Jose's story begins with a harrowing journey. At just 19 years old, he fled violence in Honduras and arrived at the U.S. border in October 2015, hoping to find safety and eventually join family members in Miami. Instead, he was apprehended by immigration authorities and thrown into a labyrinth of detention that would consume the next 18 months of his young life—with no explanation, no guidance, and initially, no legal representation.
The brutal realities of immigration detention in America are laid bare through Jose's experiences. After 11 days in a Texas facility, he was awakened at 3 AM, handcuffed at both wrists and ankles, and transported to an airport. No one explained where he was going or why. "I was afraid because I think they're going to deport me back," Jose recalls. This profound uncertainty—the feeling of having no control over one's fate—is a recurring theme in the lives of asylum seekers navigating the U.S. immigration system.
Upon arrival in New Jersey, Jose was placed in Delaney Hall detention center, where he would spend six months without legal counsel or visitation from family or friends. The isolation was crushing. With no money and no support network, Jose was entirely dependent on a system that offered him neither information nor compassion. It wasn't until he had been detained for half a year that he began to understand the process by observing other detainees' comings and goings. The absence of official information meant that detained immigrants were left to piece together their situations through observation and word of mouth, creating a community of the abandoned.
The conditions Jose endured at Elizabeth Detention Center, where he was transferred after six months, were particularly degrading. Forty to forty-five people were housed in a single large room with no privacy, even for using the toilet. For this naturally shy and gentle person, such conditions were especially traumatic. "All the time I was in my bed, laying in my bed because I don't want to speak to nobody," Jose explains. The psychological toll of seeing others released while he remained detained drove him into depression. Yet when he sought mental health support, he was dismissively told, "You don't have depression, what you want is to get out."
Perhaps most striking is the economic exploitation within detention centers. Jose worked in the kitchen for $1 per day, saving up for two weeks to afford a one-minute phone call to his mother—just enough time to reassure her that he was okay, concealing his true suffering to protect her from worry. The commissary charged exorbitant prices for basic necessities: $35 for a long-sleeve shirt in the cold New Jersey winter, with detainees given only a single thin blanket for warmth.
After 18 months, Jose was finally released with help from a pro bono lawyer and an LGBTQ organization that assisted with his $20,000 bond—significantly higher than the $5,000 typically assigned to others. Even then, freedom came with a price tag: $420 monthly to rent an ankle monitor, with the threat of re-detention if he failed to pay. The injustice of this financial burden on someone who had just endured 18 months of dollar-a-day wages exemplifies how the system creates nearly insurmountable barriers for those seeking asylum.
Jose found refuge at The Lighthouse, which became a lifeline during his transition. Eight years after his arrival in the United States, his asylum case has been approved, but his journey isn't over. He must return to Honduras—the country he fled in fear—for an interview to complete his green card process. The prospect terrifies him, especially given the violence that claimed his mother's life there. "I don't want to go back to my country... I feel so sad. I don't want to go back, but I don't have a choice," he says, highlighting how even "successful" asylum cases can involve re-traumatization.
Throughout this ordeal, what sustained Jose was thinking about his mother and his desire to create a better life. Now married and building a family in the U.S., he gives back by supporting current Lighthouse guests, bringing them clothing, food, and even taking families on outings. His story is one of extraordinary resilience and compassion—qualities that have allowed him to survive and ultimately thrive despite a system seemingly designed to break the human spirit.
