Introduction
For 13 months (portions of 2017 and 2018), I lived in a correctional facility, operated by one of the world’s largest private prison companies (ironically a former client of mine), in Del Rio, Texas on the U.S. – Mexico border. The housing capacity was 1500, and the majority of the inmates were awaiting sentencing, in U.S. District Court, for illegal entry into the United States of America.
I was housed in a subsection of this private prison informally (but accepted by operating staff) run by a Spanish speaking prison gang where membership was solely for those with family ties south of the United States (specifically Mexico). That group spoke little English but all seemed to know one phrase, “Trump, he crazy”. Aside from me, there were almost no non-gang members in this housing unit, and I was the longest tenured “outsider”.
Each room, I call them custody suites, had a capacity for two residents (you would call them inmates). From time to time, I would have a co-resident in my custody suite, and though all such individuals had been caught illegally entering the United State, they were non-gang members. My custody suite became home to the odd-ball inmates that a gang member would decline to have as a roommate.
Because single occupancy is not part of a private prison’s economic model, our (at the time) porous U.S. southern boundary brought me a fascinating collection of co-residents who happened to get caught entering the U.S. illegally yet were not from Mexico. Profiles of some of these individuals follow.
Compliments of Egypt
His name was Amar. A man with such a name, in a Spanish speaking prison setting, created more than a few jokes since “amar” is a verb in Spanish (i.e., to love). Upon introduction, he immediately assured me he would be giving me the highest level of respect and went into detail as to how he would carefully clean the toilet (in our soon-to-be-shared custody suite) after each use. To further make his point, I was told “I will treat you like my father.”
He was from Egypt, a devout Muslim, and was claiming (after being caught for illegal entry into the United States of America) political asylum from his home country’s government. Amar had an impactful, well rehearsed with photos and tears, narrative about political torture in Egypt. He also had a history of visiting the United States and had developed a rather lucrative grey market (not exactly black market) trade in vehicles he would purchase in America and ship back to his home country. Also, his wife, on a tourist visa, had periodically traveled to the U.S. and successfully birthed two children (on separate trips) in America.
Amar was a man-child, highly entitled, and highly sensitive. He had hired the Italian mafia for his most recent, yet flawed, entry into the United States of America. While his torture narrative seemed to justify the possible need to use a criminal network to escape Egypt, it was never clear to me why he thought it wise to continue the services of such an organization to enter the United States with such a well-documented case of credible fear in seeking asylum. Nor did I ever entirely grasp how his parents remained in Egypt enjoying a privileged existence.
Amar was arrested in a Texas border town along with a number of other illegal entrants into the United States. He was waiting in a “safe house” when immigration authorities detained him. He had been in the U.S. for several days; he knew how to buy a bus ticket (i.e., travel within the U.S.) and had a home waiting for him (so he told me) in the northeastern part of the United States with his wife (who had overstayed her tourist visa) and their two sons (the ones born in the U.S.). Why he was sitting and waiting in a crowded house in Eagle Pass, Texas (instead of making his way north) seemed curious. None of this was ever well explained to me.
As Amar waited for his hearing before a United States District Judge or possible removal to a facility specifically dedicated to Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE), he remained my co-resident as he engaged in all of the daily rituals of an observant Muslim (washing and lots of praying on a towel converted into a prayer rug). When not practicing his religion, he sat in the cell and wept about his current situation, about his kids, about the unfairness of life, about his past experiences, and about anything else that crossed his path.
There were pauses in Amar’s weeping to express indignation. He was keen to notice any possibility of offense, and then he would passionately ejaculate the rhetorical question, “Why are they doing this to me! It is because I am Arab, YES?” Sometimes his question was prompted by denial of some discretionary privilege; other times, it was simply absurd. One time, in the housing unit, as all of the other residents were watching a soccer match, there erupted loud cheers from the viewers. Amar, sitting in our custody suite, jumped up and yelled, “WHY ARE THEY SCREAMING AT ME! It is because I am Arab YES?” My less than gentle response was that it had nothing to do with him being Arab and everything to do with the soccer team from Mexico scoring a goal.
Another time, Amar came into our room to dramatically announce, “I AM AT MY LIMIT!.” I asked him if I should inform the media.
After enduring multiple days of his weeping self-pity, I came up with the ruse of pretending to be ill as a distraction. For a few minutes, Amar took on the role of an Egyptian Florence Nightingale seeking to relieve my suffering. Less than 15 minutes later he screamed, “This makes me SOOO sad! It reminds me of how I used to care for my boys when they were sick!” I immediately assured him of my miraculous recovery.
Amar continued to express fears about returning to Egypt, and I countered that the narrative he was providing was a solid case for asylum, and he could easily note that virtually every other illegal entrant, in that prison at that time, lacked his strong, apparently valid claim; still, the weeping continued.
After almost eight weeks, Amar was given notice that he would be transferred to a facility where his asylum claim would begin the review process. In those days, that meant he would be released into the United States. Still, he seemed unsure and, notwithstanding this positive development, seemed quite emotional departing. I was given a rather unwelcomed good bye hug, and then he said to me, “You know if I am not given asylum, my boys will become terrorist.”
Welcome to America.
Mommy, I don’t want to go shoot Ukrainians!
The empty bunk in my custody suite was soon filled by Uri, a formerly an officer in the Russian army. He was not a career military man. Uri’s rank was a product of being assigned to the military by his government. For a series of years, he had avoided any active military service by being a student. Uri was approaching 30 years old but (based on our conversations) had not established a career of any sort. When I inquired as to Uri’s specific field of study, the answer to my question seemed to be, conveniently, beyond his command of English. As far as I could understand, his last academic endeavor had something to do with electricity. Based on his rather bizarre narrative, he was either studying to be an electrical engineer or an electric appliance repairman.
A few months before we met, the Russian government had lost patience with Uri’s endless studies, so he was visited by the “authorities.” The message was simple, his delayed active military duty was to be delayed no longer, and his first assignment would be in Crimea (a part of Ukraine that had been seized by the Russians). There was a way to extend his start date for armed service, but that would require a small “fee”. The fee was, in fact, rather large, what Western culture would define as a bribe, and Uri began considering other options.
Uri lived, in Moscow, with his mother. There was never mention of girlfriends (or boyfriends). His personal narrative focused on being a loyal son, certainty that military service in Crimea would result in his near-term death, and that his mother could not survive without him. The solution was simple, sell his electrical equipment, use the money for he and his mother to leave Russia, and enter the United States through the Mexican border.
Whether Uri and his mom sought to evade detection after entering the U.S. was unclear. It appears they simply walked across a patch of the Rio Grande that was dry at the time and entered the United States where they were promptly arrested for illegal entry. I was not sure how avoiding military service creates a winning asylum claim (much less how his mother would gain asylum as well), but the fact that a Russian military officer (of any kind) would seek protection in the U.S.A. seemed like a narrative with political potential.
I urged Uri to write the local U.S. Representative who happened to also be a former member of the CIA. My thought was that Uri’s military background might earn him special consideration (notwithstanding being a most reluctant soldier). He was pleased to allow me to draft a letter for him to send to the Congressman, but when it came to mailing such correspondence, he declined.
Uri was also most worried about his mother’s medical care. She, like him, was being held as an illegal entrant, and she had various medical conditions that she was treating with “special medicine from Russia.” Uri was constantly seeking updates on her health and attempting to advance her requests for refills of these medications. When I asked if similar pills were available in the United States, he seemed doubtful. Finally, he explained that he was certain the American government was trying to kill her by denying her these special Russian meds.
I would attempt to provide Uri with solutions or contacts that might be helpful with these various concerns (his own asylum claim, his mother’s claim, his mother’s medical needs), but initial interest would fade into self-pity. He would ultimately make some reference to the American wanting him and his mother dead. I never managed to get an answer to the obvious question, “Then, why did you come here?” Just like Amar, it seemed like America was not his only option. In that era, the members of the European Union were quite welcoming of such individuals.
One early morning, Uri received a call on the intercom. He gathered his things and was gone.
Epilogue
There were others that shared my custody suite, a Guatemalan kleptomaniac who fancied himself a Christian rapper (the prison gang expelled him from the housing unit for stealing a soccer ball and 1300 fluorescent sporks), a Honduran who, in a previous trip, traveled from the Texas-Mexico border to Minnesota hanging under a railcar carrying cattle, and a seasoned 60 year old from El Salvador who made constant references drinking his own urine while crossing the desert to come to America.
I doubt today’s secured border would allow me to meet such co-residents in a mere 13 months.
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