Out of the Inferno and Into the Fire

Out of the Inferno and Into the Fire

Feelings of relief and shame intertwined when I learned of his transfer to Krome. My overwhelming relief prompted a heartfelt thank you, only to realize later that I had just sincerely thanked someone for moving Enrique from one horrific hell to one that was slightly cooler and was indoors. Trade mosquitos and muggy rainstorms for 300% overpopulation and detainees spelling out SOS with their bodies to get attention. Gratitude and disgust go hand in hand sometimes. 

The group chat lit up with messages from his family. Everyone was crying and sending heart emojis, repeating Gracias a Dios. I told them what I’d learned about the new facility, the Krome Detention Center, which at least had phone access and lawyers nearby. For a few hours, it felt like victory.

Then I started reading. Reports of overcrowding, two deaths under investigation, detainees forced to sleep upright on the floor, limited access to medication, and near-daily hunger strikes. It was known as “the good one” only because it had functioning walls. Someone in a news interview had called it “a fire instead of an inferno.”

By the time his status updated to “Krome,” the relief had already soured into dread. We reactivated his communication accounts and loaded his phone balance. It took two full days before the system confirmed his registration. On the second evening, he finally called.

This time, his voice was steadier. He’d been processed, fed, and given clothes. He even laughed. He said it felt like “luxury” compared to the last place. “They have walls here,” he joked.

His mother sobbed again, but this time it was with relief. I stayed quiet, mostly listening to them talk for almost an hour, both thanking God and apologizing to each other in the same breath. He promised he’d be careful, that he’d eat, that he’d keep his faith.

When he called me later that night, his humor had returned in flashes. He teased me about how many emails I must have written, called me mi loco favorito, and told me he was proud of me for not giving up. He said the guards were mostly decent, that there were a few who treated them kindly. He said the worst part was the noise—the constant echo of metal doors and shouted names.

For the first time in weeks, I slept. It was not peace, but it was rest.