COLOMBIAN DRUG VIOLENCE LEADS TO EXODUS

Wealthy professionals fleeing the crime in record numbers are taking their
money and skills from the struggling nation.

MIAMI -- As the United States is preparing to dramatically increase its
commitment to the drug war in Colombia, a troubling phenomenon is headed in
the opposite direction.

Colombians by the thousands are bailing out of their country.

Miami immigration lawyers say their offices are besieged by immigrants
seeking refuge from the drug-fueled violence that has brought Colombia to
its knees.

"It's a veritable exodus of people who are leaving because of insecurity,"
said Michael Bander, a leading Miami immigration lawyer. "There's no
optimism anymore. They drained it out of themselves."

President Clinton is due to visit Colombia this month in a show of personal
support for President Andres Pastrana. Last week Clinton signed a directive
making U.S. assistance to Colombia a "national priority." This comes on the
back of a $1.3-billion aid package approved by Congress in July.

But the flight from Colombia hardly bodes well for U.S. policy.

Unlike previous immigration waves to hit South Florida, most of the new
arrivals are wealthy businessmen and middle-class professionals. Their
departure is a double blow, combining capital flight with a brain drain the
country can ill afford in a moment of crisis.

In their desperation to leave many have sold property and cashed in their
savings, wondering if they will ever return.

"We don't see any future in Colombia," said Juan Carlos Velasquez, who left
a computer business in the capital, Bogota, to move to Miami with his
pregnant wife in January. "Every day the news reports more massacres. So
many, it's like listening to a nightly sportscast."

Their decision to leave was prompted by a letter threatening they would be
kidnapped, or their businesses bombed and employees killed, if they did not
pay up. Guerrillas and paramilitary groups commonly demand what is known in
Colombia as a vacuna, Spanish for vaccination, to finance their armies.
Paying the vacuna affords a family immunity from the threat of violence --
at least temporarily.

"For the last two months we were too frightened to leave the house,"
Velasquez said. "The government doesn't do anything. We have no one left to
defend us."

Staying in Colombia would have meant purchasing a bulletproof car and hiring
bodyguards. "We didn't want to live like that. It means a change of
mentality. We didn't want to become part of the culture of violence," he
said.

The exodus of Colombian professionals is a sign of how deep the crisis has
reached. Until recently the violence was largely limited to areas of the
countryside where drug lords, guerrillas and paramilitary groups fought out
their turf wars.

But as the guerrillas and paramilitaries have grown in size, requiring more
money, their criminal tentacles have been increasingly felt in the cities.

Colombia holds the world record for kidnappings. Last year the official
number of abductions reported rose to 2,945 cases, up 30 percent from the
previous year.

On top of that an economic recession has seen unemployment rise, fueling
common street crime. "Now no one is untouchable," said Bruce Bagley, a top
Colombia expert at the University of Miami. "You can't work in the cities
anymore. You can't run businesses without paying taxes to guerrillas or
paramilitaries. Colombians love their country, but you can't live like
that."

Because many Colombians arrive in the country on tourist visas, it's hard to
know how many plan to become permanent residents. Colombian officials say
that as many as 200,000 Colombians have left the country in the past two
years, mostly for the United States.

In 1999, 366,423 Colombians applied for U.S. visas, more than double the
number in 1997.

And the pace shows no signs of letting up.

Their presence is being felt all over Miami, where Colombians now make up
the second largest immigrant group after Cubans. Every Sunday, hundreds of
Colombians pack the pews at the Apostolic Mission of Christ, an Orthodox
church near downtown Miami. The church offers cut- price legal services to
less well-off arrivals. At the end of the service a priest asks how many
Colombians in the congregation need advice about immigration. Nearly half
raise their hands.

At the Miami office of the Colombian-American Service Association, program
director Johanna Davila says her agency assists some 1,000 newly arrived
Colombians each month.

Davila left Colombia two years ago after her brother was killed.

Although more than 70 percent of those who come to the office say they left
Colombia after receiving threats, Davila said most do not have enough
evidence to present a solid case for political asylum.

"In Colombia people are too scared to go to the authorities and make a
formal complaint," she said. "When they get here they don't have any legal
proof of what happened to them."

Even so, applications by Colombians for political asylum have risen sharply
in the past two years, according to the Immigration and Naturalization
Service. In 1999 the INS received 399 cases, compared with 842 in the first
six months of this year.

Washington has so far rejected calls from Colombian emigres to grant them
temporary refugee status. Privately, U.S. officials say most of the
immigrants are members of Colombia's upper crust, well able to fend for
themselves.

In order to qualify for asylum, Colombians must show a credible fear of
persecution on grounds of political or religious belief, or membership in an
especially vulnerable social group.

While being rich may make businessmen a target for extortion and kidnapping
in Colombia, the INS does not consider mere wealth sufficient justification.

These days the INS does appear to be lending a more sympathetic ear to cases
from Colombia. Last year only 122 asylum cases were granted with a 39
percent approval rate, compared with 61 percent, or 348 cases, this year.

Irma Londono, 42, won her asylum claim in June, less than two months after
filing an application. A journalist who worked with Colombian army
intelligence, she was able to document her case after receiving repeated
threats.

She recalled attending her asylum hearing a day after news from Colombia of
a particularly vicious killing. Armed men had placed a booby-trap bomb
around the neck of an extortion victim.

"The INS officer who was attending my case was really affected by that," she
said.

But in many cases political asylum isn't the only option.

At Bander's law firm, one of the largest handling immigration cases in
Miami, staff members say they receive up to 100 new visa applications from
Colombians every week. In most cases Bander recommends other alternatives,
including non-immigrant business and investor visas.

Due to the sudden demand, his firm has organized seminars in several
Colombian cities this year explaining how to travel legally to the United
States.

"I tell them it's not difficult to get here," said Yvonne Torres, a
Colombian-born paralegal on Bander's staff. "In fact it's very easy because
they have talent and are professionals."

As Miami's image as "the capital of the Americas" has evolved in recent
years, many U.S. companies doing business in Latin America have opened
offices in the city.

"There's a demand in Miami for qualified people from Latin America," Torres
said. "We show them what they need to do to become eligible."

As an example she gives the case of a real estate agent from Cali,
Colombia's second largest city, who now works with Spanish-speaking clients
for a Miami firm. More Colombians are opening their own businesses in Miami,
creating more opportunities.

One popular Colombian restaurant chain in Miami, Patacon, recently opened
several new premises, importing chefs from Colombia on temporary work visas.

While immigration to the United States may appear to some as the easy way
out for educated Colombians, it remains a difficult decision.

"We didn't want to leave," said Sergio Otalora, 39, a newspaper columnist
who arrived in Miami this month. "We tried to put fear aside, but you can't
live all the time on your nerves. It makes you sick."

Otalora left with his wife and their 3-year-old son after he wrote a column
critical of the paramilitaries. They fear it will be years before they can
think of returning.

"It makes you feel very bad. I know some people accuse us of abandoning a
sinking ship," he said. "But that's moral blackmail. We have to think of
Pedro, our son. Maybe in 15 years he can go back and contribute something.