Deep within the bowels of San Diego’s federal courthouse, Assim Alkhawaja sat on the floor outside a nondescript office, waiting to be called for his ICE-mandated immigration appointment. He stared straight ahead, his posture tense, his face a mask. The hallway was brown, as was the carpet.
Above Alkhawaja’s head hung a framed stock photo of a waterfall. A few paces away, official government signs encouraged people without legal status to self-deport. Alkhawaja went in and the door closed behind him.
The 53-year-old knew that, in the past, others in his situation had been detained and deported on the spot at these types of check-ins, without warning. Staff, who work for a program that is overseen by ICE, ask him the same questions here nearly every week: where do you live? Occasionally: why are you applying for asylum?
This time, there was a new one: how are you feeling? But that question was more difficult to answer. For months, Alkhawaja, originally from Saudi Arabia, had felt a swirling cocktail of fear and anger, a disturbing sense that he’d been treated like an animal.
In February, ICE agents arrested and detained him while he was dropping off two Lyft passengers at Camp Pendleton, the sprawling military base in San Diego county. At first, Alkhawaja, who was working as a ride-share driver to make extra money, thought it was a misunderstanding – that he might even receive an apology. He has a valid work permit, a pending asylum case, no criminal convictions, a doctorate from the University of San Francisco, and a popular local coffee business that’s growing steadily.
Those things didn’t matter. Alkhawaja spent the next eight days in an ICE detention center and was placed in removal proceedings. His left ankle was strapped with a bulky GPS tracker, the kind that is typically only given to high-risk individuals on parole, like registered sex offenders.
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