| *If you prefer to listen, I've recorded this piece for you. Click here to listen it. * To protect his privacy and avoid any potential impact on his pending immigration case, I have chosen not to use my friend’s name in this essay, which quite honestly feels like another act of erasure.  |
We met him a year ago over lunch—a kind, attentive waiter who made us feel at home. Last week he was detained by ICE during what should have been a routine, annual check-in. *Visual recreation for narrative emphasis. |
Two old ladies—myself included—were dining at one of our favorite small restaurants in Philadelphia, a cozy spot with good food and an atmosphere of quiet lushness. As we often do, we engaged in more than surface conversations with the staff taking care of us. Both of us had once waited tables in our youth and we know the labor of this job; the long hours, the hustle, the unspoken attentiveness required. We always made a point of acknowledging that labor.
That evening, the waiter moved with care and a quiet dignity. We thanked him sincerely for his care of us and asked him where he was from. In limited but eager English, he told us he was from Mauritania. He also told us he was working hard to improve his English, though his work schedule didn’t allow him to attend formal classes. Instead, he relied on YouTube courses and English-language movies to teach himself. We were moved by his determination. I’m a retired teacher of over 30 years, and there was something about his earnestness that reminded me of the hundreds of students I’d poured into throughout my career. I had missed that work. I missed believing in someone’s potential and helping them believe in it, too. So we got him English course books, tapes, and other materials. We encouraged him to go for his driver’s license. He did. Soon his posse of supporters grew and he became like family. We learned from him as much as he learned from us. Over time, we learned more of his story; his journey to the U.S., his hardships in Mauritania, and the suffocating weight of growing up in a society still deeply entrenched in the legacy of slavery. Mauritania, unlike many of its West African neighbors, remains governed in large part by a lighter-skinned Arab-Berber minority who are often referred to as the Bidhan, or White Moor. They historically enslaved and continue to dominate Black Mauritanians. Slavery wasn’t outlawed there until 1981 and its practice lingers, embedded in social and economic structures that rarely face scrutiny from the outside world.  He shared these truths quietly, not seeking pity but simply trying to be understood. He also often expressed how much he was growing in his admiration of the United States.. He loved the openness of the people, their willingness to live and let live, and the diverse ways in which communities embrace each other. As a restaurant worker, he saw the breadth of who Americans are and he loved us. Despite the long hours, the hard labor, and the often unfair realities of restaurant work, he still believed this country was a kind of fairytale. Not because it was perfect, but because of the way people from every corner of the world could meet here, share space, and make something together. To be honest, especially now, I’ve been increasingly critical of the U.S.; a country I love deeply but struggle with. His appreciation reminded us of the admirable possibilities this country still holds. It was grounding to be around someone who saw those qualities with such clarity and conviction. We, who knew something about struggle and carried the history of this place in our bones, saw in him an opening to hope again. He gave us that. This is why his sudden detention by ICE, last Friday, during what he believed to be a routine, annual check-in, has shaken us to our core. He is an asylum seeker, legally working in this country while his case for protection status is under review. He pays taxes and contributes quietly, steadily like so many others building a life while waiting for a decision. His annual check-in with ICE was something he’d known about for weeks, and he approached it as he always had: with a sense of responsibility and trust in the process. He had no reason to fear it. For three years, he complied fully and consistently. But this year, on the heels of a quiet yet sweeping policy shift enacted on May 25, 2025, the rules changed authorizing ICE to detain asylum seekers even during routine check-ins, regardless of their history of compliance. He walked into that office and was detained without warning.  I got a call from a number I didn’t recognize. Normally, I wouldn’t answer—but this time I did, and it was him, calling me hysterical and terrified from the ICE detention center in Philadelphia. He had tried frantically to reach his relatives but couldn’t, and when he finally reached me, he could barely speak through the panic. ICE had already confiscated his phone. He didn’t know why he was being detained. I don’t even know if his lawyer was with him at this time. I did contact his community members about his detention. .Since his detention, my family and friends—those who know and care for him—have rallied to send what we can: money, prayers, our love. But we feel helpless. We managed to contact his lawyer, and many of us wrote letters of support to be shared with the court. We also began the long process to get approved for visitation, though that can take weeks—and by then, he may be transferred to another detention center, hours from here, before even having a hearing. I can’t stop thinking about how alone, how forgotten he must feel. We want him to know he isn’t. Many people have never even heard of his country of Mauritania—not Mauritius in the Indian Ocean, but Mauritania in West Africa, a country still grappling with slavery today. There, a lighter-skinned Arab-Berber minority, sometimes called White Moors, holds power over Black Mauritanians, many of whom are survivors of hereditary slavery, passed down through generations. Remember, slavery only ended there 44 years ago and it still persists in deeply embedded ways. A few years ago, CNN documented this reality so well with incredible photography. Here is a link to this story: https://www.cnn.com/interactive/2012/03/world/mauritania.slaverys.last.stronghold/index.html How long will we, as a community, stand by in silence as our new neighbors, people who work, contribute, and live among us, are plucked from our neighborhoods without warning? At what point do we stop calling this policy and start calling it what it is: erasure? *We recently learned he may be moved to another detention facility—far from Philadelphia, and even farther from the people who care about him. _______________________________________________________ What You Can Do: Stand With Dignity
|
