My daughter has been sick this week. Nothing major, I think (I hope). No fever, no cough, nothing I can point to as an actual symptom. Just off. I'm finely attuned to even the slightest change in her demeanor, the glint in her eyes, the rhythm of her breathing. I feel when something isn't right even before I can articulate it. It isn’t some kind of superpower unique to me; I'm sure parents all over the world recognize that feeling. The visceral need to stay next to her, stare at her, study her every move for the slightest indication that tomorrow will be better than today. Only when she does get better, can I go back to breathing at a normal, human pace. 

We learned last week that the U.S. government has been unable to reunite at least 545 babies with the parents they were kidnapped from under the policy of family separation that took place at our southern border last year. The President of the United States, the man ultimately responsible for those kidnappings, dismissed this as a real issue because the children “are well-cared for.” As is his nature to do, he deliberately mischaracterizes the point. Putting aside for now whether we believe him (we do not), or what “well-cared for” even means to this administration (nothing good, I am sure), the point was not to traumatize the children. Sure, I can buy that. The kids were collateral damage, an acceptable cost in the quest to punish and torture their parents.  

As asylum attorneys, we are custodians of our clients’ stories. Our task is to build a legal case upon the nightmares they forever carry inside of them. No story is the same but all of them share common threads of fear and unbearable sadness at what their memories hold and what they have been forced to leave behind. In the decade since I first started interviewing asylum seekers, I’ve heard countless accounts of horror and trauma; stories of longing for children, parents, and partners left behind. 

It wasn’t until a couple of years ago, however, in the spring of 2018 on a volunteer trip to the border, that I witnessed those last good-byes for myself. No report or recollection can prepare you for the absolutely gutting experience of watching a parent hug their sobbing child for what may be the last time, watching as family members pull the young child from his father’s arms, unable to offer any comfort as to when they will meet again, or if they even will. I couldn’t shake that image for months. It was the worst thing I could imagine at that time. 

Then just a few weeks later, a much more horrifying picture emerged. The Trump administration admitted that it had for months been implementing a no tolerance policy whereby they forcibly separated parents from their minor children with little to no mechanisms in place to ever reunite them. It was reported that hundreds of those children were under the age of five, some barely toddlers, unable to understand where they were or even where they came from. Imagine if you will, leaving your entire life in order to seek safety for yourself and your child; the dangerous trek through unwelcoming countries, through terrain where so many others have perished before you. Then imagine your relief upon reaching the United States, where in spite of any obstacles you have been warned to expect, at least you are both still alive, safe from the horrors left behind. Except you aren’t safe at all, because the U.S government has decided that you must be punished for the unspeakable crime of seeking refuge and safety from a country that used to stand for those ideals. And the price you must now pay is the child or children you had the audacity to bring with you. You will watch as your babies scream for you, for they will make sure you remember their cries. Your trauma is a central part of the plan; the cruelty is the entire point. They may even remind you, as they prepare to deport you alone, that you brought this on yourself, that you deserve it. 

The separation of families is of course, nothing new for our country. Undocumented immigrants live with the daily fear of deportation, of being spontaneously removed from their homes and their children, prohibited from safely returning to them ever again. In the many Know-Your-Rights trainings we conduct, we always include a reminder to have a plan in place in the event that one falls victim to a workplace raid or otherwise draws the attention of Immigration and Customs Enforcement. Who will pick up your children from school? Who will pay your mortgage, care for your elderly parents, put food on your family’s table? In many ways, it is like preparing for death. 

Immigrants are unfortunately not alone in this regard. Our obscene and immoral commitment to mass incarceration has left thousands upon thousands of broken Black and Brown families in its wake. We are also reminded of the atrocities of our founding fathers who profited from selling children away from their parents and who stole generations of Native American children away from theirs. Far from being an evil new tactic, then, the separation of families would seem to be embedded in our DNA. We’re not just good at this wicked game; we invented it.  

They say becoming a parent makes you soft, but I think the opposite is true. I certainly cry a lot more at the heaviness of the world my daughter will one day inherit. The added anxiety that comes with every one of her heartbreaks and sick days and worries is also not a super welcome experience. But I’ve also become a lot more grounded in my work, in my almost desperate attempt to make of our world and of our country something I can be proud to leave behind. 

I see myself in every single one of those parents who is missing a child tonight, who has ever gone missing a child, because of our government’s programs or policies. If I get to watch my daughter sleep, if I get to comfort her when she is sick, if I get to hold her every day, then I cannot rest until every parent is able to do the same. I cannot simply live with what we’ve done and with what we continue to do. Come November 3rd, I pray I am in the majority. 

Martha E. Menendez, Esq. is the Bernstein Senior Fellow at the UNLV Immigration Clinic.