Hell on Earth – The Krome Deportation Center in Miami

While the newly built internment camp "Alligator Alcatraz" in the Everglades is currently becoming the symbol of an unrestrained deportation policy, another place is silently fading into oblivion: the Krome deportation center in Miami. We have reported on it several times in the past, published undercover footage, and gave voice to witnesses.

https://kaizen-blog.org/en/sumpf-der-schande-proteste-gegen-das-neue-abschiebelager-alligator-alcatraz/

https://kaizen-blog.org/en/alligatoren-im-dienst-der-abschreckung-wie-das-us-heimatschutzministerium-jedes-mass-verliert/

https://kaizen-blog.org/en/erste-insassen-erreichen-alligator-alcatraz-trumps-abschreckungslager-nimmt-betrieb-auf/

https://kaizen-blog.org/en/selbstverzehrung-im-ausnahmezustand-amerika-verliert-seine-letzte-scham/

Krome is no less a symbol of systemic brutality, abuse, overcrowding, and bureaucratic arbitrariness – it was simply there earlier, seen earlier, suppressed earlier. But anyone talking about "Alligator Alcatraz" today must not exclude Krome. It is part of the same story.

America – the land of last hope, of great freedom. And yet, in places like Krome, the oldest deportation center in the United States, this hope turns into a concrete-cast lie. In Miami, where the promise of a better life breaks at the edge of its validity, four women tell what happens when states become systems – and systems become machines of dehumanization. They do not speak loudly. They do not accuse. Their words carry no outrage, only exhaustion. "Like sardines in a can," they say about their cells. Chains around chest, wrists, waist. Air that stands still. Rides of twelve hours – without water, without a toilet. "Then just pee on the floor," the guards say. And you do. Not out of defiance, but out of necessity. A woman from Guatemala tells how she was brought to Krome with her five-year-old daughter. The little one had a fever. Help never came. No one heard her scream – because she no longer screamed.

"Hell on Earth" (Letter)
I can't believe we could hardly wait to get to Krome. We thought that was the place you'd get out of more quickly. That’s what both our lawyers said. Three of us arrived in Miami around 8:20 a.m. We were taken to a comfortable room with a TV, blankets, and a bathroom with a door. (lol yes – back then even a bathroom door became something “luxurious”) We stayed there until around 11:20 a.m. Then they put us on a bus – a prisoner transport with small holes instead of windows, so you could barely see anything. And we just sat there – in a cramped space. While they drove us around the airport – back and forth – in the heat, with open windows. Then they moved us onto a bigger bus. They “checked” us out, put chains on us – hands to waist, legs bound. The chain across my chest was so tight I couldn’t breathe properly. I panicked, I was so scared – I thought I wouldn’t be able to breathe. I cried and begged them to unchain me. They just said, “You’ll be fine.” Another woman heard me and helped. But the fear that life is treated like this has burned itself deep into me."

Krome is no exception. 1,700 people are currently imprisoned there – almost three times the actual capacity. And while complaints about lack of food and water, medical neglect, and overcrowding are increasing, the Trump administration closed three oversight offices of the Department of Homeland Security that were meant to investigate exactly such allegations. Instead of oversight: dismantling. The so-called "Office of Immigration & Detention Ombudsman" was dissolved, along with its 100 staff members. Internal resistance to systematic disenfranchisement – cleared away like an obstacle. The Robert F. Kennedy Human Rights organization is suing over this move. Forty women were transferred to Krome in March – a facility designated exclusively for men – a procedure that may violate federal laws designed to protect against sexual assault in prisons. This transfer was documented – and yet remains unanswered by the authorities. Three people died this year alone in US immigration detention, two of them in Krome. Ukrainian national Maksym Chernyak, who had entered legally with his wife, became ill after being arrested for domestic violence, developed a fever, vomited, lay shivering in his cell – and died two days after being transferred to a hospital. Cause: a stroke, worsened by high blood pressure. Medication? There was none. The widow said, “They saw his condition – but they ignored him.” Death here is not an accident. It is built in. Part of a system that calls it administration, when in truth it is violence. Another detainee, Osiris Vázquez, secretly filmed from inside using a phone: men on concrete floors, under tables, with shoes as pillows. “We don’t want likes – we want help,” he says, eyes red. Vázquez was later deported. He was hospitalized twice due to an infection he contracted there. Huber Argueta-Perez, who had lived in the US for 20 years, was arrested after dropping off his daughters at school. He slept nine days on the concrete floor, sick from the cold, without medicine. “There wasn’t enough space,” he says. “And the more we complained, the worse the punishment got.” A federal officer, who remained anonymous, reported that more than 2,000 complaints were submitted this year alone to the ombudsman's office. But that office has now been dissolved – along with all 100 staff. Treated as an obstacle. A lawsuit against the dissolution was filed by the Robert F. Kennedy Human Rights organization. The federal prison in downtown Miami also saw a revolt: 40 detainees waited eight hours for admission, a fire alarm was triggered, batons were stolen. Flashbangs, pepper spray, chaos. The public never heard about it. That too is part of the pattern. ICE plans to create up to 100,000 detention slots – on military bases, in Guantánamo, in local jails. Trump’s border chief declared: it’s enough if the standards match those of American prisons. Human rights? Optional. What remains is not outrage, but this letter. Four women who testify, who hold on, who endure. No screams, no fury. Only the quiet record of a hell that is already reality. As they say, “Despair has no language – it only has repetitions.” Hell is not somewhere else. It is here. And it wears a uniform.

We will not be deterred. Not by censorship, not by pressure, not by indifference. Standing up for the rights of these people – whether in the United States, in Germany, or anywhere else – is not an act of charity, but a duty. And every attempt to obstruct our work is not a barrier, but a source of motivation. In a time when the world has grown harsher, colder, more brutal, we need voices that hold the line. That do not bend, do not fall silent, do not give up. Human rights are not negotiable. And we will keep fighting for them – with everything we have. Anyone who thinks they can intimidate or diminish us is gravely mistaken. We stand. Period.