Today is May 25. It’s Kalief Browder’s birthday. He should be here to celebrate it with all of the people who love him.

Instead, Kalief’s life was stolen by the common cruelty of the American criminal justice system.

Kalief’s tragic story was first reported by Jennifer Gonnerman of The New Yorker. Kalief was arrested while walking home in the Bronx on May 15, 2010. He and a friend were returning from a party, but the officers accused Kalief of stealing a backpack. Kalief was jailed and a judge initially set an unaffordable $3,000 bail. Because his family couldn’t afford to pay, Kalief was sent to Rikers Island. There, he would spend the next three years living through hell on earth despite never even seeing a trial.

The abuse he faced, some of it at the hands of guards, was documented on video. In addition to being physically harmed, Kalief was routinely subjected to the psychologically damaging torture of solitary confinement. In fact, of the three years Kalief was unjustly at Rikers Island, he spent about two of them in solitary confinement. While the charges were eventually dropped against Kalief, the harm perpetuated by the criminal justice system made its impact.

Kalief’s death sparked a number of important on-paper reforms—the banning of solitary confinement for teens in federal prisons, research about the long-lasting impact of solitary confinement, plans for the eventual closing of Rikers Island, and state legislation that raised the age of criminal responsibility to 18. Every attempt to make the criminal justice system more dignifying and safer for human beings is good. These reforms are steps forward but without meaningful action and policy implementation, these are just bandaids.

In the seven years since Kalief’s passing, the criminal justice system is still irrevocably broken in every single state.

In Florida, over ten percent of the prison population, or 10,000 people—most of them Black men,—are in solitary confinement according to a 2019 report from the Southern Poverty Law Center. (Like many officials, the Florida Department of Corrections claims that they don’t use solitary confinement. But they do admit to using various forms of isolation, the main difference between the two being semantics.) Several people who were incarcerated said that they were placed in solitary confinement as retaliation. Following the release of the report, FDOC guards actually continued to threaten retaliation against those bravely testifying about the overuse of solitary confinement in a subsequent lawsuit.

Florida, like many states, is also dealing with a high jail population because of cash bail. The Prison Policy Project reports that 53,000 people are sitting in local jails in the state. And there are complaints that there is little room to house people. In January 2022, a Leon County commissioner complained about overcrowding in the local jail. The ACLU of Florida identified 133 people who were eligible for release, but remained incarcerated because of unpaid bail. The average total bail for these individuals was over $41,000. Like the situation in Leon County, many remain behind bars not because of public safety. If they were a threat, a judge would revoke bail altogether. Rather, they are being detained in custody due to a wealth-based incarceration system where those who can afford to pay return to their homes, jobs, and families until trial, while those who cannot afford to pay have their livelihoods completely upturned.

And despite the national calls for accountability following the death of George Floyd in 2020, there has been considerable pushback by law enforcement officers, prosecutors, and legislators for meaningful reform to the cash bail system.

Kalief’s story was a wake-up call for a lot of Americans. But in seven years, what have we actually changed? Why do so many of us passively accept the mistreatment of incarcerated people? Why do we vote for politicians who repeatedly fail to prioritize our neighbors, or worse, vote for politicians who make it their mission to perpetuate the cruelty inflicted on them?

It’s naive to pretend that Kalief Browder is an outlier. His treatment, the dehumanization that led to his death, is a feature, not a bug. Though we tragically cannot turn back the sands of time, the least we can do is honor Kalief’s memory by pursuing major, systemic reforms that protect young Black men like him from suffering the same abuse.

Kalief is eulogized here by Jennifer Gonnerman, the reporter who first brought his story to the masses.

In states and counties across the country, sheriffs and other local law enforcement are partnering with Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) to detain and deport immigrants from their own communities. 287(g) agreements turn police and sheriffs’ deputies into ICE agents, with the result that even minor infractions like traffic stops can result in life-altering consequences for immigrants.

In a new report, the ACLU documented how dozens of sheriffs participating in ICE’s 287(g) program have records of racism, abuse, and violence. As a result of the racial profiling that’s endemic to the program, immigrants and non-immigrants alike live in fear of being stopped, deported and detained, and torn from loved ones as they go about their day-to-day lives.

While the program significantly expanded in size as part of Trump’s anti-immigrant agenda, it has not been curtailed under the new administration despite President Biden’s stated commitment to end contracts initiated by Trump. You can help us fight back by sending a message to the Department of Homeland Security demanding an end to the 287(g) program.

We spoke with three organizers leading the fight against these law enforcement partnerships about what it’s like to live in a community operating under 287(g), how to mobilize communities and empower people to act, and their vision for a future free of this harmful program.

Credit: Ashley Mungo

How does the 287(g) program affect people’s daily lives in your community?

It can be really scary for folks to even drive down the street. In my neighborhood, if you wanted to go to Walmart you had to go through a one-lane road that was being used to stop people. I lived nearby so I would see people getting arrested in front of their children. It was really traumatic to see.

Was there a specific turning point that made you realize you needed to fight back?
We used to have a sheriff’s department checkpoints in an area of town with a lot of country roads and soccer fields. It was common to see the sheriff’s department use those roads as checkpoints, knowing that there were people coming out of soccer games who did not have documentation. And so that’s kind of what led me to take action.

Who are your allies in the movement?

We work closely with Black community members on issues like solitary confinement, juvenile detention — issues that impact both of our communities. So we really did a good job of sharing our experience with the Black community and vice versa. We also worked with our local Women’s March chapter. They were very often white women who were not personally impacted by 287(g) but were interested in supporting us after we reached out and educated them about what was going on in immigrant communities.

Credit: Ashley Mungo

What message do you want to impart with your story?

Perseverance. I really encourage folks who are reading this to ask questions, organize, and mobilize, because there’s a serious power within communities to bring about change in local law enforcement. During the Trump administration, a lot of the focus was on federal policies. But in local elections, we have a lot of power to hold the government accountable. Your neighbors, family, friends — we can all make change happen in our own communities.

How did you learn that local police were working with ICE in your community?

I live in a diverse area with a large immigrant population and people of all colors and races. There are Hispanic restaurants and stores, so I feel very at home here. But the police think it’s a dangerous area, so they are always around. They seem to think, “Where there are immigrants, there is crime.”

I didn’t know the police were working with ICE until I met a young lady in the supermarket whose husband had been arrested. I wanted to help and get more information, so I went to a meeting in the community, and that is where I learned all about 287(g).

How has the 287(g) program shaped your community’s relationship with the police?

People are scared of the police and do not trust them to help in times of need. Even if a person is in danger, many wouldn’t dare call the police for protection, for fear it may lead to their arrest for not having papers. Interactions with police are usually negative, even for those of us with papers, who may still be stopped or arrested because of racial profiling.

For example, three community members were stopped on their way to work one day. They were going to their construction jobs, and had left their IDs at home rather than bring them to work. They did nothing wrong — no traffic violations — but the police stopped them anyway, and refused to let them go get their IDs. They were arrested and taken to jail. One of the men’s wife was pregnant and almost lost her baby because the whole ordeal was so stressful. They had to pay for a lawyer, even for their own ankle monitors, and ended up with so much debt because of that one traffic stop.

What are some of the biggest challenges you face as an organizer?
One of the biggest challenges is getting families to trust us when we tell them they do have rights. Many believe that because we are immigrants, we should just put our heads down and say nothing, that we don’t have any rights and can’t do anything about the abuse and fear we experience every day under 287(g). That’s why it’s so important to educate people about the rights we have as immigrants, so they feel empowered to make a difference in their community.

What kind of change do you hope your work will help bring about?
My goal is to get the whole community to unite and work together to eliminate 287(g) from the city. That’s why we are working to provide people with information to navigate situations with law enforcement. Often, they don’t have access to any information or guidance for dealing with law enforcement, especially if they cannot speak English. Now people are feeling more empowered to defend themselves in situations where they used to feel powerless. The police are aware of that, so we are not being persecuted as we were in the past.

Credit: Lynda González

How did you start organizing against the 287(g) program?

I grew up in Fort Worth and specifically on the south side, which is a predominantly immigrant community, and my parents are also immigrants. So I was always surrounded by people who were directly impacted by policies like 287(g). When I first learned about how ICE was partnering with local police to detain and deport people, I knew I had to do whatever I could to fight back. I started organizing in my community after college and it just continued from there.

What does organizing look like in your community?

One of the initial ways we would organize was through neighborhood house gatherings. People would open up their homes and let us use that space to provide members of the community with resources and information to help navigate common interactions with law enforcement, like what to do when you’re stopped by the police.

Some members of the community keep a low profile for fear of repercussions from immigration [officials] and law enforcement. Often, home gatherings can provide a safe space to start getting involved in the comfort of their own communities. We use the opportunity to provide information and guidance for navigating common situations with law enforcement, like what to do if you get stopped by the police. Many come away learning they have more power than they thought.

Home gatherings also give us the opportunity to share our own stories and demonstrate our personal connections to the cause, but most importantly it allows us to invite people in our community to take action and organize to fight the systems causing us harm. We are not just activists — we come from the same neighborhoods impacted by law enforcement. Establishing these connections helps build trust within impacted communities.

Credit: Lynda González

Do you face any barriers in your advocacy and organizing efforts?
The lack of transparency from sheriffs’ offices has been a major obstacle. When we started advocating for people and raising awareness about what the sheriff’s deputies were doing to our communities, our county jail responded by removing public information so that we couldn’t understand what was happening, why someone was being detained, or the charges against them. Sheriffs would refuse to provide information, even to the families of people detained or deported. So sometimes people don’t know why their loved one was arrested or where they are detained, or even whether they’re dead or alive. There is no transparency or accountability.

What is the ultimate goal you want to achieve as an activist?

It is extremely important for us to continue to remind folks that there are people who are in detention due to 287(g), right now, and that we will continue to fight for their freedom.

Read the ACLU’s report License to Abuse: How ICE’s 287(g) Program Empowers Racist Sheriffs and Civil Rights Violations below:

American Civil Liberties Union

License to Abuse: How ICE’s 287(g) Program Empowers Racist Sheriffs

For over 100 years, the ACLU has fought to protect the constitutional rights and freedoms of all people. We do this through litigation, advocacy, and public education, which is what the ACLU Artist Ambassador Program is all about — working with artists of all disciplines who want to use their platforms for good to put a spotlight on pressing civil liberties and civil rights issues.

During the current defamation lawsuit between Johnny Depp and Amber Heard, some have claimed that the ACLU made Ms. Heard an ambassador for gender justice and wrote an op-ed on her behalf in exchange for her pledge to donate money to the ACLU. This is wrong. We do not write op-eds or offer ambassadorships in exchange for donations. Period. Becoming an ACLU Artist Ambassador is entirely voluntary; it is a favor to the ACLU, not vice versa.

In 2016, Ms. Heard pledged to donate $3.5 million over 10 years to the ACLU. Two years later, in 2018, the ACLU invited Ms. Heard to become an ambassador and to work with us on an op-ed to bring attention to the issue of sexual assault and domestic violence issues; she agreed. Through her ambassadorship, Ms. Heard supported our advocacy for gender justice issues, a cause that has long been central to our mission at least since Ruth Bader Ginsburg headed the ACLU’s Women’s Rights Project.

Whether it’s fighting for women’s rights, LGBTQ rights, immigrants’ rights, racial justice, voting rights, or criminal legal reform, the ACLU’s Ambassador Project pairs artists, influencers, entertainers, and content creators with the ACLU issues they’re most passionate about. ACLU Artist Ambassadors volunteer their talents to elevate our work by advocating for civil rights and civil liberties in a variety of forums, including sharing information on social media; appearing in videos; and working with us on written pieces that highlight our issues in the media.

Over the years, the public education work through our Ambassador Project included an op-ed from Jesse Tyler Ferguson urging voters to vote like LGBTQ rights depend on it; visiting the border with Padma Lakshmi to draw attention to the state of the broken asylum system; elevating our Systemic Equality agenda with a video narrated by W. Kamau Bell; educating people about the importance of the Census with Ike Barinholtz; drawing attention to the issue of forced pregnancy and abortion bans through a video with Sasheer Zamata; responding to misinformation about transgender people with Peppermint; deploying Tom Morello to push for the passage of legislation to end solitary confinement; and drafting an op-ed with Amber Heard on gender-based violence to bring attention to the need to reauthorize the Violence Against Women Act (VAWA).

In 2018, the issues Ms. Heard’s op-ed addressed — sexual assault and domestic violence — were especially salient in light of the confirmation hearing of Justice Brett Kavanaugh and the accusations of Dr. Christine Blasey Ford, as well as the fight to extend VAWA, which ultimately lapsed in February of the following year. The op-ed also pushed for legislative and regulatory reforms that the ACLU has long supported as part of our women’s rights and gender justice work. For 50 years, our Women’s Rights Project has been fighting for gender equity so that everyone has the freedom to live, work, and learn free from gender stereotypes and sexual harassment and assault. Sexual assault and domestic violence occur at alarming rates but are rarely reported. Though reasons for not reporting vary, fear of retaliation, including defamation suits, discourages many from coming forward. As the nation’s oldest free speech organization, we fight for the freedom to speak out about barriers to gender justice.

Our fight to realize the promise of the Constitution for all continues, as does our push to ensure our work gets in front of as many people as possible. We are proud to work with a wide cross section of individuals, including artists, lawmakers, and grassroots partners to protect and defend civil rights and civil liberties for all.