The fact that immigration attorneys are screaming against the bill make me a supporter of the bill. Could it be that IV interest is aligned with theirs? If backlog is cleared and new, transparent rules are set both groups stand to lose something.
Totally agree!
Interesting article in WSJ
Welcome to U.S.A. --
If You're a Shepherd
A quirk of history and a new law could make
immigration easier for a vanishing trade
By BARRY NEWMAN
May 19, 2007; Page A1
Twin Falls, Idaho
Julio Cruz, a shepherd, lives in a covered wagon on the high desert about 15 miles from here. A somber Peruvian in a floppy hat and an overlarge parka, he works full-time under a special visa and three-year contract for a sheep grower named John Noh. Without Mr. Noh's permission, Mr. Cruz can't work for anyone else.
"If everything goes well, I'll stay for a couple of contracts," he says. "There isn't much work in Peru."
WSJ
Since February, Julio Cruz, a 48-year-old from Peru, has cared for sheep and lambs owned by a farmer outside Twin Falls, Idaho.
From March to November, in the high deserts and higher mountains of the West, men like Mr. Cruz tend their sheep all day, all night, all week. The U.S. has about 1,500 shepherds. Most come as guest workers from Chile, Mexico or Peru. Their legal wage ranges from $650 a month in Wyoming to $1,350 in California. Here in Idaho, Mr. Cruz earns $750.
The U.S. also has tens of thousands of legal less-skilled guest workers on farms, timber stands and summer resorts, most of them allowed into the country for just a few months a year. Alone among these workers, shepherds can hold year-round jobs, bringing their sheep down to the farm for lambing all winter and up to the desert in spring. Like other guests, shepherds must go home when their jobs go bad. They aren't offered any route toward becoming American citizens.
Now Congress may change that. A little-noticed clause folded into the immigration overhaul announced by key senators and the White House on Thursday would allow shepherds to apply for a green card after three years on the range -- no sponsor needed -- and work anywhere until it came through. Thousands of dairy workers may obtain the same right.
As Congress works on an immigration overhaul, one provision would let shepherds apply for a green card after three years. See a video report about shepherds in Idaho who may benefit from the proposed changes.
The provision is part of a much broader overhaul that could spread year-round guest workers throughout the economy. The Senate will open its debate on the measure next week, even as negotiations on the details continue. The bill as it stands also offers new guest workers a roundabout shot at citizenship, though the path is not as direct as the one proposed for shepherds.
The rancor is far from over, however, and the issue has split Democrats and Republicans in both houses of Congress. Legislators still must finesse a difference of opinion at the heart of immigration history: Should new arrivals expect to stay permanently or go back home?
For reasons of politics and tradition, the sheep industry has felt the effects of both ends of the argument. Shepherds of today fit the formula favored by those who want immigration cut back: They come to do a particular job and leave when their bosses no longer need them.
On Friday, Sen. Jon Kyl of Arizona raised objections to the shepherd provision, lobbyists and Senate staffers said. The best way to meet the country's future need for unskilled labor, Sen. Kyl said recently, "is through a temporary-worker system that allows people to come to the United States when work is available that they want to do and is not being done by Americans -- but on a temporary basis."
Shepherds of the past, by contrast, were given a promise of permanent residence. Green cards in hand, generations of them -- mostly Basques from Spain -- left their sheep behind and joined the middle class. That's the formula favored by those who say guest workers should eventually win the freedom to sink their American roots.
In the 1880s, when wool and mutton clothed and fed the world, the U.S. sheep population was 51 million. Easterners kept sheep on the farm and Texans fenced them into pastures. But on wide-open ranges from California to the Dakotas, growers needed manpower -- more than any other livestock enterprise.
Basques came legally to herd sheep until 1924, when the quota for Spanish immigrants was eliminated. Then, as John and Mark Bieter tell it in "An Enduring Legacy: The Story of Basques in Idaho," hundreds came illegally. Yet by the early '40s, Western sheep owners faced a labor shortage. With sheep numbers peaking at 56 million, they had the clout in Congress to get their shepherds legalized, and to win admission for many more.
In 1952, when Congress created the H2 visa for seasonal workers, Sen. Patrick McCarran of Nevada, a state with many sheep, pushed through a clause allowing shepherds to stay year-round. Unlike the other workers, immigrant shepherds also won the right to apply for a green card.
Julio Cruz, shepherd, on the high desert outside Twin Falls, Idaho
It was a right that Jose Mari Artiach was quick to exercise. Today he owns a Boise restaurant where a mural celebrates his first American job in an image of bucolic nostalgia: a shepherd standing watch above his sheep as they graze on a mountainside. The shepherd is Mr. Artiach, who was in his bar one evening, having a glass of wine.
"I worked sheep four years," he said. "Then I thought I was too smart to work sheep, so I started driving a truck."
That was 1972. Mr. Artiach, 62 years old, came to Idaho with the last of the Spanish Basques who had herded sheep in America since the California Gold Rush. His contract paid $240 a month.
In just four years, Mr. Artiach had his green card. By 1982, he owned seven trucks. Then he became a hay broker, bought a dairy herd and two farms. Last year, he opened the restaurant. His wife, Miren, whose Basque father also came to herd sheep, is Idaho's deputy secretary of state.
Lino Zabala, sipping wine across the table, married Miren's sister. He landed here in 1969, herded sheep until his green card came through in 1973, quit to mine gold, then studied mechanics and spent 32 years working in irrigation. He's retired at 60.
Clinking his brother-in-law's glass, Mr. Artiach said, "We took chances to go abroad. So success comes with that, maybe."
Jose Mari Artiach
When Congress took up illegal immigration in 1986, everything changed. Spanish ruler Francisco Franco, who had repressed Basques, was dead, and Spain was prospering. Instead of Basques, poor Latinos, for the most part, were herding sheep. Congress that year preserved their visas and the U.S. Labor Department's system of setting their wages. But it took their route to a green card away.
Bruce Goldstein, director of a Washington interest group, Farmworker Justice, blames that switch on lobbying by sheep growers -- "a selfish group of employers" intent on keeping their shepherds from working elsewhere, he says. James Holt, a lawyer who has represented growers for decades, simply recalls that "somewhere along the line" the green-card arrangement "evaporated."
Shepherds still come to the U.S. under a visa that lets them stay year-round. But they can stay only as long as they tend sheep.
On the high desert of southern Idaho, the sheetmetal top of Mr. Cruz's sheepwagon was a glint in the distance as Mr. Noh, his boss, approached in his pickup one recent morning. Mr. Noh, 40, runs two bands of 1,000 ewes from a farm that his German great-grandfather began in 1915. In spring, they graze with their lambs on a 5,000-acre federal lease. In summer, they move higher, into Sawtooth National Forest. Then the fattened lambs are trucked to California for slaughter.
Mr. Noh parked his pickup at the wagon and waited as Mr. Cruz walked up with his collie. The sheep, far behind them, were puffs on the wheat grass. Mr. Noh comes by twice a week, bringing food and supplies. This time he carried two drums of fresh water. What else did his shepherd need?
Mr. Cruz climbed up into the wagon and came out holding his last can of Vienna sausages. Mr. Noh jotted down the order in his shirt-pocket notebook. The shepherd, who speaks no English, told his boss, who speaks a little Spanish, that he'd seen coyotes. Mr. Noh asked how many. Mr. Cruz stood silently. Finally, he said, "Uno."
"I got to get him a rifle," said Mr. Noh.
Times in the sheep camp aren't quite so hard for Mr. Cruz as they were for Boise's Basques. He listens to Spanish on a short-wave radio, even calls Peru on a cellphone. But if he aspires to drive a truck or own a restaurant, his only route now is the one taken by scores of Latino shepherds each year: run off and work illegally.
Otherwise, Mr. Cruz is stuck. He flew to Idaho in February on a visa arranged, paid for and sponsored by Mr. Noh. When Mr. Cruz's one-year visa expires, Mr. Noh can roll it over year after year. But if the shepherding provision in the current immigration bills finds its way into law, Mr. Cruz could apply for his green card after three years on the range. In other words, he would get what the Basques had. It's a chance that today's shepherds may jump at, but one sheep owners might take some time getting used to.
Raising dust in his pickup on another day, Mr. Noh was delivering groceries to Tony Villaizan, who is 35 and comes from the Peruvian Andes. He's been herding sheep in Idaho for nearly 10 years.
As Mr. Noh pulled up to the sheepwagon, Mr. Villaizan stood in its doorway wearing a biker T-shirt and showing a new set of white dentures. He sleeps on a bunk beneath a crocheted coverlet. A tractor battery under a fold-down tabletop powers a light bulb. He boils rice and barley tea on a gas ring. A small wood stove supplies the heat. A horse, grazing outside, supplies the transportation.
Julio Cruz's sheepwagon
He rises early to rouse his sheep from their bed ground. He stays with them, on horseback, as they move toward water. After they "noon up" and nap for three hours, he guides them toward fresh grass. At nightfall, the sheep bed near camp for protection. He cooks dinner, drinks a warm beer, and sometimes puts in a brief call to his family. He has two daughters in Peru.
"I did the same work when I was a kid, staying out like this," Mr. Villaizan said with an interpreter's help. Pay started at $160 a month in Peru and topped out at $350. In the U.S., he made $650 to start. Mr. Noh pays $800, enough to finance a house in Peru and a set of teeth. "I'm comfortable with sheep," said Mr. Villaizan.
"If you got a green card," asked Mr. Noh, "what would you do?"
"Even then, I'd work in sheep," his shepherd said.
"This is my favorite man, right here," said Mr. Noh.
Then Mr. Villaizan added, "I'd like to make more money."
More money, though, is what Mr. Noh and most other sheep growers in the West say they can't offer. Their fortunes, and their influence, have gone the way of the country's taste for lamb.
Americans eat just a pound of it a year. Thanks to synthetics, demand for wool is a 10th of what it was in 1950. The sheep population has dwindled to six million, and with it the growers' political capital. In the latest immigration haggling, they haven't been ignored -- shepherds will get the same long stay and monthly pay. But restoring their green cards wasn't on the industry's wish list.
"That's nothing we pursued or asked for," says Peter Orwick, one of its lobbyists. Rather, the green-card clause was inserted by Western legislators as a nod to groups like Farmworker Justice, who argue that visas for full-time guest workers ought to lead to permanent residence. A few weeks ago, Sen. Patrick Leahy of Vermont added dairy workers to the clause, greatly expanding its scope.
In the compromise presented to the Senate on Thursday, the possibility of permanence was extended to all future guest workers. A limited number could apply for green cards under a merit-based points system. Unlike skilled workers, however, most would ultimately have to go home. For some conservatives and labor unions, even those terms are too generous, while pro-immigration groups condemned the proposal as an affront to American values.
"Indenture" is the word Mr. Goldstein of Farmworker Justice uses to describe the guest-worker deal. For shepherds, he wants nothing short of a legal means to come in from the desert. "For people who want out of those jobs," he says, "that means they can get out and will get out."
Toward sundown, Mr. Noh left the sheep camp and drove to Twin Falls for a beer at Jaker's, where the rack of lamb ($23) comes from Australia. What would he do if Mr. Villaizan got his green card?
"I'd sit down with him and offer him as much as I could," Mr. Noh said. "I'd try to help him bring his daughters here. If I could teach him to drive a little better, I'd move him into a position where he'd be camp tending, like I'm doing now. That's my hope for Tony. I'd do the business end. Tony would move up."
When Mr. Noh thinks about his shepherd's future, he has a role model in mind: Ambrosio Aspiazu. He came to America to herd sheep for Mr. Noh's family in 1960. When his green card came through, he became their camp tender and then their foreman. As a child, Mr. Noh trailed after him, learning all there was to know about sheep.
Mr. Aspiazu had saved half a million dollars by the time he retired, in 2000. Last year, he sold his house in Idaho and moved back to the Basque country, where he was born.
Write to Barry Newman at
barry.newman@wsj.com