Written from ICE detention facility in Jena, Louisiana, April 17, 2025

Mahmoud Khalil

It’s 3 a.m. as I lie sleepless on a bunk bed in Jena, Louisiana, far from my wife, Noor, who will give birth to our baby in two weeks. The sound of rain hitting the metal roof masks the snoring of 70 men tossing and turning on hard mats in this detention facility run by Immigration and Customs Enforcement. Which ones are dreaming about reuniting with their families? Which ones are having nightmares about becoming the Trump administration’s next “administrative error”?

Last Friday, I sat in a courtroom as an immigration judge determined that the government could deport me despite my status as a legal permanent resident and despite that the government’s claims against me were baseless — much of its “evidence” lifted directly from sensationalized tabloids. The decision won’t result in immediate deportation — aspects of my case are pending in other courts.

Earlier that day, I sifted through letters from supporters. Two postage stamps displayed the American flag, one stating “liberty forever,” the other proclaiming “justice forever.” The irony is stunning, especially regarding what I’ve learned about how the administration exploits immigration law to enforce its repressive agenda. I think about the breakneck speed with which my case was heard and decided, running roughshod over due process. On the flip side, I think about those I am locked up with, many of whom have been languishing for months or years waiting for their “due process.”

During Friday’s hearing, the government asserted on behalf of Secretary of State Marco Rubio that my beliefs, statements and associations compromise its “compelling” foreign policy interests. Like the thousands of students that I advocated with at Columbia — including Muslim, Jewish and Christian friends — I believe in the innate equality of all human beings. I believe in human dignity. I believe in the right of my people to look at the blue sky and not fear an impending missile.

Why should protesting Israel’s indiscriminate killing of thousands of innocent Palestinians result in the erosion of my constitutional rights?

My lawyers have mentioned that a case called Endo might bear on my own. Days later, in my research at a law library, I uncovered the human story behind the legal abstraction. Mitsuye Endo, a Japanese American woman incarcerated during World War II, challenged her captors and brought her case to the Supreme Court. Her victory helped secure the release of thousands of others.

The incarceration of 70,000 American citizens of Japanese descent is a reminder that rhetoric of justice and freedom obscures the reality that, all too often, America has been a democracy of convenience. Rights are granted to those who align with power. For the poor, for people of color, for those who resist injustice, rights are but words written on water. The right to free speech when it comes to Palestine has always been exceptionally weak. Even so, the crackdown on universities and students reveals just how afraid the White House is of the idea of Palestine’s freedom entering the mainstream. Why else would Trump officials not only attempt to deport me but also intentionally mislead the public about who I am and what I stand for?

I pick up my copy of Viktor Frankl’s “Man’s Search for Meaning.” I feel ashamed to compare my conditions in ICE detention to Nazi concentration camps, yet, some aspects of Frankl’s experience resonate: not knowing what fate awaits me; seeing resignation and defeat in my fellow detainees. Frankl wrote from the lens of a psychologist. I wonder whether Hussam Abu Safiya, a renowned hospital director who was abducted in Gaza by Israeli occupying forces on Dec. 27 and, according to his lawyer from the Al Mezan Center for Human Rights, has endured beatings, electric shocks and solitary confinement, will write about his ordeal from a medical perspective.

It’s almost 4 a.m. Thunder crashes. A few rows away, one man hugs a bottle of hot water in a sock for warmth. His prayer mat serves as a blanket, and his head rests on his shoes. A detainee who was praying all night finally lies down. He was caught crossing the border with his pregnant wife and has never seen his baby, now 9 months old. I try to convince myself that this will not be my fate, though Friday’s ruling makes that possibility more real than I want to admit.

I write this letter as the sun rises, hoping that the suspension of my rights will raise alarm bells that yours are already in jeopardy. I hope it will inspire your outrage that the most basic human instinct, to protest shameless massacre, is being repressed by obscure laws, racist propaganda and a state terrified of an awakened public. I hope this writing will startle you into understanding that a democracy for some — a democracy of convenience — is no democracy at all. I hope it will shake you into acting before it is too late.