(C) Common Dreams
This story was originally published by Common Dreams and is unaltered.
. . . . . . . . . .



“Even God Cannot Hear Us Here”: What I Witnessed Inside an ICE Women’s Prison [1]

['Rümeysa Öztürk']

Date: 2025-07-17 10:00:00+00:00

During my time in the ICE prison, we rarely got a proper night’s rest. For the first time in my life, I realized that sleep—real sleep—is actually a luxury. The constant glare of fluorescent lighting made it almost impossible to doze off. Many officers marched through the area loudly, their chains and keys clattering, waking us at night with the booming sound of their walkie-talkies (except one officer, whom we frequently thanked for holding her key and chains so the sound would not disrupt us). Some officers woke all of us up at odd hours—as early as 3:30 a.m.—when they were only calling one person for work, or to check someone’s blood sugar or blood pressure. All we wanted was uninterrupted, peaceful sleep. Many of us were constantly on the verge of panic attacks and anxiety and had racing hearts. Yet many officers did not care about our sleep. I remember seeing women cocooned in blankets, resembling lifeless figures as they finally managed to catch some rest in the late afternoon. Young, beautiful women seeking refuge in sleep, just to cope with their harsh realities, dreaming of freedom, loved ones, and moments of safety. On some days, I, too, fell into this sleep routine, feeling like a mere shadow of myself and hoping that this was only a nightmare that would be over when I woke up.

FEELING INVISIBLE

In the early days of my detention, I had no access to the commissary and was growing hungry and desperate as staff did not honor my request for a meal that met my dietary restrictions for many hours. But my friends generously stepped in to feed me. Even after I was no longer starving, their kindness persisted: I understood that for many of my new friends who were fleeing war and conflict, the resources they share are essential for survival, not luxuries. I remember us sharing two cookies or a package of snacks among many women in the room. My friends offered essentials like toilet paper and shampoo and generously lent me their pens and a few sheets of paper since I had none of my own. Women there reported that they “voluntarily” worked four to five hours in the kitchen for $3 per day and in the laundry, commissary, intake, and library for $1 per day.

The food in the dining hall was low-quality and unhealthy. As someone who loves cooking, I was shocked at how bland food could be. The meals mainly comprised an overwhelming amount of beans—so many beans, in fact, that they seemed to be the star of every meal. These were accompanied daily by some undercooked rice, highly processed bread, and sometimes a rather unappetizing salad. On rare occasions, we’d get a tiny serving of canned fruit. Fresh fruit was so rare that I began counting the apples we received—I ended up with just six or seven throughout my entire stay. And with no fresh options available in the commissary, we had to rely on instant oatmeal and noodles just to feel full. All these dining experiences left us grappling with digestion issues and persistent stomachaches. We were constantly worried about the pregnant women among us, knowing they needed more nutrition.

Going to the dining hall involved passing through a series of doors, many of which were locked, leaving us standing in line for an extended period under the sun. I couldn’t help but ponder how many more doors would be shut in my face and the faces of these women while in the ICE prison and the rest of our lives. How many magical keys do we need to unlock the doors that close off opportunity simply because of who we are and how we look? When will we finally feel accepted and considered enough? After how much more suffering?

The burden of being stuck indoors and cut off from our everyday lives was heavy for everyone. Missing out on our professions, artistic pursuits, and educational opportunities took a toll on our growth, career prospects, dreams, and overall well-being. My artist friend was so uninspired that she did not really want to draw—and even if she did, we did not have access to any art supplies (even coloring pencils). My access to paper took so long, I sometimes did not want to write. Another friend was afraid that she would not be able to play her instrument again. My singing friend did not want to sing. Many of us could not hear the words and music inside of us. All of us were losing hope and parts of who we are, both as humans and professionals.

One time, an officer came and took away all the cookie boxes, claiming we would use them to make weapons. Another time, we were shocked to witness an officer physically push two women in the kitchen, echoing other stories of violence women shared. Officers threatened to take our shared privileges away—meaning three tablets and a TV—if we didn’t clean the room or if we left the bed during counting. Women shared their strategies for coping with verbal abuse from some of the officers and supervisors. I was told that crying frequently was a normal and regular response. Some officers would simply turn their backs when we knocked on the door, seeking help. “After a few weeks or months, you give up asking,’’ the women told me. I tried many times, and many times I gave up too. We felt horrified, invisible, helpless, and dehumanized.

I asked some of the officers if they liked their jobs. Many of them did, telling me that they are treating everyone fairly or they are proudly carrying everyone from point A to point B. Some mentioned they do not agree with everything going on, but they have to do what they are told. Some officers wore sunglasses and avoided ever making eye contact with us, reminding me of the Stanford Prison experiment; the sunglasses made it difficult to read their emotions, giving the guardians more authority and increasing the pressure on prisoners. Could it be possible that maybe the officers did not know and were unaware of these experiences? After all, conversations between women and officers appeared to be quite rare.

[END]
---
[1] Url: https://www.vanityfair.com/news/story/rumeysa-ozturk-what-i-witnessed-inside-an-ice-womens-prison?srsltid=AfmBOoojGg2sgbwSGhOBQMSNDJtNxuiugQzp-EEvOr2Vo8EKjA5edzC-

Published and (C) by Common Dreams
Content appears here under this condition or license: Creative Commons CC BY-NC-ND 3.0..

via Magical.Fish Gopher News Feeds:
gopher://magical.fish/1/feeds/news/commondreams/