On a pleasant spring morning this May, I watched a young mother walk up the sidewalk carrying a car seat that held her wide-eyed, three-month-old daughter. Trailing her, two acquaintances maneuvered four large suitcases, containing all her belongings, to their resting place in front of the US Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) Atlanta field office. They said brief goodbyes, leaving her standing in front of the nondescript downtown building. With no signage announcing what the building is used for, it easily blends in with the other administrative-looking office buildings that surround it, save the tall iron perimeter fence encircling it. Nestled close to the bus station and the city jail, the ICE office lives in a part of downtown that people generally avoid, unless they have a good reason to be there.
The baby, whose dark black hair was held in place by an oversized hairbow, was dressed in a onesie that read “Daddy’s girl.” Yet, the baby had never met her father. He was deported to Venezuela in February, leaving his pregnant wife alone, homeless, and without a job. When I approached her, I already knew what she was there to do, and sure enough, she told me that she had come to “self-deport.”
I listened gently to her story and then asked a few questions to try to determine whether she had examined different options. I wondered if she was aware of the possible outcomes associated with this decision. Oftentimes, when immigrants arrive at the ICE office desiring to leave voluntarily, they face red tape and the possibility of being held in detention.
She listened to what I had to say, but the whole time, her face was either fixed on the entrance or her eyes were darting up and down the line of people waiting to go inside for their appointments. “The reality is, I have nowhere to go. I’m living on the streets,” she told me, matter-of-factly, speaking in Spanish.
She went on to share that another Venezuelan woman told her that ICE held her for four days before sending her back to her home country. Maybe in comparison to being on the street with a small baby, that didn’t seem too bad to her. However, my mind immediately went to the chilling things my team has heard from others who have been detained at the ICE office. People describe being held in the basement, packed in a room with sometimes thirty or more other people, sleeping on a floor covered by no more than a mylar blanket.
We have frequently heard stories, corroborated by local media, that people are held indefinitely, with little food, no access to visitors or lawyers, no change of clothes or undergarments, and without access to a shower. What would that look like with a three-month-old baby, I wondered. But I also wondered, what choice did this mother really have? After we spoke, we exchanged contact information and she went inside. I never heard from her again.
This woman’s story is not an anomaly. Rather, it is a troubling pattern that I am observing more and more frequently outside of the ICE Field Office. As the Program Director for Casa Alterna, I coordinate teams of volunteers who arrive every weekday at 7:30 a.m. to provide companionship to the immigrants reporting to ICE. We stand alongside those lined up outside, offering them support and solidarity as they await their appointment to check in with an ICE Officer. These vulnerable immigrants sometimes come unaware of the risk they may be facing and oftentimes without fully knowing what their appointment will entail. Throughout many of the previous administrations, these appointments were largely routine, but in our current political reality, the appointments are much more unpredictable.
At times, continuing to show up in front of the ICE office can feel insufficient in comparison to the cruelty of the detention and deportation machine that ramps up more and more by the day. For instance, I was unable to change the outcome for the young mother I met. Yet, I believe our presence is powerful considering both what it stands for and what we do provide.
When we meet people, learn their names, and listen to their stories, we aim to embody a different way of being; a way that privileges what Pope Francis called a “culture of encounter.” We assert that they are not numbers and affirm that they are not aliens. Rather, they are human beings, and they are our brothers and sisters. Again and again, our encounters remind us of the shared humanity that we all possess. When we listen closely to them, we become more aware of the false narratives and scapegoating that we hear from both our government and in public discourse.
We also stand as witnesses. Our presence alerts ICE that what they do is not done in secret. And we stand in solidarity, signaling to those in line that they are not facing this cruelty alone. We may not be able to singlehandedly dismantle the systems of oppression we are up against, but as long as these systems continue to operate, so will we, holding fast to Dr. King’s words: “The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice.”
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