 I'm Stacey Murk. I'm part of San Antonio Mennonite Church. Since late October, I have visited weekly at the Carnes residential facility. I go as a friend to the women being held there. I empty my pockets, leaving behind paper or a pen that could help me or the mother remember something key or important. I take nothing in, nothing except maybe some quarters for a bag of Cheetos from the machine by the visitation room as a sort of treat for my friend. I go through the metal detector into an anti-room. The metal door slams shut behind me and I wait until the next guard lets me into the visiting area, rather locks me into the visiting area. A few weeks ago, I met Maria. She came in, we embraced, then sat down next to each other, asked her how she was and the tears began. They didn't stop. Her voice was so low, I could hardly hear. She spoke about her children first, her children. She spoke about being detained, about her fears, about her questions. She sat, eyes downcast. As a well-dressed group, a group of folks on a tour came through. The tears didn't stop. What could I do? Finally, I stood up, went to the bathroom there in the visiting area, got some toilet paper, brought it out and gave it to Maria. She wiped her tears. She sat there with the wad of toilet paper in her hands. In a minute, the guard came over. What did you pass to her? She demanded sternly. Toilet paper, I answered. She looked to Maria. Maria, with her downcast eyes, opened her shaking hands and showed the lump of toilet paper she held. My name is Yvonne Dilling. I'm a member of the Mission San Jose Catholic Parish. I have been visiting people in detention for three years. On one visit, about six months ago, I approached a young boy in the visitation room. His mom was talking to another friend there. We were not strangers because I had seen him on previous visits and we always said hi to one another. So I could tell that the mom was really emotional and was looking at her son like she didn't want him to see her in that emotional state. I asked the boy if he'd like to go sit at another table and visit with me and we could get to know each other. He looked at his mom and then he nodded shyly. I introduced myself to him and I made small talk telling him about all the places that I had lived in El Salvador, his home country, and that got smiles out of him. And then I tried to draw him out. I tried sports. I knew they were playing soccer inside there. I tried to school classes. Other kids had been wanting to try to speak English words with me. I couldn't get him to relax. All I learned was his name and then he was nine years old. So I tried a different approach. I said, he's been here nine months now. What do you do to kind of keep your spirits up? Como hace para mantenerse el ánimo? He burst into tears. I'm Sister Sharon Alton-Dark, a presentation sister, and I've been visiting at Carnes since October. Driving home from Carnes last Friday, someone in our van asked, why is three-year-old one's head so large? Is that some sickness or abnormality? I said, I don't know. I don't know why, but what I do know is that Juan has not gained any weight in the nine months he's been in. Hi, I'm Suzanne Montiel. I started visiting Mariarosa when you saw up here a short time ago, in the end of last year. A few weeks ago, after being detained for six months in Carnes, Mariarosa and her nine-year-old son won their asylum case and were released. My family was gratified to be able to host them in our home for a few days upon the release. So, that first evening, we all sat down for dinner and we watched, or maybe I should say marveled, at Mariarosa's son and our two boys gobbling up with great gusto. Caldo, arroz, pollo, tortillas. So many tortillas, you would not believe. Eventually the boys took off. They started chasing each other around the house and laughing and exchanging these cryptic little messages in Spanglish over walkie-talkies. Still at the table, Mariarosa Todas, excuse me, Mariarosa Todas, at Carnes, the children weren't eating. My son was not eating. He was depressed and not interested in food. And so, how could I eat? How can a mother rise from a table, satisfied, while her child was hungry? We asked for different food. We asked for better food, she said. And at this point, whoosh, the boys come racing through the room again, and then crash day. And she went on and said, what our children at Carnes need most is their freedom, to live in thought.