Western Mass Jewish Activists for Immigration Justice

An inspiring, saddening, exhausting day. We’ve been meeting several courageous, hardworking volunteers who show up almost daily to bear witness to what is happening at Homestead. They are friendly, upbeat, helpful.

We spent part of the morning standing on ladders, holding heart signs, waving and shouting slogans of solidarity to the 12-17 year olds waiting in line to play soccer or return to the tents where they eat or supposedly have classes. Many waved back. Then we scanned some of the more than 3,000 letters written by children across the country to the children interred here so that there would be a record of them in case DHS doesn’t keep its promise to deliver these letters to the children.

This afternoon Charlie, a tireless volunteer, took us on a tour of the perimeter of Homestead. Having noticed some Haitian security guards, I approached them in Creole and while friendly, they told me they couldn’t answer my questions. All the employees are under strict order not to speak to any of the witnesses or visitors. What disturbed and saddened me most was seeing the high double fenced barrier covered with impermeable mesh, behind which the 17 year olds are housed. Charlie told us that in the more than hundred days she’s been at Homestead they were only able to communicate once with the 17 year olds through the high fence. What’s more, the building where they’re housed has no windows. On their 18th birthdays the boys (and girls) are shackled and brought to adult prisons.

After a very late lunch we attended a training in preparation for the American Friends rally and march at Homestead on Father’s Day. We met people from Florida, New York, Washington D.C., Michigan, Minnesota, Colorado, New Hampshire, Illinois and Texas. It was heartening to know that they had come from far and wide to witness and protest.

We ended the training with a rousing rendition of “You Do Not Walk Alone” followed by a dinner and interfaith service. Alice, tireless and determined, stayed for the service, while the rest of us returned to our hosts’ homes.

125 days of social activists maintaining a presence outside the massive Homestead Detention Center, where somewhere between 2000 and 4000 migrant teens are held. Our second day bearing witness. The shutdown campaign’s slogan is “Homes Instead,” an apt pun on the town’s name.

When any group of kids are outside for their brief periods of recreation, the witnesses try to have a presence on the ladders, where we can see the detainees and they can see us. We sing and chant to them.

For me, that is the main reason we are here: to give them the comfort of knowing they are not forgotten. I wish I could gather them up and give them all hugs; they are not even allowed to touch each other. In my mind, the virtual hug we can give them from the other side of the fence and the separation of several hundred yards is even more important than shutting down this horrible place that profits on human misery.

When the kids weren’t outside or we needed a break from the heat, we helped at the tent, scanning a few dozen of the thousands of support letters written (and often decorated) by kids around the country, many of them wonderfully moving . DHS has promised to deliver them to the kids. Organizers are of course backing up all the letters, both to ensure they are recorded if they don’t actually make it to the detainees, and also to use in press interviews and outreach efforts.

The detention center staff numbers about 3000, the vast majority young people of color. In Homestead, a depressed agricultural community still struggling to recover from 1995’s Hurricane Andrew, jobs at this prison (let’s call it what it really is) pay better and offer stability–and for most, a respite form the temperamental Florida weather (some are outside on security details, etc.) And our little affinity group knows that any path to ending this facility has to include mitigating the economic impact of ending these soul-killing but family-feeding jobs. Many of the buildings in and around the facility grounds are still abandoned and deteriorating since the hurricane almost a quarter-century ago.

The most depressing area houses (or should I say warehouses) the 17-year-olds. While those below 17 have windows in their dorms and share their rooms with only 8-12 people, these kids are kept in windowless barracks with 144 beds to a room. The younger ones are blocked from view by a single wire fence covered with mesh, while the older ones are behind a double layer of metal and mesh, with several additional feet of height recently added. It would take much taller ladders to be seen on the other side.

When they reach 18, they’re shackled and shipped out to adult detention centers. Some birthday present!

Apparently, many of these kids have sponsors waiting for them—but they don’t make it easy for families to reunite. Because this is considered an “emergency influx facility,” it is exempt from the Flores rules that mandate children be released within 20 days. Some have been here for months. And Caliburn, the private company that runs this prison for kids who have committed no crime other than arriving at our border to seek asylum, receives $775 per child per day of our tax money (several times as much as it would cost if a government agency were running it). People who’ve done the math estimate the company is raking in a million bucks every two days. So they have no incentive to process sponsorships and discharge their captives.

There’s also the other side of the equation. Not all the sponsors (usually relatives) are here legally. Because there’s been a history of coordinating with ICE, many sponsors are afraid to come forward because they themselves risk being arrested, incarcerated, and eventually deported.

A security detail followed us in a pickup truck as Charlie led us around the complex, and as we approached each gate, guards would casually close the gates so we couldn’t see much as we passed.

Whatever happened to “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free”?

Pictures from Day 2.

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Today was Day 124 of the witness at the massive detention center in Homestead, Florida. But for all but one of our Western Massachusetts affinity group, it was Day One. Joan Epstein had been here a few months ago, and she sparked the rest of us (directly or indirectly) to get involved and come down.

We were all quite impressed with the work being done here, and gratified to make visual contact with some of the teens during their soccer breaks. I am glad they can see their supporters, and some thanked us with waves. This involved standing on ladders so we could see and be seen despite the high fences.

We also made visual and verbal contact with many employees coming and going, many of whom were quite supportive despite guilt-inducing signs.

Betty had a conversation with one employee where she acknowledged that it’s hard to take a job that’s not in alignment with your values, but we understand that sometimes people don’t see other choices.

And a Homeland Security officer who was a regular stopped by to assure us newcomers that he was there if we needed any help. The witness project has asked him to facilitate the delivery of more than 3000 letters from teens around the country to the imprisoned ones, and he has agreed, as long as there’s enough time to scan them for illegal items.

Our group is likely to help in this project, by participating in scanning digital copies with our phones, so there’s documentation of what gets turned in.

Here are some pictures from our first day.

We arrived in Homestead mid-morning, a hot and muggy day, but not as hot and muggy as we feared. There is a steady witness presence at “base camp,” a small set of tents at the corner of the complex, which consists of several buildings and tents, all behind a high fence on which there are several signs that say “No Trespassing” and “No Pictures.”

Behind the fence, if we stood on ladders, we could see the children playing soccer. We waved at them and held up hearts, shouting, “No estan solos, estamos con ustedes” and similar slogans. Several kids waved back at us, often after they had furtively turned a corner where they were out of the watch of the blue-shirted security guards, who were everywhere, and some kids waved even when the security guards were nearby. I (Dina) made a point of saying hello to every security guard who passed. Several refused to look at us, but a few waved sheepishly and a couple even said good morning. One of the witnesses who has been there daily for months told me that she’s spoken with several of the security staff, some of whom believe that the witnesses are paid to be there.

We were impressed with the dedication of the long-term volunteers, who are there every day with water, shade, rain-gear, and a whole list of projects people can do.

When we needed a break from the heat, we learned about the many people who have come to lend their support, and all the work that needs to be done to keep spreading awareness. We hope to be able to bring some of this information home and talk with others about what they can do.

We were there today. We were there in person, in body and in heart. With the guidance of those who have been there to witness day after day, we climbed up on ladders holding large red hearts and signs so that the children and youth inside could see us. Some were playing soccer. (Thank God that’s still allowed in spite of Trump’s recent announcements that all educational and recreational activities in the youth detention camps are to be cut!!) Many more were standing in lines, moving in lines, being herded in lines. We chanted and waved from our ladders and quite a number of the kids waved back. So good to know that they know that we are there. At least they know that some folks in the US are with them, are fighting for their release. (This, in spite of the fact that we’ve heard that the children are being told that the witnesses are being paid to be there.)

We had heard that the children in this prison camp are between the ages of 13 and 17, but one of the long-term witnesses says that there may be children there as young as 8! She has seen twins there that she is sure are younger than 10. They are not allowed to touch or hug, even their siblings. Most have been separated from family members (aunts, uncles, older siblings, grandparents) with whom they made the dangerous journey from Central America to the US border. Many have family members already settled in the US. Why, why, why can they not be with family as they await their asylum hearings? Why can’t those who don’t have family members here be placed in warm and loving and welcoming homes with sponsors?

I think of other such camps in our country’s racist history, most particularly the camps where Japanese-Americans were interned–that is, imprisoned. I wonder, Why did I never hear about this from my parents? Did they really not know? Not at the time and not shortly after that? And the people on the West Coast whose neighbors were forced to leave their homes? Surely they knew. Was it that those who were alive at that time did not know–or was it that they did not want to know? What will our excuse be?