After four months in ICE detention

Before he was detained, “Martin” worked long hours, played weekend soccer, sometimes coaching, and was building a steady life for his family in rural Colorado. He had plans for the year ahead. He did not expect a routine morning commute to change everything.

When he was picked up by ICE following what he believed was a routine traffic stop, he was immediately transported across the state to the detention center in Aurora. 

He faced uncertainty, depression, and his health quickly began to deteriorate.

He’s now back home on the Western Slope after bonding out. But his long four-month detention experience is still haunting him.

“You leave there stressed out,” he said. “Whether you want to or not, you’re still living in fear. It’s like you’re traumatized, and can’t sleep anymore.”

Voces Unidas is using the pseudonym “Martin” to protect his identity as he continues to fight his immigration case. He agreed to share his story so others in our community understand what many families are experiencing now as the number of immigration detentions climb.

Confusion leads to many losing hope

When Martin arrived in the detention center, he was placed in an overcrowded room. After processing, detainees are given color-coded uniforms based on their alleged criminal histories and segregated by that color.

Martin said detainees rarely knew what would happen from one day to the next. He saw guards waking people before dawn and deporting them without prior notice. 

He was most worried that he couldn't consistently talk to his family or see them. Sometimes they would try to visit, and weren’t allowed in. Sometimes Martin would say he’d call them but then had no access to the phones. 

Martin heard other detainees talk about being transferred from one detention center to another without warning, each time farther from their families.

It was easy to fall into despair, he said. But detainees would take turns encouraging each other to keep up hope. One day he might be telling someone else it would be okay and the next day they might have to tell him the same.

Medical problems start right away

At first, Martin noticed his legs were swelling, his joints hurt, and his skin was itchy and cracking. 

He couldn’t play soccer anymore, but he tried to keep walking daily. He saw other detainees lose their ability to walk, and they ended up leaving with crutches. He didn’t want that to be him.

“For me that was very frustrating,” he said.

He lost more than 30 pounds in the first month in detention. It wasn’t uncommon among the detainees, he said. He described the food as inedible many times: uncooked beans, frozen burgers, and leftover, spoiled food. Frustrations ran high in the cafeteria and sometimes fights broke out over the long lines to a single microwave they used to cook ramen noodles purchased in the commissary.

But getting proper medical attention felt like a challenge.

When detainees were sick, Martin said they had to submit a handwritten note, similar to what inmates in jails call a “kite.” But it often took days to be seen.

Now home, he has started gaining some weight back, but is still far from where he was when he was first detained. He still wakes up in the middle of the night and has trouble falling back asleep. He’s waiting for new test results from his doctor at home.

Communication is costly, and taken away during protests

Martin estimates he spent almost $150 every week just to stay in touch with his family. For families living paycheck to paycheck, that cost quickly becomes unsustainable. He says he was lucky to have that support.

Detainees like Martin rely on families placing money on their accounts so they can make calls or buy items from the commissary.

Detainees purchase noodles from the commissary to make up for the bad meals they couldn’t eat in the cafeteria. They could also buy cookies and other junk food, he said, although sometimes the deliveries wouldn’t come through or they would be late.

There were few phones available for all the detainees, Martin said. 

“It was hard because you would tell someone, ‘I’ll call you tomorrow,’ and then there wouldn’t be a way,” Martin said. 

On days when community groups organized protests outside the detention center, Martin said detainees would lose privileges for the phone. Sometimes, on what seemed like a whim, guards would shut down the lines and no one could make calls, he said.

Now that he’s out, he and his family are in debt. It’s adding to his ongoing stress. 

Martin worries when he sees police, fearing they may be federal agents. And he worries more about another loved one having to go through the same experience he just did. 

He has never committed a crime and was never charged with anything, but he continues to fight his case, hoping to stay in the country. He wants people to understand what he experienced, and that he is not a criminal. 

Martin was able to bond out and fight his case because he had competent legal representation and financial support. Not everyone is that fortunate. Many remain detained for months simply because they cannot afford an experienced attorney.

“You leave with trauma, without the ability to work, and without any money,” he said. “It doesn’t seem right. Look at what they’re doing to us.”

This story is part of a Voces Unidas series documenting immigration enforcement and its impact on rural Latino families on Colorado’s Western Slope. The individuals featured are clients we support through our legal defense fund and case management services.