Defiant Thanks at the Gates of ICE

Most mornings, as the city stirs to life, we stand at the gates of Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE)—watching, waiting, witnessing. The air is thick with worry as a line of newcomers to the United States stand outside this unmarked and imposing building. Some clutch paperwork, some whisper desperate prayers, and some simply hold the hands of their loved ones, bracing for what’s to come.

With Know-Your-Rights cards in hand and a bag filled with snacks, Casa Alterna volunteers and staff stand in solidarity with those navigating America’s cruel deportation system. The work is simple—informing people of their constitutional rights, helping with check-in paperwork, offering overnight hospitality, and sharing encouragement—but it is filled with love and purpose. It is a practice of accompaniment, of showing up at the gates of a proverbial hell.

A Song of Thanksgiving

We saw love, hope, and the unbreakable spirit of a family determined to stay together.

One morning, I met a man from Mexico, fasting and praying while his wife and child checked in. His quiet vigil was a faithful act of a desperate man. When his family emerged, relief spread across his face.

“God has answered my prayers,” he said, then turned to his young son. “Please, sing a song of thanks.”

The boy’s small voice pierced the air, and I could imagine that even the angels were silent. The low hum of traffic and the murmur of worried conversations seemed to hush for a moment as his song of gratitude rose outside a place built to break spirits.

Demos gracias al Señor, demos gracias…
(We give thanks to the Lord, we give thanks…)

From the sidewalk, it’s clear that this entire process—the long lines, the all-too-common dehumanization, and the layers of security, from the tall iron gate to guards to on-site law enforcement—is designed for one purpose: intimidation. Yet, at these gates of ICE, we bore witness to something far greater.

We saw love, hope, and the unbreakable spirit of a family determined to stay together.

Later that day, another act of hospitality unfolded. A Caribbean man had arrived in Atlanta from Pennsylvania a day early for his immigration court case, without any plans or funds for lodging. A South American woman selling comfort food to weary travelers outside the ICE field office from the back of her car noticed his distress. She referred him to us, and we welcomed him into Casa Alterna—no charge, no questions, just a place to rest his head and soul.

A Place to Rest

Hospitality is what mercy looks like in practice.

Hospitality, in its truest form, is never transactional. It is an invitation to say that no one should ever face the unknown alone. It is a declaration that, in this strange land, we will be your friend. It is what mercy looks like in practice.

We Give Thanks

One morning, a West African man approached me with good news. After years of reporting to ICE, this was the last day he’d have to check in—he was finally free from state surveillance. Against all odds, a harsh chapter of oppression was ending. His asylum had been granted, and his green card was pending. At long last, his family’s future was secure, and he felt truly free.

He introduced me to his wife and child, standing beside him in the crisp Atlanta air. And as if on cue, he smiled and echoed the words I had heard once before on this same stretch of sidewalk:

“We give thanks.”

These gates are meant to be a threshold of fear. But in the shadow of ICE, where policies divide and punish, something else takes root—mercy, resilience, and a defiant, unshakable hope. We give thanks.

Essay and photo by Anton Flores-Maisonet.