Hispanic women face hurdles in reporting abuse

October 28, 2007
By Federico Martinez

To batter his wife, the weapon he chose was fear.

"He used to get on top of me and clean his guns," recalled Belkis Flores, a 12-year victim of domestic abuse, "and tell me what he would do to me."

At night "he would bring a machete to bed and force me" to be intimate, said the 47-year-old Flores. To maintain the constant level of fear, her husband would sleep with the weapon under his pillow.

But she didn't think she could explain the abuse to authorities. She only spoke Spanish.

For many Hispanic women, especially those in the migrant labor stream or those without citizenship documents, the challenges of overcoming domestic abuse and violence can be daunting.

Some face language and cultural barriers; others are also isolated because they live in the country illegally. They often endure violence because they do not know where to turn.

Their numbers are hard to track because many never report their abuse.

"With undocumented women, there are more challenges," said Bea Rosalez, a legal advocate for abused women in western Michigan. "They can't get jobs. They don't qualify for financial assistance unless they have children.

"They're also afraid to reach out to the police because there's a fear of being deported."

The Violence Against Women Act, approved by the federal government in 1994, is supposed to protect all women, regardless of immigration status.

The problem is convincing women who fear being deported, said Rosalez, who is employed by the Ludington, Mich.-based Communities Overcoming Violent Encounters. The agency provides shelter and other resources for abused women in three counties.

Another issue is that many law-enforcement and social service agencies don't always know about the protection the law provides. So, advocates say, some agencies turn away abused women who aren't living legally in the U.S.

Many women and agencies also aren't aware that the 1994 federal act provides abused immigrant women with special immigration status, a sort of amnesty. It allows victims to report crimes and then apply for temporary or permanent residency instead of facing deportation, said Teresa Cruz, a longtime west Michigan advocate for victims of abuse.

Many instances of domestic violence don't have happy endings.

While the Hispanic population has more than doubled in the past two decades, facilities that specialize in help for Hispanic women remain few and far between. That can be especially problematic for Hispanic women who tend to live in remote, rural areas far away from shelters and hospitals.

Most agencies that provide services to abused women don't have bilingual staff members, said Sophia Ruiz, a former Oceana County outreach advocate for Communities Overcoming Violent Encounters.

Cultural problems also are common, and sometimes lead to the women becoming discouraged and returning to the abusive relationship, said Ruiz and Rosalez.

Those issues can range from having to adapt to a new diet at a shelter, to being challenged with a different value system.

In Mexican culture, women often are perceived more as personal property of men and are discouraged from showing independence. Many immigrant women have not been taught to drive, manage money or learn English, said Ruiz.

Male "machismo" is so ingrained in the culture, men and women often believe it's OK for men to physically strike and verbally berate women, said Rosalez.

It's a powerful belief system that many abused Hispanic women have to work through, said Rosalez.

"It's a cycle," said Ruiz. "Young boys see (the abuse) and think it's OK. And the girls see it happening and think that's the way it's supposed to be.

"There's just not the money (for agencies) to provide a counselor for that."

It's been 13 years since Belkis Flores escaped her ex-husband's cruelty. The effects still linger.

"I see my oldest daughter going toward the same men," said Flores, who now lives in Grand Rapids with her three children.

She's tried to help by sharing her own experiences with her daughter. Flores said she's also tried to reassure her daughter that she can always turn to her mother for help and understanding.

Her own efforts to escape an abusive relationship were frustrated because her husband presented himself as "an angel and nobody would believe me," she said.

He demanded Flores work at the same factory with the same hours as him. He refused to let her get a driver's license or have money. At church or anywhere else in public, she was required to remain by his side. He did the speaking.

"I was afraid for so long," said Flores, who declined her extended family's subsequent offer to send money so she could return to New York with them. She needed to be with her children. "I had to stay there and face it.

"I told myself, if I run this time, I'll be running all my life."

Source: The Times-Picayune