Week Seven: ICE
The line wrapped around the gray building. Keeping the dozens of people company was the peak of Atlanta’s uncomfortable summer heat. But it wasn’t the sweltering sun or the decrepit building that struck me. It was the silence.
There are more people waiting nearby, knowing they won’t be able to go in with their loved ones. They’re not distracting themselves with phones or tablets. They’re statue-like, staring off into space. I spot one man cooing at the infant in his arms. The baby is so pink, she can only be a few days old. Outside on the street, double-parked cars house anxious family members ready for a long day. Inside, security guards are monotonous as they instruct those on line to remove their keys and phones. This is the scene on any given morning outside Atlanta’s Immigration Court. It awaits people from across Georgia who trekked to the city for an ICE check-in.
During my seventh week at GAIN, I continued to see the intersection of legal aid and victim services when I was asked to accompany a client to her ICE check-in. Morbidly, I was eager to finally head to immigration court and witness what countless headlines have described. The client was to report at 8 a.m. On the morning of her check-in, I rehearsed the scenarios in my mind. First, the fingers-crossed-scenario where she just waits a long time, goes in and simply receives another date to come back. Second, the not-terrible-but-not-great-scenario where they start peppering her with questions. And, third, the-pit-in-my-stomach scenario where she gets asked to go to a back office and I never see her again. I knew I held virtually no power really under any scenario. But, maybe it would be harder, or more troublesome, to violate someone’s rights if there was a witness.
None of that happened. Sophia lived over four hours from Atlanta. She left her place at 3 a.m.; leaving the day before was not an option. First, because she couldn’t take off work. Second, because she had nowhere to stay, or could afford for her and family to stay, in Atlanta. I prepared myself for the worst that morning. Even if everything worked out for Sophia, I knew I was going into a small waiting room crammed with people and despair. My thoughts came to a crash when I received a text: Sophia’s car wasn’t starting.
Uber was out of the question for such a remote rural area. All we could do was wait for a mechanic to save the day. Yet, it was clear Sophia would not be checking in that morning. We all knew the consequences of missing a check-in. Myself and GAIN’s legal assistant rushed down to the Immigration Court to explain the situation. We had tried calling repeatedly to no avail. They told us as long as Sophia made it before they closed, she should be ok. “What time do you close?” I asked. “3 p.m.”
Sophia ran into the building, guarding her baby boy in her arms, about ten minutes before three. She signed her name and was given a return date. She was out the door in minutes.The day was exhausting for me and I had faced nothing to lose. Sophia came back to the office and I filled her two kids with sweets. We gave them water and her and her family headed out to make the four-hour drive back after a 12-hour journey for a five-minute appointment.
I took two main things away that day. First, I witnessed just how hard the system is made for undocumented people. With very few immigration courts across the country, people who don’t speak the language and don’t know the area must give up their entire working day and navigate themselves to a place hours away. Second, people show up. Despite the well-known fact that deportations are now happening at check-ins, many undocumented people are doing exactly what they’re supposed to do. As I left that grim scene behind, knowing it would repeat again the next day, I wondered if in the least some shade for the people waiting outside could be provided.
**Details and name altered for confidentiality purposes**