Last spring, as I walked out of the federal courthouse in El Paso after a particularly difficult week accompanying people to their immigration hearings, I ran into Yadira and Ulises. A young Central American couple, they seemed disoriented and scared.  “We have our corte on Monday,” they said, “and just wanted to make sure where to go. We have never been to court before y queremos hacer las cosas bien.”

Yadira and Ulises—both pseudonyms—had traveled from a small town in New Mexico a few days ahead of their hearing. Their desire to do “the right thing”—a common expression among those who come to court—was reflective of the fallacy surrounding the U.S. immigration legal system: the notion, fueled by fear, rumors, and hope, that obeying the law will invariably set people free.

By the time I met the couple, I had already spent two months as part of a group of community members accompanying people to their immigration court hearings. Many times, I witnessed hopelessly as masked Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) agents sinisterly approached elderly people with walkers, women with young children, and terrified men exiting their hearings, only to handcuff them and take them to undisclosed locations. And so, when I asked Yadira and Ulises who else was coming to court, and they said they had brought their children with them—all seven of them—I panicked. Just a day prior, a young Venezuelan mother and her two children whom I had accompanied to court had been detained by a group of seven ICE agents. Despite calls, ICE-locator searches, and visits to the three detention facilities in town, I had not been able to locate them. The image of seven children being taken at once was even more terrifying. I contacted other volunteers, just to ensure there were enough of us ready to accompany Yadira and Ulises’ family to their hearing and provide support in the event they were taken into custody.

As volunteers, we had experienced many dramatic moments with families in court. But I do not think any one of us was ready for the arrival of Yadira and Ulises’ family. They were hard to miss: all nine of them were wearing their best clothes and looked calm but determined. However, it was the sight of Eric, the eldest son, a severely disabled teenager in a wheelchair, that immediately caught everyone’s attention and even generated some morbid curiosity. His cranium covered of surgical scars, Eric was being pushed by one of his younger siblings, and smiled as he carried the youngest child on his lap. The security guards at the front door scrambled to decide how to screen Eric through the metal detector. The group of four masked ICE officers assigned to the hearing that morning looked in disbelief as the children walked past them, waving at them, undaunted by their presence. As volunteers, it took us a few moments to regain our composure and rushed to accommodate the family in the already crowded waiting area.

Yadira and Ulises had been told repeatedly by multiple humanitarian actors that they had a strong asylum case. After a widely publicized story about Eric’s urgent need for surgery brought the family some modest monetary donations, they became the target of a local gang and were forced to leave their country. The reaction generated by the sight of Eric’s scars and disability accompanied by his siblings was undeniable, and it was perhaps this visibility that convinced Yadira and Ulises that their asylum claim would succeed. And yet that day in court, the judge, after inquiring about Eric’s condition, summarily dismissed the family’s case following the Department of Homeland Security’s (DHS) request, alongside those of four other people.

As volunteers, we knew what would happen next. When Yadira and Ulises came out of the courtroom, we asked them to get ready for detention, collecting contact information, and determining their immediate needs for food or medication. And then, unexpectedly, a man who seemed to be in charge of the ICE officers that morning, approached us to ask about Eric’s condition, seemingly moved by the family he was about to detain.

While until then, tense moments with ICE officers had been almost inexistent at the courthouse, the question seemed completely out of character. Some of the acompañantes interpreted it as a sign of compassion on the part of the man—a potential opportunity to prevent the family’s detention—and began to discuss potential options with him, including the possibility of allowing the family to go home.

That morning, Yadira, Ulises and their seven children walked out of the courthouse free. Yadira, overcome with emotion, exited the building walking on her knees thanking God for what in her words was nothing short of a miracle. Some of the volunteers cried with joy and congratulated each other on the outcome.

I do not question the intentions of the community who supported Yadira, Ulises and their children, nor the unconventional concern shown by the ICE officer. The dramatic images of brutality and cruelty in courthouses across the nation disseminated in social media, effectively communicated the state’s message of terror, yet seemed to vanish in light of the officer’s actions. Furthermore, as other articles in this series show, observers’ work and solidarity have been fundamental in the protection of people showing up to court, providing emotional containment and crisis management in response to the presence and actions of ICE and other law enforcement actors.

And yet, the compassion shown by the ICE officer on that day must also be seen through the lens of enforcement. His decision was a discretionary, liability-driven exception (of the kind that can, and should in fact be the norm). Transporting so many children at once was beyond the logistical capabilities of a team tasked with apprehending adults, not children, and especially, severely disabled individuals. Furthermore, while the volunteers facilitated the interaction that allowed the family to avoid detention, the accompaniment ended when they left the courthouse. In a matter of days, Yadira and Ulises found themselves subjected to the demands of electronic monitoring, a labyrinthic framework of unpredictable surveillance requirements unable to fulfill by a family of nine. At the time this essay went into publication, their whereabouts were unknown.

Devoid of engaged and critical interventions, the family’s suffering became the currency for receiving compassion, displacing structural justice.  That day in El Paso their apparent struggle made compliance possible, working in alignment with ICE’s mission. The long-term implications of enforcement became obscured by the affective, ephemeral dramatism of the moment. Our collective reaction simply reaffirmed already existing hierarchies of compassion often present in the interactions between those coming to court and the mostly white, middle-class volunteers.

Accompaniment risks becoming an extension of immigration enforcement and its implications.  Deprived of critical self-reflection, immediate, “positive” outcomes fueled by pity have limited impact on the safety of families, and risk strengthening the overall architecture of enforcement and control.