On a humid Florida afternoon in late August 2025, the landscape around the Dade-Collier Transition and Training Airport—now infamously dubbed "Alligator Alcatraz"—is a flurry of activity. Large trucks rumble in and out, removing equipment from the sprawling migrant detention center nestled deep in the Everglades. The gates remain open, but the sense of finality is unmistakable: after months of controversy, a federal judge has ordered the facility to close within 60 days, citing breaches of environmental law. The shutdown marks a dramatic chapter in a saga that has gripped local communities, environmentalists, Indigenous groups, and immigration advocates alike.
The story of Alligator Alcatraz is as layered as the wetlands it occupies. The site’s history stretches back to the late 1960s, when it was carved from protected marsh as part of an ambitious—ultimately abandoned—plan to build the world’s largest jetport. That project threatened both the fragile Everglades ecosystem and the sacred lands of the Miccosukee and Seminole tribes. After a groundswell of protest, only a single runway was completed before the jetport was scrapped in 1970, as reported by Revista Harvard Review of Latin America.
Fast-forward to June 2025, when the old airport was rapidly transformed—over the course of just eight days—into a makeshift federal detention center designed to hold thousands of immigration detainees. The arrival of stadium lights, guarded checkpoints, and heavy traffic pierced the quiet of a landscape once defined by ceremony and kinship. For many, it was a painful echo of past battles fought to protect the land and its people.
Resistance was swift. On June 22, 2025, Betty Osceola—a respected Miccosukee tribal elder and environmental activist—began leading Sunday vigils at the gates of Alligator Alcatraz. Her efforts soon dovetailed with those of environmental and Indigenous advocacy groups, including Friends of the Everglades and the Center for Biological Diversity, who filed a lawsuit on June 27 challenging the facility’s construction and operation. The Miccosukee Tribe formally joined the suit on July 14, cementing a broad coalition of opposition.
Community action reached a poignant crescendo on July 4, when roughly fifty people gathered at a nearby Miccosukee Seminole camp for a candlelight vigil. Organized by young adults from the Miccosukee, Seminole, and Independent Native groups—now calling themselves the Unconquered Coalition—and grassroots immigrant advocates Unidos Immokalee, the event was both a protest and a celebration of solidarity. Participants crafted banners reading "Free Our Land" in English, Spanish, and Haitian Creole, and marched in silence to the detention center’s gate. There, they held an open mic, sang traditional songs, and observed a moment of silence for the thirteen people who had died in immigration custody across the U.S. that year. As Metztli, a lead organizer from Immokalee, told Revista Harvard Review of Latin America, "What brings me hope after the 4th of July vigil is that, despite ongoing inhumanity and attacks on our communities, we keep resisting, showing up and raising our voices. Even when others try to erase or distort history, we keep speaking our truth and show up for those currently suffering, especially those detained in places like Alligator Alcatraz."
Yet as the legal and moral battles raged outside, life inside the detention center was marked by tension and uncertainty. According to Noticias 23, a Miami-based Spanish-language outlet, detainees and their relatives began reaching out by phone to report disturbing incidents. On August 23, after a detainee learned of a relative’s death, unrest erupted. Detainees began screaming and demanding their freedom, prompting guards to enter their cages and, according to reports, beat several people. "They have beaten everyone here, many people have been bleeding, brother, tears, we are immigrants, we are not criminals, we are not murderers," one detainee said during a frantic phone call to the outlet. Four detainees were reportedly injured, and guards used tear gas to quell the uprising. Police helicopters circled overhead as the chaos unfolded.
Despite the harrowing accounts, official responses have been swift and defensive. ICE director of communications Stephanie Hartman categorically denied that any riot had taken place, stating in an email to The Guardian, "These reports are manufactured. There is no uprising happening at Alligator Alcatraz. Detainees are given clean, safe living conditions and guards are properly trained on all state and federal protocols." Similar denials have come from state officials, who insist that the facility is well-maintained and that guards adhere to all relevant guidelines.
Not everyone is convinced. Immigration attorneys, including Magdalena Cuprys, have alleged inhumane conditions since the center opened in July. Cuprys, who represents clients detained at Alligator Alcatraz, told local media she has been unable to communicate with her clients since the wind-down began. "They’re moving people like cattle, and they’re really not telling their representatives anything about where they’re moving them," she said. "No one has notified us as their attorneys that they will be transferred where they will be transferred or when they will be transferred. And it’s very concerning because this is a trend." Earlier in August, another detainee described a violent incident in the cafeteria, claiming, "A guy is dying on the floor and no, no one has called for medical help. The paramedics aren’t here," as reported by NBC6 South Florida.
As the population at the facility dwindles and the last of the equipment is hauled away, environmental and Indigenous advocates remain vigilant. Betty Osceola, who lives near the detention center, expressed cautious optimism to Noticias 23, "I was very optimistic but cautious at the same time, seeing all the traffic come with all the tents coming out, I think there is light at the end of the tunnel." She added, "Until those FEMA trailers come out, I’m not going to do my happy dance yet." For Osceola and others, the fight is not over until the shutdown is complete and the land is restored.
Meanwhile, federal and state leaders continue to spar over the facility’s fate. White House Border Czar Tom Homan, after touring Alligator Alcatraz, told reporters, "I disagree with the judge who made that decision. I went down there. I walked through the detention areas where these people sleep and live. I saw a clean facility, a well-maintained facility. I went to the medical center and talked to the nurses there on staff, looked at the medical facility. It was great." The Department of Homeland Security, for its part, says it is complying with the court order and transferring detainees to other locations, but vows to "fight tooth-and-nail to remove the worst of the worst from American streets."
For now, the fate of the detainees remains uncertain. But the legacy of resistance—from Indigenous elders to young organizers, from environmental lawsuits to candlelit vigils—has left an indelible mark. As Dakota Osceola, a Seminole organizer, put it, "Honestly, after the vigil, I hope that the Unconquered Coalition and Unidos Immokalee will have a strong presence to keep fighting, spreading awareness, and growing a community together." For those who have stood watch over Alligator Alcatraz, this is just the beginning of a new chapter in the ongoing fight for justice, dignity, and the land itself.
