SHAFTS OF SUNLIGHT streamed through the clouds on an early November morning when I set out with three older women for a two-hour drive from Los Angeles to the ICE detention center in Adelanto, Calif. I was traveling with Rev. Betty Stapleford, a retired Unitarian Universalist minister, and her affable, wise-cracking friends, Maureen Kimberling and Ellen Deeb. While this was Kimberling and Deeb’s second visit, this was my first time visiting a detention center.

Rev. Betty—as she is affectionately called—began making these monthly trips in 2014, taking seriously Jesus’ command to visit the sick and imprisoned. Her outreach is supported by Clergy and Laity United for Economic Justice, a nonprofit coalition of interfaith congregations that advocate for the rights of low-wage workers and immigrants.

She was dressed in vibrant purple, a color she wears every day, partly inspired by Jenny Joseph’s poem “Warning,” with its famous opening lines: “When I am an old woman, I shall wear purple.” Recalling her final day as a minister in a church, she said she delivered a sermon about “finding what you love that brings you joy”—even something as simple as your favorite color. Joy would be challenging to find at the place we were headed.

The Adelanto ICE Processing Center in San Bernardino County is a for-profit prison owned and operated by the GEO Group, a private company with which ICE contracts to provide custody services. The detention center, one of the largest in California, opened in 2011 and is now a multimillion-dollar revenue-generating business. Under Trump’s immigration policies, the number of detainees has expanded exponentially—from 300 in April 2025 to 1,900 today—while taxpayers foot the bill of approximately $165 per person per day.

“This is a gold mine for GEO,” Rev. Betty said.

Adelanto is also plagued with allegations of unsafe conditions, civil rights violations, and medical neglect. Nationwide, at least 30 people died in ICE custody in 2025, including Ismael Ayala-Uribe, 39, and Gabriel Garcia-Aviles, 56, who died in hospitals after being transferred from Adelanto. California lawmakers have demanded accountability, claiming that Ayala-Uribe’s requests for medical care were ignored until it was too late and that Garcia-Aviles’ family was not notified until he was on his deathbed.

Inadequate access to medical treatment at Adelanto was a common theme in a June 2025 report issued by Disability Rights California, which also described deficient access to water and food, including excessive meal delays; scant access to clean clothes; and curtailed opportunities to contact family members. Detainees reported to DRC representatives that they had limited access to fresh drinking water, which was corroborated by an individual I met that day at the facility, who noted that detainees often went without fresh drinking water for four hours.

Mental health care services at Adelanto have also failed to meet standards set by the California Department of Justice, which conducted an investigation in April 2025. In their review of files at Adelanto and Desert View Annex, a detention facility at Adelanto, representatives discovered that providers issued prescriptions that did not correspond to documented diagnoses. Cal DOJ representatives also identified disproportionate use of force against individuals with mental health issues.

One of the most pernicious abuses occurred during the height of the coronavirus pandemic when detainees were exposed to undiluted HDQ Neutral disinfectant, a chemical the EPA has labeled a pesticide. It was sprayed every 30 minutes—while detainees were eating, while they were sleeping—even when detainees complained of nosebleeds, headaches, and nausea, and even though HDQ Neutral can cause irreversible eye damage and skin burns when used improperly. A class action lawsuit is pending.

Within white walls

VISITING THE ADELANTO Center is no easy feat for attorneys, friends, or family members, as its location on the edge of the Mojave Desert places it far from major metropolitan centers. As we approached the site, the roads deteriorated, pocked with potholes, and the landscape stretched dry and barren to the horizon. Welcome to the city of Adelanto, a sign proclaimed, “The City with Unlimited Possibilities.”

When we entered the detention center, the walls of white concrete blocks surrounded us in antiseptic oppression, even while brightly colored posters offered false cheer, with photos of an empty dining space, an empty recreation room, and a library with a small bookcase. After we walked through the metal detector, the guards inspected our pockets to ensure that we weren’t smuggling pens, paper, tools, or weapons. Kimberling was asked to throw away some Kleenex, while an amused Deeb was scolded for wearing leggings, which violated the dress code. She was allowed to continue the visit, but other visitors who have worn sandals, tank tops, or short skirts have been turned away in the past.

We filed down a maze-like hallway and through a heavy door, which the guards quickly locked behind us, and entered a claustrophobic room where families with young children waited to visit loved ones. A little boy wearing a superhero shirt, with images that shifted as he moved, smiled at me. The next door swung open, and we filed through. It locked loudly behind us. We entered the visitation area, a long room with cheap plastic chairs spread far apart and separated by low tables.

A delirious SpongeBob SquarePants cartoon played on a small TV high above, while a shiny blue apparatus flickered on the wall below. “What is that?” I asked one of the guards, gesturing toward the apparatus. “That’s a bug zapper,” she replied. “Sometimes we get a lot of flies in here.” I glanced around in confusion. How could flies enter such a tightly locked space that appeared unventilated? Purgatorial images flooded my mind—from Breaking Bad’s famous episode with the fly to David Lynch’s surrealist films—but I wondered if even Lynch could imagine such ludicrous, tragicomic juxtapositions of cartoons, entrapment, and death. Describing the scene as Kafkaesque seemed too mild for this festering absurdity.

Rev. Betty’s vivid purple outfit provided a stark contrast but also invited comparison with the uniforms that were everywhere to be seen—from the security guards in their drab uniforms, to the attorneys in their tightly fitted navy-blue suits, to the detainees in their bright, baggy jumpsuits, which looked like medical scrubs. Red jumpsuits denoted the highest security classification due to a previous felony conviction; orange was for mid-level security cases, and blue was for those deemed low risk. At the time of this visitation, we only saw detainees wearing red and orange because the low-risk individuals are never allowed to interact with the high-security ones. Frank Zappa’s famous quotation about societal conformity sprang to mind, spoken to a rebellious audience mocking uniformed officers: “Everybody in this room is wearing a uniform,” he scolded the crowd. “Don’t kid yourself.”

I recalled Jesus’ focus on the state of our hearts and not our outward affectations, which is underscored throughout the Hebrew Bible as well: “People look at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart” (1 Samuel 16:7, NIV). I also recalled Kathleen Norris’ wisdom in Amazing Grace: A Vocabulary of Faith, where she reminds us that there among the heroin users may be one who is saved, and there among the churchgoers may be one who is not—and it simply isn’t up to us to judge. Garish and clownish, the colors of the uniforms danced in my vision like a court jester.

Seated inches from the security guards’ station, Rev. Betty and I watched as the detainees greeted their friends and families with delight. Kimberling and Deeb were seated nearby, waiting to meet with the individuals assigned to them. I was surprised by the multiethnic demographic, which included Eastern European and Asian detainees from Russia and China as well as immigrants from Latin America.

‘There’s nothing to do here’

AS REV. BETTY and I greeted Long Ton, he eagerly granted permission to share his name and the details of his story, as he is seeking a pardon from California Gov. Gavin Newsom through an active petition on Change.org. While security guards hovered nearby, we had to lean forward to hear him speak loudly across the widely separated table and chairs. Ton’s story began when his parents fled persecution in China by immigrating to Vietnam. When Communists targeted the Chinese community in Vietnam, his parents fled once again—this time to Hong Kong, where Ton was born. Then they immigrated to the United States as refugees seeking asylum. His mother became a U.S. citizen, working as a seamstress while his father worked in shipyards and construction.

With too much time on his hands, Ton started hanging out with a local gang in his Lincoln Heights neighborhood, not far from downtown LA. In 2001, while he was playing video games at an arcade in a mall, he said, a friend participated in a nearby knife fight. An 18-year-old was killed and two others were injured. Ton, who was 22 at the time, was indicted on a felony murder charge under a harsh law, which has since been repealed, that targeted gang members as accessories to murder. He took a plea bargain and was sent to state prison for six years.

Noting that state prison was far better than Adelanto, Ton detailed a variety of classes, activities, and opportunities for self-improvement offered there. He enjoyed participating in art classes and earned multiple certifications, including for Alcoholics Anonymous and Narcotics Anonymous, even though he was not an alcoholic or drug user. “Imagine a business with the lowest common bidder,” he said. “That’s what Adelanto is. There’s nothing to do here.” The center offers limited indoor and outdoor recreation times but no classes or activities.

After being released from state prison, Ton obtained a green card and worked in construction. He is now married, with three young children. Every year he checked in with his parole board, but in 2025 he was arrested as an undocumented immigrant. He tried to vacate his prior conviction, but the paperwork was delayed, and the judge told him he had filed too late.

“I don’t want my children seeing me like this,” he said. “It would be imprinted on their memories forever.”

Ton’s descriptions of the conditions at Adelanto reveal a dystopian panopticon. He needs an antiviral medication but was given an antibiotic instead. He translates for a Chinese detainee who has hives but is not being treated. The internet, TV, and phones go down frequently, sometimes causing fights among detainees vying for access. The lukewarm showers, which the detainees clean, teem with mold. Likely due to a pending class action labor lawsuit, detainees are no longer paid $1 per day, so now they are working as volunteers in various capacities—cleaning the facility and serving food. The only way to get money in commissary accounts is through donations, which are needed to pay for 14-minute phone calls and Zoom sessions. Ton said the state prison had a much better collection of law books in the library. At Adelanto, detainees are limited to one-hour sessions in the library, which can be scheduled as early as 6:30 a.m.

Ton described an incident in which a guard accidentally stepped on a pepper spray bullet, which exploded and released noxious fumes in the poorly ventilated space. For several weeks, he said, detainees experienced allergic reactions, sore throats, and watering eyes until the fumes finally dissipated.

As our time came to a close, we tried a variety of ways to encourage him. “Have your children and wife visited you here?” Rev. Betty asked. His expression turned wistful and sad, clouded behind his glasses. “I don’t want my children seeing me like this,” he said, gesturing toward his red jumpsuit. “It would be imprinted on their memories forever.”

Glimmers of light

OUR DAY INVOLVED another hourlong visit with a detainee as well as an extended break for lunch, and we emerged from the center just as the sun descended below the desert horizon. During the long drive home in the darkness, we questioned why detainees such as Ton were being punished again when they had already served their time, and we listened as Rev. Betty related anecdotes from her past visits to Adelanto. One success story beamed through the darkness when she recalled meeting a detainee many years ago—a gay man from Kenya who sought refuge in the United States due to persecution in his home nation. Rainbow Railroad, an organization that helps LGBTQ+ people escape persecution, facilitated his emigration to Brazil, where he found a welcoming and inclusive community.

Another spotlight flickered briefly as Rev. Betty described how detainees organized daily Bible studies and found other creative outlets—at least for a brief time. “For a while [before the pandemic], some of the detainees were making objects, including purses, with the ramen containers that they were getting with their soup; they made crosses, and they made little baskets, and they used the potato chip linings for silver trim on these things, so they wove them into strips,” she said, delightedly. But then the hammer fell. “The guards told them that they couldn’t make those anymore because those materials they were using were property of the facility—and they threw them in the trash.” Stunned by the cruelty, I lapsed into silence.

But then hope returned when I suddenly imagined the possibility of 200 attorneys from the surrounding area, each taking on about five pro bono cases at Adelanto, constantly filing habeas corpus petitions and clearing the place in a matter of months. Well, why not? I wondered aloud.

God cares deeply about how we treat our neighbors—whether we are acting justly and loving mercy.

And I reflected on the parable of the Good Samaritan, which reveals a God who cares deeply about how we treat our neighbors—whether we are acting justly and loving mercy, whether we are willing to rescue the marginalized among us. And the horrific lesson from Nuremberg and My Lai, which apparently must be relearned every generation, is that we should never blindly follow orders or obey unjust laws. At what grave cost must these lessons constantly be relearned?

“At the very least, I think we made a difference in the lives of the people we met with today,” Rev. Betty said, reminding us of the story of the little boy who rescued stranded starfish by throwing them one at time into the ocean. “Even if it’s just one person ...”

Without warning, the traffic screeched to a halt as vehicles slowly maneuvered around an obstacle on the freeway. What appeared to be fully intact gymnasium or playground equipment blocked an entire lane, towering high above us. The impediment was enormous—ludicrous—but it was not insurmountable. As I called 911 for assistance, traffic flowed around it, carrying us like a wave into the night beyond.