“Never in my life have I had to stand in front of a judge. Never have I had to be in court before. Here…it was terrifying standing there by myself.

“The ICE attorney, she made me feel confused. The atmosphere in the court was freezing cold. I lost my voice because it was so cold and the judge yelled at me. She ordered me to, Talk louder!  The judge and ICE attorney would talk and discuss things and I had no idea what they were talking about. I never knew what was going to happen.  At the time, I felt like the whole world was above my head. I want to be done with all of this. I don’t want to go through all the stress anymore.

 “I didn’t want to break the law. I didn’t want to start my life in the United States by doing something illegal. But by NOT doing something illegal, made me ineligible for bond and now I’m in here. It doesn’t make any sense. But it is the law and the law is blind.”

Lee, 25-yr-old asylum seeker (undisclosed country)

Detained for over 1 year

“I stayed in Florence for one year. It was the worst experience of my life. I saw people die in Florence. One man had a heart attack. I’m sure it was from the stress. Another man, his face swelled up. ICE did nothing to help the guy. I said, Hey! Help this guy! They did nothing.”

Carlos, 44-yr-old asylum seeker from Mexico

“I left Honduras because of the gang violence and also because I am a transgender woman. As soon as I entered Florence, everybody started making fun of me.  They started yelling out stuff. They would call me insulting names. They harassed me at night as I was lying there and wouldn’t let me sleep.  

“At the beginning, they made me take a shower with all the other men at the same time. They would start staring at me and some would masturbate in front of me. So, I had to stop going to the showers. Instead of going to the shower, I started cleaning myself in my cell while everyone else was showering. For the first six months, I shared a cell with only one other person. Our cell had a small sink so I would use it to clean myself instead of showering with all the other men. People started noticing that I was missing from the shower, so they told the officers I was cleaning myself in my cell, which wasn’t permitted. The officers came to my cell, grabbed me and took me to the ‘tank manager’.  After six months, I was moved into a cell with 16 other men. It was horrible. I didn’t know what was going to happen. Every day, it was something, and I was so afraid. I didn’t feel like going on. I felt like I couldn’t make it any more. 

“Out of two hundred people in my tank, there were only two other transgender women. Only three of us out of two hundred.  Me and two others. There was a group of detainees that were very Christian and religious. They would say, You’re an aberration! You’re a disgrace! You’re never going to make it to heaven! You’re a sin!  They were really rough with us. The officers would not do anything to stop it. It was so frustrating. We wouldn’t dare say anything to the officers because if we said anything, the officers wouldn’t like it and they would send us to the hole. It’s a place where I wouldn’t’ want to be.  

“Toward the end was the worst. My level of fear was so high. I wouldn’t want to get out of bed. I wouldn’t want to wake up. I didn’t want to keep on going because I didn’t want to be abused again. I expected something else when I came to the United States. I had other expectations. I thought that if I came to the United States, I would be safe and that there would be more understanding about transgender people or the LGBT community. But they didn’t have any respect for us. It was all so humiliating.” 

Alejandra, 34-yr-old transgender woman asylum seeker from Honduras

Detained for 9 months

“It was intimidating not having been to a prison before. I didn’t know what to expect. The chain link fencing with wires everywhere. The disembodied voice talking to you though the box at the entrance, and the gates opening and closing when you walk in, another door closing behind you and then waiting for another gate to open.  I thought, What the hell have I gotten myself into? 

“You push buttons for the door to open, then you push more buttons for other doors to open. You don’t actually sit with the person. You have to look at and sit across from each other with a thick pane of glass between you. You talk through a telephone. My first time, I felt a huge sense of relief that I could actually leave. And these guys are still in there and they don’t know when they are going to get out. 

“The people I visit go through these emotional ups and downs. I can see them go from very happy to being absolutely depressed. I go to dampen the amplitude of these ups and downs.

“By being there on a consistent basis and talking with them about what is happening in the world, or in their previous life, its like I’m there temporarily creating a fantasy to release them from the reality of their circumstances.“

Rich

Volunteer Visitor

“When they transferred me to San Luis, people inside said, So, you’re being deported? They said it was the place people go to before they are deported. It was terrible. I couldn’t go back home. Then I was transferred again…You sit and stare at four walls all the time and you’re not able to talk with people. Toward the end of my detention, I was so frustrated from everything. I couldn’t talk with anyone. If people tried to talk with me, I would get angry so I didn’t talk to anyone. There is nothing to distract you. Everything I had was circulating in my mind and there is nothing else. I would say to myself, I can’t do this. I can’t talk with people.

19-yr-old asylum seeker from Guatemala

Detained for 18 months in 5 different detention centers in

California, New York and Arizona

“We try to visit him as much as we can but that is usually once every few months. It is too far for us to travel and too expensive.

My youngest son misses his father so much. Three years, he’s been detained too long. We see him and he’s wearing the detention clothes. That’s not how I want my children to see him. But they need to see him. My son changes before and after he sees his father in the detention center.  You can see his face change when he sees his father. He’s happy, but we have to leave and he’s still in there.”

Wife of man in detention

(He’s been detained for 3 years)

“When I walk into that room, through the metal doors that close behind you, there are often families visiting with a loved one who is in detention. But most inside don’t have someone to visit them. I look for the person who is standing all by themselves and I know that is the person I’ve come to meet. We talk and they share their story with me. That’s what I carry with me after our time together. I carry their story and that is one of the most important things I do. People don’t hear their stories or see them.  But I do.

“Adelanto is built in the desert for a purpose: to make it hard for people to get to, for people to visit, for families to see their loved ones face to face.

“I go there to let people know there is someone who cares about them. To humanize their time there. I feel blessed to be able to meet people who have gone through so much in the places where they come from and then get here, only to be detained. I feel blessed to hear their stories and be a part of their journey. They need people. They need people mentally, emotionally and spiritually and they need people to give them some kind of hope because so much is done to make them lose hope.”

Eldaah

Visitation Program Volunteer

“As a lawyer representing detained immigrants who have travelled through 11 countries to end up in a cold, sterile prison, it is heartbreaking. 

Not only is Calexico far from any large city, it is located in a very desolate area. It is surrounded by miles of desert and agricultural fields. It is hot in the summer, and cold in the winter. This spatial reality reflects back to them the aloneness they feel in their soul. Apart from their families, apart from any legal help, apart from the court. They only see a judge by video. They are alone.  

Many days I go in feeling tired and overwhelmed by the amount of people I have promised to see that day.  Knowing for many of them I am their only chance to get asylum. They can suffer unimaginable torture, then travel through these 11 countries and risk their lives to come to this country that doesn't want them. They don't realize this until they are here watching our TV and hearing all of the horrible things being said about them and the countries they come from.  But yet, they have hope, irrepressible faith, and trust in the goodness of America. I sorely lack that right now, and it renews my own faith in our immigration system. If they can have that determination after all that they have been through, I can go forward also to fight against a bad ICE decision or a weak credibility determination or a denial by a judge.”

Elizabeth

Immigration Attorney 

“You never get used to seeing the effects that detention have on your clients. I always get to leave at the end of the day.

“A certain amount of what we do is really focusing on what we can do for clients and knowing and supporting them through these hard times and decisions. And, at least for the time when we are in there with them, really making sure we are treating them as human beings and as people. There is so little of that in detention. 

“I think how important an attorney is and how devastating detention can be for people in the process and  their ability to have a fair hearing.  People just don’t have a fair shake in the system. We know we don’t have the resources to represent everyone. That discomfort of knowing that there are people who we meet with who we are not going to be able to represent and knowing that a lawyer would have a significant impact on their case and having to say No and having to say No when you have the knowledge that it would make a difference, it’s a terrible part of the job.”

Tim Warden-Hertz

Immigration Attorney

On May 31, 2018, ICE transferred 124 asylum seekers to this Federal Prison Facility.

According to Innovation Law Lab in Portland, this included people from 16 different countries, speaking 13 different languages.

By November 28, 2018 all 124 asylum seekers had been released on bond, transferred or voluntarily chose deported.

“Back home, my family wanted to kill me because of who I am. All my life I’ve ran from them.

“I made it to Ecuador but after time, I was attacked, robbed and beaten up there. I went to Mexico, stayed in Tapachula then went to Tijuana. Someone helped me and two other guys cross the border but we were immediately arrested by Border Patrol.

“They transferred me to San Luis, Arizona for a week…I was put on a plane and flown to Denver. The flight was full. No empty seats. I was still in shackles on my hands and legs. I had no idea where we were going. I thought we landed at JFK. I asked a guy, Are we at JFK? and he said, No, you’re in Denver.

“In detention another guy from Ghana said, I feel like committing suicide. I said, You should not give up, if you have any hope in you.

“But in detention you are kidnapped. You have no one to turn to. It makes you feel very pathetic.

“In detention what can you think of? You think of everything and you worry. And in the end you remember another you.”

28-yr-old gay man from Ghana

Detained for 5 months

“When I was walking through that tunnel at the US port of entry I thought I was walking towards the gate of freedom.  Little did I know, I was walking towards the gate of hell. 

“I presented myself right at the port of entry. I told them I’m coming to the United States to seek asylum because I’m running away from my home government who wants to kill me and my family. On that fateful day, my hands were cuffed and my legs were chained and I did nothing more than move from process to process to process, all in chains. All in chains. 

“I was transferred to Otero without any information. No one told me anything. The system only wants deportation. It was clear. Racism was a part of it because I was a black man who could ask questions. At times, I was shunned. I realized I needed the hand of God to help me because the hand of man would fail me because the rate of which racism was practiced in Otero was alarming.?  If anyone wants to know what hell looks like, just come and I’ll tell you what Otero looks like and I will describe to you what the gates of hell look like.”

33-yr-old asylum seeker from Cameroon

Detained for 1 year and 3 months

“There was an officer at the detention center in El Paso. He was homophobic and he made my life impossible.

“He would threaten me and warn me that he would put me in a room called ‘the wolf’ where there is no light. You can’t see anything, and you can’t speak to anyone. You stay in there for 15 days. They would say things as if you were not a person. It’s like you feel like you don’t exist. Like you have no worth. Day after day these were the experiences that make you want to just give up.”

Jose, 21-yr-old asylum seekers from El Salvador

Detained for 9 months in three different locations

in Arizona, New Mexico and Texas

“The border patrol told me that my son would be taken to a secure place and they told me, You, you’re going to jail! 

“It was something I never thought could happen and I could never imagine. I wasn’t sure where they would be taking my son. He had just turned 8-years-old when we were separated…Moments later an officer came in. That was perhaps the most painful moment, when they were handcuffing me in front of my son. He could see me through a glass door.  I tried to make signs with my hands to him through the glass door.  I tried to put my hands down to say to my son: Calm...Calm. To say everything was fine.  

“All of this was happening to a group of families. About 25 in total. Fathers and mothers with children. We were all worried, not knowing where we were going or where our children were being taken. There was crying. Mostly the mothers. And then they took us away. 

“I was taken to Otero Detention Center. I was there for six days. I had no idea where my son was at this time. After Otero, we thought we would be reunited with our children. But then it turned out when we got there, it was Cibola, which is another detention center. In Cibola, I found out my son was in San Antonio but I couldn’t talk with him because I didn’t have any money. 

“After 20 days in Cibola they took e to El Paso. After fifteen days in El Paso, I was finally able to talk with my son on the phone. He sounded different. He was sad and he was so quite. I needed to hug him. I needed to see him, but I couldn’t.   

“They gave my son back to me in El Paso. Then they transported us by bus from El Paso to Karnes. We were told we were going to be taken to a place where we would spend the night and that we were going to be reunited with our family in the US. During the bus ride, I had my hands free and my son by my side. I fell asleep with him in my arms.  

“In Karnes, there were always officers around. They would tell us, Be careful. They would come to our rooms and check on us. At night they would also check on us. We had a schedule when we had to report and present ourselves. We had strict eating hours. There was always some sort of officer watching us to see if we were behaving well or if we were behaving poorly. Some officers at Karnes would tell me how to care for my son. To not hit my son. To go to medical. To not think bad things. To not think of taking my own life. They said this to all the families there. It was uncomfortable. You always had someone behind you, demanding you to clean and do things well but it was different because at least I had my son with me and I felt I had to just get through it. 

“Fifteen days after we arrived at Karnes we saw on the news that the President had said something about all of us being indefinitely detained. This was the lowest point for many of us. We were full of anguish. 

“Detention made me very depressed and full of stress. I now have a great problem with nervousness. I try to control it and I try to get a lot of help with this anguish because there is still a very great fear that remains in my mind. It feels as if I am still detained. This fear. It’s a great trauma. 

“My son is still adjusting. His character changed. He’s much more reserved. We’ve been trying to talk to him. To tell him not to worry. That we won’t be separated again. He is still very timid. He is still very quite and he still has that sense of sadness.”

33-yr-old asylum seekers from Honduras

Separated from his 8-yr-old son in May 2018 for 45 days

Detained for 6 months (4 months with his son)

“I worked in the laundry at the detention center and one day while I was working I told the officer I didn’t feel well and asked if I could go back to my cell. That night, I fainted and I don’t remember anything until I woke up in the hospital.

“I stayed in the hospital for 15 days.  During those 15 days, the officers from the detention center would not leave my sight. There were two officers in my room all the time: one man and one woman, always wearing their uniforms: dark green shirts and khaki pants. At 6:00pm everyday, the ones who where there in the morning would leave and two new officers would replace them for the night. The officers were always there. All the time.

“They wouldn’t let the doctors or the nurses be there with me alone. The officers wouldn’t talk to me. They didn’t say a word. They had a notebook where they would write down everything I did in it: what I ate, when I went to the bathroom, when I took my medicines.  At night, while I was sleeping, they were there in my room. Even while I would take a shower. One of them would stand there in the door of the bathroom while I showered. I was never alone. They were all over me.

 “The day I was released from the hospital, they made me put on my uniform from the detention center: a dark-blue shirt and light-blue pants. They put me in handcuffs and I was refrained around my waist. My feet were shackled. Then they took me out of the hospital in a wheelchair.

“When I was in the wheelchair and they were taking me out of the hospital, I was crying and humiliated. I was thinking about everything I had gone through just to come to the US.  They took me out of the hospital like I was a criminal. People looked at me in the wheelchair and no one showed compassion toward me knowing I was sick and seeing me be taken out to the van in that way. They put me in the van and took me back to Prairieland.”

27-yr-old woman asylum seeker from El Salvador

Detained for 1 year and 4 months in three

different detention centers

“For me, it got to the stage where I myself...it was the last thing I wanted to do...be deported, but I voluntarily asked to be deported. There was no need to spend another 3 years in detention for a federal appeal of my case. My life has been destroyed. My family has been destroyed. Let me go back. 

“The entire system is corrupt. It dehumanizes people. And, it is money making.

“They want to keep you isolated from the world so that no one knows if you exist or if you die. In my country, people who are locked up in prison are the bad guys in society. So, just being locked up in a prison is enough to bring some psychological impact on me. Seeing myself in prison clothes, there was just no more dignity in me. I ask myself, Have I come to fight with the United States? Am I a rebel? Am I a terrorist?...I am none of the above! My country never fought a war with the United States. I’m not a prisoner of war. So why would they treat me like this? To my surprise, nobody could understand us. ICE is inhuman. They don’t have a heart of a human being.”   

38-year-old asylum seeker from Sierra Leone 

Detained for 1 year and 8 months

Immigrant Children Shelter

Company:  BCFS Health & Human Services (Non-profit status)

Capacity: 1,575 (In December 2018 it held up to 3,000 children)

From June 2018 to mid-January 2019 some 6,000 children where held here

Closed in mid-January 2019 

“Two days ago I was able to convince a judge to give my client a little more time to prepare his case. My client was happy I could help him. But there’s so much he doesn’t know.

He doesn’t know that statistically his chances of ever getting out of detention are slim to none, that his odds of ever actually winning asylum are even more remote. He doesn’t know that hundreds of miles away in our nation’s capital powerful, educated, highly-paid government lawyers are right now discussing strategies to make his case even harder to win, to make it even less likely he will ever walk free here in the U.S.., indeed to make it less likely that people like him will ever even make it out of their collapsing home countries.

He doesn’t know that he’s trapped inside a giant wealth transfer machine that ruthlessly nickels-and-dimes working-class Americans and asylum seekers alike in order to enrich shareholders who will never in their lives see the inside of a prison, or know hunger, or find themselves in need of asylum.

All he knows is that for the first time since he left his country and spent weeks crossing Mexico barefoot, with no money and no food, for the first time someone is on his side. Knowing only this, he’s happy. But I know all the things he doesn’t know, and I’m sad.”

Brian

Immigration Attorney

“When I arrived at JFK I told them I’m seeking asylum. They first told me they wanted to deport me back. I told them I can’t go back! So they told me they were going to take me to a place where I’m going to stay for some time and wait for a judge.

“When they opened the doors at Elizabeth, I didn’t know where I was at first. I didn’t even know it was Elizabeth or anything. I was still in handcuffs and they told me to go into the check in room. I was crying. I was frustrated. I was crying so much. They tried to calm me down...They brought me a uniform and took me to a room and told me to remove everything like take off all my clothes. It was very very overwhelming. I cried so much because I was being treated like a I was a prisoner.

“I was wearing a prison uniform. They took me to the dormitory and I dropped down when I reached the dormitory. There were other girls in the dorm. It has 29 beds…The girls I met tried to calm me down. They tried to talk to me, Don’t worry, everything is going to be fine. You’re going to be there for some time, but don’t worry. We’ve been here for this long.

“Wearing a uniform, it’s so overwhelming. Those are things you only see in movies. But seeing it happen to you is really devastating. You just can’t believe that you are falling out of a cistern and into the fire. You can’t be sure of what you are doing. You can’t be sure of how long you’re going to be there. You can’t be sure of what the judge is going to tell you. You can’t be sure if you are going to win your case. You’re not sure. In everything, you have to wait and be patient and look up and know you will be in there for quite some time.”

29-yr-old woman asylum seeker from Uganda

Detained for 5 months

“After we were in the freezers at the border, they took us to a jail. They would read off group names on the list and one day my name was on one of those lists. They too me out of the jail with some others, boarded us on a plane without us knowing that we would go to Virginia.

“I felt like it was over. That I was going to be deported. They put shackles on my wrists and legs and waist and made us board the plane. It was a big plane. Packed with about 100 people. I sat on the window…I was emotional because it was the first time I was going to fly but there was a lost hope by looking at everyone on the plane shackled and sitting in their seats.

“When we got off the plane, they packed us into two buses and when I was arriving I was under the impression it was a jail and that we would be there for a few days where they would prepare to deport us.

“For two months, they did not allow us to go outside because it was snowing out and it was too cold. When that passed away, we were allowed to go out. I felt some hope but I knew it wouldn’t last long.

“After the fifth month in detention, I was losing hope. There’s a lot of desperation. There was an ICE officer who would come and tell us that if we went through the immigration process without representation, it would be very difficult to convince a judge. They said to get an attorney.

“I felt powerless like I was pinned against a wall because the attorneys were charging $2500 USD for representation and I didn’t have the money and my family didn’t have it either. It drove me to think I would need to go about the process by myself. Then I met some pro bono lawyers. I know I would have lost my case without them.

32-yr-old asylum seeker from Honduras

Detained 6 months