In rural Minnesota, immigrants prepare for the day they’ve long feared

WORTHINGTON, MINN. – Sabina held in her hand the legal document that had brought her so much agony over the past three weeks. The crisp, white pages of the form had a conspicuously blank space representing a choice she as a parent did not want to make.

Sabina, like other undocumented immigrants in this meatpacking town in the southwest corner of Minnesota, was preparing for a day she had long feared. The new administration’s immigration crackdown has cast a shadow over Worthington, and deportation fears loom large.

She came to America from Guatemala years ago, built a life here, and has children born in the United States. The legal document before her was a Delegation of Parental Authority (DOPA) form, a safeguard in case she or her husband, Hector, get detained or deported. The form would grant legal guardianship of her children to someone they trusted.

But the weight of the decision was almost unbearable. Every time Sabina thought she made her choice, doubt would creep in.

And the document would remain unsigned.

“My son asked me, ‘Mom, why do we need this document? Won’t we always be together?’” Sabina said, tears wetting her face. She said she doesn’t know how to respond when her children ask such questions. “I asked God to give me the words.”

During President Donald Trump’s first weeks in office, he has signed numerous executive orders meant to carry out campaign promises of mass deportations and border security.

The White House says these efforts have been focused on arresting criminals. Trump has also discussed deporting all undocumented people, saying that they cost the country money and take away jobs.

Experts question how the administration can conduct mass deportations without widespread violations of civil rights. Some of Trump’s efforts are being challenged in court.

Across greater Minnesota, a network of advocates and faith-based organizations are preparing for what may come. They are examining the executive orders, establishing legal services hotlines and hosting know-your-rights workshops.

“We’d rather be prepared and not need to use the resources, than be naïve,” said Wendy Zuniga of Communities Organizing Latine Power and Action, or COPAL.

Among the efforts by advocates across the state are clinics to help people understand and fill out the DOPA forms.

Erendira Cuello said the form gave her a small sense of security in an uncertain time. Cuello is an undocumented immigrant from Mexico. When she was 5 years old, her mother ferried her across the Rio Grande in a tire. Now Cuello has a 5-year-old son, Abdias, born in America.

If she is detained, Cuello said she doesn’t want Abdias placed in foster care or given to someone who doesn’t understand his needs. “That’s my terror,” she said. “I don’t care how long I have to spend in a detention center, I just don’t want him in one.”

Her form, saved in triplicate, says Abdias is to be placed in the care of her sister.

She now volunteers at DOPA clinics. Organizers try to limit how many people know about the location and timing of the clinics, out of a fear that attendees will be targeted by immigration agents.

Most of those at the workshop have legal status but are worried it could be revoked by the Trump administration, Cuello noted, as she sat on her couch watching news of the latest immigration developments on her laptop, her son sleeping soundly beside her.

Among the developments is a budget Republican senators pushed through Friday allowing up to $175 million for more border agents, detention beds and deportation flights.

The United States is building a facility at Guantánamo Bay in Cuba to house up to 30,000 migrants, and Guatemala and El Salvador have announced deals to receive deportees.

“Things are getting bad, things are getting scary, and there’s only so much we can do,” Cuello said. “But whatever we can do, we’re willing to do it.”

In Worthington, Sabina and her family gathered for dinner after a stressful day. Sabina’s husband, Hector, had taken the day off from work to try to get passports for their American-born children. He had spent too much on the effort, money the family could not afford. He wondered if people were taking advantage of his fear.

Hector, an undocumented immigrant from Guatemala, knows the fear of raids firsthand. He had been a teenager in Worthington in 2006 when the largest one-day mass raid in U.S. history swept through the meatpacking plant. More than 200 workers without documents were deported that day, some without a chance to say goodbye to loved ones.

Hector remembers leaving the field, and the panic among the workers when the boss said all entrances into Worthington were closed. He remembers finding his way home through back roads until he could see his uncle again.

Now Hector has a family of his own, and the thought of being detained and separated from them pained him.

“I told her once, if I am to be deported from our family, I would find you again,” Hector said, glancing at his wife. “If I die in the desert, I know I died fighting to be with you again.”

Hector and Sabina, who met at a meatpacking plant in Windom, said they left Guatemala for America in search of a better life. More than half the population in Guatemala lives in poverty, and the country suffers from gangs, drug trafficking and violence.

In southwest Minnesota, Hector and Sabina found steady work at the farms, meatpacking plants and restaurants. Money remains tight, they said, but they made enough to keep a roof over their children.

“We prayed for this house in this country,” Sabina said. “All this was done for a better home for our family.”

Lately, she and Hector said they wonder if their hard work will mean anything if they are separated from their children. Both said they’ve questioned if they made the right choice coming to America. But Sabina said her children understand she wanted a better life for them. And Hector reminds himself that he can’t go back in time.

After dinner, the children played, seemingly oblivious to the weight of their parents’ fears. Their youngest son proudly showed off his schoolwork, boasting that his English was better than his Spanish, a claim his mother playfully disputed. Their youngest daughter bounced on the couch, on each jump reaching her hand as high up the wall as she could.

Antoni, the oldest son and newly a teenager, stayed at the kitchen table to do his geometry homework. He dreams of becoming an engineer. Lately, it’s been hard to concentrate on his equations, with concerns about his parents bringing a constant static in his mind.

Antoni said he’s visualized scenarios of what he would do if his parents were detained. “I would try to calm down my siblings, tell them what happened, take care of them, maybe for the rest of our lives, until we get our parents back,” he said. “And not rest until both of them are back with us.”

At other times, the burden feels like too much to bear. “I can’t be responsible for my siblings,” Antoni told his parents once. “I’m 13 years old … I’m just a kid.”

A week before Valentine’s Day, Hector had surprised Sabina with a lunch date and a dozen roses, a romantic escape from their worries. When they returned home that afternoon, they found their children in a panic. The kids had come home from school to an empty house, and had assumed the worst.

“Our children have a deep, profound fear,” Sabina said.

As does she. Sabina said the thought of being taken from her children is sometimes simply too painful to think about.

“Our family is supposed to be together,” she said.

The family’s DOPA form remains unsigned.

The Associated Press contributed to this report.