On January 6, 2025, I had the opportunity to visit detainee Fernando Chavez at Core Civic’s Detention Center in California City. The hour-and-a-half drive from Delano didn’t prepare me for what I was about to see and feel during my visit to the facility. Having read reports of what goes on inside wasn’t enough to prepare me for the firsthand accounts from individuals.
CoreCivic is currently the third privately owned detention center in Kern County and the largest immigration facility in California. Despite CoewCivic not having the proper permits and public outcry to shut down the facility, it remains open, intending to meet its quotas.
Upon arrival, I noticed that the facility was situated a few miles outside the city, isolated and deserted, tucked away from public view. The windows were limited, blocking access to natural sunlight or any semblance of life outside the facility.
Several individuals at Cal City’s detention center described receiving one hour of recreational time each day, which they said is spent without access to recreational equipment.
To enter the facility, I, along with other volunteers and staff, had to pass through two sets of electrical doors that required us to be buzzed in. Many employees entered and left the facility at the same time, changing shifts and laughing with each other as if unaware of the job they had taken on and its impact on the detainees.
It settled in me that it was built and managed like a prison, and nothing less. We provided Fernando’s information so that they could bring him out and talk to us.
Once inside the facility, we saw the hallways that many detainees walked through and got a glimpse of the lingering feeling of loneliness, pain, and fear that they must experience every day.
We were guided to the visitation area, a long room with rows of chairs, a telephone booth, and windows separating visitors from those detained inside. Through that pane of glass, the contrast was unmistakable: on the visitor’s side, daily life appeared to continue uninterrupted after the pause imposed by confinement.
On the other side, it wasn’t just the windows; it was the uniform detainees wore that emphasized they were prisoners, as it removed all forms of identity and personality.
I walked over to the booth with a volunteer from KWESI (Kern Welcoming and Extending Solidarity to Immigrants) to meet Fernando. He was elated and eager to see us; he couldn’t hold in the excitement. We picked up the phone and spoke for nearly an hour or maybe two, switching between our first language, Spanish, and later speaking in English.
He told me of his two children, ages 24 and 22. Whenever he spoke of his son and daughter, he spoke with admiration, love, and sadness.
His son, aged 24, just finished school and is working to be a dental hygienist; his daughter, 22, served in the military and recently got married. An event he regrets not being able to attend. Fernando shared that he had not reached out to his children in some time or kept in touch with them, as he found it difficult.
“I don’t think she thinks about me anymore. You think she’ll like me writing to her? ” asked Fernando, referring to his daughter’s wedding.
I assured him that as a daughter myself, a letter from my father would let me know that my father still thinks about me, hasn’t forgotten me, and that he was still keeping his hope alive.
“Are you sure, you really think she’ll like that?” Fernando asked again.
“Yes, I really do,” I replied once again, reassuring him.
I reminded Fernando of the importance of writing and the importance of contacting his children and family. He has been detained for over four years and remains strong in his faith that he will be out soon.
Many conversations later, the guards arrived and informed us that we had only two minutes left to say our goodbyes. I thanked Fernando for being open to speaking with a stranger like me and reminded him of his commitment to writing to his children.
We gathered our belongings and walked to the exit, but I couldn’t help but look back to see if they were still there on the other side. To my surprise, both Chavez and the other detainee we came to visit were staring right back at us, faces glued to the windows, watching us leave to return home, the one thing they were still waiting for.
