Tribaligenesis
All Star
well damn, how is this not running every news channel? Eugenics taking place in plain daylight
ICE Gestapo - 6/12: families placed in WW2 Japanese internment camps to be hidden from the press
- Thread starter tru_m.a.c
- Start date
well damn, how is this not running every news channel? Eugenics taking place in plain daylight
Tribaligenesis
All Star
well damn, how is this not running every news channel? Eugenics taking place in plain daylight
God Almighty
Your Lord
ADevilYouKhow
Rhyme Reason
ADevilYouKhow
Rhyme Reason
Judge blocks some asylum restrictions, rules Chad Wolf serving as DHS secretary likely unlawful
If he’s unlawfully in the position why the fukk is he still there?
If he’s unlawfully in the position why the fukk is he still there?
God Almighty
Your Lord
https://www.prismreports.org/articl...terilized-detained-women-has-been-identified/
"The Uterus Collector"
"The Uterus Collector"
88m3
Fast Money & Foreign Objects
https://www.prismreports.org/articl...terilized-detained-women-has-been-identified/
"The Uterus Collector"
naps uncle ?
88m3
Fast Money & Foreign Objects
ADevilYouKhow
Rhyme Reason
88m3
Fast Money & Foreign Objects
ADevilYouKhow
Rhyme Reason
88m3
Fast Money & Foreign Objects
ADevilYouKhow
Rhyme Reason
God Almighty
Your Lord
The Deportation Machine
When Mark Lyttle, a U.S. citizen, was booked into Neuse Correctional Institution, a minimum-security state facility in Goldsboro, North Carolina, in August, 2008, much of the data exchanged between agencies, including the biometrics, appear to have been ignored. Lyttle, who is thirty-five, has had a difficult life. He was born in Rowan County, North Carolina, which is about two hundred miles west of Goldsboro, and he spent his early childhood in foster homes. He was adopted at the age of seven, along with two younger brothers and a sister, by Thomas and Jeanne Lyttle, who had one child of their own. Thomas Lyttle died a year later. Jeanne, an occupational-therapy assistant, reared five children. Mark is bipolar and diabetic. He has cognitive problems. He can read, but writes with difficulty. He has spent much of his time since adolescence in mental institutions, jails, and group homes. Before he went to Neuse, he was a patient at Cherry Hospital, a state psychiatric facility a few doors up the street. Earlier that year, he had been convicted of inappropriately touching a female employee at another facility. He was sentenced to a hundred days for misdemeanor assault.
[...]
Nine days later, on December 18th, Lyttle was flown, shackled and handcuffed, to Hidalgo, Texas. He was taken to the international border and ordered to walk across a bridge into Reynosa, Mexico. He wore a green prison jumpsuit. In his pocket were three dollars and a deportation order for Jose Thomas.
A federal district judge, reviewing Lyttle’s case in 2012, questioned whether “deportation” was the correct term for what had happened to him. Since citizens cannot be deported, he thought that “banishment” might be more accurate. ice has no authority over U.S. citizens, and yet ice had arrested Lyttle and jailed him for fifty-one days—perhaps “kidnapped” would be a more accurate term. And now the authorities had expelled him, ignoring all evidence of his citizenship. He had been rendered stateless by his own government. The Mexican border guards apparently asked no questions.
[...]
When he reached Mexico City, the Mexican police took away his Jose Thomas papers and deported him to Honduras. (That makes little sense bureaucratically or geographically—he would have had to pass through or fly over Guatemala.) He was in jail, or some kind of detention, in Honduras, where a guard named Sonia pointed a gun at his face, because she didn’t like Americans, and a gangster’s wife brought him a plate of food. He walked a very long way in El Salvador, where he got so thirsty that he sucked on discarded soda bottles. There is no one to corroborate the details of his odyssey. We can imagine it as a grim picaresque for the Guantánamo era—with tints from Dante, Bunyan, Kafka, Cervantes, and Cormac McCarthy—but there was really nothing literary about it.
In mid-April of 2009, the police in Guatemala City found Lyttle sleeping on a park bench, heard him declare, in English, that he was an American, and took him to the U.S. Embassy. There a sensible vice-consul, Maria Alvarado, heard his accent and understood that he was quite likely her government’s responsibility. Alvarado asked some questions, made some phone calls, and soon found Lyttle’s brother Staff Sergeant Thomas Lyttle at a base in Fort Campbell, Kentucky. She asked Sergeant Lyttle to describe his older brother. “I described a scar he had near his eye from some wire-cutters from a fight we had as kids,” Tommy told me. Alvarado let the two men speak. Tommy wired money for a plane ticket, clean clothes, and a hotel room. He also faxed a copy of Mark’s birth certificate and Social Security card to Alvarado, who issued Mark a passport. A few days later, he was on a plane back to the United States.
What is it with ICE? Jacqueline Stevens, a professor of political science at Northwestern, studies unjust deportations and detentions. She has concluded that, on any given day, roughly one per cent of ice’s tens of thousands of prisoners are U.S. citizens. Stevens has documented more than forty U.S. citizens who were deported. The true number of cases, even recent ones, is unknowable. If Mark Lyttle had not survived his ordeal in Latin America, his fate would most likely be unrecorded.
When Mark Lyttle, a U.S. citizen, was booked into Neuse Correctional Institution, a minimum-security state facility in Goldsboro, North Carolina, in August, 2008, much of the data exchanged between agencies, including the biometrics, appear to have been ignored. Lyttle, who is thirty-five, has had a difficult life. He was born in Rowan County, North Carolina, which is about two hundred miles west of Goldsboro, and he spent his early childhood in foster homes. He was adopted at the age of seven, along with two younger brothers and a sister, by Thomas and Jeanne Lyttle, who had one child of their own. Thomas Lyttle died a year later. Jeanne, an occupational-therapy assistant, reared five children. Mark is bipolar and diabetic. He has cognitive problems. He can read, but writes with difficulty. He has spent much of his time since adolescence in mental institutions, jails, and group homes. Before he went to Neuse, he was a patient at Cherry Hospital, a state psychiatric facility a few doors up the street. Earlier that year, he had been convicted of inappropriately touching a female employee at another facility. He was sentenced to a hundred days for misdemeanor assault.
[...]
Nine days later, on December 18th, Lyttle was flown, shackled and handcuffed, to Hidalgo, Texas. He was taken to the international border and ordered to walk across a bridge into Reynosa, Mexico. He wore a green prison jumpsuit. In his pocket were three dollars and a deportation order for Jose Thomas.
A federal district judge, reviewing Lyttle’s case in 2012, questioned whether “deportation” was the correct term for what had happened to him. Since citizens cannot be deported, he thought that “banishment” might be more accurate. ice has no authority over U.S. citizens, and yet ice had arrested Lyttle and jailed him for fifty-one days—perhaps “kidnapped” would be a more accurate term. And now the authorities had expelled him, ignoring all evidence of his citizenship. He had been rendered stateless by his own government. The Mexican border guards apparently asked no questions.
[...]
When he reached Mexico City, the Mexican police took away his Jose Thomas papers and deported him to Honduras. (That makes little sense bureaucratically or geographically—he would have had to pass through or fly over Guatemala.) He was in jail, or some kind of detention, in Honduras, where a guard named Sonia pointed a gun at his face, because she didn’t like Americans, and a gangster’s wife brought him a plate of food. He walked a very long way in El Salvador, where he got so thirsty that he sucked on discarded soda bottles. There is no one to corroborate the details of his odyssey. We can imagine it as a grim picaresque for the Guantánamo era—with tints from Dante, Bunyan, Kafka, Cervantes, and Cormac McCarthy—but there was really nothing literary about it.
In mid-April of 2009, the police in Guatemala City found Lyttle sleeping on a park bench, heard him declare, in English, that he was an American, and took him to the U.S. Embassy. There a sensible vice-consul, Maria Alvarado, heard his accent and understood that he was quite likely her government’s responsibility. Alvarado asked some questions, made some phone calls, and soon found Lyttle’s brother Staff Sergeant Thomas Lyttle at a base in Fort Campbell, Kentucky. She asked Sergeant Lyttle to describe his older brother. “I described a scar he had near his eye from some wire-cutters from a fight we had as kids,” Tommy told me. Alvarado let the two men speak. Tommy wired money for a plane ticket, clean clothes, and a hotel room. He also faxed a copy of Mark’s birth certificate and Social Security card to Alvarado, who issued Mark a passport. A few days later, he was on a plane back to the United States.
What is it with ICE? Jacqueline Stevens, a professor of political science at Northwestern, studies unjust deportations and detentions. She has concluded that, on any given day, roughly one per cent of ice’s tens of thousands of prisoners are U.S. citizens. Stevens has documented more than forty U.S. citizens who were deported. The true number of cases, even recent ones, is unknowable. If Mark Lyttle had not survived his ordeal in Latin America, his fate would most likely be unrecorded.