Image by moises ferreira.

I first heard the expression “strategic incompetence” in El Salvador in December 1993. Along with my partner and two friends, I’d been recruited to do some electoral training there. We were working with the Farabundo Martí National Liberation Front, or FMLN, a coalition of leftist parties that had led a long-running guerrilla war against a series of U.S.-backed autocratic governments. I’d visited El Salvador once before, during the 1989 elections, when armed troops were overseeing the voting. I remembered watching as people deposited their ballots into transparent plastic bags, their choices clearly visible to the world — and to the soldiers. (Not exactly what you’d call a “free and fair” election.)

A new round of national elections was scheduled for early 1994, and, for the first time, instead of boycotting it, the FMLN was running its own candidates. This was a risky choice. By the time we arrived to teach their members something about door-to-door canvassing, several FMLN candidates had already been assassinated.

It took us a few days to fully grasp just how profound a cultural shift such an election was for people whose project and lives had previously depended on clandestine organizing. For years, their members had kept contact among themselves to a minimum for security reasons. They also routinely limited contacts with other Salvadorans to those in whom they had the highest confidence. We knew we’d experienced a breakthrough when one of their comandantes said, “Oh, I see. Even my mother should be part of this campaign.”

It was one of those comandantes who taught me the term “strategic incompetence.” Not long before, many of their potential voters had been refugees, having only recently returned from camps in Guatemala. A number of them had lost whatever identification papers they once had and, in any case, it was all too normal for people in rural Central America to lack birth certificates. The most common proof of birth was a baptismal record at a parish church, and many of those churches had been bombed to dust during the U.S.-backed air war against the FMLN.

So, to be able to vote, many Salvadorans had to apply to the government in the capital, San Salvador, for a cédula — an official credential. The process of getting one was invariably lengthy. Those who lived far from a municipal center had to make weekly treks on foot to post offices in towns to check whether their ID had arrived. All too often, the answer would be: no. As that comandante explained to me, this was an example of the autocratic government’s “strategic incompetence” — a systemic failure, in other words, that served the interests of those then in power by discouraging people from voting.

Round and Round We Go

I was reminded of that expression recently, when I accompanied a young immigrant to file his application for asylum in the United States. What should have been a 10-minute errand devolved into a multi-hour ordeal. I have no way of knowing whether the incompetence involved was strategic or simply run-of-the-mill stupidity, but I do know that it nearly cost him his chance to stay in this country.

My friend Joan and I, two old lady gringas, had spent the weekend with him working on the application, which was due the following Tuesday. We’d made the requisite copies, one for the judge in the case and the other for the lawyers of the Department of Homeland Security (DHS), all located in a building in downtown San Francisco.

On Monday morning, we met there. We knew he’d have to pay a $100 filing fee and, not having a bank account, he came prepared with cash. With some trepidation — ICE agents occupied part of the same building and there was always the risk of an immigrant being snatched up — we passed through security and made it to the floor where the immigration judges, including the one overseeing his case, had their offices.

We entered a small waiting room with some chairs and a cashier’s window in one corner. The nice woman behind the glass informed us that, unfortunately, she couldn’t accept his $100. The only way to pay the fee was online. She pointed to the QR code on a poster beside the window. Paying online isn’t easy for someone without a bank account. Fortunately, the two gringas had credit cards. We assumed that the record of the payment would appear in his online file.

It soon became clear, however, that, while the fee has to be paid online, the application could only be accepted with a physical copy of a receipt for that payment. The three of us stared at each other, and at our three cell phones — none of which, of course, had printers attached. We’d have to find a place to print the receipt.

First up, a UPS shop. “Just email the file you want printed to this address,” the clerk said. We navigated to the immigration site, found his record, and clicked on the button to email a copy of........

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