At the end of June, I traveled to Harlingen, Texas, to witness firsthand the deepening human rights crisis unfolding in McAllen, Brownsville, and along the border. While I anticipated feelings of sadness and anger, I was unprepared for the overwhelming sense of shock and disbelief that enveloped me.
The situation was far graver than I had ever envisioned. How can I convey to my friends and family, or even my colleagues who have witnessed some of the world’s most severe humanitarian disasters, that in my own country—this land of freedom and bravery—we are treating vulnerable people, including children, as though they are worthless?
Our group, which included leaders from prominent children’s advocacy organizations, was barred from entering an Office of Refugee Resettlement (ORR) facility, often referred to as detention centers or jails, despite having submitted all required paperwork on time. The official explanation was that the tours would be distressing for the children. However, the accounts shared by lawyers and medical professionals we met at the border, along with the scenes I witnessed, painted a far more troubling picture.
One heartbreaking story was of a 13-year-old girl who became pregnant as a result of rape while in detention. I also learned about a 1-year-old child who was inconsolable upon seeing a banana that his lawyer brought—his only nourishment that day had been a bologna sandwich, as snacks are not provided in these centers. Then there was a woman who had lost her 8-year-old daughter, only to be kidnapped by a drug cartel and subsequently detained without adequate medical care for months, using sanitary pads as makeshift bandages until she was nearly dead and required emergency evacuation to a hospital in San Antonio.
I witnessed infants who had spent more time in detention than in the outside world, learning to walk and talk behind bars. An 8-year-old girl had regressed so dramatically that she began asking to be breastfed like a baby. One mother risked everything to reach the U.S. border with her three young children, but tragically, her 3-year-old son fell from their raft and was left to drown in the Rio Grande as she clutched her surviving babies. Traumatized, she recounted her harrowing experience to a lawyer while sitting in a detention center.
“No one puts their children in a boat unless the water is safer than the land,” a poignant line from a poem by Warsan Shire, resonates deeply here. No parent embarks on a life-threatening journey unless they are fleeing something far worse. Upon reaching the heavily militarized border, families like Maria and her 5-year-old son from Honduras approached the Reynosa Bridge seeking asylum, completely overwhelmed by fear and trauma from their journey, while U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) agents stood by without offering support or guidance.
In juvenile immigration court, I observed the proceedings of 11 unaccompanied minors, only two of whom had legal representation. One particularly striking case was that of a bright-eyed 9-year-old girl who, despite her youth, had already appeared in court twice without an attorney. The judge offered her a special third hearing, contingent on finding representation. In another case, a 16-year-old boy, also unrepresented, opted for voluntary return to Guatemala, despite expressing fear for his safety.
These children, still so young, are navigating a bewildering legal system alone, often confused and terrified. I couldn’t help but think of my own experience in court, where I was accompanied by my father for support.
What I encountered were fellow human beings—mothers, fathers, and children—who faced punishment simply for not being born in the U.S. As one local civil rights lawyer put it, they are subjected to an “avalanche of punishments,” treated as less than human, labeled as illegals or aliens, after having endured so much already.
It is essential that we recognize Maria and others, whose names have been withheld for their protection, as fellow human beings deserving of compassion and support. Every child should have access to legal representation, and we must advocate for organizations like the CARA Pro Bono Project, which operates as a critical legal resource for families in immigrant detention, especially in the South Texas Family Residential Center, known as Dilley.
We need to end family detention now. Alternatives to Detention programs are significantly less expensive for taxpayers, costing $36 a day per family compared to $300 for detention. With nearly 12,000 children currently in overcrowded centers, it’s time to release these families and allow children to experience their milestones outside of cages. We must ensure that pregnant women have the freedom to choose healthcare providers who prioritize their needs and their babies’ well-being.
Lastly, we should engage our children in discussions about not just tolerance but empathy and action. It should be as simple as asking, “What if this were my family?”
In summary, the issues faced by these vulnerable families at the border are far more complex and dire than many realize. By supporting initiatives that provide legal assistance and advocating for humane treatment, we can work towards a more compassionate response to this crisis.
Leave a Reply