is typical. "It is a common experience
of many of my clients, especially around
Alvaro's age. Not only do they suffer societal
violence but rampant violence in the home."
Khaki is
preparing three lines of appeal. On one front, he's
asking the board to reopen the case based on the
board's failure to recognize Orozco as a
vulnerable claimant. On another, he hopes to show that
Orozco has already established himself in Canada and
that removing him would cause undue hardship. Lastly,
a Pre-Removal Risk Assessment will be filed to show
the risk involved in sending Orozco back to Nicaragua.
"Hopefully," Khaki says, "one of these
will be successful" so that Orozco will be able
to stay in Canada.
According to The
[Toronto] Globe and Mail, of the 228 Nicaraguans who
sought refugee status in Canada from 2002 to 2006, 35 were
approved. It's not known how many of those
claims were based on sexual orientation, but the paper
notes at least two of those granted asylum--Managua
activist Yader Manzanares and his partner--are
gay.
"Canada
recognizes persecution based upon sexual orientation, so we
haven't seen many cases being refused on that
basis," says Gloria Nafziger, refugee
coordinator at Amnesty International Canada. She adds
that Nicaragua's law criminalizing
homosexuality--even if Amnesty doesn't
know of anyone charged under it--"creates a
climate that allows for the persecution of gays and
lesbians and makes it more difficult to seek help from
the police when you're in danger."
For now, Orozco
is attending counseling sessions mandated by the board.
("They fail to appreciate that the effects of
physical and emotional violence are not rectified in a
few months' time," Khaki says ruefully.)
Orozco continues to work, meet new people through community
organizations, and even date. Meanwhile, August 9, his
current deportation date, approaches.
The question that
looms in everyone's minds is what will happen to him
if he is sent back. After all, Khaki and Orozco note,
the Canadian media coverage of Orozco's case
has been translated and published back in Nicaragua, a
new element of risk that did not exist when he first filed
an asylum claim.
Walking down
Yonge Street, Toronto's main thoroughfare, Orozco
watches the crowds on a busy weekday afternoon.
"I love Toronto," he says. "It's
so diverse here. So many different people from different
places, and no one cares. There's so much
tolerance here, even compared to the United
States."