For three decades, a federal court built in the shadow of domestic terror sat unused — a legal instrument waiting for a moment its architects hoped would never come. That moment arrived this month when the Trump administration invoked the Alien Terrorist Removal Court to deport Nazira Haji Zada, a 47-year-old Afghan legal permanent resident from Texas, marking the first time in the tribunal's thirty-year history that it has been used to remove someone from the United States. The case raises a question as old as the republic itself: how much secrecy can justice tolerate before it ceases to be j
Dormant terrorism court activated for first deportation in 30 years, raising due process concerns
Evidence hidden from the person facing removal—that's the core problem.
Why did the government choose this particular court for Zada when it hasn't used it in thirty years?
The ATRC lets them keep evidence sealed from the defendant and the public. In a regular deportation case, more of the government's hand would be visible. This court provides cover.
But we don't actually know why they chose it in this case. Motomura is speculating. The government hasn't explained its reasoning.
What makes the ATRC different from a normal deportation hearing?
The defendant can't see all the evidence against them. Their lawyer might see some of it, but not necessarily everything. And the government only has to meet a lower standard of proof.
Right, but Zada never actually went to trial, so we don't know how those rules would have played out in practice. We're talking about a court that's never been tested.
Is there a constitutional problem here?
Zada's lawyers say yes—that hiding evidence from someone facing removal violates due process. But the Fifth Amendment's reach in immigration cases isn't settled law.
And it won't be settled by this case, because Zada conceded and left. So the constitutional question is still open. That's actually important to say clearly.
Why would Zada concede if she thought she could win?
We don't know her reasoning. She waived her appeal. Maybe she wanted to avoid a trial where she'd see classified material used against her. Maybe she wanted to leave. The public record doesn't say.
Exactly. We're speculating about her motives. What we know is she conceded and left, and that prevented a constitutional test.
Will this court be used again?
Legal experts think so. The Trump administration has signaled a hardline on immigration. If they're willing to use this court once, they'll likely use it again.
That's a reasonable inference, but it's still an inference. We don't have a statement from the administration saying they plan to use it repeatedly. We know they used it once and that they have a stated zero-tolerance policy. The connection is logical but not confirmed.
Il Polso
- A court dormant since 1995 was suddenly activated, signaling a deliberate shift in how the Trump administration intends to handle terrorism-adjacent deportation cases.
- Nazira Haji Zada, accused of being the matriarch of a family linked to an ISIS-inspired election-day shooting plot, faced a tribunal where neither she nor her attorneys could see all the evidence against her.
- Rather than endure a trial in the secretive court, Zada conceded to terrorism charges and waived her right to appeal — a decision her own public defenders say should not be read as legitimacy for the court itself.
- The constitutional core of the controversy remains untouched: because Zada never went to trial, no judge has yet ruled on whether the ATRC's procedures violate the Fifth Amendment's due process guarantees.
- Legal scholars warn the administration may have been disappointed the case ended without litigation — and that it will likely seek another opportunity to test and entrench the court's powers.
For three decades, a federal court built in the shadow of domestic terror sat unused — a legal instrument waiting for a moment its architects hoped would never come. That moment arrived this month when the Trump administration invoked the Alien Terrorist Removal Court to deport Nazira Haji Zada, a 47-year-old Afghan legal permanent resident from Texas, marking the first time in the tribunal's thirty-year history that it has been used to remove someone from the United States. The case raises a question as old as the republic itself: how much secrecy can justice tolerate before it ceases to be justice at all?
For thirty years, the Alien Terrorist Removal Court existed on paper and nowhere else. Created in the wake of the 1995 Oklahoma City bombing to handle deportation cases involving classified national security evidence, it had never been used — not once across an estimated 4.5 million removals. This month, that changed.
Nazira Haji Zada, a 47-year-old Afghan national living as a legal permanent resident in Texas, became the first person deported through the ATRC. The Department of Homeland Security announced she had returned to Afghanistan after conceding she qualified as an alien terrorist and waiving her right to appeal. Attorney General Todd Blanche called it a landmark national security victory. Her public defenders called it no endorsement of the court's legitimacy.
Zada had been accused of serving as the family matriarch in a household where her son and son-in-law were convicted of plotting a mass shooting on election day in 2024. The government applied to the ATRC in July, and the long-dormant machinery began to move. But Zada never stood trial. She conceded and left the country, which means the court's most troubling features were never tested in open litigation.
Those features are significant. The ATRC allows the government to present classified evidence that defendants and their own attorneys cannot fully review. The evidentiary standard is a preponderance — lower than many legal contexts require. Five judges selected by Chief Justice John Roberts staff the tribunal. The government provided Zada's team with what it described as half a terabyte of documents, while disclosing nothing about their contents.
UCLA immigration law professor Hiroshi Motomura told DW the administration appears to be deploying the ATRC as a deliberate new tool — one that allows sensitive material to be handled before a judge in chambers rather than in public view. Zada's lawyers, meanwhile, argued in the Washington Post that the court plainly violates the Fifth Amendment's due process protections by refusing to show defendants the evidence used against them.
That constitutional question remains unanswered. Motomura suggested the administration may actually have wanted litigation — that a favorable ruling would have given them a new instrument to limit constitutional protections for immigrants more broadly. With the administration's zero-tolerance posture on immigration well established, legal experts do not expect the ATRC to sit idle for another thirty years. The next case may arrive soon, carrying the same unresolved questions about how much secrecy American justice can bear.
For thirty years, a federal court designed to handle terrorism cases sat unused. The Alien Terrorist Removal Court, created in the aftermath of the 1995 Oklahoma City bombing as part of a broader anti-terror legislative push, was built to process non-citizens accused of terrorism when evidence touching national security needed to stay sealed. No deportation case in three decades had required it—not among the estimated 4.5 million people removed from the United States since 1996. Then, this month, that changed.
Nazira Haji Zada, forty-seven years old, had lived in Texas as a legal permanent resident. She was an Afghan national with lawful status. According to a Department of Homeland Security statement released Wednesday, she has now returned to Afghanistan. The statement said she "conceded she is an alien terrorist and waived appeal of the removal order, terminating her previous status." Attorney General Todd Blanche called it "a landmark case" and "a win for national security and the rule of law." But Zada's public defenders, Matthew Farley and Mary Manning Petras, pushed back immediately, saying the case "should not be seen as an endorsement of this court's legitimacy."
Zada was accused of being the "matriarch" of a family in which two men—her son Abdullah Haji Zada and her son-in-law Nasir Ahmad Tawhed—had been convicted of plotting a mass shooting on election day in 2024. Blanche had described the family as "ISIS-sympathizing." The government applied to the ATRC in July, and the machinery of this dormant institution began to turn. But Zada never went to trial. She conceded and left the country, which means the constitutional questions the court raises have never been tested in open litigation.
The ATRC operates under rules that distinguish it sharply from standard deportation proceedings. Five federal trial judges, selected by Chief Justice John Roberts, staff the court. The government must first demonstrate probable cause that a person qualifies as an "alien terrorist" under immigration law and explain why standard deportation procedures would pose a national security risk. At trial, the government needs only to prove its case "by the preponderance of the evidence"—a lower threshold than many other legal contexts demand. But the central feature that makes the court controversial is this: defendants and their lawyers may not see all the evidence against them. Some material stays classified. Some stays sealed from public view. The government provided Zada and her attorneys with what it described as "half a terabyte of documents," though it disclosed nothing about their contents.
Hiroshi Motomura, a law professor at UCLA who specializes in immigration and citizenship, told DW that the Trump administration appears to be deploying the ATRC as a new tool in its deportation arsenal. "From a very practical perspective, the government's non-use reflects its view over the last 30 years that 'we don't need this court because we can essentially deport people without it,'" he said. The fact that the administration is using it now suggests a shift in strategy. Motomura speculated that the government may have chosen this path precisely because it allows disclosure to a judge in chambers rather than in open court—a way to handle sensitive material without the publicity that standard proceedings would bring.
Zada's lawyers filed a statement with the Washington Post arguing that the court itself violates the Constitution. "Dragging lawful permanent residents into court but refusing to show them or their attorneys the evidence that will be used against them is a plain violation of due process," they wrote. The Fifth Amendment bars states from depriving any person of "life, liberty, or property, without due process of law." Whether that protection extends to the ATRC's procedures remains unresolved, because Zada's case never reached a point where a judge had to rule on it. Motomura suggested the Trump administration may be frustrated by this outcome. "I bet they were disappointed," he said. "It would not surprise me if they're disappointed that the case never got litigated in court on the constitutional issue because it would allow them a different opportunity to limit the rights of people in the United States under the US Constitution."
The administration has made clear its "zero tolerance" stance on immigration. It has deported people to countries they have no connection with and deployed ICE agents widely. Given this posture, legal experts expect the ATRC will not sit dormant for another thirty years. The next case could arrive soon. And when it does, the same constitutional questions will loom—unanswered, untested, and potentially reshaping what due process means for immigrants facing removal.
Citazioni salienti
Dragging lawful permanent residents into court but refusing to show them or their attorneys the evidence that will be used against them is a plain violation of due process.— Zada's public defenders, Matthew Farley and Mary Manning Petras
From a very practical perspective, the government's non-use reflects its view over the last 30 years that 'we don't need this court because we can essentially deport people without it.'— Hiroshi Motomura, UCLA law professor