Roel, whose name has been changed for his protection, is currently detained at the Hudson County Correctional Facility, a county jail in New Jersey that contracts with U.S. Immigration & Customs Enforcement (ICE) to detain approximately 480 men and women in immigration detention each day. Roel is the sixth writer in CIVIC's series of blog posts called "Words Beyond Walls." These are Roel's words beyond walls:
"Early Childhood:
I have a very dim memory of my childhood. I only remember parts. My mom told me I was born in Honduras. All I knew was that my mom was in the United States, and later I found out my dad was in prison in Honduras. He had been there since before I was born. I was left with my maternal grandparents since I was one years old. My grandparents used to beat me, and I was disliked because of my dad. I remember my mom used to send me things, but my grandparents wouldn't give them to me and then they would go missing. I remember wanting to die when I was just a kid. I used to call my grandma 'mom,' and my mom 'Tia.'
At some point when I was five or six years old, my mom arrived in Honduras, and she asked if I wanted to go with her to the United States. I had no idea where we were going. I didn't want to leave. I remember our trip started on the back of a truck. We then took buses all the way to Nogales. I threw up on the bus because I had never been on a bus for so long. Before crossing the border in the United States, my sister and I were put into this nice black car where we were given two identification cards. My mom was no longer with us. At the border checkpoint, they stopped the car and officials asked the adults for the identification cards. We then met my mom at a gas station. I remember my mom was visibly afraid of the police.
We went to Phoenix where I met my two older sisters. My mom told me not to call her 'Tia' anymore but to call her 'mom.' I started having problems in school, on the playground, at home, and everywhere for not speaking English. People didn't like the way I spoke Spanish either. I was made fun of. This is around when my mom started physically abusing me, and I always dreamt of escaping and going back to Honduras.
About two or three years later, my mom sent us to California. We were there for a long time, maybe six months to a year. During that time I didn't go to school.
When we went back to Phoenix, it was then that I met my dad for the first time. I was put in the third grade at age eight or nine. Just a couple of days there, my mom and my dad had their first fight. I ran out of the house and told my neighbor to call the police. But they kept fighting, and I had to watch them fight. One would tell me to turn the radio up, and the other one would say to turn it down. I used to get counseling in school because they knew I had issues at home.
In 2005, when I was about thirteen, they finally broke up. My dad asked me to go to Miami with him, and I said yes. I was in Florida and the problems in school continued. It wasn't because I didn't know English. It was because I was the new boy and because I wore cheap clothing. All this trouble was causing my dad headaches. So after about a year, I took a Greyhound bus by myself back to Phoenix. When I passed through El Paso, ICE stopped me, but since I spoke English, I was able to tell them I was going to school. I continued on my journey and made it to the Greyhound station in Phoenix.
Homeless as a Teenager:
In Phoenix, I went to seventh and then eighth grade. My mom had said she had changed, but she hadn't changed. My mom kicked me out of the house. I lived in a storage unit one street over for about a month or two. I then slept in parks, school playgrounds, and some people let me stay at their places for a few nights. One day, I ran into my sister, who invited me to eat with her and she told me to go stay at her boyfriend's house. Five months later, they broke up and I had to leave. I was back on the streets.
I met nice guys on the street, but I did not know much about people. One guy asked if I liked video games. I said yes, and he asked me to come over to his apartment to play. I went. He offered for me to stay with him. So I stayed in the living room. One night, he asked if I wanted to watch TV in his bedroom. I was molested against my will. I was unhappy with what had happened, but I thought it would be more embarrassing to be seen on the streets homeless. So I stayed two months, but then left. I lost the little that I had and the police picked me up several times on the street. They would take me to a cottage home where I stayed for a few weeks.
Imprisoned and Detained as a Child:
In 2007, my mom went to jail for a DUI charge. She had been to jail before for hitting me in front of an officer. She did about a year. While she was in jail, I went to her apartment, and I sold a couple of things because I needed money to survive. One day, my mom's boyfriend attacked me and started to beat me. I hurt him back, and I turned myself into the police and confessed. Little did I know that would change my life forever. I was imprisoned at Lower Buckeye Jail in Maricopa County.
After serving my time as a juvenile, ICE picked me up. I was only 14 or 15, and ICE took me to the Eloy Detention Center, an immigration detention facility for adults. I was the only minor there. I was lonely, sad, and scared. My neighbor to the left and my neighbor to the right were adults. I was locked up by myself 23.5 hours a day. I got my GED while in there at 16 years old, but I was tired of being isolated. I signed deportation papers at the age of 16, and I was deported in 2008.
Deported as a Child:
The day I got deported, ICE gave me an old torn-up shirt in the armpits. They cuffed me, put me in a van, and drove me to the airport. Two deportation officers and I took an American Airlines flight to Austin, Texas. Then, I believe we took a Continental flight to Honduras. All this time, I was cuffed like a terrorist. People were looking at me like I was some animal. I hesitated to get on the plane, but I had no choice. The officer asked what was wrong, and I said, "I don't' want to go, but you don't care." The officer replied, "You're right, I don't care."
ICE just left me at the airport in Honduras. I had no idea what was going on; so I waited. Two Honduran officers brought me to a Juvenile Detention Center. I was there for about seven hours, until my aunt came. I had never met her before that moment. For me, she could have been anybody, but she was family, and she was the nicest lady I had ever met. She got me out of the detention center before I got beat up.
In Honduras, I had a hard time. I no longer spoke like a Honduran. I spoke Spanglish. I knew nothing about the history either. My aunt took care of me for some time, but my uncle was involved with the wrong crowd. My uncle was murdered, and I was tortured by the police who wanted me to confess to something I didn't do. They burned my door, and I escaped out the back. Fearing for my life, I left. I only had $300. I made it to Guatemala.
I met all sorts of people and saw many things. I made it to Mexicali and was caught by Border Patrol. The agents spat on me and pepper sprayed me. They took me to Woodland, California, to the county juvenile facility. I turned 18, and on my birthday, ICE took me to Yuba County Jail in Marysville, California. I was in immigration detention for a total of about eleven months. I couldn't stay in jail; so, I was deported again. All I've ever wanted is freedom.
Back in Honduras, I lived with my aunt again. She had a small store where she was charged $100 monthly by the gangs. There were shoot outs almost every afternoon. I was very scared because my house was made out of boards, and there was always bloody bodies on the streets.
I had nightmares. I saw death in my dreams. I saw the faces of people that were alive one minute and dead the next. Innocent people killed just for being from the other side of town.
I was told to join the gangs for my protection. I did not want to join. So I grabbed a few pieces of clothing and left. A few weeks later, my friend told me that the gang wanted me dead and that I should never come back. So, I move forward and journeyed back to the United States.
My Hopes:
I am now being held by ICE at the Hudson County Correctional Facility in New Jersey. All I want is the chance to live in a place where there is respect for human life. To earn my living legally on the books.
I would like there to be a record of what has happened to me so that minors won't be deported to third world countries, where we have no parents and no one capable of caring for us. When a child is deported under these circumstances, the child literally goes through hell. You become desperate and lose all self-respect as well as respect for others. You are thinking that you must do anything to survive, and then you find out that you will never get out of your misery. Your life has become a cycle of nightmares. You are taken advantage of by nearly everyone. People use force and manipulation over you, and you have no adults to protect you. I am no angel. My conscience eats at me, but I feel I am not the only one guilty. The primary culprits in my story are the Arizona Child Protective Services and ICE. Child Protective Services did not help me when they knew I was on the streets at the age of thirteen. ICE is at fault for detaining me with adults and then carelessly deporting me in 2008 at the age of sixteen."
Special thanks to First Friends of New Jersey & New York, a CIVIC-affiliated visitation program. First Friends has been visiting, supporting, and advocating for Roel. To learn more about immigration detention and how you can support people in detention, join CIVIC on Facebook and check back in for more posts in this series in the coming months.