WASHINGTON -- The passengers settled uncomfortably into the narrow seats of the
But her tone made it clear that she was no flight attendant, and this was no ordinary flight.
``Keep your seat belts on at all times. Don't touch any of the buttons above your head, and don't touch the window shades," the woman, a US marshal, commanded in Spanish. ``Once we're in the air, we'll give you something to eat, and then you can go to the bathroom -- with permission. Did you hear me?"
The passengers -- 105 men shackled at the wrists and the ankles -- grumbled their assent. Then they peered out the thick, blurry windows for a last glimpse of Virginia. Once, they had been hopeful newcomers to the United States. Now, they were to leave for good on a deportation flight for illegal immigrants run by the Department of Homeland Security.
As the plane began to hurtle down the runway, many of them let out a cheer. It was their first time on an airplane.
In seat 7A, Jose de Jesus Galea, 37, stared morosely out his window, unmoved. The burly Salvadoran pet store owner had called Virginia home for 21 years. It seemed incredible, he said later, that he would never again see the flat, forested landscape that was receding rapidly from view.
Just as strange was the thought that he would soon be back in a country he last saw when he was 17. The year was 1985, El Salvador was in the throes of civil war, and Galea had just been discharged from one of the army's most ruthless battalions. Now he was being deported back because of a drunken assault.
Deportation is a fate that befalls only a fraction of illegal immigrants, though such flights may become commonplace if some of the more restrictive immigration reforms pending in Congress are adopted.
Although US authorities turn away or deport more than 1.6 million people attempting to cross the border illegally every year, once an immigrant sneaks into US territory, the chances of getting caught are minimal.
Those who are deported often come to the attention of immigration officials because they commit a crime. Authorities in the Washington area often wait until they have a critical mass of deportees, then charter a plane to fly them to a detention facility near the US border for final transport to their home countries.
Such was the case with the men aboard the aircraft at Dulles International Airport one recent afternoon, its destination Alexandria, La.
Watching over were 16 marshals, who had reason to be wary. About 45 percent of the deportees had been convicted of violent crimes. Others had committed offenses as minor as public drunkenness. Although most were Salvadorans, there were natives of the Dominican Republic, Mexico, Jamaica, and Honduras.
Galea said that after he sneaked into the United States, he was granted political asylum and started working in a cafeteria. He said he enrolled in night school and received a high school diploma, then a bachelor's degree in theology. He married a US citizen and had a son. But he also garnered a series of convictions for drunken driving and assaulting two police officers.
``I will miss everything about the United States," Galea said with a sigh. ``I had my whole life here."
In the rear of the plane, in seat 17B, Tulio Estrada was lamenting not how much he was leaving behind, but how little.
The 25-year-old prep cook said he had been full of plans when he stole in from Guatemala. He was going to earn enough to pay a doctor to cure his mother's aches and his little brother's mental illness. He was going to save up enough to buy a small business or maybe some land back in Guatemala.
Nine years later, he was still living in a one-bedroom apartment in Arlington, Va., with two other men, barely earning enough to send his mother money for basic expenses.
One evening last fall, Estrada said, he went to a wedding reception and got into a drunken fight. Someone called police. Now he was being shipped back to Guatemala.
``Sure, I had planned on returning to Guatemala someday. But not like this -- with nothing," he said .![]()