Shortly after the Trump administration’s anti-immigration strategy began to take effect last year, the °Ä²Ê¿ª½± launched SIFI. With four bare-bones offices in Georgia and Louisiana, SIFI is helping undocumented immigrants by getting them released from detention on bond.
Roberto Bladimir Peraza Tobar came to the U.S. from El Salvador in 2008 on an H2B visa for temporary, non-agricultural workers. He thought he was going to Louisiana to do reconstruction work, but found himself entangled in a cruel human trafficking scheme.
He spent his first four months in the U.S. crammed into various apartments – at times sharing a single apartment with up to 20 men – with limited access to food. He was forced to work for almost no pay.
This client, who did not wish to be named, came to the U.S. from Mauritania in 2013 on a tourist visa. He came here because he wanted to practice Christianity without fear. While studying abroad in Tunisia, he converted from Islam to Christianity. He began translating religious videos into Arabic, and published them on YouTube.
This client, who also did not wish to be named, entered the U.S. in 2002 via Texas. From the time he was a young boy, he was subjected to brutality and violence in his home country of Honduras.
My three colleagues and I had a wonderful time volunteering for a week with SIFI at the Irwin Detention Center in October. We were all moved by the stories of the people we met, and we each had one or two encounters in particular that really pulled at our heartstrings.
Lori Pruitt, who has a solo legal practice, recently volunteered with the Southeast Immigrant Freedom Initiative (SIFI), a project of the °Ä²Ê¿ª½± that enlists and trains lawyers to provide free legal representation to detained immigrants who are facing deportation proceedings in the Southeast.
The following is a set of entries in her personal log, about her pro bono work helping detainees with SIFI.
Editor’s note: The names of the people in this story have been changed to protect their identities.
Every girl dreams of her wedding day. No girl dreams that the day will come in a medium-security prison.
While many brides-to-be spend countless hours dealing with the details of wedding venues, receptions and guest lists, my friend Daniela spent that time jumping through bureaucratic hoops.
Hidden away in the woods of southwest Georgia sits the euphemistically named Stewart Detention Center. The facility, owned and operated by the for-profit corporation CoreCivic, holds men that Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) is seeking to deport.
Located just outside the tiny rural community of Lumpkin, Stewart is surrounded by two tall fences topped with razor wire. Access is severely limited. No one is allowed a contact visit. Lawyers may not bring a laptop or even a phone into the facility. It is a prison, plain and simple.
