At the close of June, I traveled to Harlingen, Texas, to witness firsthand the escalating human rights crisis unfolding in McAllen, Brownsville, and along the border. I anticipated feelings of sadness and anger, yet I was unprepared for the overwhelming sense of shock that left me struggling to process the reality I encountered.
The situation was far more dire than I had envisioned. How could it be that in the United States—our land of liberty, our home of courage—we treat fellow human beings, including innocent children, with such disregard? How do I convey the depth of this experience to my family, friends, and colleagues who have witnessed some of the world’s most severe humanitarian disasters?
My group, which included leaders from prominent children’s advocacy organizations, was barred from entering an Office of Refugee Resettlement facility (often referred to as ORR detention centers, or even jails). Despite submitting all necessary paperwork, we were told that the tours were too distressing for the children. Yet, the harrowing accounts from lawyers and medical professionals we met at the border, coupled with what I witnessed, painted a much grimmer picture of the children’s reality.
Among the stories was that of a 13-year-old girl who became pregnant as a result of rape while in detention. I learned about a 1-year-old who couldn’t be soothed by anything other than the sight of his lawyer’s banana, as all the detained children had received was a bologna sandwich hours earlier—no snacks allowed. Then there was a mother who had lost her 8-year-old daughter to a drug cartel, only to be detained and denied medical care for months, using sanitary pads as makeshift bandages until she was near death and needed to be airlifted to a hospital.
Babies have spent more of their lives in detention than they have outside, learning to walk and talk within the confines of bars. One 8-year-old girl regressed so badly that she asked to be breastfed like a baby. Another mother risked everything to reach the U.S. border with her three young children, only to witness her oldest son drown in the Rio Grande after falling from their raft—a tragedy she could do nothing to prevent as she clutched her surviving children and wept. “No one puts their children in a boat unless the water is safer than the land,” echoes the sentiment of Somali-British poet Warsan Shire, emphasizing that parents undertake perilous journeys only when fleeing something far worse.
When they finally arrive at our heavily militarized border, they walk across the Reynosa Bridge seeking asylum, overwhelmed by fear and trauma, grasping their children tightly, all while being closely observed by U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) agents who do not offer assistance or compassion. This was the case for Sofia and her 5-year-old son from Honduras, who were left confused until our small group formed a protective circle around them, despite the ICE agents ordering us to “keep moving and leave her alone.”
In juvenile immigration court, I observed proceedings involving 11 unaccompanied minors. Only two had legal representation. One of these was a charming 9-year-old girl with big, brown eyes and a pink ribbon in her hair, which became disheveled as she slumped in boredom. It was her second court appearance without representation, and the judge offered her a special third hearing if she could secure an attorney by then.
The most heartbreaking case involved a 16-year-old boy, also without representation, who requested voluntary return to Guatemala, thereby forfeiting his asylum claim. When asked why he sought to return to a country he had fled, he revealed he had talked to his mother, who said it was time to come home—even as he admitted he didn’t feel safe going back.
Despite their age, teenagers are still children, some of whom have been separated from their parents for extended periods, navigating the court system alone, overwhelmed and terrified. Every child I saw in court fidgeted, teared up, or appeared defeated. I remember my own experience in court at 22, with my dad there for support, illustrating the stark contrast faced by these minors.
What I witnessed were fellow human beings—mothers, fathers, little boys, and girls—who, simply by the circumstances of their birth, are subjected to collective punishment. “An avalanche of punishments,” as described by a local civil rights attorney. They are labeled as less than human, as illegals, aliens, or bad hombres, enduring unthinkable hardships.
We must start recognizing Sofia and countless others, not just as numbers but as human beings deserving of dignity. It’s crucial to enact laws ensuring that every child has access to legal counsel. Meanwhile, we should support organizations like the CARA Pro Bono Project, which, as stated by their sole full-time employee, operates like the “legal version of the emergency room,” addressing nearly all cases at the Dilley Family Residential Center, the largest immigrant detention facility in the United States.
It’s time to end family detention. Alternatives to Detention programs cost taxpayers $36 daily for an entire family, compared to $300 for detaining a family and $775 for a separated child. Currently, there are nearly 12,000 children in these overcrowded centers. Let’s liberate these families, allowing infants the opportunity to take their first steps and call out “Mama” outside of cages. Pregnant women should have the freedom to choose a trusted doctor or midwife who prioritizes their and their babies’ well-being. We also need to tackle the root causes driving families to our borders, including violence, gang threats, and extreme poverty.
At the very least, let’s engage our children in discussions about compassion and action—not just tolerance and acceptance. It should be as simple as asking, “What if this were my family?”
Summary:
This article shares a personal account from a visit to the Texas border, highlighting the dire conditions faced by detained immigrants and children. It calls for compassion, legal representation for detained minors, and an end to family detention, while encouraging proactive discussions about empathy within our communities.