Like dozens of other workers from Vietnam and China, Tiep Ngo had been lured to the Daewoosa clothing factory in American Samoa by hollow promises of good pay. She left behind her child, her husband and her parents and paid $5,000 for her job contract only to be starved, beaten and cheated of wages.
For nearly two years, Ngo labored in the stifling, overcrowded factory, subsisting on meager portions of rice and cabbage and longing for her family. Then, through the efforts of Good Samaritans, federal agents and churches, Ngo and about 300 other workers were rescued and brought to the U.S. mainland, some of the first immigrants to receive special T-visas allowing human trafficking victims to remain in this country and eventually become permanent residents.
Bedraggled, emaciated and frightened, they arrived hopeful that their harrowing tale would soon have a happy ending.
That was in 2001.
In the eight years since, the Daewoosa survivors have put down roots in Vietnamese enclaves like Houston, Seattle and Orange County, California, buying houses, building businesses and sending children to college. But they're stuck in a legal limbo, still waiting for their long-promised green cards and often mistakenly denied public assistance, college financial aid and other benefits.
Their story highlights the barriers and breakthroughs experienced by human trafficking victims struggling to remake their lives in this country.
They want to leave the past behind, but still wrestle with its ghosts. They dream of reuniting with their families, but can wait years for that to happen. They are eager to embrace life here, but often find that path blocked by a tangle of confusing immigration laws.
"This is the part that should be easier, and it's not," said Diana Velardo, an immigration lawyer at the University of Houston and chairwoman of the Coalition Against Human Trafficking.
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Shortly after their rescue, the Daewoosa trafficking victims were given a choice. They could return to their homelands, or they could stay in the United States and serve as witnesses in the criminal case against their former employer.
About 260 mostly Vietnamese workers chose to stay. Their testimony helped convict the factory owner, who was charged with holding workers in involuntary servitude, sentenced to 40 years in prison and ordered to pay $1.8 million in restitution.
The workers were resettled through the sponsorship of churches, individuals or immigrant advocacy groups. Tiep Ngo and 19 other workers came to Houston. About 40 went to Southern California's Vietnamese communities. About two dozen others settled in Virginia and Seattle, and the rest scattered around the country.
Starting in 2002, the workers began to receive T-visas, which were authorized under the 2000 Trafficking Victims Protection Act. The visas _ of which more than 1,300 have been issued _ allow holders to apply for permanent residency after three years or when the criminal case against their abuser is closed.
The T-visas also allowed the former Daewoosa workers to bring their children and spouses to this country.
But the visas were valid for just three years, and immigration officials didn't issue the regulations needed to adjust the immigration status of T-visa holders to permanent residents until December 2008. By then, visas issued to the Daewoosa workers had long since expired and their green card requests had been stalled for years.
"It took time to get it right. There are so many agencies involved in the discussions, and many complicated, intricate issues," said Chris Rhatigan, a spokeswoman for U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services.
As a result of the delay, the former workers and their families have been treated by some like illegal immigrants. They have been denied public assistance and college financial aid, even though they are authorized to work and entitled to refugee benefits.
Most Daewoosa survivors are also afraid to travel outside the country, concerned they won't be allowed to re-enter the U.S. They worry about aging parents still living in Vietnam, and mourn deaths long distance.
The separation from loved ones is hard.
Take the case of one Daewoosa survivor, a 41-year-old woman who lives in the Houston area and works in a nail salon, like many of the former garment factory workers. Her son was 7 when she left Vietnam for American Samoa. When federal officials shuttered the factory and she received her T-visa, her husband refused to let the boy leave Vietnam.
Over the years, she settled for monthly telephone conversations with her son, telling him to study hard and be good. He always ended the calls the same way: "I miss you, Mom." And she never stopped trying to persuade her husband and his family to change their minds.
Last March, they relented. But her T-visa had expired and she could no longer sponsor her son's entry to the U.S.
At the time, all she could do was hope that the government would finally issue the needed regulations and her long-awaited green card request would eventually be granted. As a legal resident, she would be able to bring her son into the country.
"There was nothing I could do," said the woman, as she wiped tears from her cheeks with a crumpled tissue. "At times I was frustrated, but I am more sad than anything else." She asked that her name not be used out of fear that it could hurt her pending immigration request.
But there's a further complication. A new law extends the T-visas, though it doesn't take effect until June.
Now the woman is concerned about timing as she thinks about reapplying to bring her son over: The process usually takes just a few months for T-visa holders, but years for those with the permanent residency. So, after years of praying for a green card, she now prays that her pending application isn't fulfilled too soon.
"The green card would bring stability to my life and to my work, but my only goal is to bring my son over," she said. "I want him to have a stable life, a good life, a better one than what he has in Vietnam."
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Tiep Ngo was one of the lucky ones. In 2004, she reunited with her husband and son after nearly five years.
The boy, Minh Leu, had just turned 13 when Ngo left for American Samoa, hoping to earn enough money to pull her family out of poverty. Leu was a tall 17-year-old when they saw each other again.
Leu had spent months learning English in preparation for his journey to the United States. But the sight of his mother after so many years left him without words.
"I was speechless. I was thinking: Is that really my mother? " said Leu, who is now a pre-pharmacy student at the University of Houston. "We didn't speak a lot at first. After you've been separated a long time, there is too much to say so you can't speak a bit of it."
His mother divulged little about her experiences in the Daewoosa factory, saying the memories were too awful for her son to hear. Instead, the family focused on building a new life in Houston.
Here, Ngo worked in an electronics factory, then sewing curtains and drapes until a car accident left her unable to work. Her husband earns a modest living making windows and frames.
After years of saving every penny and working long hours, the couple was finally able to buy a house in northeast Houston _ one more step towards achieving the American life they desire.
But this family has also run into roadblocks. With an expired T-visa, Ngo has been unable to visit her elderly mother in Vietnam, whom she has not seen in 10 years.
For a time, her son thought he would have to put his studies on hold because of visa-related financial strain _ a problem that has confronted other children of Daewoosa workers, according to Thang Nguyen, executive director of Boat People SOS, which helps the students obtain documents they need.
The University of Houston at first denied financial aid to Minh Leu because of the expired T-visa. It took him more than a year to convince school officials that he was here legally and entitled to the assistance. In March, he was finally awarded $4,300 in aid _ about half of his yearly tuition costs.
"I am trying to accomplish something here," said Leu. "The United States has been good to us, so now I want to be a good citizen."
The biggest hurdle facing the T-visa holders may be psychological, a concern that their life in this country remains tenuous, even with the new regulations.
"One of our clients' biggest fear is that they have to return to their home country," said Stephanie Richard, managing attorney with the Coalition to Abolish Slavery & Trafficking, a Los Angeles-based group that works with human trafficking victims. "And right now, there is no certainty about what will happen."
That worry is so pervasive that a planned 10-year reunion to mark the anniversary of the day most Daewoosa workers left Vietnam for American Samoa has been put on hold, Nguyen said. The group does not want to celebrate until they have green cards in hand.
"We wish to have a beautiful life here," said Ngo, as her son translated. "We want to contribute to the community, to be a part of the community. If we lead a good life, maybe America will accept us."
