From ICE Detention to Healing: A Scholar's Journey Through Human-Made Trauma
On a seemingly ordinary Tuesday, 25 March 2025, my day began with routine tasks: reviewing university applications for a summer research role, planning a Friday dinner with friends, and finalising my schedule for a child development conference. I was also deep into my dissertation proposal. The day was busy but unremarkable—until I left home for an iftar dinner at the interfaith centre.
Within minutes, masked individuals surrounded me, handcuffed me, and forced me into an unmarked car. I was unlawfully arrested, transported across state lines, and detained for six weeks in a for-profit ICE prison in Louisiana. My crime? Co-authoring an op-ed in the Tufts Daily that affirmed the equal dignity of all people and urged the university to recognise the Palestinian genocide, based on student resolutions.
The Shattering Impact of Trauma
Until that moment, I had no idea governments monitored school newspapers or that one could be baselessly punished for expressing ideas in the US, a country I admired for its freedom of speech. As a scholar in child development, I had spent my young adulthood learning and contributing here. Trauma, with its sudden and overwhelming force, shattered my sense of safety. Simple activities became daunting; mornings often started with sadness, intrusive memories haunted my days, and I escaped into sleep only to wake from nightmares of violence. Some days, numbness took over, leaving me unable to cry, while a profound fatigue lingered constantly.
I had previously encountered human-made trauma conceptually, as a 21-year-old student in a course called Trauma, and through volunteering with an art and music project for Syrian refugee children. I recall their trembling bodies, rapid startle reflexes, and trauma-laden artwork—bold colours depicting death, violence, and separation. Their eyes, often fixed on walls, held distant, numb expressions.
Natural vs. Human-Made Trauma
The literature distinguishes between traumas from natural disasters and those caused by people. As a five-year-old during the 1999 Marmara earthquake in Türkiye, I experienced the former: everything reduced to dust in seconds, with only one survivor in a neighbouring apartment. Natural disasters have a clear end, and survivors can often rebuild, knowing the event was beyond human control.
Human-made trauma, however, is more challenging to recover from. The harm stems not just from the event but from the knowledge that someone deliberately inflicted pain. In the ICE prison, staff dehumanised me and other detainees, denying medical care, shouting angrily, forcing us into hours-long lines for food and medicine, and violating our religious rights. These conscious acts of cruelty deepened the trauma, eroding trust and safety—if humans can cause pain without reason, the world feels unpredictable and threatening.
Connecting to Oppressed Children
After this ordeal, I feel a stronger bond with others facing human-made trauma, especially children under war, conflict, or oppression. As an adult, I had privileges: academic knowledge in psychology, mental resources, and a global support network. Children often lack these tools, making them more vulnerable. A War Child Alliance report in December 2024 found that 96% of surveyed children in Gaza felt death was imminent, with almost half wishing to die. This is a human-made trauma we are all responsible for.
Children in Gaza have pleaded for basic needs like food and education, as seen in a press conference outside al-Shifa hospital in November 2023. When children must advocate for their right to live, we are in a horror story that demands action.
The Power of Community in Healing
In her book Trauma and Recovery, psychiatrist Judith Lewis Herman notes that group solidarity protects against terror and despair, restoring belonging and humanity. Human-made traumas require human help to heal. On my arrest day, a neighbour witnessed and recorded the event, bearing witness to my trauma. This act showed I was part of a caring community, valued and supported.
My friends and community have been instrumental in my recovery: baking and cooking for me, reminding me I am beloved, and legal support allowing me to focus on my PhD. Anonymous letters of love have fuelled my healing. I wonder: what if suffering children knew they were cared for globally? Even brief attention can transform healing paths.
Grieving and Taking Action
Grieving is a testament to our humanity, resisting numbness. Mourning for children trapped in others' power grabs builds a global community united in care, as James Baldwin said: "The children are always ours, every single one of them, all over the globe." Grief allows processing and connection, spurring action.
Taking action, no matter how small, is crucial. We can listen, bear witness, write, donate, and advocate. If you hold privilege—as an adult with more power—speak up against atrocities affecting children everywhere, from Gaza and Sudan to Uyghur camps and immigration detention centres. Our words, choices, and silence set norms for how children are treated.
Today, Gaza lies in rubble, with a fragile ceasefire and ongoing bombings depriving many of medical care and aid. Recovery from this human-caused trauma will be arduous for generations. I want those children to know many of us care, mourn with them, and act to stop wars. They may one day read our words, feel less alone, and know a global community witnesses their pain.
As Herman reminds us, trauma dehumanises, but the group restores humanity. The care of strangers is a powerful testament to pain, and our global community can restore fragments of childhoods stolen by war. I hold a PhD in child study and human development, and this journey has only deepened my commitment to healing and justice.
