By: Sameth Nhean
We deserve to have equal rights, to be treated with dignity. But as refugees, we aren’t.
Nearly a year ago, I walked into what I thought was a routine check-in with immigration. My wife and children came with me (we were going to go to the Minnesota State Fair afterwards). But when two Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) agents came and took me aside, I knew what was next. My wife and my kids stared at me through the glass, speechless. No words, just tears. I looked back at them, just as hopeless as they were.
I would not return home to them for another 346 days.
I was born in a refugee camp in Thailand after my family fled Cambodia. My family came to the U.S. when I was just three-years-old and this country is the only home I’ve ever known. We came here with next to nothing—we started in poverty. It was hard, but that’s why we immigrated. For the American dream.
There was a lot of trauma in my family and I carried some of it into adulthood. I ended up making some poor choices and around 15 years ago I committed a crime. I owned up to my behavior, served my sentence, and was law abiding ever since. Everything changed for me when I met my wife—I got a job, bought a house, and started a family. I have three children: Arson, age 11, and my two beautiful daughters, Cianna, age 14, and Nautica, age 4. I worked for 11 years at the same job, because I wanted to provide and give my children the kind of life that I never had. I learned, grew from my mistakes, and built a life here.
But in 2010, ICE hunted me down. Before that, I had no idea what ICE was. Agents showed up at my house and tore me away from my family. That time, they detained me for 138 days. When they couldn’t deport me to either Cambodia or Thailand, they finally had to release me.
After that, everything changed for me. When I heard the word “deportation,” everything just crumbled. I lived every day with the constant fear that I was going to be separated from my family. I knew the kind of violence and hardship my family would face if we went to Cambodia. Either we lived separated, or I put my entire family at risk. There was no in between.
And then, in August 2016, ICE again, for no reason, separated me from my family. This time, they refused to release me for nearly a year.
The government doesn’t tell the public what they do to immigrants—the kind of abuse we go through. People don’t understand that.
There were eight of us they took, all from Minnesota, all of Cambodian descent. We were shackled. They transported us from state to state—Texas, California, Louisiana, and Arizona. We would go from plane to bus, driving for hours. Then we would sit in the holding tank. It could take a long time for them to process us—sometimes over 14 hours. The whole time our ankles were shackled, hands still cuffed, and clothes soiled with sweat. We never knew how long we were going to have to sit in that tank.
I was treated like I wasn’t human. How do you keep it together under constant mistreatment, degradation, and isolation? The eight of us, we entered as strangers, but we became like brothers. We only had each other to lean on.
The ICE agents would always leave us questioning. When they transferred us, they would tell us in the middle of the night. They didn’t want us to have contact with people or give us too much notice. They didn’t want to be exposed. It was tough to call home and not be able to tell my family what was going to happen next. So many times I wanted to give up. I thought, “This is as bad as the refugee camp in Thailand, maybe even worse.”
One time, when they were boarding us onto a plane, the agents told us not to look behind as they were loading us in. I did anyway. They were loading women and children into the back of the plane. One of the little girls looked exactly like my daughter. I almost broke down right there.
The overwhelming feeling of love from family, friends, and strangers who heard about our situation—that’s what gave me the strength to keep going. I told myself: all you have to do is hold it together. But even that was hard.
I have to believe that if people knew the truth about what ICE is doing, they would fight back. But ICE doesn’t want people in the U.S. to know how they treat immigrants. That’s why they want to deport us quickly—because they knew people in Minnesota were watching. People cared.
Since the first time I was detained in 2010, my life and my family has been on hold. That’s seven years of my life, seven years of my children’s lives. I lost my job and we lost our home. We are in debt. My children’s grades have slipped in school, and they’ve been suffering from grief and anxiety from this experience.
I have to start all over, but I feel lucky to still have my wife and my children. ICE is trying overturn the immigration case that I won in July—but I will continue to fight. Not for me, but for my family.
I hope we can prosper from here. I just want the opportunity to provide for my kids and give them the kind of life they deserve. We had a bright future for our kids. I hope they can move past this.
As for me, this experience is never going to leave me. I could let it anger me, but instead I choose to learn from it. It has made me a more understanding person. The other men I was detained with—we had similar experiences. But we respected each other as people. We saw each other, not for where we came from, but who we wanted to become. We never judged each other. That’s the kind of person I want to be. That’s what I want to teach my children.
ICE has gotten out of hand. No family should have to go through what mine went through. I’m going to do my part, participate in advocacy groups and share my story. We can’t keep letting this happen to our communities and families. Our voices need to be heard.
