As an Immigrant, Visiting an Immigration Detention Center Is Surreal
My efforts to lend an ear to undocumented communities opened my eyes to how easy I had it
For as long as I can remember, the authority figures in my life have impressed upon me the importance of pondering my own privilege: An elder lamenting how, before the internet, he was obliged to rely on nothing but a set of encyclopedias for a term paper; a teacher recounting the tale of a young boy who traversed miles of war-torn roads just to get to school; my mother huddling my sister and I around the computer to read an email about starving children in East Africa. And while these stories often left me with little more than a skewed worldview, most were told with the best of intentions: They were meant to make me take stock of the world beyond myself.
Today, I’ve learned this lesson 100 times over — one might even argue it would benefit me to take a step back from the world’s problems and take stock of my own life.
To provide a clearer picture of what I mean, I should begin with a landmark occasion in my life: becoming a U.S. citizen. As I advanced through secondary school and university as a permanent resident — and benefitted from a certain amount of security in status — I was nevertheless reminded of my limitations: I did not have the right to vote, and I could be deported to a country I hardly knew. I spent my formative years hell-bent on living a life above reproach, and I had to accept that I would have no part in electing officials whose political views could be life-altering for myself and others.
It’s a quiet reality, far removed from the spotlight of the mainstream, but no less harsh in its glare.
Despite everything, I maintained my residency, hyperconscious of the fact that, like citizenship, it was a privilege. This is not something I say in relation to today’s connotation of the word, something that must be earned. I recognize either status to be a privilege in that each is something “enjoyed only by a person beyond the advantages of most.” Luckily, I had little to fear in seeking permanent status and I was also able to cover the cost of citizenship. Needless to say, some are not as fortunate — and in the days leading up to my swearing-in ceremony, there was hardly a moment I wasn’t thinking about them. One memory chased its tail around my thoughts as the occasion drew nearer: my visit to what one CNN article termed “America’s Hidden Border.”
In my junior year of college, I wanted to do something useful on behalf of the communities — Black, Latinx, queer, and so many others — that are threatened by politically endorsed dehumanization and widespread ignorance. To this end, I decided to join a close-knit service and advocacy organization of students working in solidarity with undocumented communities; it was this alliance that led me to El Refugio. Located approximately two miles from the Stewart Detention Center in Lumpkin, Georgia, the hospitality ministry serves as a hotel, kitchen, and support center for detained immigrants’ and asylum seekers’ loved ones. Through El Refugio, I was exposed to the reality of those who’ve traveled a much rougher path than me. It’s a quiet reality, far removed from the spotlight of the mainstream, but no less harsh in its glare.
Lumpkin, the city housing the largest immigrant detention center in the Southeast, has a population of under 1,200 people. On the morning of my visit, only two of them appeared to be outside. My peers and I were fresh from a three-plus hour drive, but it wasn’t until we passed through the town that we started to comprehend the distance, silence, and seclusion from the rest of the world. At risk of sounding overly dramatic, it felt like we’d arrived to film an episode of AMC’s The Walking Dead. Set against this desolate backdrop, El Refugio lives up to its name; I was startled to find everything contained in one little yellow house.
Since my visit, the ministry has moved to a larger house, but when I was there, the little house contained a small but practically stocked kitchen, at least two tiny bedrooms (each with at least two beds to match) and a sitting room with a long plaid sofa, children’s toys, and books scattered neatly about. Pictures covered almost every surface — photographs of families, kids’ drawings, beautifully detailed tapestries, and maps of the world. Three women, weary but welcoming, offered us coffee as they told us more about Stewart, Georgia Detention Watch, and the network that had given rise to El Refugio. Everything about this little house and its inhabitants felt sad, yet hopeful.
In addition to providing free food and lodging to the families of those detained nearby, El Refugio takes groups to visit individuals in detention, which would be our primary focus that day.
Those belonging to our group were sorted by levels of foreign language fluency, mostly in Spanish or French. Having little faith in my own foreign language skills, though, I was to speak with a detainee from southeastern Europe who was a fairly fluent English speaker. I was also given a small piece of paper with a message to relay to him. It read, “Your lawyer is trying to get you out by Monday.” On the short drive over to Stewart, I must have reread this message at least 10 times. I remember feeling strangely nervous that, somehow, I would get it wrong.
As it turned out, I didn’t have to worry. From the moment we pulled up to the double-barbed wire fence surrounding Stewart Detention Center, I knew I’d have plenty of time to review the message inscribed on that tiny slip of paper. After passing through security, I still had to wait about two hours. We had been instructed to leave behind our phones and other electronics prior to our visit, so I whiled away those hours observing the people around me. I saw a woman sitting with her three daughters, doing her best to keep the peace between them during the long wait. A particularly boisterous couple made small talk with the security officers about the hours long trip to Stewart; when faced with a similar waiting period to see their loved one, they started to debate coming back the next morning.
Even my presence began to feel cruelly inadequate, as he looked to me for answers I simply couldn’t provide.
After seeing many others come and go, I was finally hustled through security to the visitation area. It was exactly as I had imagined: prison-style plexiglass windows, with telephone handsets on the adjacent walls. Even so, I was taken aback; as nebulous as the distinction between imprisonment and detention may be, I couldn’t help but associate things like glass partitions with the former. I did, however, suspect the effects of detainment were no different than those of incarceration — and I wasn’t wrong. Behind the window, the man I’d come to see was a picture of spiritual distress: bloodshot eyes, forehead crinkled in consternation, hair mussed from continually dragging his fingers through it.
At first, he seemed to think I was there as some kind of counsel, and the message I carried with me only served to reinforce this impression: “Your lawyer is trying to get you out by Monday.” It suddenly felt… insufficient, both the note and its wording. Even my presence began to feel cruelly inadequate, as he looked to me for answers I simply couldn’t provide. Beyond the vague possibility of his release, all I could offer was 30 to 60 minutes worth of conversation.
Yet he was extremely gracious in accepting this fact. He told me his story (which I won’t repeat here for fear of misremembering or misrepresenting him), and took comfort in hearing mine. Throughout the conversation, he also revealed bits and pieces about what it was like to spend months in detention.
More than anything, he spoke about the mental toll — the product of living in such a bleak and uncertain atmosphere. Anxiety, depression, and stress… so much stress. As he spoke, I was reminded of the importance of simply listening. I began to understand what it means to help someone remember their humanity, just by sitting face-to-face with them and hearing their grievances.
I won’t lie and say that I felt, at any point, like I was doing this man some great service. I was only becoming increasingly conscious of what a rarity the simple act of caring has become.
After a while, it was time to go. I managed what I hoped was an encouraging smile, and said I would keep him in my thoughts and prayers. When he returned the sentiment, that feeling of not doing enough came back in full force. Another volunteer sat waiting for me out front, who could tell I was upset because he smiled in understanding; this was not his first time visiting.
As we left the building, I heard myself say, “Is it always like this?”
“Yeah,” he answered. “Pretty much.”
As we departed, I felt overwhelmed with emotion — as though, just by talking to this man, I’d taken on all his problems, absorbing them through my skin like a dry sponge. It was such a profound, debilitating fatigue that I remember crashing the moment I got back to my dorm, collapsing onto my bed, where it felt like I slept forever.
I had grown up watching her bear the brunt of this sacrifice, just as these children were with their own parents.
When I finally woke the next morning, my first thought was of the children’s drawings that decorated the walls of the hospitality house. I was about the same age as those children when my mother brought us to this country because, where we were from, even though she’d had a good job, she could barely afford to feed us. I’d grown up watching her bear the brunt of this sacrifice.
Now, over a year later, I still wonder how those kids are beginning to view the world. Are their parents and educators teaching them the same lessons I’d started learning at their age? Are they learning them through hostility or hardship?
I’ve been fortunate enough to reach so many milestones that it’s sometimes easy to forget how others can only achieve them at an infinitely higher price. At the best of times, it gives me so much to consider. And at the worst? It gives me much more than I’m able to forget.
