The facility, (aka ‘baby jail’)
October 6th, 2019
My first day in jail:
At 7 am this morning, I drove 8 minutes from the seedy Days Inn to the South Texas Family Residential (Detention) Center in my bright white Nissan rental. I turned left onto an unmarked road after passing the massive Dolph Briscoe Prison. In front of me a row of trailers barricaded a parking lot housing approximately 500 cars. Behind the trailers, tall, bright lights cast a scorching light through the dark morning. I passed three flags on my left: the US flag, the TX flag and the Department of Homeland Security flag, all towering over an understated ‘South Texas Family Residential Center’ sign.
I walked into the first trailer and was asked to take everything out of my bag. (Phones are not allowed in the center, nor is it permissible to take photos of the building or the grounds under any circumstances.) The experience was much like going through TSA at the airport. Corecivic guards wearing maroon shirts and khaki pants waved a wand around me, asked for my driver’s license and handed me a badge, my entrance to the next trailer.
I anticipated the trailer being bigger with larger rooms and a bigger break room. I pictured it would look more like a high school and less like a preschool. The Center is composed of a common room in the middle, surrounded by ten auxiliary rooms for interviews and two, small offices. Not once did we see outside the walls of this area.
After getting acquainted with the room, our team of ten volunteers sat in for the ‘charla’ or orientation. I felt a very familiar ‘us vs. them’ energy, much like what I’ve experienced when high school students enter a new community and don’t know the protocol for interacting with people in another part of the world.
It’s a funny thing we do, as a people, when we are uncomfortable. We sometimes forget how and when to smile and ask how someone else is doing. I wanted to be sure I wasn’t violating any norms and asked if it was okay to talk to the nearly 200 women who would walk through the doors today. I was told, ‘yes,’ it was okay to talk to the women, but never, ever touch them.
I smiled as much as I could today and was instantly reminded of my time in Nicaragua and the kindred connections I feel with the women.
I spoke with two women with two very different cases.
I talked with the first woman from 9 am until 2 pm about her complicated case. Her husband and children had been threatened and targeted by gangs, but that wasn’t enough. We had to dive deeper into her story to uncover direct threats toward her.
Gangs threatened to kill the second woman and her son via anonymous notes left at her home. For the first time in her life, she left her neighborhood and fled from her country with her son, hoping she could provide a better life for him. She eventually made it to a ‘safe house’ in Mexico where she was robbed and left to her own devices in the desert at night. She was apprehended by immigration at the border, went to three different ‘hieleras’ or ‘iceboxes’ before flying to Dilley, Texas.*
With both cases, we called husbands in Central America. They were extremely receptive and helpful. Both women cried throughout my time with them.
Maybe this is how doctors feel when they are serving patients. In the moment, there is a necessary feeling of being desensitized to the person and what they are experiencing because the goal is to find a diagnosis, a treatment plan. I wanted to make sure the women were ready for their interviews, so I acted as a coach, telling them, `You've got this,’ ‘ you are strong and powerful,’ ‘you have walked all of this way to find a better life for your family, so you can use that strength to speak with confidence with the asylum officer.’ And to myself, ‘I will help you build your case.’ ‘I will sit with you and create a space for you.’ ‘‘Later, in my hotel room, I will weep when I remember your story.’
I touched one woman’s shoulder today, (which isn’t allowed). It was instinctual. It is so hard not to embrace them and hold them.
After one day at the Detention Center, I am reminded of the decade I spent traveling to and from Nicaragua. I carry the Nicaraguan mothers in my heart and continue to realize their impact on my life. As I enter into 4 more days listening to stories of women and children looking to discover a better life for themselves and their families, I am carried by my friends, family and lifetime of experiences around the world.
And still, I have yet to find a community in which a smile doesn’t work.
*US Border Patrol takes migrants to holding cells, referred to as ‘hieleras’ immediately upon crossing the border. The extremely cold temperatures of the ‘iceboxes’ have been said to cause sickness and even death. I heard many horrific stories about the hieleras including descriptions of frozen food kicked toward the women, children being separated from families, border agents yelling at the mothers, sleeping on a crowded, cold ground in a cell with aluminum blankets and overall inhumane conditions. For more information on the hieleras, read this AP news article.
The Flores Settlement Agreement (FSA) was instated in 1997 as a measure to ensure the wellbeing of undocumented children. The Trump administration has repeatedly threatened to terminate the FSA.