About 50 miles from Miami, on a lonely curve of the Tamiami Trail, surrounded by wetlands and with no cell phone service, after passing airboat rental businesses and the Miccosukee Tribal Village, a blue sign announces the approach of the Alligator Alcatraz Detention Center. The official sign is crossed out with graffiti: “Fuck ICE.”
Last Sunday afternoon, more than 200 people gathered on the stretch of highway in front of the remote detention center nestled in the mangroves of the Everglades, to demand its closure and denounce the treatment of immigrants detained in the United States. These vigils outside the center, located at the former Dade-Collier Airport, were held for 14 consecutive Sundays and became a gathering point for activists, religious leaders and relatives of detainees. On November 2, the vigil coincided with a national day of protest: the Missing in America Day of Action, which brought together more than 140 events across the country.
Since its hasty opening in July, Alligator Alcatraz has become a national symbol of the Trump administration’s immigration policies. During this vigil, worshipers and activists joined the nationwide protest to close all immigration detention centers and end raids by Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE).
Some attendees arrived by bus from Fort Myers and Naples on Florida’s west coast. Others drove in from Miami, Fort Lauderdale, Palm Beach and other East Coast cities. The participants formed a semi-circle on a piece of land that, due to much use, had become barren and muddy due to the rains. Some install folding chairs and awnings; others have mats to sit on, but most simply remain in the mud. Nearly all carry signs with messages in English such as “No Human Beings Are Illegal,” “Abolish ICE,” or “Stop Abuse, Detention, and Deportation.”
Noelle Damico of the Workers Circle, which organizes the vigils at Alligator Alcatraz, said last Sunday’s demonstration also included protests outside Home Depot stores and Day of the Dead altars, in memory of those who have died this year in the custody of immigration authorities.
“We see that people aren’t standing by. What we’ve seen at Alligator Alcatraz with this vigil is that every week new people are coming in, going back to their home communities and talking about it with others. New vigils have sprung up in Sarasota, in Orlando, in Tallahassee, as well as all over the country,” Damico says. Just over a week ago, a training course on how to organize a vigil was held, in which more than 4,000 people participated. “And people told other people, and now these actions are going on like wildfire this weekend. People are taking action from Alaska to Hawaii, from Oklahoma to Florida, to Boston. It goes on forever, and everywhere in between. What we want to do is give people the tools to do something about it. And so we make these meetings about vigils accessible to anyone who wants to start a vigil,” he adds.
The growing movement has kept a spotlight on the center, which has been surrounded by controversy since its inception. Alligator Alcatraz was built with canvas tents in just eight days in late June and began receiving inmates in early July, following a show of support from President Donald Trump. It has faced numerous complaints alleging poor conditions, lack of access to immigration lawyers and courts, and environmental damage. Environmental groups and the Miccosukee Tribe, which considers the area its ancestral territory, filed a lawsuit claiming the operation would cause irreparable damage to the fragile Everglades ecosystem. In August, a judge ordered the camp dismantled, but the state appealed and the case was left in limbo after the federal government closed the camp. In the meantime the center continues to function.
The name of the national day, “Missing in America,” alludes to claims by immigrant advocacy groups that detainees are not listed in ICE’s online database and their lawyers and families are unaware of their whereabouts. A lawsuit filed by the American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU) refers to Alligator Alcatraz as “a black hole,” with people “missing” and “off the radar” of the immigration system.
A vigil in the heart of the Everglades
The Sunday vigil takes place with a solemn tone, broken only by the occasional honk of a passing car. Pastor Roy Terry of Cornerstone United Methodist Church in Naples serves as master of the ceremony, handing the only available microphone to those who will share testimonies, prayers and songs. Religious leaders from various churches and faiths, pro-immigrant activists and relatives of detainees take turns addressing the crowd. Across the street, armed guards and police officers stand guard at the entrance, while an ACLU legal observer closely monitors interactions between attendees.
One after the other, prayers and touching testimonies unfolded, including that of Arianne Betancourt, a 32-year-old resident of Miami. He said his father, Justo Betancourt, has been detained at the center since last week. The man, originally from Cuba and resident in the United States for 36 years, had served a prison sentence and was on parole. However, when he showed up for a routine check-in at ICE, he was arrested. Overwhelmed with tears, Arianne said her father “made a mistake, but he has already served his sentence, he went to school, he found Jesus and goes to church every Sunday.” The man suffers from diabetes and neuropathy and requires seven different medications, but authorities asked that he choose just one, his daughter said. “This is illegal; everyone has a right to due process,” he declared, receiving a standing ovation from the audience.
Betancourt’s case is not an isolated case. Among those present at the vigil is María Bilbao, coordinator of the American Friends Service Committee (AFSC), who is part of a group that gathered outside the ICE offices in Miramar, north of Miami, where Betancourt was arrested, to pray for the detainees. He says he’s seen a troubling pattern in recent weeks: ICE setting appointments on weekends and detaining these people. “This is new. Most are elderly Cubans, some with health problems. I mean, where are they going to deport them? To a third country?” he asks.
The sense of urgency resonates with religious leaders like Pastor Roy Terry, who believes the country is experiencing “one of the greatest moral crises of our time,” which he says makes it essential to “speak out and take a stand.” He notes that various civil rights organizations have sent at least four letters to the State of Florida requesting access to the center, but have received no response. “If there is a lack of transparency, it automatically means there is something they don’t want us to see,” he points out.
So far only priests of the Catholic Church have been granted permission to enter Alligator Alcatraz and celebrate mass for the inmates. The Archdiocese of Miami did not respond to a request for comment on this report.
Uncertainty about the whereabouts of those detained is a recurring theme among those who attend these vigils. The Rev. Tony Fisher, of the Unitarian Universalist Congregation of Greater Naples, who arrived on a bus with more than 40 people from his church, said he had preached that same morning about the anguish of not knowing where the detainees were.
“I preached this morning about this, about not knowing where people are. I just can’t imagine the stress that the families are under, the lawyers. The people themselves. I just can’t imagine the families not knowing. I mean, they could be in El Salvador. They could be in Africa, where we have agreements to send people. It could be in Louisiana, it could still be here,” he says, pointing toward the center’s entrance.
Authorities have denied allegations of mistreatment or poor conditions in detention centers and say detainees are provided adequate food, medical care and opportunities to communicate with their families and lawyers.
Among the spiritual leaders who have accompanied the vigils since their inception is Betty Osceola, a member of the Miccosukee tribe and well-known environmental activist. As he does almost every Sunday, he brought tents, tables and sound equipment in his truck; he offered a prayer in his native language to begin the vigil and began burning sage at the back of the crowd. The fragrant smoke added a mystical touch to the prayer recited by a shepherd.
Speaking with conviction, Osceola acknowledges the weight of history: “My ancestors went through a lot, through deportations, intentional massacres,” he says. “We go through cycles of discrimination against people. We’re in that cycle right now. It took all of us to build this country the way it is now. And it will take all of us together to move forward, to continue to prosper. The ideal that America is only for certain individuals is meaningless when you’re a nation of immigrants.”
As night falls and the vigil draws to a close, Damico places a small table covered in colorful tablecloths and candles in front of the microphone and explains that it is a Day of the Dead altar, honoring the 25 people who have died in ICE custody this year. Then he reads their names, ages, places of origin and where they died. Some in the crowd wipe away tears or shake their heads.
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