Krome

Krome

We weren’t sure when he would leave Alligator Alcatraz, so we took to checking the ICE detention locator every few hours. By 9 p.m. it still showed he wasn’t in the system, and I began to fear the worst—but an hour later, he was back.

“He’s in Krome!” I wrote, attaching a screenshot of the locator update as if it were a birth announcement. After weeks of chaos, just seeing his name again—proof that he was alive and accounted for, even if unreachable—was an incredible feeling.

That same day, we signed the contract with Anna, the immigration attorney. She was sharp, warm, and startlingly experienced. Within minutes, she had a better grasp of the system than I’d managed in months. For the first time, someone sounded like they knew what they were doing.

The relief didn’t last long.

That night, I started reading. Human Rights Watch had released a report less than three weeks earlier about Krome—the same one describing detainees spelling “SOS” with their uniforms and bodies on the recreation field to get the attention of an overhead drone. The story had circulated through advocacy networks but hadn’t made much noise outside of them.

The descriptions were chilling: overcrowded dorms, failing air conditioning, rancid food, abusive conditions, and the same theme I kept seeing in every report—dehumanization, hopelessness, and no possible way to provide relief. Attorneys, activists, professors, and even senators went public with their concerns, but there was no response. Official statements dismissed everything as “propaganda.” The level of control—and the commitment to obscurity—was frightening.

Though the record now showed he was safely at Krome, there was silence. No calls. No messages. A full day went by, and I felt the familiar dread again for an entirely different reason.

Enrique has a serious medical condition that impacts his immune system. On daily medication, it’s completely fine—but by my calculations, he had been without treatment for at least two months. Given the heightened exposure from detention, plus reports of viral outbreaks at Alligator Alcatraz, I began to fear the worst. Everything I read reinforced the same worry: not only was it unlikely he would receive his medication, but it was possible his condition could even be used against him.

I finally heard from him the following night. It had taken almost forty-eight hours to be processed. He sounded almost happy, even joking that Krome must be a “luxury location” since it had walls. That laugh—scratchy and soft—was something I hadn’t heard in months. I told him we had found a lawyer who would visit that week. He sounded exhausted but relieved to know he was in a city, in a standard facility, and that someone was fighting for him.

The next day, his communication accounts cleared. He was able to make calls on his own—to his mom, his aunts, his sister, his grandmother. They talked for hours. It was the first time in months he could speak to them directly, not through relayed messages or emails typed on his behalf. When I saw the call logs, it almost felt like life returning to something close to normal.

But “normal” had been redefined.

Krome was notorious for overpopulation—between 200% and 300% over capacity. He went from tents and floodlight nights to a packed cage of steel bunks stacked on top of one another, with most men sleeping on worn-out clothes on the floor. Guards were stretched thin, food shortages were constant, and clothing rotations were nonexistent. He said the air always smelled of body odor and sickness. He joked about it at first, but by the time his lawyer met him the next day, the change in his tone was obvious.

In just two days, the calm was gone. He was frustrated, angry, and exhausted. He said the noise never stopped. He noticed the irony—that when they thought he was a criminal, he was locked in a medium-sized cage with three other men, each with a bed, a corner, and a bit of storage space. But here, in a cell built for sixty, there were almost two hundred. There were fights, shouting, medical alarms. Even though he’d escaped the swamp, he was now trapped in a concrete echo chamber.

Talking with Anna about next steps, the absurdity and cruelty of it all really began to sink in. From the moment he’d been handcuffed and taken to jail for asking a police officer for help, Enrique no longer wanted to stay in the U.S.

He was done with the United States. He had no desire to remain, no interest in residency, nothing left to fight for. He sent me a note, half-resigned and half-heartbroken, pointing out the irony that just a few months earlier we had been planning his first trip to New York for Pride—and now, the thought of anything related to the U.S. filled him with anger and dread.

But that didn’t matter. Even though I could have bought him a flight to Cali that very day for $239, he couldn’t be deported because he still had an active asylum request. The irony was suffocating. The country wanted him gone, we wanted to get him home, and yet the system refused to allow it—and we, the taxpayers, were funding all of it.

I laughed bitterly at how broken it all was—how he’d be forced to remain in inhumane conditions for months until a judge could formally approve his asylum revocation, and then ICE would continue spending thousands of taxpayer dollars to keep him detained a little longer while scheduling a flight, only to eventually fly him home at roughly thirty times the cost of the ticket we could have bought ourselves that same afternoon.

Anna was a force of nature. She was relentless in ensuring his safety and his ability to go home—filing paperwork, transferring his file to Miami, and somehow convincing the courts to reschedule his hearing from 2027 to two weeks away. Every time I checked my inbox, there was another update: a new form, a motion granted. She spoke with him a few times, and their rapport grew, especially once she confirmed his court date was only days away.

While recognizing that things were proceeding well, and much better than others who had less access to resources, the strain was starting to show for all of us.

Enrique began to withdraw. His mother wanted to speak to him constantly, but being in Europe made communication complicated. It required downloading apps, purchasing U.S. VOIP numbers, and using prepaid gift cards to load accounts. She didn’t know how to do any of it, and I found myself growing frustrated at the constant explanations and technical back-and-forth, screenshots and screen-captures, with additional steps added through translators.

I understood her fear and desperation, but I could also see his hesitance and I was trying to balance it with my own exhaustion.

Enrique is a pragmatist. He wanted clear answers, not emotional reassurance. The last few times they spoke, she broke down crying, telling him how much she loved him and how she prayed for God to protect him. They were heartfelt words, but he was focused on survival. After more than two months in detention, he was running on pure endurance.

Despite my warnings, she insisted on another call after five days without hearing from him. I told her I checked his activity daily - a little green button showing he had logged in that day - I suspected he was taking time to rest and didn’t want to talk until there was an update. She insisted anyway.

I gave in. I arranged the video visit.

The moment it connected, I knew it was a mistake. He was surrounded by noise and I heard two detainees arguing behind him and Enrique saying “I haven’t used this in days; I just need to order glasses - one minute" The screen switched to his mother, already crying, telling him how worried she was. I watched him try to gather patience, his face tightening as voices rose around him, and then the line disconnected. 

She insisted I call back. I refused, explaining that he’d just been overwhelmed and disconnected. But she insisted again, and I did. I sighed and tried to re-establish the link. He didn’t answer.

When a few more days passed with no updates, she asked me to arrange another call. I refused, partly to protect my own focus and partly because I knew how it would end. I checked in daily and saw he had been logging in daily and tried to reassure her with that, but she grew frustrated. 

Later that week, Anna visited him in person to prepare him for court. She called me afterward and said Enrique had asked her to tell me he wouldn’t accept any more calls or messages from his family, especially his mother. He would contact them himself once he was free, and until then he would only speak to Anna or me. I understood completely—but now I had to deliver that message. As I expected, it didn’t go well.

Things were tense in the group chat for days—icy greetings, curt messages and occasional emojis - so when the court date finally came, I was desperate for good news.

Anna delivered.

Within weeks, she had transferred the case to Miami, accelerated the court date by more than a year, had the asylum status formally revoked, and requested that both sides waive the thirty-day appeal window to clear the way for deportation. It was, in its twisted way, the perfect outcome.

An hour later, Enrique sent a message saying Anna had just spoken to him, and he was happy and excited that this might finally be over. He asked me to tell his family he loved them and would talk to them soon and asked me a few questions.

I sent the update to the group chat, and everyone celebrated. His status was now updated to “ordered for deportation.” The irony wasn’t lost on any of us: we were celebrating the destruction of his dream, of building a life here. Later that night, I logged back on to reply to his questions and saw one final note: “I just want to go home.”