This is an archived article that was published on sltrib.com in 2008, and information in the article may be outdated. It is provided only for personal research purposes and may not be reprinted.
Editor's note: Three of the people quoted in this story were identified only by their first names to protect them because they are undocumented workers. In Maria's case, a pseudonym was used.
Logan » Ignacio and his family have never recovered since federal agents arrested his wife two years ago during an immigration raid on a northern Utah meat-packing company.
She was deported to Mexico, but slipped back over the border and returned to Ignacio and their two sons. Later, she gave birth to their baby girl.
Since the raid, Ignacio has been laid off and re-hired several times from a job that pays $8 an hour. The bank came for the family's 1999 Chevrolet Blazer in July; he still owes the mechanic for repairs. And the rent is five months late.
The children wear hand-me-downs. Ignacio can't even buy a new dress for his only daughter.
"I'm embarrassed. We feel like beggars," he said in his living room, decorated with a Mexico soccer team jersey and a statue of the Virgin of Guadalupe. "We never had to ask for help before."
The raid on the then-Swift & Co. meat-packing plant in Hyrum was part of a federal roundup of about 1,300 undocumented workers at the company's operations in six states.
Early on Dec. 12, 2006 -- also the Day of Our Lady Guadalupe, considered a holy day by many Latinos -- immigration agents poured into the 1,100-employee plant in rural Hyrum. They arrested 154 undocumented Latino workers and charged all but seven with violating federal and state identity-fraud and immigration statutes.
It was never disclosed how many of those arrested were deported, and it cannot be known how many returned to the U.S.
Today, many Latinos -- from the deportees who returned to their children in Utah, to the friends who witnessed their compatriots' fear and misery -- say they were forever changed. Some have found other jobs for much less pay; others can't work because they're caring for families or because they remain undocumented. Many still fear law enforcement and wonder who or what company might be targeted next.
Bernardo Ponce, a Swift worker for 14 years, said his fellow employees still talk about the raid, remembering friends who had worked beside them for years. He wonders if federal officials knew the significance of the Day of Guadalupe and planned the raid on that day so Latinos would never forget it.
"I just saw them take them," he said, "and I couldn't do anything to help them."
Some undocumented workers, such as Estrella, who didn't work at Swift, were left in the U.S.
Estrella's husband, sister and mother were deported. She was left to care for her kids and nephews. She sought community and church assistance to pay rent and feed her family. Her uncle moved in to help her until her husband illegally returned earlier this year.
When her family gets together, she said, someone may bring up the raid and "everyone starts to cry about all the horrible things that happened. The fear has not left us."
The Rev. Clarence Sandoval of St. Thomas Aquinas Catholic Church just north of Logan helped lead the effort to help families after the round-up. Before then, he said, the Latino community -- about 9,000 people -- lived in peace and security and rarely asked the church for assistance.
Sandoval said Latino families are "even poorer" now and sometimes seek money for rent and bills, food and diapers. The church has also started distributing information about their rights and the immigration system as well as tips on what to do if there's a raid.
"They're struggling," Sandoval said. "They have nowhere else to go."
Since the raid, undocumented immigrants -- including some who were deported and returned --?said many people don't talk about or buy fake documentation to work anymore. Still, they said, they are working for lower wages, sometimes for cash, as farmworkers, construction labors, babysitters, dishwashers and cooks.
Maria, who had worked at Swift for years, was one of about 50 women arrested in the raid. She was deported, but returned to Utah six months after the raid -- paying a human smuggler $6,000 -- because she couldn't bear to be away from her children.
"As mothers, we're the only ones who can give them all the affection and love they need," she said. "And [immigration agents] took it all away as if it were nothing."
She's glad to be reunited with her children and working. She's frustrated that she still can't manage to get back on her feet, mostly because she lives in constant fear of being deported again and knows she can't provide her kids the same quality of life in her native country.
"The terror doesn't go away," said Maria, who asked that her real name not be used for that reason.
Juan Mejia, 41, and Frida Elizabeth Bernudez, 41, have both legally worked at Swift for about 13 years. Their sister-in-law was arrested and deported during the 2006 raid at the Swift plant in Minnesota.
Today, the Latino community seems subdued, they said, and there aren't as many birthday parties or big family celebrations that might attract federal attention.
"They don't want to risk it," Mejia said.
Aside from the raid, many Latinos here are worried about the implications of Utah Senate Bill 81,?an anti-illegal immigration law slated to go into effect in July.
The law will force public employers and their contractors to verify the legal status of workers and enlist law enforcement agencies to help enforce federal immigration statutes. It will also be a Class A misdemeanor to conceal, harbor, transport or shelter undocumented immigrants, though church, charitable and humanitarian assistance groups are exempted.
"Everyone's scared," said Rolando Murillo, a Latino activist in the area. "They think cops are going to start pulling them over ... and asking them for their legal status."
Eli Cawley, chairman of Utah Minuteman Project, an anti-illegal immigration group, said he doesn't believe the new state law will change anything because no one cared about enforcing federal laws. So he doesn't know why law enforcement and city officials will care about the state law, especially because there is no funding to back it up.
Besides, Cawley said, "illegal invaders" often get off on "humanitarian" breaks. "I'm skeptical, but hopeful, that is going to be enforced," he added.
Several Latinos said they're not sure how the law is going to affect families with relatives both legal and undocumented. Some think the law will give anyone the right to ask them for their legal status. They also worry about being arrested and deported without their families knowing.
"Before, I thought the police was here to help us," Estrella said. "Now, we're not going to feel at ease on the streets."
And some are just not sure what the future might bring.
Estrella, who is still debating whether to return to her homeland, said she's lucky because she and her husband have found jobs. She's also hoping that President-elect Barack Obama might be able to get lawmakers to pass an immigration reform bill to assist the estimated 12 million undocumented immigrants in the United States --roughly 100,000 of whom live in Utah.
"Things are getting better to the way life was before [the raid]," she said. "But anything can happen at any time."
For Ignacio, one thing is sure: His son will give him a Christmas list, and Ignacio knows there's no money -- again.
"He doesn't understand that there's no money," he said. "He asks me, 'Then, why do you work?'?"
Miguel Garfias, Ignacio's 14-year-old stepson and a U.S. citizen, got a part-time job washing dishes last summer to buy his school clothes, help out with the bills and treat his family to eating out.
On a recent Saturday, he cared for his brother and baby sister while their mom worked and dad slept for the graveyard shift. Miguel wishes he could do more.
"I get mad because I'm still young and I can't do anything about it."