EL PASO, Texas – At the height of Operation Metro Surge in mid-January, Chachi was detained from his home in south Minneapolis. He was taken to the Bishop Henry Whipple Federal Building and on the same day, flown to El Paso, his body in shackles.
The 20-year-old Ecuadorian national was held for eight days at Camp East Montana, the largest immigration detention facility in the country. He had two chances to call home, during which he tried to gather the contacts of the relatives of his fellow detainees.
Chachi asked to use his middle name for fear of retaliation against his case.
When he was released, he was not put on a flight home, but dropped by Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) agents at the doorstep of an El Paso shelter, Annunciation House. All he had on him was his release paper; no ID, phone, or money.
The shelter, which has been taking ICE detainees for the last 12 years, gave him a warm bed, a solid meal and connected him with Minnesota volunteers who flew to Texas to help him travel home to his wife and toddler.
“They treated me very well,” he told Sahan Journal in Spanish. “If those people had not been there, I would have been there longer. I’m very, very [grateful] to those guys,” he said.
Annunciation House is a series of homes that provides shelter from days to months for immigrants stuck in El Paso without other resources. During the peak of Metro Surge, the shelter worked with other community groups to help almost every Minnesotan released from ICE custody to make their way home.
Six months at Camp East Montana
During a visit by Sahan Journal to the shelter in April, a trickle of recently released detainees were shuttled to the shelter’s front door throughout the day, the main lobby was filled with men eager to return to their families and the volunteers helping them do so.
Among them was Oscar, a school janitor from Portland, Oregon, who had just been released after six months at Camp East Montana.
Oscar, who chose not to use his real name for fear of retaliation, was making a routine trip to the hardware store when agents surrounded his vehicle in the store parking lot and cracked his window before taking him to an ICE holding facility in Tacoma, Washington. Within a day, he was whisked to Texas.
At Camp East Montana, confinement areas were crowded, Oscar said, holding more than 70 people, with only five toilets and three urinals. Meals were sparse, usually consisting of meager portions of sweet potato. When harsh winds blew through the desert, sand whipped into Oscar’s tent, covering the floor and beds in a layer of dust. Lights remained on 24 hours a day, making it difficult to sleep.
In late April, Oscar was released from detention via a petition for a writ of habeas corpus.
On the day he was released, Oscar was handcuffed one last time by private security contractors and loaded into a van. The first thing he saw in his newfound freedom was the front door of Annunciation House, where he would be spending the night on his way back home.
“After the six months I spent there [in detention], the moment they told me I’m free and no longer had chains all over my body, I felt such joy,” he said. “When they told me they were taking me to the church I felt overjoyed.”
Dropped by ICE at the shelter’s front door
Oscar’s arrival to Annunciation was the result of an unexpected phone call its founder Ruben Garcia received from ICE in 2014. As arrivals at the southern border surged and detention capacity was stretched thin, ICE began looking for ways to process them more efficiently. They viewed Annunciation as a potential solution.
From that meeting came an arrangement that persists to this day. For the past 12 years, ICE has notified Garcia of every individual being released from detention and dropped them off at the shelter’s front door. The numbers have ebbed and flowed over the years, and with arrivals at the border down since Trump retook office, Annunciation currently sits emptier than it has in years past. Still, Garcia said Annunciation’s mission has not wavered.
“When you ask, because the numbers are down, what is the role of Annunciation House? Well, go back to 1978,” Garcia said. “There was one guest. What’s the role Annunciation has? We do hospitality.”
Today, while Annunciation still has several long-term residents, its focus has partially pivoted to helping recently released detainees make their way back home on short notice.
It’s a mission that requires flexibility. In addition to the detainees’ limited resources, there is also a question of whether they will even be allowed to board an airplane, given that many are often released without travel documents. According to Garcia, detainees are given release papers by ICE, which includes their name and A-number, a unique identifier assigned to noncitizen immigrants in the U.S. These papers are usually — but not always — recognized by El Paso TSA agents as valid for travel.
The GPS monitor affixed to their ankle, usually to be removed only after their next check-in with ICE some weeks later, is another complication. Beyond causing physical discomfort, it may also prevent individuals from traveling on Southwest, one of six airlines flying out of El Paso airport and one of two low-cost carriers. Garcia said after having guests turned away by Southwest, Annunciation House now advises them to avoid the airline altogether.
In a statement to Sahan, Southwest described the ankle monitors as a safety issue, saying the airline must adhere to federal regulations.
“Because these monitors cannot be turned off in flight, and because they continuously transmit GPS data, we must be able to understand exactly how they work,” the statement read.
In Oscar’s case, with few other airlines departing El Paso on short notice, it meant an overnight stay in Denver International Airport while he waited for his flight to Oregon. Garcia urges people flying home not to even think of leaving the airport. In contrast to airports at the border, Garcia said, TSA agents nationally don’t recognize ICE release documents as valid for air travel.
“If you were going to New York, and you were gonna go El Paso to Atlanta or Houston, and then from there to New York, we would tell you, ‘In the name of God, do not step out of that airport,’” he said. “Because you’re not going to get back in.”
Even in El Paso, the decisions are arbitrary and Garcia said recently released detainees are still prevented from flying about 20% of the time. When that happens, the only choice is to go overland.
Those lucky enough to live within a drivable distance usually have friends and family pick them up, making emotional family reunions a common sight at Annunciation House. For those less fortunate, the most likely alternative is a bus ride; specifically, a Greyhound. Garcia said it’s a journey riddled with problems.
For starters, Garcia said, routes are almost never direct. Frequent stopovers can add hours, if not days, to a journey. Then, there are delays and cancellations. Perhaps you arrived late for your connection, or a driver simply decided not to show up for work that day (something Garcia said has happened on multiple occasions).
“They’re stingy as can be about not wanting to give you any food vouchers, not wanting to put you up in a hotel, none of that,” Garcia said. “They’re just a nightmare to work with.”
Many are understandably eager to avoid such hazards, opening the door for the Minnesotans who came to help during the peak of Metro Surge.
“There were individuals who got on planes, and they flew down here because they knew someone whose husband was picked up, or wife was picked up, and they’re going to come and they’re going to escort her back,” he said. “People are really just afraid, so it’s great to have someone escort you back.”
While the majority of immigration detainees in the U.S. are held in southern detention centers like East Montana, many others are held across the country. For detainees released in other states without an Annunciation House to offer assistance, the challenges are similar.
Daniel Suitor, a Minnesota attorney who has been filing habeas petitions for the past several months, said that he generally receives no more than a few hours’ notice of his clients being released from detention at the Whipple Federal Building, regardless of where they were detained.
“They could be arrested all over the state,” Suitor said. “I’ve had people arrested in rural parts of the state and they’re released at Whipple; I have a client who was arrested in another state and is being held in Minnesota jail. And when he is eventually released, we’ve got to figure out how to get him back to his home state.”
Winning the release of detainees has become increasingly difficult in the wake of recent federal appeals court decisions, necessitating more time-consuming habeas petitions filed on constitutional grounds. Suitor said these petitions are still successful, however, even if they do require more legwork from lawyers.
When clients are released, Suitor added that ICE also frequently holds onto their possessions, big and small.
“Sometimes [it’s] important paperwork, like a work permit,” he said. “Phones are pretty common to go missing. One of my clients lost their wheelchair, and the ICE agent who was helping out with release that day was pretty mystified. He was like, ‘This doesn’t seem like something we should lose.’”
Stuck in El Paso with no way home
Gabriela arrived at the U.S. border in El Paso in February 2024 with her husband and two children, ages 7 and 9.
It had been nearly a year since they left Venezuela, crossing the Darien Gap and continuing through Central America and Mexico. On days they made enough money selling candy along the way, they would pay for a hotel to rest and bathe their children. When their luck wasn’t as good, they’d find a restaurant or shop overhang to sleep under.
“It was dangerous,” said Gabriela, who chose not to use her real name for fear of retaliation. “Especially with children.”
They arrived in El Paso looking for work, hoping to save enough money to buy a house in Venezuela where they could raise their children. But three months later, Gabriela’s husband was detained by immigration authorities. He was taken to Dilley Immigration Processing Center in Dilley, Texas, and deported to Venezuela eight months later.
It has left Gabriela in a state of limbo. With no valid employment authorization, she can’t work. At the same time, there’s no clear way to return Venezuela.
Gabriela attempted to self-deport five times through the CBP Home app. She provided her birth certificate, Venezuelan ID and Social Security card, but was denied financial assistance to leave the U.S. each time because she doesn’t have a Venezuelan passport.
Without her passport, flying back to Venezuela isn’t possible. She could travel overland, back across the border through Central America. But this time she’d be without her husband, forced to cross the Darien Gap with her children alone, or attempt a petrifying boat trip.
“It’s very dangerous, because several boats have capsized,” she said. “I don’t know how to swim; that’s the part that scares me the most.”
Gabriela’s biggest fear, however, is being trapped in Dilley like her husband. With her immigration case still pending and asylum grant rates plummeting in immigration courts nationwide, the possibility is real.
Gabriela said her husband told her he and others were beaten by guards in Dilley. He routinely heard the screams and cries from women in different holding areas and was forced to sleep with the lights on 24 hours a day. At one point, one of his cellmates intentionally cut himself out of desperation.
At Annunciation House, life is very different. Gabriela and her children arrived there four months ago from a different shelter, and in many ways live like any other family. Her children go to school, have made friends and are learning English. They have family meals together and have typical family squabbles; Gabriela reprimands her son for playing too much Roblox and holding the phone screen too close to his face. Despite everything, Gabriela still hopes that in the U.S., she can build a better life for her children.
But the specter of Dilley is never far from her mind. In late April, she was given an order of removal from an immigration judge, a decision she has since appealed. With her opportunities to return back home to Venezuela narrowing, and her status in the U.S. tenuous, the future is uncertain.
“If God allows me to stay here longer, I will stay, because it means a good future for my children,” she said. “They really like being here, they really like their school, they are doing well in their grades. But the fear is that you can’t live in peace.”
New starts
It was a difficult night’s sleep in Denver, but Oscar’s journey home was the beginning of a fresh start. He is now back in Portland with his family and has since resumed his job, which held his place for him while he was detained. He no longer has an ankle monitor.
Over a month since his release from detention, he remains grateful for the role Annunciation had in reuniting him with his family.
“I arrived there, and the people were very kind, they offered unconditional love,” he said. “I felt right at home, free, and I am truly grateful for that.”
In El Paso, Garcia is still committed to the work he began in 1978. He and the many volunteers who have passed through Annunciation over the past five decades have helped tens of thousands of migrants and lived through many changes in the political landscape. The shelter is currently caught in a legal battle with Texas Attorney General and U.S. Senate candidate Ken Paxton that is threatening its nonprofit status and its future.
Still, Garcia maintains a serenity about the future. And he dreams of the day when there is no need for Annunciation House.
“Could it be that we have such an incredibly beautiful immigration reform that you don’t need Annunciation Houses?” he said. “Maybe that could happen.”
Sahan Journal reporter Shubhanjana Das contributed to this story.
