Endless Thread - The Digital Cage

Episode Date: August 9, 2024

When Hashim crossed the U.S.-Mexico border seeking asylum in 2020, he was tired—tired of running, tired of being locked in cages. Hashim was a political activist in Uganda, his home country, where he had been imprisoned and beaten. When he fled to Mexico, he was detained and, again, beaten. In the United States, Immigration and Customs Enforcement offered him a deal: He enrolled in a program allowing him to live with friends in Maine. But Hashim says he didn't understand what he was giving up to be in this little-known program, one which requires migrants to hand over voice and face IDs, internet and phone data, height, weight, social networks, location, and more. ***** Credits: This episode was written and produced by Dean Russell. Mix and sound design by Paul Vaitkus. It was edited and hosted by Ben Brock Johnson and Amory Sivertson.

Support for Endless Thread comes from MathWorks, creator of MATLAB and Simulink Software, to design and develop engineered systems, accelerating the pace of discovery in engineering and science. Learn more at Mathworks.com. Support for WBUR comes from Is Business Broken, a podcast from the Mayrotra Institute at Boston University that explores questions like, why is innovation in health care so hard? Is ESG just greenwashing? of course, is business broken? Listen, wherever you get your podcasts. WBUR Podcasts, Boston. When did you decide to leave? I left to Uganda on Independence Day. That is 9th October 2019. This is a story about choices, the ones we make and the ones that are made for us. I had a wife. I had kids. I had

the person who was my idol, my dad. So making up that kind of choice living the country, it's not easy. It wasn't easy. Hashim was 32 years old when he left his home and family in Uganda. He was 33 when he reached the U.S. border. It was early summer, in the middle of the night,

in the middle of the desert. With two other guys from East Africa, Hashim crossed into California on foot. As soon as we get in the U.S., two cars came at a very, very fast speed. But we were not criminals. We just nailed down and we raised our hearts. And they said, do you speak English? I said, yes, I do.

We're only using Hashem's first name for reasons that will become apparent later. In any case, Hashem says when he crossed the U.S. border, he wanted to be caught. He wanted to be detained. And so he was. felt a little bit of relief and being welcomed in a country whereby the law is working now. Being welcomed by armed border patrol is an interesting choice of words. But by then, Hashem had been through some pretty hellish experiences with government officials

and law enforcement elsewhere. It was 2020, the pandemic. Millions of migrants were being turned away. He was just grateful not to be one of them. Hashim told the officers he was seeking asylum. Then he was put in a van. He was tested for COVID and placed in quarantine. His fingerprints were taken.

He was interviewed. He was moved into detention with others. He was interviewed again. He was told to wait. Days passed. Weeks. Then... The officers that called me.

The officers that called him were part of immigration and customs enforcement. ICE. They wanted to know if Hashim knew anyone in the United States. Said, yes, I do. could you please tell them to send us their passport and their address? I was like, yeah. ICE was giving him the opportunity to leave detention, to leave his bunk and remove his blue detention uniform.

He would be allowed to live with friends, a Ugandan family in Maine. It seemed like a good deal. Hashem called an immigration attorney to be sure. I tell him what happened. How come they're letting you out? Impossible. They never do that. No. It's not a good idea.

I have seen your case. I guarantee you, stay inside. This attorney worked with asylum seekers and told Hashim, whatever deal ICE was offering, don't take it. Stay in detention. So, as the attorney advised, he did nothing. A week went by. And ICE?

They called me back. You told us, you know, someone. Please make sure they send their passport and proof. for bad race to us. So I was confused. Hashim asked around, what did the other detainees think? One guy told him,

if the lion opens his mouth, pull your hand out. Like, I'm telling you, please, I've seen it, I've been here for one year. I know what it means. Please, move out. It has not been your choice. It is God.

Move out. And he did. He took the deal. It had been over a year since he left Uganda, where he had been imprisoned for questioning his government. He'd been detained in Mexico, too, for arriving there after fleeing Uganda. Hashem was tired of being in cages. He wanted to resume his life. He wanted to be free.

They don't call us by names. They call us by bed numbers. Say, bed number 12. Everyone clapped. I moved out. I was very happy at that moment while I'm moving out. But as soon as I'm stepping out, they are trying to clear me out. That is when they bring that GPS.

A GPS, Hashim says, a tracking device in the form of an ankle monitor. Did anybody tell you? No. No one told me. They didn't tell you you were going to get the ankle monitor. They didn't tell me. Had they told me while I was inside there? I said, I'm staying.

Yeah. The moment they put that thing on me like that, I felt like I've been imprisoned again. Hashem had not been accused of committing a violent crime or any crime at all except crossing the border. He says that's why he didn't understand then that he had agreed to wear a GPS as if he were a threat, to have his whereabouts tracked for an indefinite period, potentially years.

He had been enrolled in a little-known person, program that requires asylum seekers to hand over their rights and their information, voice and face IDs, internet and phone data, height, weight, social networks, location. This program tracks hundreds of thousands of immigrants a day, and it's been growing. Some think of it as a digital community of sorts, a better alternative to detention. Others see it, Hashem sees it, as a digital cage, one that is in some ways different. than his other experiences in being locked up. And in other ways, the feeling of a digital cage is the same.

That bracelet gives you a feeling of being a criminal. I'm Amory Severson. I'm Ben Brock Johnson, and you're listening to Endless Thread. Coming to you from WBUR, Boston's NPR. Today's episode, The Digital Cage. Story really started for us when Endless Thread producer extraordinaire, Dean Russell came across an academic paper with an intriguing title. The paper was written by a Boston University law professor named Sarah Sherman Stokes,

and its title included the words, digital cages, which felt very endless thread. So naturally, we wanted to know more. Every year, tens of thousands of undocumented migrants in immigration and customs enforcement custody are moved into a monitoring program while they await court proceedings or final orders of removal. It's called alternatives to detention. First of all, when someone crosses the border without documentation, they're often put in detention centers. And detention centers are crowded, conditions there are not great. For years, migrant advocates have argued that the practice is inhumane.

So back in 2004, ICE introduced something called alternatives to detention, ATD. The idea is that instead of being kept behind bars, migrants in ATD are, are tracked using a variety of devices and surveillance techniques. Another term for this, one used by migrant advocates, is the digital cage. In 2005, there were about 20,000 people in detention at any given time, but there were 2,000 people in this ATD program. So people who were not in detention, but who were being monitored. Today, there are about 35,000 people in detention, but there are 200,000 people in detention,

people being monitored in the ATD program. The total number of people ICE has tracked in the last 20 or so years is potentially in the millions. Hashim is one of those millions. And it was only after we heard his story, his whole story, that the idea of a digital cage really started to sink in. When I was growing up, I lost my mom when I was like five years old. Wow.

So good enough, I had a response to that. who was there for me through my entire life. Hashim grew up in a single-parent home in Kampala, the capital of Uganda. A city of just under two million people, it sits on the northern shore of the largest lake on the African continent, Lake Victoria. Hashim speaks fondly of growing up in Uganda, and especially of growing up with his dad. Because it's someone who's like your mom and your dad in all aspects of life. So he's my friend, my dad, my dad, my everything. Like his dad, Hashim went into business.

He had a rice shop. It wasn't easy. Taxes felt high. Products took forever to get government approval. Eventually, Hashim noticed other shops weren't facing the same challenges. They might sell the same products. But they end up like they don't pay taxes. Because of what? Maybe my dad is a minister somewhere. Hashim says this problem is everywhere in Uganda. Some businesses have to pay taxes. Others seem to get a pass. Is it called nepotism? Nepotism, he says. Also bribery. Extortion.

To Hashim, much of the blame belongs to the country's leader, Jawari Museveni. Museveni has occupied the president's office since 1986, before Hashim was born. One leader, 40 years. Corruption in Uganda is estimated

to be a billion-dollar industry. Museveni's been accused of rigging elections and silencing opposition. Hashim wanted change for his family. That is why I joined People Power Movement. The People Power Movement came about in 2017, after Museveni announced plans to extend his tenure as president.

Around the same time, social media was making it much easier to organize protests online. Internet was bombing in my country. People were getting introduced to it. If you could post something on Facebook or anywhere, It can attract more attention than you calling people. Hashim had experience with computers through his business operations, so he started promoting non-violent dissent online.

As can sometimes be the case, musicians were galvanizing the movement, like the musician-turned-politician Bobby Wine. One of Hashim's musician friends was a friend of Bobby's. Things were going well. Word about people power was reaching the right people with Hashim's help, until it reached the wrong ones. While I was jogging, I remember it was a Saturday, someone approached me from behind. But from that moment when he dragged me, I don't remember anything.

Hashem says in July of 2019, a man grabbed him from behind by the neck, almost like what we might call a sleeper hold and started to drag him away. Then Hashim passed out. I only remember waking up in a certain kind of a small concrete room with a bucket in the corner. very cold, light that you cannot almost see your hand. At first, Hashem had no idea why he was thrown into this cell. Who had done it or how long he was there. But when the beating started, he began to understand.

They were like, why people power? Why people power? And even when you answer, you're being beaten for no good reason. someone is someone hitting you with a boot in the stomach and at the same time is asking why so in between there as you're screaming all of a sudden they match out the boot in the stomach was maybe Hasham's most

concrete information about what he says was happening to him in Uganda no one has the authority to do that unless it is a government the way they dress you can see you know this this kind of shift from the military, you can tell. We can't verify this part of Hashem's story. What we can say is that same month, July of 2019,

another people power activist named Michael Alinda disappeared under similar circumstances. He showed up days later on the doorstep of a Kampala hospital, missing two fingers and an eye. He died of blunt force trauma to the head. The police found no wrongdoing. And Bobby Wine, the musician turned politician, he was turned into a political prisoner in Uganda, perhaps for challenging Museveni in an election. According to a report by the U.S. State Department,

political suppression through torture and murder is not uncommon under the Museveni regime. This suppression, Hashem says, was on his mind when he was abducted. There is a moment whereby you feel like you've been tortured and you, you give up on life. Though he couldn't tell from the inside, Hashem was missing for almost two weeks. His dad was worried.

His wife was also worried. Hashim was worried. At home, he had a newborn, his second child, and he wasn't sure he'd ever see her again. Then one day, they let him go. He thinks. When I woke up in a banana plantation, those people come to work in the garden in the morning, one of the ladies. is the one who found me. It was some sort of

a second chance. Hashim moved his family outside Kampala to a small village with dirt roads and extremely limited internet. We're not saying the name for obvious reasons. He still felt unsafe, though. He spoke with his family and friends

and chose the safest option for everyone. He chose to leave. Maybe I would have been one of the dead people right now. Because for sure, when you know that something is wrong, and you have it in hard to fight for it, you can never stop. Hashem considered fleeing to Rwanda, Kenya, Tanzania. Musevani, though, is a powerful figure throughout all of East Africa.

You cannot go to this kind of countries. You've got to get further away. You've got to get further away. Countries where democracy works. Here. Hashim emigrated on Uganda's Independence Day, October 9, 2019. He says it was safer to leave during, a holiday when attention was elsewhere.

It wasn't a straight shot to the U.S. an acquaintance helped him get a flight to Mexico and went with him. The acquaintance kept Hacham's passport, and when Hacham went to Mexico's immigration services, he was detained. I was detained in Tijuana. Hashim doesn't speak Spanish. He didn't understand what the officers were telling him or why he was taken in. All he knows is that he was taken in.

That is another hell there. It's not a place that they keep like a prison that it is organized. There is no law inside there. Tasham describes cramped living conditions with little sunlight and a lack of food. Worse was the abuse, not from the guards, but other detainees. I'll never forget this guy. It was called Widi. This guy tortured the hell out of us.

Because that guy used to make us jump like monkeys on those, you know, the bars of the prison. Mm-hmm. That gets could be laughing. It was fun to them. Like with Hashim's imprisonment in Uganda, we can't verify the details of his ordeal inside the Tijuana Detention Center. His descriptions, though,

align with many other migrant accounts in Mexico. Hashim was in detention for three and a half months. Just like when he was imprisoned in Uganda, his family didn't know where he was. Again, he lost hope. And again, for reasons, he never understood, he was released. I was thrown in the streets.

Like, what? Hashim has pictures of himself after his release. His dark brown skin is pale from the lack of sun. He's bone thin. Hashim was given three months to clear out of Mexico. It was March 2020. President Trump had issued a public health order called Title 42, allowing Border Patrol to turn away migrants to prevent the spread of COVID-19.

Hashim waited for the border to open. March came and went. April came and went. May came and went. Finally, worried he'd be sent back to the detention center in Tijuana. He chose to go north and hope for the best. Hashim's arrival in America in a minute. At Radio Lab, we love nothing more than nerding out about science, neuroscience, chemistry.

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So let's see. I think I've got his signed electronic monitoring agreement here. There's someone you should meet. someone Hacham met. I met him a couple years ago. I mean, it was three years ago now that we first met. Sarah Sherman Stokes is the BU Law Professor who wrote the paper about digital cages.

She's also an attorney who works pro bono with asylum seekers. She began aiding Hacham after he was enrolled in ICE's alternatives to detention program and fitted with an ankle monitor. It wasn't like he really had a choice about whether or not to sign this, and he had no lawyer at the time yet when he signed it. On the 13th floor of the BU Law Tower, Sarah went through Hasham's case and the agreement he signed. Yeah, so it says while in the electronic monitoring program,

I agree to wear a non-removable GPS ankle bracelet, which will be attached by an ISAP case specialist. I acknowledge receipt of the tracking unit ID, and then that's given. I agree it's my responsibility to maintain access to electrical service during my time in this program. I agree to charge. Hushim says he wasn't told explicitly that he'd have to wear an ankle monitor, but in August of 2020, he did sign a document agreeing to it.

And agreeing to be supervised or surveilled. The reason for this program, I says, is to, quote, ensure compliance with release conditions. The primary goal is to get migrants facing deportation, such as Hachim, to appear before immigration court. Immigration law is super Byzantine and complex and in some ways pretty inscrutable. Immigration court is not under the justice system.

Migrants don't have the same rights as American citizens and are not guaranteed an attorney. So rather than go to court and maybe get deported, some migrants never show up. So ISIS theory is that if we can track someone with an ankle monitor or something like that, they are more likely to show up in court. There is a three million case backlog in deportation proceedings. Some people are in detention, and that can really be anyone, but it does include people with criminal records. Some people are in ATD. It's not clear how a person qualifies for ATD, but ICE says enrollees must be 18 years old and, quote, thoroughly vetted.

Presumably, you wouldn't qualify if ICE didn't have some faith that you were a law-abiding person. But that's not how Hashem felt. Once that guy, he put it on me, he gave me a piece of paper. He told me, you were supposed to report to this address. After signing the agreement, Hashem was fitted with an ankle monitor and sent to live with his family friends in Portland, Maine. He says he was instantly hit with this feeling, like he was back in Uganda, being watched by the government,

being marked as a criminal. First of all, the kind of mentality you have, when you watch movies, I only put it to criminals, right? I knew I'm not a criminal. Secondly, I don't have a criminal. any reason. Where will I run? I cannot run and I brought myself in. The monitor was fitted with a rubber strap. It comes with two large interchangeable batteries and must remain charged at all times. Hashem learned this rule the hard way at 30,000 feet.

On his flight from California to the east coast, unexpectedly, the battery ran off. The battery died and the monitor issued a loud beep. Hacham says he could feel eyes turn on him. He tugged his pant leg lower to cover the device. He looked for the backup battery. It was in his checked bag. So every few minutes. Whenever I could time it, I go to the restroom of the plane. I keep there. When it stops beeping, I go back. Hashim says he was always too nervous to tell people about the ankle monitor. If they saw it, the first expression they get onto their face. They are scared. He had to assure them, no, I'm not a criminal.

It was embarrassing, and the best way to avoid it was to hide the device. He refused to wear shorts, even as the weather got hotter. Often he never left the house. Even one of Hashem's friends described being frustrated. It was difficult to introduce Hashem to the community or bring him to his mosque. People stared, and it seemed judged. And there were other problems. It's heavy.

It will affect the way you're scared. sleep. Now you'll begin sleeping on only on one side, even while I'm showering. Because I don't want water. So you have to be cautious while you're showering. Anything can turn up and then they can put the problem on what? Or you, maybe you're trying to remove it. Plus, there was the location tracking. According to ICE, ATD enrollees are generally free to travel within the US, as long as they are checking in with an ICE supervisor. But some enrollees have to stay within a certain boundary. Hashim was constantly worried about getting in trouble

whenever he had to travel outside of Southern Maine. Like one time, he was with his family sponsor and they drove two hours south to Boston. The ankle monitors started beeping. It felt like being watched. Whatever I am, they know what I'm doing. ICE didn't agree to an interview in time for this at the We sent several requests, the first in June.

ICE also wouldn't answer any questions about Hashim's case. Still, many migrants have expressed feelings similar to his. The shame, discomfort. Some have even reported receiving shocks from their ankle monitors. So instead of the monitor, ICE came up with another option for the alternatives to detention program. It's a phone app. The SmartLink app. This is Laura Rivera with the advocacy group Just Futures Law.

She knows a lot about ICE's evolving tech, such as the SmartLink app. Which is not visible on the ankle. But the problem with that is that it only masks the invasive nature. Uh-oh. Lauerah, by the way, has a dog. Anyway, according to official documents, the app can collect individuals' names, contact information, social security number, facial images and voice samples, geolocation data about physical movements and location, and internet and similar network activity.

You may be wondering, if ICE is actually collecting all of this information, is anyone going through it? Who has the time? ICE would not answer specific questions about its data collection and use practices, so we honestly can't say. In a written statement, it said ICE, quote, does not have access. or collect information from a non-citizens personal device, unquote. That statement doesn't clearly line up with official smart link documents, so we're not sure how to interpret it.

Just Futures Law and other advocacy groups sued ICE for more information about its smart link data collection. They found that ICE can hold on to some data for 75 years. We asked ICE to clarify it didn't. We can't forget that this data. is going directly to one of the most powerful policing agencies in the world. ICE has used drone footage, driver's license data, vehicle tracking, and a group of other surveillance capabilities to conduct raids and put people in detention.

So Laura fears how SmartLink data may be used. President Biden and the Department of Homeland Security want us to believe that the ATD program is a kinder and gentler alternative. alternative to being physically detained in a jail, but that's not what the ATD program does at all. SmartLink, by the way, is operated by a private contractor called B.I. B.I. was formerly called Behavioral Interventions and got its start monitoring cattle in the 70s. Now the company is owned by Geo Group, a private prison and security corporation, and has a $2 billion. million dollar contract with ICE.

So if the goal is to make people show up to immigration court, does any of this work, does the ankle monitor or does the SmartLink app actually motivate them to do that? The 2020 UPenn study found that 83% of non-detained migrants, most of whom are not tracked, showed up to all of their hearings. We asked ICE about ATD, and it said that 99% of ATD enrollees showed up to court. It's not clear if that means they showed up for all of their court hearings or just one. Either way, ICE does not include all ATD enrollees in that 99% figure. A 2022 report by the Government Accountability Office found that ICE was tracking court appearances for less than half of its enrollees.

ICE declined to clarify. Some migrant advocates would like to abolish the current immigration system and open the borders. barring that, what's the alternative to the alternative to detention if you want to guarantee that migrants will show up to deportation proceedings? To increase the rate of immigrants who show up in their court proceedings, it's extremely effective to provide legal representation to those individuals. Because migrants, again, they're not guaranteed an attorney. And in that respect, Hashim was fortunate. When I came, I had a feeling of this being one of the most safe and free country. But once I got this experience, I was like, is this also what I had gone through back home?

Does it work this way also? My mind changed once I got an attorney. Once Sarah Sherman Stokes' legal team began working pro bono with Hashem, his life began to feel more normal. For months, his attorneys argued to have ICE remove the ankle monitor. They said Hashim was not a criminal and not a flight risk. Also, they said this kind of surveillance was not a way to welcome someone seeking asylum and running from an authoritarian government. After five months with the ankle monitor, Hashim got another call.

He was told to go to immigration services. The guy didn't even ask me to get inside the building. He just met me outside. He brought a scissors. He cut it off. He took it in. I was like, wow. So I was, I felt now, even I could feel the weight of my leg that I could now run, I could do anything.

It was freedom. It was freedom. The average enrollment in ATD is a little under two years. And while Hashim was still technically in ATD after the ankle monitor was removed, he was allowed to check in with phone calls called telephonic monitoring. In total, he was in the ATD program for two years. If you ask Hashim, there is one reason he doesn't regret his choice to leave detention, even if it meant wearing the monitor.

He was able to call his family. When he left Uganda, Hashem had two kids. When he left U.S. detention, he had three. His third child was born while Hashim was in Mexico. He also got to speak with his dad, his idol, who was happy Hashim was finally safe. And the timing of that call couldn't have been more important. He motivated me alone. That is why when I got here, it was kind of, I felt bad because after me coming to a country

where I feel safe, and all of a sudden, I lost him because of the COVID-19. Hashem's dad died on October 29, 2020, two months after Hashim was released from detention. Hashim came into the U.S. during the Trump administration, which enacted some of the strictest immigration policies, in recent history. The day Trump left office, President Biden reversed many of those policies. Then he expanded them again

and even pursued stricter policies, in part because of a record surge in border crossings. One of the programs expanded was ICE's alternatives to detention. Some say ATD's surveillance is too much. Others say it isn't enough. When this monster showed up at our border, He was set free immediately under the program that Crooked Joe created.

I call it free to kill. It's free to kill. In February, a 22-year-old named Lake In Riley was jogging in Athens, Georgia, when she was murdered. The suspect was an undocumented immigrant from Venezuela. He entered the U.S. illegally in 2022. Jose Antonio Abara, who reportedly has gang ties, was not detained after crossing the border. He was released and allowed to stay to pursue his immigration case. Ibaro was never enrolled in ATD, according to ICE.

Still, right-wing media outlets and conservative lawmakers use the incident to question the program. 17% of ATD enrollees abscond, according to a 2022 report by the government accountability office. Conservatives say that's enough to doubt ATD and favor detention. Trump says he wants to round up millions of immigrants, and hold them in camps before deporting them. Again, here's Hacham's attorney, B.U law professor, Sarah Sherman Stokes. What happened in Athens is horrible. As a woman runner myself, I was just talking with one of my students today about how scary that is, right?

And also, yes, non-citizens commit crimes. Just like United States citizens, we expect immigrants to be exemplary. We hold them to the standard of, you know, you have to go above and beyond what Americans do, because being in the United States is a privilege, right? And it just seems really short-sighted to me to have policy that is motivated by single acts of horrible violence. When Hashem left for the U.S., he made a choice, whether or not he knew it at the time. He was choosing to submit himself to the choices of other people in another country.

He was choosing to say goodbye to his country, possibly forever. By the time he was latched into an ankle monitor, he had been detained, fingerprinted, interviewed and interviewed and interviewed. He'd given contacts, references. After his monitor was removed, he showed up to court, virtual court, because COVID, and he won. He was granted asylum. It was a unique negative experience, but at some point, it makes you have a feeling of being humble.

Hashem says he draws inspiration. from the American story. Fighting for freedom, as he puts it. So even today, thousands of miles from Uganda, he is helping the people power movement online. Two, one day, have a real democracy. He's sacrificed, he says. So has his family, his wife, his toddler, who is no longer a toddler,

his youngest, now four years old, whom Hashem's never held. How are you, Papa? We miss you so much. We love you so... Hasham's not in a cage anymore, and he's not in a digital cage anymore either, but it's not easy. He has to remind himself,

remind his family, that this search for freedom, it isn't over, yet. They will never understand it in whatever way, however much you try your level base to explain it. They want you to be there. So it's challenging, but... If you have hope, you can win.

Hope. Hope. At least I'm hopeful that one day they will be here. I'm hopeful that one day they will be in a safe country. Endless Threat is a production of WBUR in Boston. This episode was written and produced by Dean Russell. It was edited and co-hosted by me, Amory Severson. And me, Ben Brock Johnson, mixing sound design by Paul Vikis. The rest of our team is Emily Jankowski, Summa Tajoshi, and Grace Tatter.

Endless Threat is a show about the blurred line. between online communities and ICE responding to your requests after deadline. If you have an unsolved mystery or an untold history that you want us to tell, hit us up. Endless thread at wbUR.org.