On the outskirts of California City, an immigration detention center operates miles outside of public view. During their first visit to the facility, two Kern Sol News reporters met and spoke with a detainee named Hilario. The conversation took place through a glass wall, communicated through a wall phone, offering a look into the prison-like conditions inside a facility that remains largely out of public view.

Aimee:

When we arrived at the parking lot of the former prison now operating as a detention center in California City, the atmosphere was immediately striking. The facility bore clear signs of its past use: caged fencing, narrow windows set into every room, and multiple secured doors designed to keep the outside world at bay. 

Once we made it past those doors, we were instructed to hand over our state-issued identification cards and sit in the waiting room. The waiting room was an 8×10 extension of the previous room, with six chairs and a glass wall overlooking the parking lot. The wait took approximately fifteen minutes before we were handed our visitation badges and then asked to step back into the room where we had first been seen. There, they stamped our hands with an invisible stamp, told us to put all our belongings into a bin, and instructed us to remove our shoes.

The visiting room was large and vastly empty. There were two vending machines on the far end of the room, one for snacks and another for drinks. On the left side of the room were chairs and phones used to communicate with detainees.

Hilario spoke primarily Spanish. He had an understanding of the English language but preferred to speak his native tongue. My role was to translate for him and Eddy. Despite the language barrier, Eddy and Hilario shared an extremely friendly rapport. Hilario called Eddy “father,” and Eddy called Hilario “son.”

Eddy introduced me to Hilario, a detainee who had been held at Golden State Annex in McFarland since 2023 and transferred to California City in June of 2025. We spoke about his conditions. He mentioned that the facility had taken over $100 from his account after he was allegedly accused of breaking something. Staff reviewed the evidence and concluded that Hilario had not broken anything; however, the money has yet to be reimbursed, leaving him without the ability to contact his family.

Prior to my visit with Hilario, I had read a letter he had written. In it, he mentioned that the facility refused to give him his medication meant to control his diabetes, which led to his hospitalization at Tehachapi Hospital.

Despite his grave circumstances, he remained upbeat and eager to receive visitors. After explaining his situation which left him without the ability to contact his family during the holiday season, he asked about my New Year, how I had spent it, and what I had eaten. I described everything in detail. He told me about all the seafood he prepares during the holidays, from ceviche to pescado tatemado, enthusiastically sharing every culinary detail.

We spent a great deal of our visit discussing food. The twinkle in his eye when he explained how he makes his ceviche was unmatched. He also mentioned that he is a leader in the men’s faith group they hold, which helps him keep his faith alive. Numerous times, he told me he remains hopeful that he will one day see his wife and children. 

Despite Hilario’s challenges his warmth in demeanor never dwindled, in fact, it was infectious. Even as he described the conditions of the detention center, he did so with a smile on his face. At times, it only felt appropriate for me to return his smile even when he was discussing the unhygienic nature of the detention center, and the fact that he has not been able to contact his family in over a month. He had said if he was back in Golden State Annex he would be able to shake my hand and make everyone around him laugh, that’s when I began to feel a sense of sadness. He was treated like a prisoner without the same rights and all he wanted was to be our comedic relief.

After about an hour, our visit came to an end—not before Hilario promised to invite every volunteer who visited him to his home for a home-cooked meal made by his own hands once he is no longer detained.

We said our goodbyes and walked away as Hilario stood at the pane of glass, motioning to his heart. He and the other detainee, Fernando, watched as we exited the room. 

Haley: Comparing California City and Mesa Verde

As a writer and reader who follows and sometimes covers immigration news, I’ve spoken to families over the phone about what their loved ones are going through in California City and have read countless news articles. I’ve also visited detainees in person at Mesa Verde, the ICE immigration center located in Bakersfield. But meeting someone detained at California City felt stranger and more eerie than any visit I had at Mesa Verde.

What felt eerie was the atmosphere at California City, which was very different from anything I had experienced at Mesa Verde.

The visit wasn’t eerie because of Hilario’s well-being or spirit. He seemed surprisingly upbeat, laughing, joking, and talking with us. He even said he was following the advice that “everything will be okay,” and now he believes it, despite having collapsed weeks ago and being hospitalized after being denied medication. Recently, his account was drained after he was wrongly accused of breaking something. Guards later confirmed it was a mistake, but the money was never returned, leaving him unable to contact his family for weeks.

The facility in California City was once a private prison and is now the state’s largest immigration detention center. Because it was originally built as a prison, it still functions like one. The facility is surrounded by desert; I couldn’t see anything around it except sand and scrub.

When we walked in, guards led us through three sliding gates before entering the building. I immediately wondered if we were already in the waiting room because it was so tiny. This is the room where families and visitors wait, yet there were only six chairs. The restroom itself felt bigger than the waiting area. By comparison, the waiting room at Mesa Verde had at least 20 chairs and lockers where visitors could store phones and other belongings, since no technology or personal items are allowed inside.

California City houses more than 1,000 detainees. Fortunately for us, there were no other visitors at the time. I was told that wait times can take hours if other visitors are present.

Another difference I noticed was the visiting room. At Mesa Verde, the room is smaller, but there are tables with children’s toys and active vending machines, and families can have face-to-face physical contact. It’s always sad to see visits end, but at least there is some closeness between loved ones.

I remember one visit to Mesa Verde that will always stay with me: a little boy, maybe four or five years old, drew a colorful picture for his father while visiting with his mother. His father was holding a newborn baby. The boy wanted to give the drawing to his father, but the guard took it away and didn’t even let the boy take it home.

In California City, the visiting room is completely different. Instead of tables and seats, there is a wall of windows and booths separating families from detainees and eliminating any physical contact. We spoke to Hilario through a glass wall using a wall phone. 

I recently learned that all the people I had met while detained at Mesa Verde were transferred to California City. One of the first detainees I spoke with last summer was a man named Richardo. He had a difficult time at both Mesa Verde and the Golden State Annex in McFarland, where he was first detained. At Golden State, a guard broke his wrist by slamming a door on it, and he was denied surgery for more than a year despite his doctor’s recommendation.

After transferring to Mesa Verde and enduring over a year of pain, he finally received surgery. During a follow-up visit about a month later, he nearly suffered heatstroke on the ride back to the facility. Guards dismissed his condition, even as he vomited and lost consciousness repeatedly. He was denied medical care and sent to a room with only a fan to cool down.

I had hoped to visit Richardo again at California City, but I was recently told he self-deported. Richardo had been in the U.S. since he was five years old.

During our visit, Hilario mentioned a place detainees call “the hole,” where people are sent as punishment. He said that if he had actually broken something, he would have been sent there. Months earlier, I spoke with a woman whose husband had been detained at California City and sent to the “hole.”

She said her husband and others were punished for speaking up about conditions inside the facility. The “hole” is a locked room where detainees can be confined for 24 hours with no food and no contact with their families.

I later learned that her husband also self-deported. He had worked as a painter and construction worker and had lived in California for more than two decades.

Behind the walls and glass, people like Hilario and countless others face uncertainty, isolation, and punishment, even as they try to remain hopeful and connected to their families. Meeting them in person made it clear that these are real lives, not just news stories or numbers.