Immigrant family in New Jersey seized by federal officials, faces deportation

by Camilla Huk
Special to The Ukrainian Weekly

ELIZABETH, N.J. - The floor-to-ceiling mural, hand-painted on the cinderblock wall, depicts the Statue of Liberty. To the left is a dedication to the firefighters who perished at the World Trade Center, which is seen below the statue. And, to the right, a sign on the wall proclaims: "United we stand."

The wall faces a corridor of windows, each connected to a phone - one behind the glass, the other before it. This is the INS Detention Center at 625 Evans Ave. in Elizabeth, N.J. After waiting for over 45 minutes, having our credentials checked, I accompanied Bob Braun, columnist and reporter for the The Star-Ledger, to visit a family of Ukrainian detainees.

There, in that corridor, on February 2, we waited for all four members of the family to be brought to their respective windows, where we talked to them on the telephone. They are separated by gender. Vassilli Karnaoukh and his sons, Sviatoslav and Igor, were housed in one cell in the men's quarters, while their mother, Maria, was housed alone on the women's side.

They were arrested on Ukrainian Christmas Eve, January 6, when they were surprised by 10 security officers at 6 a.m. and led from their home in Little Falls, N.J., in handcuffs. The family was waiting to welcome Christ into their home that day. They had begun preparing the traditional foods for the Christmas Eve celebration. The "kutia" was ready.

Since then, the boys and their father have not been allowed to comfort their mother or even to touch her. They wave to each other across the room from one window to another when visitors come to see them at the same time. Each is allowed one visitor at a time.

Along the other windows there were other families, other people with their visitors. I recognized a beautiful Turkish girl, who was once my waitress, and with whom I spoke at length about the educational opportunities for studying English in New Jersey. At another window, a young mother holding an infant places her hands on the other side of the glass on which her husband places his. I thought they might be Greek.

Children that are housed at the detention center are separated from their parents and are housed in the children's quarters, I was told. The parents are allowed two periods during the day when they can visit these children. Once they turn 18, they are moved to the gender-segregated adult quarters.

Sviatoslav, 20, and Igor, 23, are Vassili's and Maria's sons. Sviatoslav is a student at Stevens Institute, and was slated to graduate this May. Igor was studying at Bergen Community College. Both boys were working full time to pay for their education and received no federal aid.

The family is slated for deportation. This means the boys will not have a chance to finish their semesters. For Sviatoslav it means a dim future, after so much effort and accomplishment - he has been working on a medical device for spinal dislocation at the small company where he did everything from the physical labor to drawing up plans. If he is deported, since he has not studied in Ukraine all these years, he will not have a diploma and would have all those years to have to catch up.

"We will survive," he assures me. "We are hard-working people. We will do whatever we have to do, but I really felt so challenged by the project I was working on ..." He continues in an animated voice, telling me how much he learned and what his ideas for improving the device were.

"It's my parents we worry about. My poor mother. I don't want to upset her - I wish we could hold her. Our parents feel so guilty and responsible that this happened to us, because we came here as children - and they wanted to improve our futures, give us a chance to prove ourselves. And now they blame themselves," Sviatoslav says.

Vassili, 44, the father, holds back tears and words, but they come out anyway. He came from Ukraine in 1991, working night shifts so he could pay for his schooling in computer programming.

The boys' grandmother (Maria's mother), Olga Khoma, showed a picture of Igor graduating from St. Nicholas Ukrainian Catholic School, in his cap and gown, at the same time his father earned his associate's degree.

"Our children wanted to bring friends home and so we struggled, but we took out a mortgage for 30 years and bought a home three years ago in Little Falls. You can't imagine how happy the boys were. They were free. They had friends visit, they worked on their computers, they had their own room. They tell their grandmother to be sure to take pictures of it all so that they can still have the memories in Ukraine, after their deportation. We worked so hard. And now all the years are lost," Vassili says. And he waves across the room to his wife.

Maria, 43, apologizes to me that she looks so pale and that her hands aren't manicured. "I'm sorry. They did not let me dress. They came at 6 in the morning. I woke up and thought there was fire and that this was the reason they had come. They searched the house, every corner, and would not let me change from my sleepwear and slippers. They handcuffed us and took us out. My mother was hysterical. We wanted to call friends to tell them to take care of her but they would not allow it."

And so she sits, with her rosary beads on her neck, swollen eyes, still praying for a miracle. "Only God can help us now," she says, as I try to reassure her that miracles are possible, that this is not the way Americans treat people, that we are a humane nation. I tell her encouraging stories and she laughs out loud and then is surprised - because she has done nothing but cry. "You know, my husband and I were frightened but we tried to keep that fear from the boys. I prayed for a miracle, for the law to change, because it had changed so many times since we first arrived in 1991."

Maria and Vassili came to the U.S. and were granted valid work visas. Later their sons joined them here. Maria's grandfather (her father's father) was an American citizen. And even though he died when she was little, she dreamed of America since then. Having lost her father at age 12, it was a connection for her, part of her to be here.

Now her every night is spent in agony. "You know, we are a close family. Each night before we went to bed, I would go to the boys' bedroom, bless them with [the] cross, kiss them good night, but here I cannot even touch them," Maria relates.

They were planning to become certified Americans. They hired a lawyer and entrusted him with their papers, and he promised everything would go smoothly, just as their present lawyer promised them they would be released within three days of January 6. They paid the first one $10,000, but he "mislaid" their papers at least three times. This caused a delay in renewing their work visas, which brought them into the labyrinth they now find themselves in.

Yet, the Karnaoukhs didn't go "underground." You see, they really believed that "all men are created equal." They really believed that when are you willing to work hard, pay your taxes and not take anything from the government (they sent their children to Catholic schools, paying the tuition themselves), that there is fairness in the American justice system and that they would join the ranks of all those immigrants who came before them. They came legally, and their hope was to remain so.

"Igor wants to be [a] cardiologist and Sviatoslav was doing so well in school. He is very gifted, and the students from Stevens Institute have written an appeal for him to remain, to finish his studies. My sons can offer much to America." Maria tells me. "We wanted them to have their chance."

* * *

I am reminded of a visit by an Irish friend at home the night before, when he told me stories about his ancestors. His grandfather was only 9 when he stowed away on a ship, not even knowing where it was headed. When the ship stopped, he and his 11-year-old brother looked out and realized that they had to swim to the shore - and one of the shores seemed more populated, so they ended up in New Jersey. Eighty-six descendants later, there have been engineers, school teachers, even a diamond merchant in the family, to contribute to our society in the United States.

I think of the Karnaoukhs and how many descendants they would have that could contribute as well, as so many Ukrainian Americans have in the past. I am frustrated that these peaceful, diligent human beings are suffering such a fate; that they will be deported in the clothes they wore. And I think of my grandmother, who was arrested by the Bolsheviks many years ago. "Klavdia Yakivna, take off your shuba," they said. "What! Did you buy me my shuba?" she retorted. And she kept it with her for the three days she was jailed until my grandfather, Wasyl, could get her out.

I think of Maria arriving in Kyiv in her nightclothes and how cold it will be there, and how the Karnaoukhs will have to find their way to Lviv from there.

How could this have happened? How could this have happened here? Mr. Braun reminds me: "They shoot illegals at the border, Cami. Haven't you heard?"

Copyright © The Ukrainian Weekly, February 12, 2006, No. 7, Vol. LXXIV

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