Organizer & activist stories.
Note: This piece is one of many stories I’m trying to tell about organizers and activists, and the young people doing work in social movements to fight against authoritarianism and fight for a livable future for all.
“My heart was pounding…”
My heart was pounding in my chest as our car turned out of the parking lot of the gas station and onto the road where, several yards away, was Krome Detention Facility, an ICE detention center outside of Miami, Florida, where Sunrisers would be taking direct action.
Though nervous, I was clear-eyed about why I was doing what I was doing.
For months, I watched, horrified, as masked thugs walked the streets, zip-tied families in the middle of the night, snatched mothers or fathers off the street without warrant, pepper-sprayed priests, and arrested journalists, without consequence.
For months, I’d struggled to figure out how to take the violence and devastation playing out on my iPhone screen and do something about it.
Then, Sunrise called on members across the movement to join an action in Florida at Alligator Alcatraz and Krome Detention Facility.
I was in.
Climate activists prepare for an upcoming direct action.
It all begins.
After we marched down the road singing, “I am not afraid, I am not afraid, I will stand for liberation cause I know why I was made,” Sunrisers took their place and stood directly in front of the entrance to Krome Detention Facility. I, the photographer, and a member of the comms team for the action took mine, running around, doing everything I could to get the shot and capture the action.
As these things go, when you’re blocking the road for an action, eventually, the police arrive. The head sheriff, a short Hispanic man with a temper, arrived on the scene, police sirens blasting.
“You have 10 minutes. 5 minutes. 3 minutes. To vacate the property,” he said.
Tension was building. Our jail support liaison was going back and forth between the group and the police. Several more county sheriff cars sped into the driveway to the detention facility. The singing continued.
Eventually, the 10 minutes were up, and the arrests began. I threw some rolls of film to a marshal, in hopes that the police wouldn't destroy them. As my friends around me were grabbed by police, camera in hand, I was there to document it, up until my own arrest.
Eventually, I was taken and handcuffed, my camera hanging around my neck. An officer asked for it.
“Sorry, sir, my hands are kinda tied up right now,” I smirked at my clever response. He did not.
Activist get arrested outside of Krome Detention facility for protesting the conditions inside of the detention facility and ICE’s actions across the country. Nov 2025.
One by one, the officers arrested us and had us sit on the concrete pavement to the side of the road. Processing began. Slowly. As we waited, bored out of our minds, we found ways to pass the time. We sang. We talked to each other and told jokes. Ants attacked a group of people down from me. A cop, trying to be benevolent (is there such a thing as a benevolent cop?!), tried to help.
As time passed, the sun set on a scene of 30-ish young people seated and handcuffed on a concrete slab outside of Krome Detention facility. Soon after, a pinkish-orange hue lit the sky, and a pelican flew in and perched atop the barbed wire fence surrounding the detention facility. As the bird sat still, we debated whether or not it was stuck. I now think about the symbolism of the bird arriving at the time that it did. Brown Pelicans, I learned, represent resilience. At the moment, the bird felt like a bit of a sign from the universe, telling us that it, and the forces of good around the world, were looking over us and on our side. After a while of waiting, the bird, without constraint, gracefully flew away.
As the sun set and the mosquitoes began to bite, eventually several big vans arrived to take the 30 of us, at this point exhausted and bitten, away. I piled into the van, and we headed for the first processing facility, somewhere near Doral.
At the next facility, we waited. Inside the van, which was partitioned into 3 sections, with three different groups in each, I bonded with the folks in my section.
Eventually, I got thirsty and asked for water from a Black officer who looked to be just a few years older than me. Eventually, once I exited the van for processing, he was there with my water. With my hands tied behind my back, I opened my mouth as he poured the water in my mouth. I knew the moment was just as awkward for him as it was for me. In another context, I might pass him at a bar. He might be the cousin or relative of a friend. Here, he was the police officer playing a role, and I was the activist.
After what felt like forever, we eventually headed towards Miami-Dade County jail.
Headed to jail.
I sat, handcuffed, in the backseat of a squad car with two other Sunrisers. The officer driving us, a Black man, began blasting Afrobeats and Let Me Love You by Justin Bieber. I couldn’t help but bop along to the tunes as the squad car raced through the streets of Miami, headed to what I would soon learn was Miami-Dade County Jail (where apparently Justin Bieber had once visited). I thought… this has got to be a joke.
We arrived at the jail and sat in the squad car for what felt like an hour, waiting to be processed. I peered over the officer's shoulder, watching as he watched random YouTube shorts on his phone.
Eventually, still in handcuffs, we were taken inside the jail, where we ran into some of our other friends who had also been arrested. There, we were asked to take urine samples, see medical, and yet again, wait.
Also, during this time, I remember a little spat happening between an arresting officer and a staff member of the jail. As they yelled back and forth, I grinned inside … good, have at it.
Inside the waiting room, there was a pregnant woman, whom I presume to be Haitian, who didn’t speak any English. She looked terrified to be inside. Later, I would see her on a stretcher, completely mute. There was another woman, an older Latina lady, who just sat beside me bawling. I tried to ask her in Spanish, Are you ok?, but she was consumed by her tears.
I began to learn that there are checkpoints, as I’ll call them. Our photos were taken (hence, the mugshot), and I was forced to take out my cartilage piercing and nose piercing, which hurt like hell. We then had to give up our clothes and change into an orange jumpsuit and a white bra and panty set. We then went into another waiting area, where they gave us a disgusting sandwich that I could not touch. And we waited.
Jail is a never-ending series of waiting.
Here, they had a phone, so I called Tori, our jail support lead, to let her know that I and many of us were ok. I then called my mother, who did not answer. Which made sense; by this time, it was somewhere around 2 am.
After a long day, I was exhausted. I just wanted to lie down. I also wanted a blanket… It was freezing.
As we were taken deeper and deeper into the system, our presence began to cause a bit of commotion. The state, in Florida, was obviously not set up to process 30 people at once. As we interacted with the staff and many other Black and Brown people, they couldn’t understand why we’d want to go to jail. I don’t want to go to jail, I thought. But if it’s the price I have to pay to stand up to injustice, so be it.
At valuables (or the place where you check your clothes and things), one woman claimed, as we talked about the horrors perpetuated by ICE across the country, that we were brainwashed and needed to seek the truth… right back at you, sister!
Another correction officer shared a story about the time an older Russian or Turkish woman (I can’t remember exactly) inside was deported… her husband had come to the jail one day and learned the news. He said he would not forget the man’s cry as he found out. He thanked us for our efforts.
After a bit of waiting, eventually a few of us were called and taken to the next step, to our jail cell. I was relieved (your standards of comfort in jail adjust pretty rapidly); I just wanted to lie down.
We walked the corridors in handcuffs, tied to each other by our hands and feet, and after being taken through elevators and different floors, I eventually arrived at my jail cell.
It was colder than Antarctica there. I took the thin sheet they gave me, climbed to the top bunk, made a makeshift pillow out of the towel they gave me, and tried to fall asleep. Sleep would be my strategy for navigating this misery.
I woke up several hours later, completely disoriented, forgetting for a second where I was: in jail.
My tired eyes began scanning the scene of the cell. There was a silver toilet and sink in the cell, and stuff from my cellmate scattered around the room. Toilet paper. Books. Food wrappers. Again, it was utterly freezing, and as I looked to the source of the cold, a vent was pasted with toilet paper. I’d later learn why.
I crawled down from my bunk and tried to pull the door open.
It’s locked, my cellmate said. Locked?!
How do I get out? I asked her.
You have to wait; they give you certain periods where you can leave, and once you leave, you can’t come back in.
My cellmate’s name was Mary (I’m using another name, obviously, out of respect for her identity) I began asking her a series of questions, trying to understand the woman I was now locked in a jail cell with. She had been in jail for 6 months and had 3 more months to go. She’d broken a restraining order and was set to be deported at the end of her stay.
In my own misery, I asked her, “How do you do this!?” “You adjust,” she said. No. I couldn’t.
As we waited, she eventually asked me if I’d help her with something. “Would you get on my shoulders and help me pad the vents?”
My mouth dropped. Pad the vents? Mind you, the jail cell ceilings were high, and the vent had to be about 10 feet up. That would explain the toilet paper over the vent. “Sorry, I really can’t do that.” I did not want to break my neck. I also did not want the guards to see me and give me any more time than I already had in this hell.
Eventually, after returning to bed and waiting, the guards came around, knocking on the doors. “What’s this?!” I asked. She told me I had to stand outside of the jail door until they came around to inspect.
During my entire experience in jail, I thought they could really use a manual and orientation video for newbies. I had no clue what was going on, and several times, I accidentally broke the rules as a result. But what were they gonna do, put me in jail?!
Once they had done the inspection of our room, we were free to leave. The small jail cell, that is. We couldn’t go far, obviously. We were in jail. With my newfound freedom, I found the closest phone on the wall, lined up, waited, and then called my mother. I talked to my mom for a bit, in good spirits (though cold), told her I was ok, and then got my sister's number from her and called my sister. “GIRLLLLLLLL… I said.” I told her everything about my experience so far. The experience, up to this point, that I have written out for you.
After the phone calls connecting with my family, I saw they had an outdoor courtyard, and I ran to it. Oh, to be outside! Fresh air! The sunlight on my skin was refreshing. While outside, I spotted two other Sunrisers from the action and ran to them. How refreshing!!! I needed someone to process this insane experience with. When talking with them, I learned that apparently, the action was on the news, and a few people inside caught wind that a few of us were the kids who took action on the news.
Jail is truly what you see in the movies and shows. People in orange jumpsuits. People working out. This one girl was running in endless circles around the courtyard for exercise. It felt like a scene straight out of Orange Is the New Black. Art imitates life. Imitates art.
One girl came up to me. “I love your hair.” I was wearing cornrows. This was not for jail, but rather, between silk presses and knotless braids, I needed a temporary hairstyle.
“You’re pretty! What are you doing here?! Girl, be careful!” Yet, despite it being jail, I wasn't at all afraid of the people inside.
A waiting game.
Jail, given the many things we’re accustomed to entertaining ourselves, was especially boring. I knew that if I could find a book or something to read, it would make the experience more bearable. I used the people skills I’d developed in my 29 years of life and thought they’d also apply in jail. A white girl was sitting at a nearby table with a pile of games and books. I walked over. I was desperate. I asked her where she got the cards from.
“My family,” she said. How nice of your family. I thought she would offer them up, but she didn’t. So I looked at the books; one of them was Rich Dad Poor Dad, from what I can remember. “Can I read that?” She looked me dead in the eye and said no.
I felt like I went through a never-ending loop over the span of 10 hours, between sleeping, going to the courtyard, and making a phone call. Rise and repeat. Though frustrated and restless to get back into the world, I was fairly calm. As I watched this all play out, eventually, I asked my cellmate again. “Why don’t you all protest this? This is miserable!” “Protest?! Hell no. They’d just give us more time.” I also guess protest is what got me here in the first place.
In an effort to pass the time, I walked up to the guard seated, watching television. Throughout much of this experience, I couldn’t help but think about how many people had no idea of this parallel universe playing out in jails across the country.
“So when I get out of here, do you think there’s any chance I could come back and, you know, bring my camera and photograph this?” She looked me dead in the eyes. I took that as a no.
After the cycle of waiting, of napping to pass the time, of trying to create worlds in my head that I could escape to, of trying to meditate and breathe, eventually, they called for me. Dejah Powell. After one or two more hours of processing and steps, eventually, I saw the light of day. The second I saw Tori, I cried. I did not ever want to go back to jail again.
Endings are messy.
And so will the ending of this piece be… because I’m not quite sure how to close.
A group of climate activists, calling to abolish ICE, blockaded Krome Detention Facility in Florida in November of 2025.
Should I close by telling you I’ll never get arrested again? (I can’t promise you that I won’t, given where things are headed in this country.)
Close with thoughts on the state of the carceral system in the United States? (That’s a whole other essay)
Close with my reflections on the impact of that action and whether it was worth it?
Instead, I’ll close with this.
“One has not only a legal, but a moral responsibility to obey just laws. Conversely, one has a moral responsibility to disobey unjust laws.” ― Martin Luther King Jr., Letter from the Birmingham Jail
The second place I went after I got out of jail. The first? To eat.
