On September 3, 2025, the Department of Homeland Security made a move that’s raising eyebrows and stirring up heated debate: the federal government has chosen the infamous Louisiana State Penitentiary—better known as Angola—to house immigration detainees. According to Secretary Kristi Noem, the decision is no accident. In fact, it’s part of a calculated effort to encourage people living in the United States illegally to self-deport. "This facility will hold the most dangerous of criminals," Noem told reporters, standing behind a lectern emblazoned with the words "Louisiana Lockup." She didn’t mince words about why Angola was chosen: it was "absolutely" for its notorious reputation.
Angola isn’t just any prison. Sprawling across 18,000 acres of rural Louisiana, the penitentiary houses about 6,300 inmates, many of whom still work the fields in long rows, picking vegetables by hand under the watchful eyes of guards on horseback. The prison’s notoriety stretches back well over a century, its very name a byword for brutality and hardship. In the 1960s and 1970s, Angola was described as “the bloodiest prison in America,” a place plagued by violence, mass riots, escapes, and inhumane conditions. Executions were carried out there, and the specter of brutality hung over its cellblocks for decades.
On Wednesday, as officials gave reporters a tour, they didn’t shy away from the prison’s menacing aura. The complex is ringed by a fence with five rows of stacked barbed wire. A guard paced in a tower overhead, and just beyond the perimeter, alligators could be seen gliding through a nearby lake. Bears, too, make their home in the area. The message seemed clear: this is not a place anyone would choose to end up.
So, why Angola? Secretary Noem was forthright. The prison’s fearsome reputation, she said, is meant to send a message to those in the U.S. without legal status: think twice about staying. The hope, according to Noem, is that the prospect of being detained in such a notorious facility will persuade some to leave voluntarily. It’s a strategy that echoes the Trump administration’s broader approach to immigration enforcement—one that leans heavily on tough-on-crime messaging and the deliberate cultivation of fear.
This isn’t the first time the federal government has used the specter of harsh detention to try to shape immigration behavior. The Trump administration previously built a detention center in the Florida Everglades, dubbed “Alligator Alcatraz,” with similar aims. That facility, however, may soon be shuttered, after a judge upheld a decision to wind down its operations indefinitely. In the meantime, the government is racing to expand its detention infrastructure elsewhere. New centers have popped up across the country, with colorful nicknames like the “Speedway Slammer” in Indiana and the “Cornhusker Clink” in Nebraska. Each, in its own way, is meant to reinforce the federal government’s tough stance on immigration.
The Angola facility, for all its notoriety, is actually quite small in the grand scheme of things. It can hold about 400 detainees—a drop in the bucket compared to the more than 100,000 people Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) expects to have under its watch following a $45 billion expansion of detention centers signed into law by President Trump in July. At the moment, officials say the Angola site currently holds about 50 immigration detainees. Still, its symbolic value far outweighs its capacity.
To understand why Angola carries such weight, it’s worth looking back at its origins. The prison stands on land that was once Angola Plantation, a vast operation run by wealthy slave traders and cotton planters. In the 1850s, the plantation was home to some 700 enslaved people, who were forced to work from dawn until dusk in Louisiana’s punishing summer heat. After the Civil War, the plantation was converted into a state prison, with a former Confederate officer granted a lease giving him control over the property and its convicts. The transition from slavery to convict labor was, in many ways, a continuation of the same brutal system. As the Angola Museum’s website notes, “The majority of black inmates were subleased to land owners to replace slaves while others continued levee, railroad, and road construction.” White inmates, by contrast, often worked as clerks or craftsmen.
Public outcry eventually brought an end to inmate leasing in the late 1800s, and the state took direct control of Angola in 1901. But difficult conditions persisted. The prison’s history has been marked by cycles of scandal and reform, with recurring reports of violence, overcrowding, and disease outbreaks—tuberculosis among them. Lawsuits alleging cruel and inhumane treatment are still regularly filed, despite officials’ claims that reforms have led to improvements.
For immigration advocates and critics alike, the decision to use Angola as a detention center is fraught with symbolism. To some, it’s a necessary step to address what they see as a crisis of illegal immigration and a way to ensure that the “worst of the worst” are kept securely away from the public. To others, it’s an alarming escalation—an attempt to use fear and intimidation, rooted in a legacy of racial injustice, as a tool of policy. The use of a prison with such a notorious history to house people awaiting immigration proceedings raises questions about the balance between security and humanity.
“This facility will hold the most dangerous of criminals,” Secretary Noem reiterated, emphasizing that only the most serious offenders would be sent to Angola. Yet with the federal government’s ambitious plans to expand detention capacity nationwide, some worry that the line between “worst of the worst” and ordinary detainees could blur. After all, the $45 billion expansion signed into law by President Trump is expected to swell ICE’s detainee population to historic levels.
The debate over Angola’s new role is likely to continue, with lawsuits and public scrutiny sure to follow. For now, though, the message from federal officials is clear: the era of “Louisiana Lockup” has begun, and the government is betting that Angola’s fearsome reputation will do what years of policy tweaks have not—convince some to leave before they ever see the inside of its razor-wire fences.
As the sun sets over the fields of Angola, the past and present collide in a way that’s hard to ignore. The prison’s legacy of forced labor and brutality is never far from the surface, even as officials tout reforms and new missions. For those detained within its walls, and for the country as a whole, the next chapter in Angola’s history is just beginning.