What a Detention Hotline Taught Me About Compassion

It was a regular Thursday afternoon on the Detention Hotline–a two-hour shift fielding calls mostly from individuals held in immigration detention facilities. Most callers wanted to be connected to their lawyers for updates on their cases or for know-your-rights support. I was exhausted. Thanksgiving break was two days away, and I was juggling multiple assignments while fighting off a cold.

The call came halfway through my shift. A man detained at a facility in Virginia asked if I could connect him with his legal counsel. I asked him to hold for a moment while I checked his lawyer’s calendar.

“Okay, thank you,” he said in Spanish. Then he paused. “Can I ask you something? Are you sick? I can hear it in your voice.”

I apologized, worried that my scratchy throat had made me hard to understand.

“No—don’t be sorry,” he said quickly. “I just want to make sure you have medicine. Do you have anything you can take?” When I told him I didn’t, he insisted that I go out and buy some.

His attorney wasn’t available until the next day, so I asked him to call back then. Before hanging up, he said softly, “Cuídate, muñeca.” Take care of yourself, doll.

In that moment, my problems became very small. This man had been held in a detention facility for months without speaking to his attorney. Yet, despite the gravity of his situation, he still had the presence of mind and the genuine concern to ask about my health, a stranger’s health.

This conversation, like many I have had over three and a half months as an intern with the Amica Center for Immigrant Rights, is an example of the kindness and immense gratitude I’ve encountered while speaking with people on the hotline. Most calls end with “Muy amable” — very kind— even when there is little I can do to help.

I felt that gratitude when I delivered a message to a person who had won his immigration case. But I also heard it in the voices of weeping mothers unable to locate their sons; of people pleading because returning to their home countries would mean certain death; of fathers terrified of being separated from their children; and from a seventy-six-year-old man so ill he feared he would not survive long enough to reach his court date.

Despite these devastating and inhumane stories, I have been met by people who are resilient and deeply compassionate. At a time when the government uses ICE as a tool of intimidation, when they circulate social media posts that romanticize mass deportation, and characterize immigrants as threats, we must remember the people behind the rhetoric.

I have listened to them on the other end of the phone for months. Now more than ever, I urge Americans to listen as well—because only by listening can we learn to lead with compassion.