In the heart of downtown San Diego, a growing number of immigrants are finding themselves in a situation they never expected: summoned to what should be routine Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) check-ins, only to be handcuffed and detained in the courthouse basement for days. Over the past two weeks, according to reporting by Times of San Diego, this makeshift holding area has become a transit point for as many as 200 people at a time, many of whom have no criminal background and were previously allowed to await their immigration hearings in the community.
This escalation comes amid a nationwide surge in ICE detentions—over 50% more since January 2025, and with 23 deaths in ICE custody so far this year, the highest since 2004, as noted by the American Immigration Council. The experience of those detained in San Diego’s courthouse basement is emblematic of broader issues plaguing the U.S. immigration detention system: overcrowding, inhumane conditions, and a lack of transparency or oversight.
For many immigrants, the ordeal begins with a letter. Some expect a standard annual check-in; others receive vague notices to appear at the ICE office “in connection with an official matter.” As their attorneys point out, most would not have been detained under previous practices. Yet, upon arrival, these individuals are handcuffed and held in cramped, cold cells—often for up to four days—before being transferred to a detention center or deported to Mexico.
Inside the basement, detainees describe conditions that are harsh and deeply unsettling. Esteban Rios Sosa, who spent a night there, told Times of San Diego that he shared an 8 by 16-foot cell with six other men, sleeping on thin mats under fluorescent lights that never go out. “There was a moment where I thought, OK, this is not good. And my heart was at a million beats per minute… I was crying internally, and my nerves were exploding,” he recalled. Others, like a young Venezuelan woman, recounted being forced to huddle together for warmth, given only foil sheets as blankets, and having no privacy while using the bathroom.
The problems extend beyond discomfort. Detainees say they wear the same clothes for days, even during menstruation, and are denied basic hygiene items like towels. Food is described as inedible—burritos served half-frozen, potatoes that “crunched like carrots,” and portions so small that hunger becomes a constant companion. “You have to eat no matter what, or the night is going to get you,” said Camila Muñoz, a former detainee in Louisiana, in an interview with USA TODAY. “We were really hungry.”
Medical care is virtually nonexistent in the San Diego basement, according to detainees. One woman with severe epilepsy, Bea, was detained despite her lawyer presenting a doctor’s letter warning she was “at risk of death” in such conditions. An ICE agent reportedly dismissed the concerns, saying “she’ll be fine,” and insisted she remain detained until a medical review could be conducted at the Otay Mesa Detention Facility. For those with chronic illnesses or special dietary needs, the lack of attention can be life-threatening.
Communication with the outside world is strictly limited. Detainees are allowed brief phone calls to family—sometimes as short as thirty seconds—and the recipient must pay $53 for the privilege. While in the basement, they are not searchable on ICE’s detainee locator system, leaving families in the dark about their whereabouts. Volunteers now advise immigrants to write loved ones’ phone numbers on their arms in permanent marker before entering ICE offices, just in case.
These issues are not confined to San Diego. Across the country, immigrants in detention facilities such as Richwood in Louisiana face similar hardships. According to USA TODAY, nearly 750 women—97% of whom had no criminal record—were held at Richwood in August 2025. Meals there consisted of oatmeal or powdered eggs for breakfast, pasta with canned meat for lunch, and a thin slice of bologna with white bread for dinner. Fresh fruit was a distant memory, and many detainees reported persistent hunger, stomach problems, and a desperate longing for more food. “It’s so scary. I never thought in the world in the 21st century that I would feel that—to want to take somebody’s food,” one woman said. “It’s humiliating.”
Other indignities abound: only an hour of outdoor sunlight per day, backed-up toilets, bug infestations, mildewed showers, and packed dormitories. As the population in detention centers has ballooned, the quality and quantity of food have deteriorated further. LaSalle Corrections, which operates Richwood for ICE, insists it “strictly adheres to ICE detention standards and is monitored by ICE, on-site personnel and the Department of Homeland Security.” ICE itself claims that detainees are “provided with proper meals (and) potable water,” but former detainees and advocates tell a different story.
The business of detention, advocates say, incentivizes cutting corners. “The goal is to keep people in there as cheaply as possible,” Lydia Pelot-Hobbs, a University of Kentucky professor, told USA TODAY. “That’s why the food is terrible… These conditions of confinement might mirror what we’re used to in prisons and jails and can sometimes be worse.” Detention is supposed to be non-punitive—immigrants are held for civil, not criminal, violations—yet many find the experience punishing in every sense.
Oversight, critics argue, is inadequate and often superficial. Inspections are typically pre-announced, and chronic complaints about hunger or poor food are dismissed if menus are certified as meeting nutritional requirements. “What repeatedly happens is detainees complain, and then inspectors ask the facility operators what they are serving,” said Nancy Hiemstra, co-author of a new book on immigration detention. “They don’t actually look at what is really being served. They take operators’ word over detainees’.”
Back in San Diego, the lack of transparency recently prompted action from elected officials. On October 20, 2025, U.S. Representatives Juan Vargas and Scott Peters attempted to exercise their right to inspect the basement detention area. ICE, acting on orders from Washington, turned them away, allowing access only to management offices. “If you were obeying the law and you were following procedures, you would want us to see this… It makes me very suspicious,” Peters said at a press conference, echoing public concerns about what is happening behind closed doors.
For detainees like Esteban Rios Sosa, the consequences are deeply personal. After living in the U.S. for 28 years and applying for a U visa for crime victims, he was detained, denied a chance to appeal, and deported to Tijuana. ICE later claimed he had criminal charges, but Rios Sosa insists they confused him with relatives. “After so many years in the darkness, I finally saw the light and then they shut me out again,” he said. “And the entire time, they [the ICE agents] kept saying that everything was going to be OK.”
As ICE detentions climb and conditions remain under scrutiny, the stories emerging from San Diego and Louisiana offer a stark reminder of the human toll of immigration enforcement in America today.