In this discussion, Leah Hastings, Prisoners’ Legal Services of MA (PLS) Staff Attorney and Immigrant Detention Conditions Project Lead; Hamza Berrios, a recently returning citizen affiliated with Empowering Descendant Communities to Unlock Democracy; and B. Arneson, a system-impacted Program Director at the World Peace Foundation, discuss the living conditions for people held in ICE detention at Plymouth County Correctional Facility in Massachusetts. In September 2024, Hastings published a report chronicling twenty-five years of documented violations at Plymouth, in collaboration with Sarah Sherman Stokes, Gabriela Chavez, and Kristen Cain of the Immigrants’ Rights & Human Trafficking Program (IRHTP). In addition to this report and its findings, Hastings, Berrios, and Arneson discuss the broader implications of the continued practice of immigrant detention, critically assess the failure of existing reform efforts, and emphasize the pressing need for abolitionist responses to these systemic issues.
B. Arneson: Leah, what inspired the creation of this report?
Leah Hastings: Initially, we [PLS and the IRHTP] didn’t plan to write a report. Our first visit, in January of last year, was not arranged with that as the goal. It emerged because I was new at PLS and lacked established contacts inside Plymouth. I knew I needed to build connections, foster relationships, and make people aware of the support available on the outside to be effective in my role. At the same time, I knew that Sarah, who directed the immigrants’ rights clinic at Boston University School of Law, was interested in expanding the clinics engagement with issues related to ICE detention and detained people.
So, this initial framing was largely curiosity-driven— we were seeking to understand people’s experiences. Ultimately, we interviewed about 60 people during that visit, in the unit common areas.
B. Arneson: How long were the interviews?
Leah Hastings: The interviews were highly variable in length. This was in part due to the chaotic environment. We conducted them at tables in the middle of the units, surrounded by people showering, watching TV, and talking across the room. Our conversations ranged from five minutes to 20 minutes or more, depending on the individual’s experiences and familiarity with the system. Those new to detention often needed basic guidance, like how to contact legal services. In contrast, others, especially those with prior experience in the system, shared detailed insights about issues like food, medical care, and other systemic problems.
Some participants even directed us to others who could elaborate on specific concerns. These conversations often reflected their prior incarceration experiences, enabling them to contextualize ICE detention in comparison to places like MCI-Norfolk or federal facilities. Their perspectives provided valuable insights, and our time on-site—over six hours—was not enough to address the demand from people wanting to share their experiences.
B. Arneson: I think one interesting point you raised—and we’ll circle back to the creation of the report—is the myth that life just stops when someone is detained or enters the prison system. As you mentioned, people are still showering, talking with friends, watching things; life continues in its own way. I’ll admit, even I had misconceptions when my brother was first incarcerated, assuming he wouldn’t have any sense of community. But the reality is that people do build community, even under horrendous conditions.
Leah Hastings: Absolutely. One of the most compelling and awe-inspiring aspects of this work is witnessing how people support one another to meet their needs when it’s clear those needs won’t be met otherwise.
As far as how the report came about— this decision was driven by several factors. First, the sheer volume of testimony we had gathered. Second, the repeated requests from those inside Plymouth who wanted their stories told and felt excluded from mainstream narratives about immigration. And third was this backdrop of a broader failed oversight process.
Between 2021 and 2022, the Department of Homeland Security Office of Civil Rights and Civil Liberties (CRCL) conducted a year-long investigation based on numerous complaints from Plymouth. This resulted in 70 priority recommendations addressing violations of detention standards. However, it took another year for this report to be publicly released, followed by another six months for ICE to respond. Their response, summarized in a single page, concurred with 40 of the recommendations, yet outlined just three action points. And then, shortly afterward, Plymouth added a new ICE detention unit with over 100 beds.
For us, this sequence of events really underscored the systemic lack of accountability. These oversight mechanisms were toothless and incapable of enforcing meaningful change, despite repeated violations spanning decades. Complaints from 2021 echoed those documented in 2013 and even as far back as 2003.[i] The persistence of these issues demonstrated that these were not anomalies but intentional features of the system, serving a clear purpose. This realization fueled the need to document the ongoing violations comprehensively.
The goal was to highlight the entrenched patterns of abuse, conditions, and mistreatment, emphasizing that these systemic issues are designed to persist—and to challenge them, to say, “when we will stop merely documenting these patterns and start demanding transformative action?”
B. Arneson: Carceral spaces are a double-edged sword. They do not function as mechanisms of accountability for the people inside them; instead, they operate as sites of harm and torture. At the same time, these spaces themselves are rarely held accountable. Your report illustrates this stark reality, documenting how the same issues persist over long periods with no meaningful action taken.
Hamza Berrios: The work you’re doing is truly tremendous—long overdue and so urgently needed. It shines a much-needed light on this carceral setting. What stands out is the stark contrast between state prisons and ICE detention centers, where conditions are often even worse. The treatment of undocumented individuals, who are denied basic rights, creates an environment where authorities feel they can act with impunity. Given this context, could you describe the conditions at Plymouth County Correctional Facility? What has been the most striking feedback you’ve received from those detained about their experiences there?
Leah Hastings: Consistent complaints from detained individuals at Plymouth County Correctional Facility highlight several pervasive issues. One of the most immediate sensory impressions people share is the extreme cold. The facility does not provide sweatshirts free of charge, but requires individuals to purchase them from commissary—a cost many cannot afford. As a result, detainees resort to using soap and toilet paper to seal gaps in windows and vents, attempting to block the cold air. Others report wrapping towels around their heads or draping clothing over vents to stay warm.
Another major concern is the food, which is described as insufficient, nutritionally inadequate, and often inedible. Meals primarily consist of simple starches, such as potatoes, and are frequently undercooked— examples include doughy bread and uncooked beans or rice. Special medical and religious diets are reportedly discontinued without notice or improperly sourced, exacerbating detainees’ struggles to maintain their health.
Medical care is another significant area of neglect, underscoring the system’s prioritization of cost-cutting over human welfare. The bare minimum is provided, and detainees frequently face abrupt discontinuation of necessary treatments or outright denial of care.
These patterns of neglect and mistreatment not only reflect the financial motivations underpinning the system, but also illustrate how the conditions are designed to coerce.
The purpose of ICE detention is not just to incarcerate, but to deport. When detainees are subjected to miserable conditions—poor food, inadequate medical care, harassment from guards, solitary confinement, and ignored grievances—it pressures them to accept deportation as their only escape.
B. Arneson: I feel like you’re alluding to this, but I want to make sure I’m understanding it correctly. If the state’s ultimate goal is deportation, are you saying there’s an incentive to be intentionally harmful toward detained individuals? That the harm we see in carceral spaces is compounded by a deliberate effort to pressure people into returning to the countries they came from? So, essentially, there’s intentional harm layered on top of the systemic harm inherent in detention spaces to achieve the goal of deportation?
Leah Hastings: Yeah, it’s something I constantly hold in my mind because it’s critical to remember when we’re asking the system to do things that are not in its interest or are contrary to its purpose. When it comes to documenting conditions, this is something we run into all the time. That’s why it feels so important to not only engage in conditions advocacy for its own sake but also to work with community groups, serve as a conduit for information, amplify people’s voices and stories, and advocate for changes that go beyond the immediate issue of conditions. Knowing that these issues are inherent to how the system functions, it’s clear the system is not going to reform itself.
Hamza Berrios: Honestly, you’re bringing back a lot of memories for me from when I was incarcerated. When you talk about the cold, I remember being in the hole [also known as solitary confinement] in February 2017, and it was freezing. At breakfast, they gave us milk and I put it on the windowsill, and by lunch—around 11:30—it was frozen solid, literally a block of ice. That’s how cold it was in the hole.
When you speak about folks in ICE detention—undocumented people, who are still people—I can only imagine what I went through in isolation, where our voices couldn’t be heard because we were cut off, labeled as deserving to be there for doing something wrong (even though I didn’t do anything wrong), must be magnified for them. This is their everyday reality, even in a regular unit.
I can also relate to what you’re saying about medical care, grievances, and the fear around COs [correctional officers]. That fear is very real to me because I just left an environment where that was my daily experience. I really appreciate your observations, the effort you’ve put into documenting this, and the importance of writing about it.
Leah Hastings: And I’m glad you brought up the fear component, because that’s such a tremendous tool used to silence people inside. Fear and the threat of retaliation prevent so many issues from even being voiced. In ICE detention, particularly at Plymouth, there are two main forms of punishment: solitary confinement and transfers. When you’re in ICE detention, you can be transferred anywhere in the country without notice. One of my clients described it as feeling like he was being kidnapped. He said he was woken up at 2 a.m., told to shower and pack his things, but they wouldn’t tell him where he was going. He was loaded into an ICE van, and after several hours, he found himself in Pennsylvania.
Hamza Berrios: I feel like this is so deeply entrenched in the history of slavery—it’s mind-boggling. How can we not see the parallel to what’s happening now?
I remember when I was in pretrial detention at Dedham House of Correction, which also held ICE detainees. I met so many people in there who were being held by ICE. One of them, a friend named T-shirt, shared his story. He had done two years for marijuana distribution, served his time, and was out living his life—working and taking care of his family. But one day, while dropping his kids off at school, ICE picked him up and arrested him for a mistake he made as a teenager, despite having no criminal record since then. It just seems unbelievable that they would pick him up like that, with no notice, out of the blue. He dropped his kids off and ended up in handcuffs. It’s just wild.
Leah Hastings: There’s something really interesting about the immigration detention system, particularly how it comes full circle. The U.S. plays a role in displacing people from their homes [abroad], and then when those displaced individuals end up here, ensnares them in this carceral system. It’s such a stark illustration of the U.S. as an empire, and it really highlights how all these interconnected aspects of U.S. policy come together—you see the whole cycle on display in this system. I think it’s crucial to make this visible.
B. Arneson: Yeah, the war on terror, the war on drugs—not only have they harmed populations domestically, but also internationally, and that cycle is ongoing. And I think you’re right, Hamza—when you mentioned slavery, that immediate response resonates because we see those historical continuities playing out right now, in real time, as we speak. It’s crucial to pay attention not just to the history, but to how these systems keep continue to boomerang.
Leah Hastings: I keep thinking of the term “imperial boomerang”[ii]—it captures so much of what we see when we look at policing and incarceration in the U.S., how those forms of oppression are developed in other countries, and then how they come back, knit together in this cycle of displacement and incarceration.
B. Arneson: Absolutely. Leah, I’ll ask you the next question. What were some of the more surprising findings or insights that emerged during your research?
Leah Hastings: There is very little about what we heard that was surprising to me. If anything, the surprising part was how much of it remained the same over the years. The experiences people shared about being put on mental health watch in cold rooms with no mattress, no toilet, and hardly any clothes—sometimes for a day, sometimes for two days—are the same as what we heard years ago. It’s hard to imagine how this can be seen as helping someone with mental health struggles, right? The same goes for the food and the medical care. [iii]
A big issue is access to nail clippers—people could only use them on certain days of the month. These systems of scarcity are deliberately imposed to make people as miserable as possible, but they also create conflict in the units. In my mind, this is a tool to prevent internal organizing and solidarity. But despite the conditions, solidarity still takes root.
What might surprise someone who’s not familiar with ICE detention, especially at Plymouth, is the number of people coming in from other carceral settings, whether from federal or state prisons, who say, “I didn’t think it would be like this. This is so much worse than where I was before.” A couple of months ago, I visited Stewart Detention Center in Georgia as part of a conference, and I was one of only two people in the group who had ever been to an ICE detention center before. Everyone else was involved in prison legal advocacy, but not in the ICE context. There was a lot of surprise among people who hadn’t been to ICE detention centers about just how prison-like, punitive, and restrictive the environment was. This is especially stark given the legal fiction that ICE detention is civil detention and not punitive.
In ICE detention at Plymouth, there are no programs. People can’t leave the unit. There are no video calls with family, no contact visits. Even people with family nearby often tell them, “I’d rather you not come to see me because it’s just too hard not being able to touch or hug you.” There are so many aspects of the environment that are incredibly restrictive.
Then there’s this additional layer, which is the fear and uncertainty that permeates the space. People don’t know when they’re getting out, if they’ll be deported, or if they’ll be transferred from one facility to another. This creates an overwhelming sense of instability and anxiety that significantly impacts people psychologically, making it even more difficult to endure the already harsh conditions.
B. Arneson: So, there are two points I want to touch on. First, I was really struck by a sentence you said early in the interview, about how people provide care for each other despite these severe restrictions. And then, as you were talking now, I thought about how this care is prevented from outside loved ones or people in general. I think of legal advocates like you, who have to work so hard just to make sure you have a cover, for lack of a better term. It’s like all the things you’ve mentioned are systemic harm, but there’s also this broader issue of the criminalization of care. That really strikes me, because it’s something people don’t talk about as much.
Another thing you said, which really made me think, is how something that might seem small to someone who’s never been incarcerated, like nail clippers, can actually have a big impact. It’s something that everyone can relate to—you know, when your nails are bothering you, it can be painful and annoying. It can even prevent you from walking normally. And the remedy is so simple—a nail clipper. But in this context, something as basic as that becomes a significant issue, and it feels emblematic of so much of what we’re talking about here.
Leah Hastings: I was talking to someone I know who used to be detained at Plymouth, who is now out, about these interviews and reports, and I mentioned the nail clippers, and immediately he was like, “the fucking nail clippers…!”
Hamza Berrios: And that’s the thing—it’s for everyone. Everyone has to use those same nail clippers. I remember the nail clippers became such a big issue when I was in pre-trial. The jail did the same thing—only one time for the whole unit to use the clippers, and that was it. I thought, wow, this is such a bad hygiene system. It’s just wild. And then razors—you’re only allowed to get razors, I think, once a month, and then you have to return it afterward. It’s just so restrictive and makes something simple, like basic hygiene, into a whole ordeal.
B. Arneson: The system is deliberately designed to systematically inconvenience every person in that space. That’s what frustrates me the most. As someone who advocates for currently and formerly incarcerated individuals, although not in a legal capacity, I’m constantly struck by how intricate the harm is—how pervasive the violence against incarcerated people is. That’s what really gets to me—the sheer level of brutality the state exercises in these situations. And when I think about something like nail clippers, it’s such a small, yet telling example of this. There are many other instances I could point to, but the nail clipper situation really illustrates the point. Everything, no matter how benign, is framed as a security threat. That’s how they justify so many of these harmful policies and practices.
Hamza Berrios: A lot of these harms are justified by the claim that they are necessary for security, but they create systemic discomfort and limitations within these carceral settings. The nail clipper situation is a perfect example. Yes, it’s possible to fashion a weapon out of one, but the irony is that in state facilities, where there’s a much larger population, people can buy and possess their own nail clippers—sometimes multiple ones. I remember when I was in state prison, I could have multiple nail clippers, razors, and other personal items. But in county detention, where I hadn’t been convicted or sentenced yet, I was limited to just one of these things, despite still being presumed innocent. That’s what frustrates me: individuals who are still fighting their cases are treated as though they’ve already been found guilty, while people who are actually serving sentences have access to much more.
B. Arneson: Your point about the nail clippers being a security threat until you can buy them from commissary is especially striking. It’s a perfect example of the capitalist logic at play: a shared nail clipper is a security threat, but once you purchase one, it suddenly isn’t. It’s just absurd—it’s this inconsistency that exposes the flawed logic of the whole system.
Leah Hastings: To what you’re saying, Hamza, it’s not even that people in state facilities who are sentenced should face more restrictions. It’s that the difference in these levels of restriction directly contradicts the logic the carceral system uses to justify these measures. If security is the reason for these restrictions, then the system’s logic would suggest that those who are actually convicted of crimes would face more stringent security measures, not fewer. The way you highlighted how the system doesn’t operate in accordance with the reasons it claims to be serving is really revealing. It’s a clear example of the contradictions inherent in these systems and how they function not to protect or serve, but to control.
Hamza Berrios: Yes, exactly. I have another question for you, Leah, could you discuss the importance of equitable access to legal services, particularly for detainees with limited English proficiency, and how the current system falls short?
I’ll just quickly add that even as someone who is bilingual in English and Spanish, I found it challenging at times, especially when I was preparing for my parole hearing. The resistance I encountered from the administrative staff was significant. There was a clear adversarial attitude toward anyone seeking legal services. It wasn’t just the lack of support; it was the way they handled these requests—it was unwelcoming and dismissive. I’m curious to hear your thoughts on this issue, especially in relation to ICE detainees.
Leah Hastings: One thing I hadn’t really considered is the differential treatment people experience when accessing legal services, especially in carceral settings. What stands out is how restrictive communications are for people in detention and how that ties into issues like language access and the ability to access legal services.
For instance, in state prisons, there’s a system where you [an attorney] can easily set up a Zoom call with a detained individual, often within 48 hours. That’s not possible with people in ICE detention. The only way to communicate is either by sending letters, driving to Plymouth, or relying on someone else to get in touch. Direct, on-demand communication isn’t available.
On top of that, language access inside detention is almost non-existent. People rely on each other for language support, with detained individuals acting as interpreters or helping others write letters or fill out forms. These internal communication barriers are only made worse by the restrictions on outside communication. For example, in some cases, third-party interpreters can’t join calls, leaving detainees without the necessary support to navigate legal proceedings.
This lack of language access has real-world consequences. For instance, I’m working with the mother of a detained person, who only speaks Spanish and lives in Venezuela. She’s trying to navigate various agencies and legal services but encounters language barriers every step of the way. When she calls, she gets voicemail menus in English, which she doesn’t understand. So, she records the voicemail, sends it to me, and I translate it for her, so she knows how to proceed. Meanwhile, her son hasn’t been able to speak with her for days due to dropped calls on his end, limited internet access on her end… It’s just one layer after another of challenges, making it nearly impossible for people to navigate these systems, especially for those with limited English proficiency. These are the kinds of challenges that lead people to accept deportation because, ultimately, they don’t see any other way out.
B. Arneson: I also think about how difficult it is to navigate advocacy for a loved one inside. Institutions like the DOC and ICE purposely make the advocacy process so challenging, even for people fluent in English, to avoid accountability. Thinking about this Venezuelan mom, trying to do any sort of advocacy under such conditions, is incredibly frustrating. And then, there’s the added complexity of different country-to-country fees and time zone differences, making it even harder to get in touch with anyone. It’s absolutely infuriating!
Leah, let’s move to what the report recommends. They report advocates for the end of ICE transfers and the closure of ICE units. What do you see as the main obstacles to implementing such a change, and how can they be overcome?
Before you answer this question, I just want to say that, as someone in the academic space, we’re often hesitant to call for the changes we truly want. So, I really appreciated that you were clear about your call for dismantling these systems. It’s refreshing! I am so tired of reformist approaches, which are obviously ineffective. We need to be honest about what we really want—to completely end these systems.
Leah Hastings: Let’s call it what it is: an entirely constructed system that people have bought into. It absolutely doesn’t need to exist. Nobody has to be detained. So, I refuse to accept the terms that ICE has laid out. I’m not going to play within the confines of what ICE says is possible. Why are we pretending we should reform something that’s so fundamentally harmful? It needs to end. This came out of conversations with people in detention, who are constantly telling us, “This place needs to be shut down.”
As for obstacles, there are a few. The entrenched power of ICE, the capital invested in detention systems, and the fear among policymakers of seeming “soft” on immigration enforcement all present significant challenges. Sheriffs hold a lot of power when it comes to entering into ICE contracts, and just have an enormous amount of control over county jails, generally. I’ve heard the county system described as a collection of “fiefdoms,” where much is left to the sheriff’s discretion. This person can make decisions with devastating impacts, not only for their immediate communities, but across the state.[iv]
A concern often raised by advocates is what will happen to the people currently in detention. This is a valid question– at the same time, we must recognize that transfers between different detention centers are already happening all the time. Turnover is staggering. Access to legal services is heavily restricted. There’s a kind of insularity in the Northeast, in our perspectives on resources and struggle, that doesn’t match the scale of the system we are dealing with, which truly is national. We need to build stronger interstate networks that can effectively mitigate existing and ongoing harms, without watering down the core demand that ICE detention must end. This will involve building stronger grassroots movements, engaging with communities impacted by detention, and considerable political education among the broader public.
One last thought I’ll share: in May 2020, ICE detainees at Bristol County jail faced brutal violence in response to inside organizing related to COVID-19. This led to local, state, and federal calls for the termination of Bristol’s ICE contract, which was ultimately cut in 2021. I think a lot about the contrast between how people talk about Bristol and Plymouth. Bristol was known for this explosive, openly hateful rhetoric and violence. But Plymouth’s is a more subtle psychological coercion– slower, less visceral, but still deeply harmful, even if it’s harder to point to specific moments that “cross the line.”
Everyone I’ve spoken with agrees that Bristol should have been shut down, but why do we view Plymouth differently? This question continually comes up for me, and I think it challenges us to examine why we respond to certain types of violence differently. It raises important questions about how much is determined by our comfort or discomfort as spectators, and the need for a reckoning with the conditions under which we allow these systems to continue.
B. Arneson: There are two things that come to mind when we talk about abolishing prisons. First, we’re not talking about closing down one prison and transferring its population to another; we’re talking about decarcerating people. I think that’s a really important point that you made—it’s not about moving people to a different prison or ICE detention center, but about ending incarceration for good. That really stood out to me when you were talking about transfers.
What you’re talking about is so important—how bad is bad for people? How far do we have to go on that scale? For me, freezing people, starving them, denying legal representation, failing to provide translators, withholding basic hygiene supplies, and locking people in cells—that’s egregious enough. Any of those things alone would be bad enough. So, the fact that we wait for visible violence, when people are already experiencing these atrocities, to finally say, “Oh, that’s bad, we should act on that,” is absolutely atrocious. It’s just wrong, full stop. Do better. This is basic human decency.
I think the frustrating part is that we continue to focus on and rally people around these moments of visible violence. We can’t allow that kind of narrative to shape how we think about violence.
Leah Hastings: There will always be a disconnect in our understanding of violence unless we acknowledge that the buildup to visible violence is, in itself, a form of violence.
B. Arneson: Given what we just discussed—our shared frustration around the lack of action on these issues—how do you think advocates, organizations, and communities can work together to ensure that the recommendations of this report are not just read like previous reports, but actually acted upon?
Leah Hastings: There is some promising cross-organization coalition building around demands. Groups like the Asian American Resource Workshop, Boston Immigrant Justice Accompaniment Network, Families for Justice as Healing, Homes for All Massachusetts, Asian Pacific Islanders Civic Action Network, and Unitarian Universalists Mass Action are working together. I think this resource really emphasizes how these kinds of demands fit into a broader agenda for people in the Commonwealth. This is about anti-displacement, decarceration, and providing people with the resources they actually need— resources that do not include incarceration, that address concrete, serviceable needs and will actually make our communities safer.
So, I would point to the work these groups are doing on the ground, to organize. They are the ones who will be leading us forward, who have been calling for these changes for years now. On my part, and the part of the legal community more broadly, I think it’s important to continue supporting groups like this as much as we can in our roles, to serve as a conduit between folks inside and outside, and to bring the perspectives of detained people into the spaces where these decisions are being made.
To learn how you can join the coalition to “push for policies that go beyond fear and punishment and offer real, tangible support for immigrants, refugees, and Black and Brown communities” visit https://docs.google.com/document/d/1fwABzUljwMvhmqstpqK8i1qnptQOsb5nGWTV9YeAr5Y/edit?tab=t.0.
[i] There were multiple ICE contracts in Massachusetts, with up to four active simultaneously. The Plymouth County facility has detained individuals on behalf of federal immigration authorities since at least 1998. Bristol County held such contracts from approximately 2007 until 2021, while Franklin and Suffolk Counties also maintained contracts with ICE for a period.
[ii] In “The Location of Palestine in Global Counterinsurgencies,” Laleh Khalili explores the “horizontal circuits” through which colonial policing or “security” practices have been transmitted across time and space, with Palestine acting as either a point of origin or an intermediary node in this exchange. While a significant body of scholarship has challenged the traditional view that governance techniques solely moved from Europe to the colonies, Khalili argues that officials, military personnel, control technologies, and resources circulate not only between colonies and metropoles but also among different colonies of the same colonial power and between various colonial metropoles. Within this framework, bureaucrats and military elites actively study and adopt each other’s strategies, exchanging knowledge on effective governance practices.
[iii] For more about the documented link between ICE detention beds and ICE enforcement, see If You Build It, ICE Will Fill It: The Link Between Detention Capacity and ICE Arrests, Detention Watch Network and Immigrant Legal Resource Center (2022), at https://www.ilrc.org/sites/default/files/resources/if_they_build_it_ice_will_fill_it_report_2022.pdf.
