Advertisement
On January 28, hundreds of people from around Texas traveled to the small town of Dilley, an hour southwest of San Antonio, to demonstrate outside of a family immigration detention center where the federal government is holding hundreds of children and families. Three representatives of the Texas UU Justice Ministry (TXUUJM) who were there reflect on the experience and what they’ve learned about faithful witness work.
Lessons from Minneapolis, Applied on the Ground in Texas
Michelle Venegas-Matula (she/ella), TXUUJM organizing director
The gift of learning on the ground in Minneapolis from seasoned organizers was a masterclass in faithful witness, but I never expected to apply those lessons so instantly. Less than one day after my return from the Day of Truth and Freedom gathering in Minneapolis—as news of Alex Pretti’s murder by federal immigration authorities broke, and children at the detention center outside Dilley cried out “¡Libertad para los niños!”—the Texas UU Justice Ministry was called to mobilize. We were responding to the calls of the children and the kidnapping of Adrian Ramos and his 5-year-old son, Liam, who had been taken from their community in Minneapolis to the Dilley Immigration Processing Center, a detention center for families in southern Texas.
A congressional delegation was about to visit Dilley, and Texas activists wanted to keep the pressure up to free all detainees. We were able to move with speed and confidence because our frontline partners and community showed up in coalition, and Texas UU Justice Ministry (TXUUJM) member congregations said “yes” to using their resources. Wildflower UU and Faith Presbyterian Church (which share a campus) served as our staging ground for Austin; First UU Church of San Antonio staged for their region; Bay Area UU Church in Webster, Texas, arranged carpools; and so many others helped, too. This support allowed us to focus on the work of abolition and libertad para todes, ensuring the families inside Dilley knew we heard them—and that the visiting delegation and the powers in Washington, D.C., would know without question: We want this cruelty to stop!
In Minneapolis, I learned the need for nimbleness, and that effective organizing isn’t built like a rigid brick wall but moves like a murmuration of starlings, decentralized yet synchronized for the protection of all. The action at Dilley was a massive coalition effort involving communities from across Texas, and partners like Grassroots Leadership, Mano Amiga, and Workers Defense, with each group holding a vital piece of the whole. While we co-organized the event collectively, TXUUJM took on the specific logistics for those attending from Austin.
We put our nimbleness to the test when our chartered bus was found to be eight hours away on the morning of the vigil. That might have sparked panic, but the trust within our coalition held firm. No one complained; folks simply rolled up their sleeves and began organizing carpools. This is the power of decentralized leadership. We leaned into our interdependence, trusting each region to hold its role with accountability so the mission wouldn’t falter. Thankfully, we received a replacement bus and a driver that went above and beyond. We arrived in Dilley from all over Texas, 300+ strong, despite the bus from North Texas not making it due to freezing weather. (Yes, even in Texas, it gets cold.)
This rapid response worked because of our ability to trust our partners and center those most impacted, those closest to the pain. This is the only way we will all eventually be free: through our connections, relationships, and accountability to each other. For the Dilley action, this meant a fierce commitment to radical inclusiveness as we planned and moved into action. The coalition prioritized accessibility for language needs and disabilities, and since Texas GOP lawmakers have long made public restrooms unsafe for trans people, we made sure to secure a bus with its own restroom. These are the tangible ways we protect one another.
This strength was fully put to the test when state troopers unexpectedly deployed pepper spray and other chemical agents. As the air turned violent, our “murmuration” didn’t break; instead, it transformed into immediate community care. Medics jumped into action, and our bus became a triage center and sanctuary—not just for Austin riders but anyone in need—rinsing eyes and faces, giving out water, and taking folks back to safety in the park.
Whether in Minnesota, Texas, or anywhere the violence of fascism is active, the through-thread of our work together is protective, radical love. By building these deep roots of trust and accessibility centered in love now, whatever any oppressive regime may throw at us, we ensure we can survive and thrive together.
A coalition of community partners organized the action at Dilley, including TXUUJM, which took on specific logistics for those attending from Austin.
Music and Ministry: Decisions in the Moment
Rev. Erin Walter (she/her), TXUUJM minister and executive director
Michelle texted me at 9 p.m. on Saturday, January 24, the same day ICE killed Alex Pretti, and asked, “Do you have capacity to help with an action at Dilley?” That is often the question for us, as leaders of a small, grassroots nonprofit. Do we have capacity? In the moral urgency of this moment, the answer was “yes.” Our community was asking, and we knew we were not alone.
The action at Dilley was my first time wearing a clerical collar, despite being a public minister for twelve years. I borrowed the white tab from a colleague the night before, feeling in my gut that we needed all the visible power and protection we could get.
On Wednesday morning, when we got to the famed watermelon statue at Dilley’s City Park, I corralled the Austin group for a photo in front of our bus “so I can make sure you’re all here for the ride home later.” As the crowd waited for the interpreter to arrive in order to share the stories in Spanish and English of those who have survived ICE detention, the coalition organizers asked me to lead a song. I chose “This Little Light of Mine,” singing through a portable PA system brought by a fellow Austin musician. Later, when tensions rose outside the concentration camp, community members spontaneously sang the song again as a prayer and tool for de-escalation.
After a three-mile procession from the park to the detention center, I found myself face to face with law enforcement at Dilley’s property line along the highway. A young leader gave me her megaphone, and I prayed as loudly as I could. I was hoping families inside might hear us, hoping for their freedom, hoping for our government to end ICE, and for federal agents to repent. “It is not too late,” I prayed in the direction of the troopers. “You can return to love. The community will welcome you.”
Later, as I was matching people in the group photo with tired faces in bus seats, troopers with riot gear and shields deployed a chemical agent on those remaining at the barricade. I asked the bus driver and our group to please be patient because, as the song goes, “No one is getting left behind this time.”
People came staggering down the side of the highway, weeping and wailing with chemicals in their eyes. Whatever it was, the chemical was so powerful that it was causing us to cough inside the bus, too, as we kept opening our doors to bring more people into safety. When I finally knew everyone was accounted for, I sent the overfull bus back to the park. About a dozen of us—ministers and medics—squeezed into a pickup truck to evacuate the area.
On the way home, at our partners’ request, TXUUJM set up a legal defense fund and gathered pro bono legal resources to support two people who had been violently swarmed and arrested at Dilley. We also offered chaplaincy support for everyone who attended the action. I saw my doctor a few days later, struggling with a lost voice and coughing fits from the chemicals, and leaned on colleagues at the UU Ministers Association Institute in New Mexico to help me process the trauma.
I took heart to learn from a vigil participant who was in touch with an employee inside the center that, indeed, the incarcerated families heard the news and were aware of our presence and prayers.
If we can get Liam and Adrian released, we can get everybody free. The work continues. Community members are preparing to witness at the T. Don Hutto Detention Center in Taylor, Texas, this Saturday, February 21, and clergy are returning to Dilley for a longer pilgrimage next week. I keep reminding myself and everyone I know, like a mantra: State violence has been a part of our country since its founding—and still we cannot normalize it, not against people inside Dilley, not against those of us fighting alongside them for their freedom, not against anyone.
Protesters made a three-mile procession from the Dilley’s City Park to the detention center.
On Pastoral Care
Bis Thornton (he/him and she/her), TXUUJM intern minister
On the morning of our procession and vigil to Dilley, those of us travelling from Austin gathered at Wildflower UU Church. Many people throughout the day told me that they had taken a big chance on meeting at a church and working with religious organizations that day because of their previous painful experiences with religion. The hospitality and radical welcome we do to create that safety is crucial to the spiritual care of those doing the work of justice. For example, I know that my presence as visible trans religious leadership makes a difference. It says to everyone, but especially to my trans siblings: “I’m here. You’re safe. I am watching over you.”
At the end of that day, as our bus departed from the detention center full of demonstrators struggling to see and breathe after being gassed by state troopers, I looked around and saw that there was more spiritual pain than a single person could try to address. I also immediately knew that I would not need to try, because many on that bus were already reaching out to one another and offering healing. I saw pastoral care all around me. I saw someone praying fervently to give voice to another person’s overwhelming anger and grief. I saw two people watching the news together to try and process what they had just experienced. I saw people passing water bottles and speaking gently to one another and holding hands. It took all of us to rise to the occasion.
When I returned to my home in Austin, I realized that people all over had seen the footage of violence by the Texas Department of Public Safety toward activists. As a result, they were grappling with their own fear, their uncertainty, their anger, and their own resurfacing trauma of previous state violence in their lives. As I visited churches and community events in the following days, and talked with them about the vigil and procession in Dilley, I found that the news, as well as people’s personal stories, had ignited a hunger in many people to become more deeply involved. Feeding this hunger is pastoral care, too.
How do we hold our joy that Liam and Adrian Ramos were freed—while also holding our grief that so many are still caged? How do we remember the hope and mourn the violence? This is something we must do together as a community, until all are free.