Driving through Brazil, Indiana, one sees a small town, something like Ladoga, Thorntown, or Darlington. A small block or two of shops and restaurants. Homes, some well-kept, others giving way to the creep of time and in want of investment. Look a block to the right or left, and old elevator-like buildings make a stand.
Pass a cafe, a bank. Turn right, and within a few blocks is the Clay County Center for Justice. The campus is a mix of new buildings, construction, clean, with well-paved lots, glass doors.
The Center for Justice.
Once a month, volunteers with Indiana AID conduct an in-person visit to offer material and emotional support for one of the populations housed there.
Indiana AID supports individuals detained by ICE through detention visits, advocacy and resource provision for both detainees and their families. The group helps connect immigrants with community service providers, offers commissary assistance, and updates the public on developments related to immigration detention in the state.
Robin Valenzuela, a founding volunteer of Indiana AID and an assistant professor at Western Kentucky University, leads groups of volunteers into the modest, nondescript lobby of the Clay County Justice Center.
As quiet and rural as the facility is, with little traffic as one arrives, it’s still intimidating for clergy and volunteers. When all arrive, seasoned volunteers guide volunteers through the paperwork. They leave keys, phones, and anything not approved by the commanding officers (COs) in a locker. They must account for every item approved to be brought in and out. They carry in sign-up lists and newsletters. They pass through a metal detector. It’s a bit easier than family or clergy visiting someone incarcerated in our local jail, but that’s not who they are there to see.
The volunteers visit with a variety of detainees: some who are elderly, some who are supporting their wives and children. Some of the people here have no way to contact family or legal representation. They are immigrants. They are non-violent, most having no criminal records.
No volunteer enters without an escort from a correctional officer who guides them deep into the facility, unlocking corridors one after another until they reach the ICE area, composed of ten blocks in slices, like a pie, that houses 300+ detainees.
Access to the detainees, Valenzuela explains, is made possible through Indiana AID’s offer to facilitate a Bible study. It’s not a religious organization, but it recognizes the need for spiritual care.
The pie-shaped blocks fan out in slices. Volunteers divide into teams, deciding which block to visit based on existing relationships or requests from detainees. They are frequently greeted by calls of “Indiana Aid is here!” from those who recognize them. The scene is lively and chaotic as residents gather—some still groggy from sleep, others waiting expectantly for news, legal information, and the comfort of friendly faces. Volunteers circulate materials, including sign-up sheets for virtual visits, commissary payment forms, newsletters, and information sheets about their group and legal resources.
Part of the group leads a Bible study, offering readings, prayers, and reflections, while others circulate among detainees, answering questions, noting concerns, and gathering stories. The religious portion provides a momentary anchor—something to structure the visit—but much of the interaction is one-on-one and highly responsive to the immediate needs of the residents. Volunteers hear about health issues (like untreated diabetes or injuries), bureaucratic confusion, and the personal struggles faced by those locked away.
After making their way through each block, volunteers debrief and process what they've experienced. The visits are emotional and vital: a lifeline for those inside, and a source of clarity for those outside about what real lives look like behind the locked doors of immigration detention. For those considering joining, Valenzuela emphasizes that more hands are always needed, as both the scale of need and the reach of Indiana AID continue to grow in the face of expanding detention operations.
For Valenzuela, caring about immigrants isn’t just theoretical. She’s married to an immigrant. And, when she was younger, she interned on the backside of Churchill Downs where hot walkers and groomsmen have their housing and church, which made the conditions migrants face painfully clear. It was the basic exposure to labor and living situations, the stories of families just trying to survive, that motivated her to found Indiana AID in 2019.
They are neighbors, wage-earners, and parents, which is why the cruelty they experience in detention centers matters. Indiana AID volunteers bear witness to the conditions: elderly detainees with no criminal background, in poor health, who are denied adequate medication for conditions like diabetes. A woman was injured in a broken shower with a wound that, untreated, festered for days. A man whose shoulder was dislocated during arrest was left untreated. Others have been forced back to countries where their lives are in danger; one, returned despite credible fear, was murdered. Sometimes the block includes people who are lawful permanent residents with green cards and even business owners—pillars of their communities—rounded up without warning.
The most disturbing constant is institutional incompetence, said Valenzuela. ICE throws people into cells and forgets them. Communication about cases is nonexistent; volunteers often inform detainees for the first time that they have a deportation officer—someone who, theoretically, is supposed to handle their case. Jails are understaffed, poorly equipped, and seem primarily motivated by revenue from holding “alien” populations, not by the realities of immigrant lives.
Indiana AID’s volunteers witness the impact not only on the detained but also on those left outside. Detainees—mothers, fathers, siblings—agonize over mounting bills at home and children gripped by uncertainty or toxic anxiety. Valenzuela tells of women forced to invent elaborate stories for their young children (“Mommy’s working on a huge building, and that’s why I can’t come home yet”) to spare them the trauma of knowing their parent is locked away indefinitely.
The effect, she said bluntly, is “psychological torture.” Detention strips away agency; days pass in boredom, uncertainty, and humiliation. Mental health suffers. Within blocks, detainees try to comfort each other, but breakdowns are frequent.
Indiana’s detention crisis is escalating, not abating. Large new facilities at Camp Atterbury and Miami are opening soon. As Valenzuela states, “We absolutely need local volunteers who are in and around those areas, who can step up.” Community participation can take many forms: donating to commissary funds; joining visits; helping distribute resources; writing letters; building networks; and, crucially, raising consciousness about what’s happening.
The mistakes are not abstract: they’re deadly, they’re devastating, and they’re in our backyard. The cruelty of making lives disappear behind concrete walls is compounded by government neglect and public indifference—but it is not irreversible, said Valenzuela.
Indiana AID stands as proof that a handful of committed volunteers can make a difference, but the need is urgent and expanding. Show up. Volunteer. Donate. Educate your networks. Reach out to Indiana AID and learn how you can help. The humanity we save is our own.