The Disappeared
On the fifth floor of the tall glass federal building in Portland, Oregon, the immigration court hums in hushed tones, an air of reverence coming from a dozen or so fidgety children and teenagers. They sit in two long pews that line the back of the room, facing the elevated bench of the immigration judge.
A massive Department of Justice seal towers over the bench, flanked by giant windows that allow a glimpse of the downtown skyline. At one table, an attorney representing Immigration and Customs Enforcement faces the judge. Every 10 minutes or so, a new young client makes their way around the table, ready to face the full brunt of the U.S. immigration system. Not one is here with an adult family member. Each time, an attorney steps forward to represent them. Sometimes it’s the same attorney for several clients in a row. The room feels prim, almost quaint, dissonant for a space in which each decision can mean the difference between life and death.
On this cold afternoon in January, there is one girl in particular I’ve come here to see.
The girl, now 17, has been in U.S. immigration custody since she was 10 years old. Since presenting herself at the border and seeking asylum in late 2013, she has been separated from her family, shuttled back and forth between shelters and foster homes across the United States, from Oregon to Massachusetts to Texas to Florida, and back to Texas and Oregon again, from what I’ve been able to piece together.
She’s become a long-term resident of what’s supposed to be a short-term system. I wonder if she’s ever had a friend for more than a few months, if she’s gotten a real education, if she’s learned to speak English. I wonder when she last got a hug from anyone who loves her.
What I do know is that, after all these years, she wants out. She’s come to court today to try and deport herself from the United States.
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