They broke all those laws.
In the long and contested history of how nations receive the displaced, more than 6,300 children — most fleeing violence, nearly all without criminal records — have been held in immigration detention during President Trump's second term, with thousands confined at a facility in Dilley, Texas that detainees describe as a prison in all but name. A Congolese family that had complied with every legal obligation found themselves held for months in conditions that federal courts have long sought to prevent, their story a single thread in a much larger tapestry of families caught between the laws that exist and the laws being enforced. The tension between a thirty-year-old federal settlement requiring the prompt release of detained children and an administration seeking to expand family detention by tens of thousands of beds defines the legal and moral terrain on which this struggle is now being fought.
- Over 6,300 children — some as young as two months old — are being held in immigration detention, with nearly half confined to a single facility in Dilley, Texas that lawmakers and detainees describe as a trailer prison.
- Detainees report contaminated food with live worms and mold, insufficient clean water, lights kept on around the clock, and children so psychologically distressed they refuse to eat — while DHS and facility operator CoreCivic deny all allegations.
- A Congolese family that had been vetted, released, and fully compliant with immigration requirements was held for nearly four months, far exceeding the twenty-day limit mandated by the Flores Settlement — a federal order the administration is now trying to dismantle.
- Reporters are barred from entering Dilley, members of Congress must surrender their phones, and the roughly one hundred children inside at any given time exist largely beyond the reach of public documentation or scrutiny.
- A federal court has blocked the administration's attempt to terminate the Flores Settlement, but the White House is appealing and has proposed adding 30,000 more family detention beds in its 2027 budget — signaling an intent to expand, not retreat.
Joel Andre is seventeen, a soccer-loving high school junior from the Democratic Republic of Congo now living outside Portland, Maine. His mother Carine had been an activist who spoke out against the ruling regime and was brutalized for it. The family fled to the United States in 2022, were vetted by immigration authorities, found to pose no threat, and released to await their hearing. They complied with everything asked of them.
After a deportation order in early 2025, the family attempted to cross into Canada, were turned away, and were sent to the South Texas Family Residential Center in Dilley, Texas. Joel, his younger sister Estafania, and their mother were held for nearly four months before being released in March — far beyond the twenty-day limit required by the Flores Settlement, a federal order in place for nearly thirty years. Their oldest sister Olivia, nineteen, was made to stay. "We all went like, why? Why?" Joel recalled.
Theirs is one story among thousands. More than 6,300 children have been detained by federal immigration authorities during Trump's second term, with roughly 3,000 held at Dilley alone. Ninety-seven percent have no criminal record. Their attorney, Columbia University's Elora Mukherjee, describes a facility of trailers where detainees report no access to sufficient clean water, food contaminated with worms and mold, and lights that never turn off. Congressman Joaquin Castro, who has visited six times, met a fifteen-year-old who hadn't eaten in days from depression and encountered children under three years old clinging to his legs asking to be taken out.
Dilley was originally opened under President Obama in 2014, closed under Biden, and reopened by the Trump administration in 2025 under a $180 million annual contract with for-profit operator CoreCivic. Both CoreCivic and DHS deny the reported conditions, calling accounts of poor treatment inaccurate. But journalists are barred from entering, and members of Congress must surrender their phones — leaving the lives of the children inside largely undocumented.
A federal court has rejected the administration's effort to terminate the Flores Settlement, though the White House is appealing. Its 2027 budget proposes adding 30,000 more family detention beds. After more than five months, Olivia was finally released and reunited with her family at an airport — a resolution Castro was careful to frame not as vindication, but as a rare exception to a much harsher rule.
Joel Andre is seventeen, a high school junior from the Democratic Republic of Congo who lives outside Portland, Maine now, and he loves soccer. His younger sister Estafania sits across the dinner table from him, and their mother Carine is there too. They should be talking about the World Cup coming this summer—a welcome distraction for a family that desperately needs one. But Joel's mind keeps returning to their oldest sister, Olivia, who is nineteen. "Every time I'm doing something, I always think about Olivia," he says.
Olivia is still detained. Last November, all four of them—Joel, Estafania, Carine, and Olivia—were taken into custody at the South Texas Family Residential Center in Dilley, Texas. Their mother had been an activist in the Congo, speaking out against the ruling regime. For that, she was brutalized. The family fled, seeking political asylum in the United States. When they arrived in 2022, they were vetted by immigration authorities, found to pose no threat, and released to await their hearing. They showed up for every appointment. They complied with everything asked of them. It was not enough.
In February 2025, a judge ordered them deported. Terrified of returning to the Congo, they attempted to cross into Canada but were turned away and sent back to the U.S.—and then to Dilley. When Joel, Estafania, and Carine were finally released in March, Olivia had to stay. "We all went like, why? Why?" Joel remembers. Estafania said simply: "I have a hope that we can all be together, but I don't know when, where."
The Andre family is one story among thousands. More than 6,300 children under eighteen have been detained by federal immigration authorities during President Trump's second term. Nearly half of them—roughly 3,000—are held at Dilley. Some are as young as two months old. Ninety-seven percent have no criminal record. Elora Mukherjee, the family's lawyer and director of the Immigrants Rights Clinic at Columbia University, has been inside Dilley. She describes it as a series of trailers where families consistently report no access to sufficient clean drinking water, where detainees have found live worms, bugs, and mold in their meals, where lights stay on twenty-four hours a day, making sleep nearly impossible. These accounts have been repeated in sworn testimony, written letters, and interviews by dozens of people held there.
Congressman Joaquin Castro, a Democrat from San Antonio, calls Dilley "the only place I can think of in America where we imprison young children who have done absolutely nothing wrong." He has visited six times since Trump took office. On his most recent trip, he met a fifteen-year-old boy who hadn't eaten in days because he was depressed. He encountered children under three years old. "These kids, they're hugging my leg and they're asking me to get 'em outta there," Castro said. "I mean, they are four years old, six years old, and they're basically in a trailer prison." When CBS News accompanied him to Dilley, their crew was stopped at the front gate—reporters are not allowed inside. Even members of Congress must surrender their phones upon entry, meaning there are roughly one hundred children living there with no photographs documenting their conditions.
Dilley opened in 2014 under President Obama as a facility to hold migrant families caught crossing the border illegally. President Biden closed it a decade later. When Trump reopened it in 2025, a for-profit company called CoreCivic was awarded a contract worth $180 million annually to operate it. Both CoreCivic and the Department of Homeland Security deny the allegations of substandard conditions. DHS called reports of poor conditions "hoaxes" and stated that detainees receive proper meals, quality water, blankets, and medical treatment. CoreCivic said the conditions described in inquiries "do not reflect the operations, standards or care provided" at the facility.
But the family's detention at Dilley violated the Flores Settlement, a federal order in place for nearly thirty years requiring the prompt release of children—a federal court has said that means no more than twenty days. Joel, Estafania, and Carine were held for almost four months. "For, like, all we've been through," Estafania said, "going to Dilley just, like, broke our hearts." When asked if he thought laws existed to prevent them from being held longer than twenty days, Joel replied: "Yes. But they broke all those laws." A federal court has rejected the White House's effort to terminate the Flores Settlement, though the administration is appealing. According to its 2027 budget proposal, the White House wants to add 30,000 more beds in family detention centers.
While the Andre family was still in Maine, they received a call: Olivia would be released after more than five months in detention. A few days later, they reunited at an airport. It was a happier ending than most. Castro emphasized that this exception should not obscure the rule. "The government knows they're not criminals, and yet they're being held like criminals," he said. "To really understand what's going on with Dilley, we gotta be able to see what's going on behind those walls. There's a brutality behind those walls."
Notable Quotes
The only place I can think of in America where we imprison young children who have done absolutely nothing wrong.— Congressman Joaquin Castro
For, like, all we've been through, going to Dilley just, like, broke our hearts.— Estafania Andre
The Hearth Conversation Another angle on the story
Why does the Flores Settlement matter if it's being ignored anyway?
Because it's the only legal guardrail left. Without it, there's nothing stopping the government from holding children indefinitely. The fact that they're appealing it tells you everything—they want it gone so they can expand detention without legal constraint.
The government says the water is safe, the food is nutritious, the care is rigorous. How do we know what's actually true?
Because dozens of people inside have testified under oath. Because a lawyer who's been in the facility herself describes what she saw. Because a congressman who's visited six times describes children too depressed to eat. You can dismiss one person. You can't dismiss that many independent accounts saying the same thing.
But CoreCivic has a financial incentive to keep the facility running. Doesn't that create a conflict?
Exactly. They're paid $180 million a year to run it. The more beds filled, the more money they make. That's the entire problem with privatizing detention. The profit motive and humane treatment are fundamentally at odds.
Why can't reporters or even Congress members take phones inside?
Because once you see it, you can't unsee it. Once there's a photograph, there's proof. Darkness is the best protection for something you don't want the public to know about.
The Andre family was compliant, vetted, showed up for everything. What more could they have done?
Nothing. That's the point. They did everything right and still ended up in a trailer prison for months. The system isn't about safety or law—it's about deterrence. It's meant to send a message: don't come here, you're not welcome.