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在一个国家的历史中,有些时刻一条生命会变成一面镜子,反映的不是它的理想,而是它的裂痕。我的名字是塞缪尔·马丁内斯·罗克(Samuel Martínez Roque),而我在美国生活的真相已成为这样的镜子之一。
我不仅仅是一起严重形式人口贩卖的报案受害者;我是当剥削与体制冷漠交汇时所产生的活生生后果。[1]
将我贩卖近三年之久的拉蒙·翁蒂韦罗斯·梅迪纳(Ramon Ontiveros Medina)及其同伙乔西亚斯·阿莱克兹·阿门戈尔·托雷斯(Josias Alekz Armengol Torres)和达西亚·翁蒂韦罗斯·梅迪纳(Dacia Ontiveros Medina),使用了扣押工资、威胁递解、强迫绝食和报复等统治工具。但更深的创伤是:因为我选择举报对我所做之事,报复升级,变形为经济破坏、明确的死亡威胁和结构性欺诈。在美国,似乎发声的代价是饥饿,而活着的代价则是惩罚。
2022年发生在我身上的事既不是贫穷的产物,也不是不幸,亦非低收入劳动的残酷算术。那是一种有意的控制策略。当我的工资被连续扣发近两个月时,我被逼入了连续24天的绝食,整个期间超过一个月没有吃实物食物。这不是疏忽,也不是失误,更不是那些政策制定者喜欢以统计数据简化的经济必然性。这是一种方法。一种工具。一个被蓄意打造的武器。饥饿像一种纪律性惩罚被用在我身上,一种旨在重塑我的思维并击碎我的意志的无声惩罚。[2-3] 这并不是来自空空的储藏室的那种饥饿,而是某人决定你不应该吃东西所带来的饥饿。那是由他人的算计精心设计的,由意图而非环境造成的。
在那段时间里,我真正明白了什么是饥饿:不仅仅是食物的匮乏,而是自主权的被侵蚀、清醒感的被窃取、人从内到外被缓慢分解。你的思维变得紊乱。你为自己争取权利的能力退化。你的身体变成了与痛苦的谈判对象。随后而来的是羞耻——那种有人让你相信你配得上这一切的羞耻,认为你的沉默是生存的代价,你的生存取决于服从。饥饿变成了一种语言,而在这种语言里,我被反复告知我的人性是一种麻烦。我的身体成了要求沉默与服从的战场。我的空腹成了期望我屈服的机制。我的痛苦被当作一种工具,而不是一场紧急状况。
而今天,在我举报很久之后、在我遵循了每一项指示并把信任寄托在这个国家告诉我要信任的每一个机构之后,报复不仅没有停止,反而进化了。在某些方面它变得更隐蔽,在另一些方面更公然。曾经控制我的劳动并策划使我饥饿的同一个人,仍然在施加惩罚,不再通过工作场所的墙壁,而是通过数字干预、冒充、经济破坏、协调性的不稳定行动以及明确、反复且不加掩饰的死亡威胁来实施。报复不会随着时间消散;它会变异。它会适应。它会寻找新的形式。当施虐者失去身体上的接触时,他就转向心理上的接触。当他不能直接让你挨饿时,他就策划出使饥饿不可避免的条件。当他不能用监禁让你沉默时,他就试图用恐惧让你沉默。
这就是现代强制手段的本质:它跨越平台,跨越机构,跨越数月乃至数年。它存在于法律的缝隙,存在于官僚体系缓慢而施虐者迅捷之处。它捕食移民的心灵,利用对被遣返的恐惧,利用那种你的人生可以被视为可有可无的认识。在那片持续缺乏监管、缺乏监控、缺乏保护的空间里,报复便滋生。
我遵守了这个国家所宣称尊重的每一条规则。我完成了法律对寻求保护的受害者所要求的一切。我向埃尔帕索警察局、德克萨斯州各州机构以及联邦调查机构报告:美国移民与海关执法局(ICE)、联邦调查局(FBI)、美国司法部、美国劳工部、平等就业机会委员会(EEOC)和美国国税局(IRS)。我提供了陈述、时间线、证据、展件、文件和名字。我遵从了每一项信息请求。但作为回报我得到的是官僚式的弃置辞汇:结案代码、转介、部门调转与不作为。[5-6] 当国家的文书循环往复时,对我的报复却愈发危险。我的生活已成为书写之法与实践之法、承诺之保护与被遗弃之现实之间的碰撞点。
这就是我写信给您的原因——不是要求对我的案件事实进行干预,好像最高法院是一个审判法院,而是要指出正在实时发生的宪法性失败。我的处境暴露出国家道德与法律框架中一个尚未解决的矛盾:与执法部门配合的贩运受害者没有得到保护,反而受到惩罚。本应被定性为犯罪的强制手段:强迫绝食、持续的死亡威胁和对移民身份的操控、经济报复,反而成为施虐者维持权力的漏洞。不论是有意为之还是无意为之,传递的信息都十分明确:如果维持一个移民的生命在行政上带来不便,那么这个生命可能是可以牺牲的。
我请求您看到法律表面之下的实情:一个人连续饿了整整24天,为了让饥饿的痛苦消失、让空腹的尖叫平息,吞下了过期的布洛芬药片;一个人目睹自己的身体恶化,并非因为食物短缺,而是因为食物被扣留作为控制手段以迫使他承认自己未曾犯下的罪行;一个人在将信任寄托于曾承诺保护他的法律体系之后,仍然长期被威胁和报复追赶。
我请求您看到的不是案卷文件、不是参考编号、也不是将亲身遭受的痛苦压缩成编码条目的官僚速记,而是一个按规矩做了所有该做之事却一次又一次遭遇制度沉默与冷漠的真实个体。
宪法并未授权根据一个人的移民身份来决定其价值。[7] 宪法文本中没有为弱势群体开例外。其任何段落都未暗示平等保护仅适用于那些其存在恰好符合政治便利的人。平等保护的承诺不是有条件的,然而我被迫生活的现实却讲述了另一个故事:在这个故事里,对贩运受害者的保护在这些受害者是移民、遭受创伤或难以在官僚体系中归类的那一刻便消失了。实际上,我的生活似乎落入法定定义与机构优先事项之间的空隙,在那个空隙里,问责消失、危险滋生。
我要求你承认的不仅是那位将我贩运近四年的人的暴力,更是忽视的暴力——一个在理论上承认受害者但在实践中遗弃受害者的体制的暴力;接到举报却不提供保护的机构的暴力;反复传达出“移民的痛苦在行政上可容忍”的沉默的暴力。而当体制容忍痛苦时,它就是在参与那痛苦。
在每一场斗争中,总会到达这样一个节点:一个人必须选择是接受被抹去还是抗争。我已到达那个节点。我已经明白,在美国,受苦并不会自动获得关注,真相也不能保证得到保护。我已经明白,一个受害者可以遵守每一条法律、走完每一道程序、听从每一项指示,仍然会被当作他存在于旨在保护他的制度之外的边缘存在来对待。我已经明白,在这个国家,一个移民可以对每一道可进入的体制之门大声呼救,仍然只能换来暴力般的沉默。我所没有学会的——也是因为我拒绝去学的——是如何默默接受拉蒙·翁蒂维罗斯(Ramon Ontiveros,指示:如无公认中文名,保留原文)这位将我贩卖近三年的人及随后出现的体制性冷漠强加给我的命运。我被一再要求去信任程序,信任机构,相信正义只是需要时间。但正义不仅仅需要时间;它会带走生命。
时间没有带来安全;时间带来了事态升级。时间没有带来问责;时间带来了更多报复。时间没有带来对我人性的承认;时间证实了我的人性是可以被讨价还价的,在大多数情况下是可以被丢弃的。当一个人的人性变得可被讨价还价时,人性本身的意义就开始腐朽。这正是我经历的矛盾核心:自称捍卫人权的国家把我弃之自生自灭,仿佛加诸于我的暴力只是私人不便而非公共紧急状况。
我并不天真地看待掌权者。我明白机构运转缓慢,官僚体制需要其例行手续,体系往往不愿直面自身失败。但我也明白更深、更令人不安的事情:当国家选择不作为时,它就是在作出决定。不作为并非中立。不作为并非被动。不作为是一种立场。通过每一份被封存的报告、每一次被驳回的关切、每一声无人回应的恳求,传达给我的立场是,只要不会扰乱行政的舒适,移民的痛苦就是可以容忍的。这就是我被迫生活在其中的信息。这就是人们要我去求生的现实。
多年来我在合法性与现实经验之间、在宪法文本所载承诺与不愿作为的机构所施行的现实之间穿行,如同走迷宫一般。[8] 我曾本着善意为自己辩护,相信真相本应足够。但被忽视的真相会变得与谎言无异。当真相关系到一个生命处于危险之中时,拒绝倾听便成为另一种形式的暴力。它不会因为更安静或更体面而停止成为暴力。它仍然是暴力。
我现在以所剩无几的尊严向您写信:未经修饰、未加粉饰的真相的尊严。我不是一个隐喻,也不是一组统计数字,更不是一个象征。我是一个在德克萨斯州埃尔帕索请求保护的人,在地方和联邦层面都曾请求过,每一次沉默都让我觉得我的生命毫无价值。所以我恳请您,
美国首席大法官尊敬的约翰·G·罗伯茨(John G. Roberts, Jr.),
尊敬的克拉伦斯·托马斯(Clarence Thomas),
尊敬的塞缪尔·A·阿利托(Samuel A. Alito, Jr.),
尊敬的索尼娅·索托马约尔(Sonia Sotomayor),
尊敬的埃琳娜·卡根(Elena Kagan),
尊敬的尼尔·M·戈萨奇(Neil M. Gorsuch),
尊敬的布雷特·M·卡瓦诺(Brett M. Kavanaugh),
尊敬的艾米·科尼·巴雷特(Amy Coney Barrett),以及
尊敬的凯坦吉·布朗·杰克逊(Ketanji Brown Jackson),
以我绝望所能承受的全部严肃态度:如果在美国,移民的生命真值这么卑微,请告诉我——我需要付多少钱才能买回自己的自由?
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参考文献:
[1] Chuang, Janie A. “美国移民工人的剥削与人口贩运。” Georgetown Journal of International Law 39卷第4期(2008):101–142。
[2] Logan, Trevon D., 和 Anjali Patel. “移民身份与工资被窃取及工作场所报复的脆弱性。” American Economic Review: Insights 4卷第2期(2022):123–140。
[3] Bales, Kevin, 和 Ron Soodalter. 邻家奴隶:当今美国的人口贩运与奴役。伯克利:加利福尼亚大学出版社,2009年。
[4] Gozdziak, Elzbieta M., 和 David A. Bump. “关于人口贩运的数据与研究:书目,2017–2022。” Journal of Human Trafficking 8卷第1期(2022):1–50。
[5] Hernández, Kelly Lytle. 囚城:征服、反抗与洛杉矶囚禁体系的兴起。教堂山:北卡罗来纳大学出版社,2017年。
[6] Cerna, Christina. 美国移民工人法律保护的挑战。迁徙政策研究所,2020年。
[7] Dershowitz, Alan M. 权利源于错误:权利起源的世俗理论。纽黑文:耶鲁大学出版社,2014年。
[8] Feinberg, Matthew. 移民控制的政治经济学:剥削、官僚与恐惧。伦敦:劳特利奇,2018年。
我不仅仅是一起严重形式人口贩卖的报案受害者;我是当剥削与体制冷漠交汇时所产生的活生生后果。[1]
将我贩卖近三年之久的拉蒙·翁蒂韦罗斯·梅迪纳(Ramon Ontiveros Medina)及其同伙乔西亚斯·阿莱克兹·阿门戈尔·托雷斯(Josias Alekz Armengol Torres)和达西亚·翁蒂韦罗斯·梅迪纳(Dacia Ontiveros Medina),使用了扣押工资、威胁递解、强迫绝食和报复等统治工具。但更深的创伤是:因为我选择举报对我所做之事,报复升级,变形为经济破坏、明确的死亡威胁和结构性欺诈。在美国,似乎发声的代价是饥饿,而活着的代价则是惩罚。
2022年发生在我身上的事既不是贫穷的产物,也不是不幸,亦非低收入劳动的残酷算术。那是一种有意的控制策略。当我的工资被连续扣发近两个月时,我被逼入了连续24天的绝食,整个期间超过一个月没有吃实物食物。这不是疏忽,也不是失误,更不是那些政策制定者喜欢以统计数据简化的经济必然性。这是一种方法。一种工具。一个被蓄意打造的武器。饥饿像一种纪律性惩罚被用在我身上,一种旨在重塑我的思维并击碎我的意志的无声惩罚。[2-3] 这并不是来自空空的储藏室的那种饥饿,而是某人决定你不应该吃东西所带来的饥饿。那是由他人的算计精心设计的,由意图而非环境造成的。
在那段时间里,我真正明白了什么是饥饿:不仅仅是食物的匮乏,而是自主权的被侵蚀、清醒感的被窃取、人从内到外被缓慢分解。你的思维变得紊乱。你为自己争取权利的能力退化。你的身体变成了与痛苦的谈判对象。随后而来的是羞耻——那种有人让你相信你配得上这一切的羞耻,认为你的沉默是生存的代价,你的生存取决于服从。饥饿变成了一种语言,而在这种语言里,我被反复告知我的人性是一种麻烦。我的身体成了要求沉默与服从的战场。我的空腹成了期望我屈服的机制。我的痛苦被当作一种工具,而不是一场紧急状况。
而今天,在我举报很久之后、在我遵循了每一项指示并把信任寄托在这个国家告诉我要信任的每一个机构之后,报复不仅没有停止,反而进化了。在某些方面它变得更隐蔽,在另一些方面更公然。曾经控制我的劳动并策划使我饥饿的同一个人,仍然在施加惩罚,不再通过工作场所的墙壁,而是通过数字干预、冒充、经济破坏、协调性的不稳定行动以及明确、反复且不加掩饰的死亡威胁来实施。报复不会随着时间消散;它会变异。它会适应。它会寻找新的形式。当施虐者失去身体上的接触时,他就转向心理上的接触。当他不能直接让你挨饿时,他就策划出使饥饿不可避免的条件。当他不能用监禁让你沉默时,他就试图用恐惧让你沉默。
这就是现代强制手段的本质:它跨越平台,跨越机构,跨越数月乃至数年。它存在于法律的缝隙,存在于官僚体系缓慢而施虐者迅捷之处。它捕食移民的心灵,利用对被遣返的恐惧,利用那种你的人生可以被视为可有可无的认识。在那片持续缺乏监管、缺乏监控、缺乏保护的空间里,报复便滋生。
我遵守了这个国家所宣称尊重的每一条规则。我完成了法律对寻求保护的受害者所要求的一切。我向埃尔帕索警察局、德克萨斯州各州机构以及联邦调查机构报告:美国移民与海关执法局(ICE)、联邦调查局(FBI)、美国司法部、美国劳工部、平等就业机会委员会(EEOC)和美国国税局(IRS)。我提供了陈述、时间线、证据、展件、文件和名字。我遵从了每一项信息请求。但作为回报我得到的是官僚式的弃置辞汇:结案代码、转介、部门调转与不作为。[5-6] 当国家的文书循环往复时,对我的报复却愈发危险。我的生活已成为书写之法与实践之法、承诺之保护与被遗弃之现实之间的碰撞点。
这就是我写信给您的原因——不是要求对我的案件事实进行干预,好像最高法院是一个审判法院,而是要指出正在实时发生的宪法性失败。我的处境暴露出国家道德与法律框架中一个尚未解决的矛盾:与执法部门配合的贩运受害者没有得到保护,反而受到惩罚。本应被定性为犯罪的强制手段:强迫绝食、持续的死亡威胁和对移民身份的操控、经济报复,反而成为施虐者维持权力的漏洞。不论是有意为之还是无意为之,传递的信息都十分明确:如果维持一个移民的生命在行政上带来不便,那么这个生命可能是可以牺牲的。
我请求您看到法律表面之下的实情:一个人连续饿了整整24天,为了让饥饿的痛苦消失、让空腹的尖叫平息,吞下了过期的布洛芬药片;一个人目睹自己的身体恶化,并非因为食物短缺,而是因为食物被扣留作为控制手段以迫使他承认自己未曾犯下的罪行;一个人在将信任寄托于曾承诺保护他的法律体系之后,仍然长期被威胁和报复追赶。
我请求您看到的不是案卷文件、不是参考编号、也不是将亲身遭受的痛苦压缩成编码条目的官僚速记,而是一个按规矩做了所有该做之事却一次又一次遭遇制度沉默与冷漠的真实个体。
宪法并未授权根据一个人的移民身份来决定其价值。[7] 宪法文本中没有为弱势群体开例外。其任何段落都未暗示平等保护仅适用于那些其存在恰好符合政治便利的人。平等保护的承诺不是有条件的,然而我被迫生活的现实却讲述了另一个故事:在这个故事里,对贩运受害者的保护在这些受害者是移民、遭受创伤或难以在官僚体系中归类的那一刻便消失了。实际上,我的生活似乎落入法定定义与机构优先事项之间的空隙,在那个空隙里,问责消失、危险滋生。
我要求你承认的不仅是那位将我贩运近四年的人的暴力,更是忽视的暴力——一个在理论上承认受害者但在实践中遗弃受害者的体制的暴力;接到举报却不提供保护的机构的暴力;反复传达出“移民的痛苦在行政上可容忍”的沉默的暴力。而当体制容忍痛苦时,它就是在参与那痛苦。
在每一场斗争中,总会到达这样一个节点:一个人必须选择是接受被抹去还是抗争。我已到达那个节点。我已经明白,在美国,受苦并不会自动获得关注,真相也不能保证得到保护。我已经明白,一个受害者可以遵守每一条法律、走完每一道程序、听从每一项指示,仍然会被当作他存在于旨在保护他的制度之外的边缘存在来对待。我已经明白,在这个国家,一个移民可以对每一道可进入的体制之门大声呼救,仍然只能换来暴力般的沉默。我所没有学会的——也是因为我拒绝去学的——是如何默默接受拉蒙·翁蒂维罗斯(Ramon Ontiveros,指示:如无公认中文名,保留原文)这位将我贩卖近三年的人及随后出现的体制性冷漠强加给我的命运。我被一再要求去信任程序,信任机构,相信正义只是需要时间。但正义不仅仅需要时间;它会带走生命。
时间没有带来安全;时间带来了事态升级。时间没有带来问责;时间带来了更多报复。时间没有带来对我人性的承认;时间证实了我的人性是可以被讨价还价的,在大多数情况下是可以被丢弃的。当一个人的人性变得可被讨价还价时,人性本身的意义就开始腐朽。这正是我经历的矛盾核心:自称捍卫人权的国家把我弃之自生自灭,仿佛加诸于我的暴力只是私人不便而非公共紧急状况。
我并不天真地看待掌权者。我明白机构运转缓慢,官僚体制需要其例行手续,体系往往不愿直面自身失败。但我也明白更深、更令人不安的事情:当国家选择不作为时,它就是在作出决定。不作为并非中立。不作为并非被动。不作为是一种立场。通过每一份被封存的报告、每一次被驳回的关切、每一声无人回应的恳求,传达给我的立场是,只要不会扰乱行政的舒适,移民的痛苦就是可以容忍的。这就是我被迫生活在其中的信息。这就是人们要我去求生的现实。
多年来我在合法性与现实经验之间、在宪法文本所载承诺与不愿作为的机构所施行的现实之间穿行,如同走迷宫一般。[8] 我曾本着善意为自己辩护,相信真相本应足够。但被忽视的真相会变得与谎言无异。当真相关系到一个生命处于危险之中时,拒绝倾听便成为另一种形式的暴力。它不会因为更安静或更体面而停止成为暴力。它仍然是暴力。
我现在以所剩无几的尊严向您写信:未经修饰、未加粉饰的真相的尊严。我不是一个隐喻,也不是一组统计数字,更不是一个象征。我是一个在德克萨斯州埃尔帕索请求保护的人,在地方和联邦层面都曾请求过,每一次沉默都让我觉得我的生命毫无价值。所以我恳请您,
美国首席大法官尊敬的约翰·G·罗伯茨(John G. Roberts, Jr.),
尊敬的克拉伦斯·托马斯(Clarence Thomas),
尊敬的塞缪尔·A·阿利托(Samuel A. Alito, Jr.),
尊敬的索尼娅·索托马约尔(Sonia Sotomayor),
尊敬的埃琳娜·卡根(Elena Kagan),
尊敬的尼尔·M·戈萨奇(Neil M. Gorsuch),
尊敬的布雷特·M·卡瓦诺(Brett M. Kavanaugh),
尊敬的艾米·科尼·巴雷特(Amy Coney Barrett),以及
尊敬的凯坦吉·布朗·杰克逊(Ketanji Brown Jackson),
以我绝望所能承受的全部严肃态度:如果在美国,移民的生命真值这么卑微,请告诉我——我需要付多少钱才能买回自己的自由?
────
参考文献:
[1] Chuang, Janie A. “美国移民工人的剥削与人口贩运。” Georgetown Journal of International Law 39卷第4期(2008):101–142。
[2] Logan, Trevon D., 和 Anjali Patel. “移民身份与工资被窃取及工作场所报复的脆弱性。” American Economic Review: Insights 4卷第2期(2022):123–140。
[3] Bales, Kevin, 和 Ron Soodalter. 邻家奴隶:当今美国的人口贩运与奴役。伯克利:加利福尼亚大学出版社,2009年。
[4] Gozdziak, Elzbieta M., 和 David A. Bump. “关于人口贩运的数据与研究:书目,2017–2022。” Journal of Human Trafficking 8卷第1期(2022):1–50。
[5] Hernández, Kelly Lytle. 囚城:征服、反抗与洛杉矶囚禁体系的兴起。教堂山:北卡罗来纳大学出版社,2017年。
[6] Cerna, Christina. 美国移民工人法律保护的挑战。迁徙政策研究所,2020年。
[7] Dershowitz, Alan M. 权利源于错误:权利起源的世俗理论。纽黑文:耶鲁大学出版社,2014年。
[8] Feinberg, Matthew. 移民控制的政治经济学:剥削、官僚与恐惧。伦敦:劳特利奇,2018年。
Original text: English
There are moments in a nation’s history when a single life becomes a mirror, reflecting not its ideals, but its fractures. My name is Samuel Martínez Roque, and the truth of my existence in the United States has become one of those mirrors.I am not merely a reporting victim of a severe form of human trafficking; I am the living consequence of what happens when exploitation intersects with institutional indifference.[1]
Ramon Ontiveros Medina, the person who trafficked me for almost three years, and his associates, Josias Alekz Armengol Torres and Dacia Ontiveros Medina, used wage withholding, threats of deportation, forced starvation, and retaliation, as tools of domination. But the deeper wound is this: because I chose to report what was done to me, the retaliation intensified, reshaping itself into economic sabotage, explicit death threats and constructive fraud. In America, it seems, the price of speaking is hunger, and the price of surviving is punishment.
What happened to me in 2022 was not the product of poverty, nor misfortune, nor the harsh arithmetic of low-wage labor. It was a deliberate strategy of control. When my wages were withheld for nearly two consecutive months, I was pushed into 24 consecutive days of starvation, more than a month overall without solid food. This was not a lapse, nor an oversight, nor one of those economic inevitabilities that policymakers like to reduce to statistics. It was a method. It was an instrument. It was the intentional crafting of a weapon. Hunger was deployed against me like a disciplinary measure, a silent punishment meant to reshape my thinking and fracture my will.[2-3] It was not the kind of hunger that comes from an empty pantry, but the kind that comes from someone deciding you should not eat. The kind engineered by another person’s calculation, inflicted not by circumstance but by design.
In that period, I learned what starvation truly is: not merely the absence of food, but the erosion of autonomy, the theft of clarity, the slow deconstruction of a human being from the inside out. Your thoughts become disorganized. Your capacity to advocate for yourself deteriorates. Your body becomes a negotiation with pain. And then comes the shame—the shame that someone else convinces you that you somehow deserve this, that your silence is the price of survival, that your survival is conditional on obedience. Hunger becomes a language, and in that language, I was told repeatedly that my humanity was an inconvenience. My body became the battlefield on which silence and obedience were demanded. My empty stomach became the mechanism through which submission was expected. My suffering was treated as a tool, not an emergency.
And today, long after I reported, long after I followed every instruction and placed my trust in every institution this country told me to trust, the retaliation has not only persisted but evolved. It has become more covert in some ways, more brazen in others.[4] The same individual who once controlled my labor and engineered my starvation continues to impose punishment, no longer through the walls of a workplace but through digital interference, impersonation, economic sabotage, coordinated destabilization, and death threats that are explicit, repeated, and undisguised. Retaliation does not dissolve with time; it mutates. It adapts. It finds new forms. When an abuser loses physical access, he shifts to psychological access. When he can no longer starve you directly, he orchestrates conditions that make hunger inevitable. When he cannot silence you with confinement, he attempts to silence you with fear.
This is the nature of coercion in the modern era: it travels across platforms, across institutions, across months and years. It lives in the gaps of the law, in the places where bureaucracy is slow and abusers are fast. It preys on the immigrant mind, on the fear of deportation, on the knowledge that your life can be treated as optional. And in that space, a space that is continuously unregulated, unmonitored, and unprotected, retaliation thrives.
I have followed every rule this nation claims to honor. I have done everything the law asks of a victim who seeks protection. I have reported to the El Paso Police Department, to Texas state agencies, and to federal investigative bodies: the U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE), the Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI), the U.S. Department of Justice, the U.S. Department of Labor, the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission (EEOC), and the Internal Revenue Service (IRS). I have provided statements, timelines, evidence, exhibits, documents, names. I have complied with every request for information. But what I have received in return is the bureaucratic vocabulary of abandonment: closure codes, referrals, departmental transfers, and inaction.[5-6] While the state’s paperwork cycles in circles, the retaliation against me grows more dangerous. My life has become a collision point between the law as written and the law as practiced, between the promise of protection and the reality of being left exposed.
This is why I am writing to you, not to ask for intervention into the facts of my case as if the Supreme Court were a trial court, but to name the constitutional failure occurring in real time. My situation exposes an unresolved contradiction in the nation’s moral and legal framework: a trafficking victim who cooperates with law enforcement is not being protected, but punished. Tools of coercion that should be classified as crimes: forced starvation, sustained death threats and manipulation of immigration status, economic retaliation, are instead functioning as loopholes through which abusers maintain power. The message, whether intentional or not, is unmistakable: an immigrant’s life may be expendable if its preservation is administratively inconvenient.
I ask you to see what lies behind the surface of the law: a human being who starved for 24 days in a row, swallowing expired Ibuprofen medication to make the pain of hunger go away and quiet the scream of an empty stomach; a human being who watched his own body deteriorate not because food was unavailable, but because it was withheld as a method of control to force him to confess to crimes he did not commit; a human being who continues to be hunted through threats and retaliation, long after he placed his trust in the legal system that promised protection.
I ask you to see not the case file, not the reference number, not the bureaucratic shorthand that reduces lived suffering into coded entries, but the reality of a person who has done everything required of him and been met, again and again, with institutional silence and indifference.
The Constitution does not authorize the value of a person to be determined by their immigration status.[7] It does not carve out exceptions for the vulnerable. Nowhere in its text does it suggest that equal protection applies only to those whose existence fits comfortably within political convenience. The promise of equal protection is not meant to be conditional, and yet the landscape I am forced to inhabit tells a different story, a story where the protections afforded to trafficking victims dissolve the moment those victims are immigrants, traumatized, or difficult to bureaucratically categorize. In practice, it seems my life falls into a void between statutory definitions and institutional priorities, a void where accountability vanishes and danger thrives.
What I am asking you to recognize is not only the violence of the person who trafficked me for almost four years, but the violence of neglect, the violence of a system that acknowledges a victim in theory but abandons him in practice; the violence of agencies that accept reports but provide no protection; the violence of silence that communicates, over and over again, that an immigrant’s suffering is administratively tolerable. And when the system tolerates suffering, it participates in it.
There comes a point in every struggle where a person must choose whether to accept erasure or resist it. I have reached that point. I have learned that in America, suffering does not automatically command attention, and truth does not guarantee protection. I have learned that a victim can follow every law, every process, every instruction, and still be treated as though his existence is peripheral to the system designed to protect him. I have learned that in this country, an immigrant can scream into every institutional doorway available and still be met with violent silence. What I have not learned, and it is because I refuse to learn it, is how to quietly accept a fate imposed on me by both Ramon Ontiveros, the person who trafficked me for almost three years, and the institutional indifference that followed. I have been asked repeatedly to trust the process, to trust the institutions, to trust that justice simply takes time. It does not only take time; it takes lives with it.
Time has not brought safety; time has brought escalation. Time has not brought accountability; time has brought further retaliation. Time has not brought recognition of my humanity; time has brought confirmation that my humanity is negotiable, and in most cases, disposable. And when a person’s humanity becomes negotiable, the very meaning of humanity begins to decay. This is the contradiction at the heart of my experience: the nation that claims to champion human rights has left me to fend for myself, as though the violence committed against me is a private inconvenience rather than a public emergency.
I am not naïve about power. I understand that institutions move slowly, that bureaucracy demands its rituals, that systems are often reluctant to confront their own failures. But I also understand something deeper, something more troubling: when the state chooses not to act, it is making a decision. Inaction is not neutral. Inaction is not passive. Inaction is a stance. And the stance communicated to me, through every closed report, every dismissed concern, every unanswered plea, is that an immigrant’s suffering is tolerable so long as it does not disrupt administrative comfort. That is the message I have been forced to live inside. That is the reality I am being asked to survive.
I have spent years navigating the labyrinth between legality and lived experience, between the promises embedded in constitutional text and the reality administered by institutions unwilling.[8] I have tried to advocate for myself in good faith, believing that the truth would be enough. But a truth ignored becomes indistinguishable from a lie. And when the truth concerns a life in danger, the refusal to listen becomes another form of violence. It does not stop being violence just because is quieter or more respectable. It is violence nonetheless.
I write to you now with the last dignity I have left: the dignity of truth, unvarnished and unembellished. I am not a metaphor, nor a statistic, nor a symbol. I am a person who has asked for protection in El Paso, in Texas, and at the federal level, and each time the silence has made it feel as though my life has no value. So I ask you,
The Honorable John G. Roberts, Jr., Chief Justice of the United States,
The Honorable Clarence Thomas,
The Honorable Samuel A. Alito, Jr.,
The Honorable Sonia Sotomayor,
The Honorable Elena Kagan,
The Honorable Neil M. Gorsuch,
The Honorable Brett M. Kavanaugh,
The Honorable Amy Coney Barrett, and
The Honorable Ketanji Brown Jackson,
with all the seriousness my desperation allows: if this is truly how measly an immigrant’s life is worth in America, please tell me—how much would I need to pay to purchase my own freedom?
────
References:
[1] Chuang, Janie A. “Exploitation and Human Trafficking of Migrant Workers in the United States.” Georgetown Journal of International Law 39, no. 4 (2008): 101–142.
[2] Logan, Trevon D., and Anjali Patel. “Immigration Status and Vulnerability to Wage Theft and Workplace Retaliation.” American Economic Review: Insights 4, no. 2 (2022): 123–140.
[3] Bales, Kevin, and Ron Soodalter. The Slave Next Door: Human Trafficking and Slavery in America Today. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2009.
[4] Gozdziak, Elzbieta M., and David A. Bump. “Data and Research on Human Trafficking: Bibliography, 2017–2022.” Journal of Human Trafficking 8, no. 1 (2022): 1–50.
[5] Hernández, Kelly Lytle. City of Inmates: Conquest, Rebellion, and the Rise of Human Caging in Los Angeles. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2017.
[6] Cerna, Christina. The Challenges of Legal Protection for Migrant Workers in the United States. Migration Policy Institute, 2020.
[7] Dershowitz, Alan M. Rights From Wrongs: A Secular Theory of the Origins of Rights. New Haven: Yale University Press, 2014.
[8] Feinberg, Matthew. The Political Economy of Immigration Control: Exploitation, Bureaucracy, and Fear. London: Routledge, 2018.
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