Yesterday morning I accompanied a woman to her ICE check-in at 26 Federal Plaza. She has been in the US for over 10 years and holds a U-2 Visa. Relative to an immigration court hearing, her check-in should be low stakes. But there is so much unpredictability in the system right now. The law and Constitution are respected only when they can be twisted to serve those in power. They are openly flouted, meaning nothing can be taken for granted anymore. Nothing can be seen as routine, as low stakes.
Her stomach was in knots. She couldn’t eat or drink anything. She stood, reading her bible, against the metal fence used to corral people into lines. I stood next to her, taking in the people around us. Families, so many families. Children of all ages. Pulled out of their beds and out of school to be counted and photographed and checked against a registration database. Some sat on the concrete, distracted by games on a phone or by one another. Others were in strollers; one rode on an adult’s shoulders. Bored teenagers with headphones around their necks or over their ears lounged against the metal barriers. Interruptions of normalcy in a setting that shouldn’t be normalized. A young girl, perhaps high-school age, stood with whom I imagined were her parents and siblings. The fear in her eyes was visceral as she laid her head on the shoulder of the woman beside her. There were silent tears streaming down her cheeks.
I shouldn’t have even been able to be this close, standing within the metal barriers, but the private security that manages the lines outside the building allows me to stay. I’m wearing my pastoral collar. At first, they turned me away, but after 10 minutes of standing outside the barrier, keeping eyes on my friend, they opened the gate and said, “you can come in and wait with her”.
The private security people outside the building were, on this day, kind. When 7am arrived and it was time to be processed into the building they tried to be lighthearted in their reminders and instructions to break the tension. “If you have a machete, you’ll have to leave that out here”, they joked. They asked what languages people spoke and communicated in those they knew. The last to speak said, “God bless you”.
I can’t imagine what having a job like theirs does to their souls and their spirits, to their own humanity – to have to choose so clearly between their own survival, their own ability to earn a wage and feed and house themselves and their families, and participation in a system that they know degrades and terrorizes people on a daily basis.
We are all complicit, but most of us can pretend we don’t see it. We can turn off the TV, ignore the news that doesn’t affirm what we think we already know, or scroll past, adjusting the algorithm to show only what makes us feel good and consume more.
How does a person hold all that when they have to see it every day?
Eventually, three ICE agents emerge in full tactical gear, their faces covered with balaclavas. Baseball caps sit atop their heads. Only one doesn’t wear sunglasses. He’s wearing a Cracker Barrel hat. We make eye contact. His eyes are young. He notices my collar and drops his gaze.
When it’s time to check the paperwork of our segment of the line, the agent in the Cracker Barrel hat and one other approach us. “Who are you?” they ask. I keep my voice low and gentle. “I’m her pastor, can I go in with her?”
“You can’t come in this door, but you can go through the door on the other side. Wait here while I double check with my supervisor.”
A few minutes later the supervisor walks back up the line. As he strides past, he says curtly into the air between us, without making eye contact, “You can’t be here.” The two agents we spoke with earlier are a few steps behind him. Understanding I couldn’t be in that particular line, I wait for them to clarify if I can still go to the line on the other side. “Does she not understand what I said?” the supervisor bellows over his shoulder. “I’m really sorry,” says one of the subordinates. Usually, you could go to the other line. But not today. I’m sorry.”
Again, I couldn’t help but wonder what they were experiencing in their own humanity.
It occurred to me that when they tell us they wear their face coverings for protection, they are in fact telling us the truth. Protection from their own shame, perhaps.
This is what we are doing to our neighbors. It’s what we are doing to ourselves. There was nothing special about this morning. It’s what we do.
The process I witnessed today is designed to be emotionally and psychologically cruel, and it is being constantly redesigned, not only to amplify the fear and anxiety of those who are a part of it, but to stay one step ahead of those working tirelessly to hold it accountable to the laws and the founding principles of this country and its constitution.
The woman I accompanied came out of the building about 20 minutes after she went in. She called her husband as soon as she was out the door. His face lit up and he ran out of the cafe where we had been waiting. I watched through the window as he enveloped her in a bear hug.
She carried temporary relief and a piece of paper requiring her to return again in December. No reason given. Other than a reminder, perhaps, that they are in charge and can do what they want.
She is confused. “I don’t understand. Why are they doing this to me? What do they want?”
This. This is exactly what they want.
God, have mercy on us.
P.S. The photo above was used in social media posts, to appease the algorithm. God have mercy on us, indeed.
Transforming Mommy 