Out of Sight in North Florida: Life Inside Deportation Depot

Por Laura C. Morel — Mother Jones Magazine

Last month, I wrote about a DHS Office of Inspector General report that revealed alarming conditions inside Alligator Alcatraz, an immigrant detention center opened last summer in the Everglades that held up to 1,500 people. Among the worst violations was the use of metal cages as “calming areas” where detainees were often held, the report stated. As Corene Kendrick, deputy director at the ACLU’s National Prison Project, told me then, the report “reaffirms the cruelty of Alligator Alcatraz.”

Alligator Alcatraz is now closed. But buried deep within the DHS report was a warning about possible similar conditions at the other state-operated immigrant detention center in Florida: the Baker Correctional Institution in northern Florida, nicknamed by Gov. Ron DeSantis as “Deportation Depot.” The inspectors pointed to the concerns raised in the report, and concluded “ICE’s level of oversight and responsibility for immigration detention remain consequential… Baker has not been internally inspected by ICE’s Office of Detention Oversight, nor was it scheduled for inspection in FY 2026 or FY 2027.”

For months, Alligator Alcatraz captured the public’s attention, and it’s easy to understand why. Its name, a punchline for jokes within MAGA circles, was unusual. And its optics—with detainees living in fenced areas within large white tents on a little-used airfield in the middle of the Everglades—were vivid and controversial, including a visit by Trump, Florida Gov. Ron DeSantis and then- DHS secretary Kristi Noem. Because of its proximity to Miami, a melting pot of immigrants, families whose loved ones were detained there could attend and speak out at vigils outside the center’s entrance.  

But shortly after Florida officials opened the Everglades center, they also began operations at the Baker Correctional Institution. Originally a state prison that closed in 2021, the facility is remote and surrounded by forest land. It’s located on a two-lane highway and Jacksonville, which is the closest metro area, is nearly 50 miles away. As of last month, approximately 1,000 detainees were living there; some are elderly, others are legal DACA recipients, and many have pending asylum claims. They are from countries such as Cuba, Venezuela, Honduras, Guatemala, and Russia. With the closure of Alligator Alcatraz, those who have been detained and their families, not to mention human rights organizations, are sounding bells about conditions inside the center.

Every month, members of the Micah Solidarity Project, a group of Floridians from different Christian denominations advocating for immigrant rights in northeast Florida, gather on the edge of US Highway 90, next to the facility. The gatherings sometimes attract up to 100 people from all over Florida, including Gainesville, Jacksonville, Tallahassee, and Tampa. They hold a procession, walking up to the point where the Baker cell blocks are located. They pass around a speakerphone, hoping that those detained inside can hear their prayers and worship music in Spanish.

Clara Sowers, one of the organizers, said their gatherings have also attracted the attention of the center, which is run by the GEO Group and a few other contractors. At one of their larger gatherings in April, the demonstrators saw drones flying over them, and a few sheriff’s office cars circling nearby. That afternoon, they heard a faint whistle coming from the prison. Clara’s husband, she recalls, whistled back. “All of a sudden, the entire prison erupted in whistles and cheers,” she told me. “They were so excited to see other humans.”

Sowers, a Cuban American from Jacksonville, has recently been in touch with eight Baker detainees. She’s heard of at least two men suffering seizures. She has seen how Alligator Alcatraz had consistently remained in the news as lawmakers, advocates, and detainees’ loved ones called attention to the camp month after month until its closure this summer. She grew up in Miami and thinks a big part of the coverage was the city’s proximity to the Everglades camp. Many Miami families had loved ones sent there. For detainees at Baker, the level of outrage has been less because it’s in a remote area of the state, with fewer immigrant communities in the surrounding cities. “Because they’re not seeing their family members being detained and missing at the table, they’re just not affected by it,” Sowers told me. “Even when they hear about it, it sounds far away, as far away as Ukraine or the Gaza Strip.”

In the last few weeks, I’ve spoken to eight people—including current detainees, former detainees who were either deported or released, as well as their loved ones—about life inside the Baker facility. They all described the same conditions, including detainees who report delays in medical care, and describe living in cramped dormitories lined with 50 bunk beds for 100 men, small portions of food, and stifling heat due to malfunctioning A/C units and broken windows. “We are practically living in our boxers,” one Venezuelan currently at Baker told me over the phone. “The heat is unbearable.”

The ACLU is also investigating and exploring litigation against the state and the contractors running the facility, said Amy Godshall, a Florida-based attorney for the legal nonprofit. Notably, detainees have reported many of the same obstacles for obtaining legal access that others faced at Alligator Alcatraz, such as delays in scheduling attorney calls, prison staff failing to take detainees to their court appointments, and mail from their attorneys getting lost. 

“A lot of what’s happening here is very similar to what was happening in the Everglades facility,” Godshall said. “They don’t have a commissary set up, so that people can’t buy extra food and are just starving with the insufficient food they’re given.” She added that families had no options for visiting. In the end, she noted, “The facility is designed to torture people and push them to their breaking point so that they will self-deport.” When I reached out to ICE with questions about the Baker center, a spokesperson referred me to the state of Florida. Officials from the Governor’s Office and the Florida Division of Emergency Management, which runs Baker, did not respond to my requests for comment.

Among those with whom I spoke was Jose Andres Urbina, a Venezuelan who arrived at the US-Mexico border in 2022 to seek political asylum. As he awaited the decision on his case, Urbina lived in St. John’s County on the east coast of Florida, where he worked in construction and as an Uber driver. He had a driver’s license, a work permit, and paid federal taxes, he told me. On May 9, 2026, he was parked outside a rock music festival, waiting for potential clients, when a state highway trooper asked for his ID. He then told him that he had a pending immigration hold and arrested him. “That’s when the torture and the tragedy began,” he told me in Spanish. Over the next several days, he was transferred through several county jails before his family could track him down. “I was basically kidnapped,” he said.

Urbina ended up at Baker, where he remained until requesting voluntary departure and being deported back to Venezuela in September. What most troubled him during his time there was the inconsistent meal times. Breakfast, which often was two spoonfuls of scrambled eggs, some bacon, unflavored oatmeal, and fruit cocktail, was served somewhere between 3 a.m. and 6 a.m. Lunch was usually a sandwich and Lays chips, followed by dinner, which tended to be the better meal of the three. Lunch would sometimes be served at 11 a.m., and dinner at 6 p.m. The men would sneak out leftovers in their pants or socks to eat later in their cells. The portions were so small, Urbina lost 40 pounds during his four months at Baker. Now, he is with his wife, who was also in Florida but chose to move back home to be with him. 

I also spoke to Esther, whose boyfriend is currently detained at Baker. We’re not using her full name, given her immigration status. In 15-minute phone calls over the last six months, she has heard the details of her boyfriend’s detention experience. He recently developed white patches on his skin and hasn’t been able to get medical care. He tells her he drinks lots of water before and after meals so that he stays full longer. Many detainees are on edge, so he tries to avoid other people and plays solitaire to pass the time. “Sometimes, they barely have energy to move,” Esther told me. ICE officers have repeatedly offered him the option of voluntary departure, but he has consistently refused. “He wants to wait here,” Esther said, “and see what happens.”

As long as the Baker facility is open, the Micah Solidarity Project will continue to gather outside its walls. “We’re going back until we’re not needed anymore. This is solidarity,” Sowers said. “Part of that is showing up consistently. Part of that is letting them know they’re not alone.”

Fonte: Mother Jones Magazine