he small village of Cuarto Pueblo had been quiet for weeks. So when a military helicopter flew overhead at 10 o'clock that morning, Felipe Hernandez Garcia sensed danger. 
One hour later, while most villagers were around the market, he heard of army units beginning to surround the village. Hernandez ran into the forested hills. For the next three months, he lived in the jungle of the Guatemalan highlands. On that March 14, 1982, the army began a brutal three-day massacre at Cuarto Pueblo that left 324 villagers dead.Twelve years later, and more than 2,000 miles further north, Hernandez found himself running again. This time he was being chased by Immigration and Naturalization Service agents. He ran through the night and managed to enter the United States.
For the time being, Hernandez is staying at Casa Esperanza, a home in East Oakland supported by a coalition of church groups and run by Sister Maureen Duignan, of the East Bay Sanctuary Covenant. The three-bedroom home opened on Christmas Eve in 1986 and serves as a temporary home for as many as 12 to 16 refugees from Central America.
Hernandez is one of thousands of Central Americans who, escaping from their war-torn countries, came to the United States to seek political asylum. Estimates by refugee rights groups put the number of asylum seekers at 100,000 in the San Francisco Bay Area alone. Of those, approximately 30,000 are from Guatemala and 50,000 from El Salvador. According to INS figures, Guatemalans and Salvadorans are the two largest groups of asylum seekers in the United States.
At 43, Hernandez is fighting an uphill battle for his legal right to political asylum. The United States has a history of opening its doors to those facing persecution in their own countries. But for Central American refugees like Hernandez, the road to political asylum is a long path riddled with obstacles.
The ordeal usually starts at the United States-Mexico border. Central Americans who want to apply for asylum have no choice but to attempt the illegal‹and dangerous‹crossing. Outside the United States, the only countries in the Americas that process applications from refugees are Cuba and Haiti.
"When people hear of illegal immigrants they think of criminals," says Ilona Bray, an immigration attorney who represents Hernandez on a pro bono basis. "For people like Felipe, the only way to get here is illegally."
For the lucky ones who manage to evade the border patrols, facing the INS isn't easy. Many are wary of the system and prefer to remain undocumented.
"It is very difficult to reach out to legitimate asylum seekers," says Alyssa Simpson, an attorney with the Central American Resource Center in San Francisco. "People are afraid." The fear is that their asylum will be denied, and they will face increased persecution back home. Their fears are not unfounded. During the 1980s, more than 97 percent of asylum applicants from Guatemala and El Salvador were rejected by the INS despite the brutal wars that tore those countries apart.
And applying for asylum is not the end of the ordeal for immigrants who choose to legalize their status. Until last year, applicants automatically received a work permit while they waited‹sometimes for years‹for their asylum hearing. Critics said undocumented immigrants without legitimate cases for asylum applied in order to receive a work permit. This year the INS changed its regulations. While it added agents to schedule hearings within weeks of an application, the INS no longer issues work permits immediately. Asylum seekers now have to wait 150 days before they can apply for a work permit.
The new regulations are a mixed bag for immigrants. Most refugee advocates admit that INS agents are better trained and equipped to deal with asylum cases. But for immigrants who don't have free assistance, the lack of a work permit is critical.
"If you have a good asylum case but no way to sustain yourself, under the new regulations you don't really have the means for applying," says Sara Campos, an attorney with the San Francisco Lawyers Committee for Civil Rights. Her group provides free legal help to approximately 100 asylum seekers every year.
But many asylum seekers are forced to work to support themselves. They risk hurting their chances for asylum if caught. In Oakland, a string of INS raids in recent weeks has sent a chill through many of the day laborers‹both documented and undocumented‹who seek work along Fruitvale Avenue every morning. In the most recent raid on Sept. 7, more than two dozen workers were arrested.
Hernandez can't work because he is caught between the old and new INS regulations. While he applied for asylum early this year, his hearing is scheduled for March 1996. He is still waiting for his work permit. He spends his time volunteering at the East Bay Sanctuary Covenant and other non-profit groups in the Bay Area. Hernandez and those at Casa Esperanza are among the lucky few who, through the help of others, can survive without work.
During the 1970s and '80s, the indigenous people of the Guatemalan highlands were pawns in the war between armed guerillas and the Guatemalan army. The army imposed a campaign of terror and intimidation on many villages it suspected were aiding the guerillas.
Hernandez, who was a leader of his village's agrarian cooperative, spoke out against injustice. He contacted the media several times, and, on one occasion, he appeared on television. "He has a very strong case based on the fact that he was politically active (in Guatemala)," Bray says. "He was organizing for the betterment of the indigenous people." 
But being an outspoken critic of the army didn't buy him favors. Hernandez was accused of being a guerrilla and was wanted by the army. In 1980 he was forced to resign from the cooperative and go into hiding whenever the army was present at Cuarto Pueblo.
Inside Casa Esperanza, Hernandez clutches a copy of Ricardo Falla's Massacres in the Jungle . Through countless witness accounts, the book details the army's campaigns between 1975 and 1982. The three chapters on the massacre of Cuarto Pueblo include a list of the victims. "That was my neighbor," Hernandez says, recognizing a name as he goes down the list. His finger stops at many other names‹more neighbors and friends, their wives and children. "His account is consistent with that of others," Bray says. All this will help Hernandez at his asylum hearing.
Hernandez hopes he is near the end of the road to political asylum. "I'm disturbed when I hear about the suffering of the people in my country," he says. "Bad memories never leave me alone‹a few weeks ago I couldn't sleep." But when he speaks of people like Sister Maureen who have helped him, his face lights up with a broad smile. Without them, he says, he would not stand a chance in this country. He is grateful for the free legal help, and he is grateful for Casa Esperanza, which translates literally in Hernandez' situation as House of Hope.
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