Bolivian Immigrations | La Paz, October 3, 2011

Someone was knocking on the door. I was in the same guesthouse where I had been a prisoner since July 20, 2011, the date when my local documents expired. Simply, I can’t check in anywhere else. By denying documents I deserve by law, Bolivians have transformed me into their political prisoner.

“Who is it?”

“Please open the door.”

“I’m expecting no one.”

“It’s Immigrations, please open.”

I opened the door and met four men. One belonged to the guesthouse staff. Next to him were a tall, low-rank policeman and two short, roundish men that apparently belonged to the Bolivian Immigrations. “Please show your documents,” one of the last said in my direction.

“It’s expired,” he added after a short inspection.

“I’m a refugee recognized by the state and the document is being renewed,” I had provided the reply I had rehearsed endlessly for such an event. Everything was correct in my answer, yet, I didn’t mention Bolivia was illegitimately denying me documents. There should be an opportunity to do that later.

“Our boss wants to speak with you,” one of the immigrations’ men said, mafia-style.

“Can I pick my stuff?” Without waiting for an answer, I collected the most valuable things I had there and left with them. Among the things I took was the Bolivian government Resolution 461/2005 which recognizes me as a refugee due to my persecution by the State of Israel. Issued by the Ministry of Foreign Affairs it surpassed the authority of any Immigrations’ officer.

Bolivian Immigrations | Detention Room

Outside the structure was an unidentified, but official looking, truck. The immigrations people boarded its front, the policeman and I sat at its back. The ride from the General Cemetery – where the guesthouse is – to the Immigrations HQ on Camacho Avenue was short but it took a long time. The driver chose an odd path through the most congested parts of La Paz, as if he didn’t belong to the city. Had I been tricked? Was this a mock event? Had I been kidnapped? The name tag of the policeman showed the most common Aymara surname in the country: “Condori.” The immigrations men hadn’t identified themselves in any way. The guesthouse staff was unreliable and thus their behavior towards the unwelcomed guests was unacceptable as collateral verification of their identity.

“Can you show me the government resolution on your case?” One of the immigrations officers had turned around and was speaking to me.

After this short chit-chat I was already losing my voice; my throat has been damaged in a Bolivian-Israeli attack back in 2009. I knew that if I showed the document, they’ll ask questions about the case since very few people had ever been recognized as refugees by Bolivia. I didn’t want to speak anymore, since I needed to keep my strength for the upcoming encounter with their boss. “I’ll show it once at the Immigrations,” I said, issuing a military-style order in my harsh Spanish. The officer lowered his head and turned away.

I was still analyzing all this when we arrived at the Immigrations and entered their garage. Oddly, we all walked back into the street and entered the building through its main entrance. During this short walk the policeman wasn’t looking at me; I followed his eyes and saw someone filming the event. Yet, most of my face was covered up; I ignored the not-so-subtle harassment.

Once inside we passed through the main room – where dozens of people were trying to survive Bolivian red-tape – and entered the staff area. I wasn’t asked to identify myself. “Sit there,” policeman Condori told me and disappeared with my document. The immigrations officers entered an adjacent office and began speaking with their boss.

“Please wait in this room.” Policeman Condori had appeared again and was showing me a nearby room. It was the detention room of the facility; I knew that since in the past – while issuing my now obsolete documents – I had been asked to help in the translation with one of the foreign detainees there. Once I was inside, the door was closed behind me; nobody else was there. The room was large with mattresses and blankets piled on one of its sides, and a large window on the other one. Was I to stay overnight here? Would they deport me?

With nothing better to do, I did an inventory of my belongings. I had brought all the water and food I had in the guesthouse room. Both would keep me comfortable for at least two days, maybe three if I accepted some discomfort. I had a Bible and all the documents needed to prove I was legally in Bolivia. Immigrations couldn’t place any charges against me. I took out my tiny camera and photographed the room. Then I sat in one of the chairs and began writing this article in my head. Unluckily, nobody knew my whereabouts and I couldn’t fix this right now.

A few minutes later the door was opened. I was so immersed hooking up the article in my memories so that I won’t forget it, that I didn’t notice that. “Please come with me,” Mr. Condori shouted for the second or third time.

Next to the coach that had welcomed me a few minutes ago, were the two immigrations officers, both looked nervous and insecure.

“We have checked your status and found you are legally here.”

“I know that, that’s what I told you.” What I didn’t mention, is that they knew that before their detained me. My obsolete document had been issued by the same office. Despite the document not openly stating that I’m a refugee, they have all the documentation in their computer showing I’m a refugee, including official copies of the Bolivian government decision. Moreover, the document includes a tax stamp claiming it had been issued without any charges, in sharp contrast with the documents of other foreigners. Refugees are exempt of direct charges for their documents. Every policeman or other state officer looking briefly at it – or consulting one of their computers – would immediately see I was a refugee and thus a legal resident.

“You can go now.”

The police was handing me a piece of paper. “Give that at the entrance,” he said. It was a photocopy of my document. In the rush of our dramatic entrance, we had missed all the security procedures of the place. He walked with me to the door and spoke to the guard there instructing him regarding what to do with the photocopy. Then, he told me:

“You must rent a room and get a new document. Look at the old one, there is an address there – he was pointing at that line – you must get an address.” By denying me documents on that excuse, Bolivia is violating Article 13 of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights and other international binding convention.

“The people there were the ones who sold me out to the attackers that lynched me – I was whispering with a clearly damaged voice – I won’t trust any Bolivian landlord. I won’t pay double rent (for the room and then a guesthouse keeping me out of the landlord surveillance),” I said, ending with a barely audible murmur. This clearly wasn’t over yet; it had been just a rehearsed and planned harassment by the local government. Yet, there was nothing else I could say or do.

The policeman was nodding, but he didn’t answer to me. He gave me back the document and I was back in the street. For the way back, I hadn’t been offered a lift.

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