‘Free Them All!’ Inside the Fight to Close Delaney Hall

If you ever find yourself lingering near the concrete maze that houses Delaney Hall, you’ll soon notice the clang of a bell and a chorus of shouted numbers. “Seven! Seven of them!” a volunteer hooted, as GEO Group guards swung the chain‑link gate open and a handful of men shuffled out, heads bowed, eyes glistening.

It’s a scene that looks almost cinematic: industrial fumes hovering over petroleum tanks, trucks roaring past, and then the quiet moment when those detainees drop to their knees, kiss the cracked concrete and raise their arms as if thanking a higher power. Volunteers rush forward with bottles of water, point out a shaded patch of grass, and help set up video calls with trembling families.

All of this happens under a bright, purple‑tented canopy the activists call the “Radical Hospitality Zone.” It’s not a polished charity office; it’s a rag‑tag collection of religious groups, immigrant‑rights NGOs, and anti‑fascist collectives who have been tending to the endless stream of relatives, friends and children that ICE’s bureaucratic machinery tears away from normal life.

What they hand out is simple but vital: water, snacks, toys for kids, prayer mats, and even clothing that meets the jail’s absurd dress code. They also decode the labyrinthine visitation rules, offer legal tips, and, when the mood is right, share a laugh over a poorly brewed coffee. Their mantra? “Free them all,” and anything short of that feels like a betrayal.

That mantra was put to the test a few months ago when the detainees themselves decided to stop waiting for the outside world to rescue them. They staged a combined hunger and labor strike, refusing to work in the jail’s kitchen and refusing food on protest‑grounds. The strike, fed by weeks of abuse allegations – rotting food, filthy bathrooms, medical neglect, even reports of sexual assault – drew crowds of sympathizers to Newark’s stark industrial corridor.

The protest scene is chaotic by design. People slam doors, chant slogans, and occasionally try to block GEO Group trucks. Police from three jurisdictions swirl in, sometimes clashing with demonstrators, sometimes standing guard. The stakes feel astronomical because Delaney Hall isn’t just another detention center; it’s the biggest ICE jail on the East Coast and a crucial hub in the national detention network.

“I’ve seen people get released and then, two days later, they’re back in line, waiting for a friend,” says Sister Susan Francois of the Sisters of St. Joseph of Peace, one of the faith groups behind the mutual‑aid effort called Eyes on ICE New Jersey. “That’s the power of community – it made the strike even possible.”

When the newly freed men staggered out, they were given bottles to rinse away the grime of confinement, shoes to re‑lace, and a moment to stare at a sky they hadn’t seen in weeks. One detainee, who asked to stay anonymous, recounted being held for about twelve days, spending $400 on commissary because the meals were insufficient and, allegedly, included pork – a violation of his Muslim faith. “The place smelled,” he added, “and it was dirty.”

Another, Alexander Paredes, spent just over a month and a half there. In broken Spanish he described guards as “arrogant” and “rude,” and lamented that most people in the facility have no criminal record. “If we show up for our appointments, why are we arrested? Why chase people who aren’t a threat and ignore the real criminals?” he asked, his voice shaking.

Those questions echo a broader pattern. Most of the 200‑plus individuals held at Delaney Hall are there for civil immigration violations, not for violent crimes. The Biden administration reopened the facility in 2025 after a brief stint as a halfway house under Trump, and the Trump administration before that kept pushing for more detention space nationwide. The jail has become a lightning rod ever since.

Newark’s own mayor, Ras Baraka, was briefly detained there last spring during a protest, only to have the charges later dropped. Rep. LaMonica McIver (D‑N.J.) still faces a potential federal prison term for allegedly obstructing officers during that same demonstration.

Inside the walls, the grievances have been laid out in handwritten letters signed by dozens – sometimes hundreds – of detainees. They describe meals crawling with worms, toilets that barely work, a lack of medical care, and even sexual abuse. The GEO Group declined to comment when HuffPost reached out, and the Department of Homeland Security gave the same canned response it uses for every ICE facility: “ICE jails provide the best healthcare many aliens have ever received.”

“Those claims are false,” a DHS spokesperson said, adding there were “no reported food violations” at Delaney Hall and that detainees receive proper meals, including religious diets, along with water, clothing, bedding, showers and toiletries.

Whether those assurances hold weight is debatable, but the reality on the ground is undeniable: communities have gathered, volunteers have set up tents, and detainees have taken their own destinies into their hands. The fight to close Delaney Hall is far from over, but the mixture of inside‑out resistance and outside solidarity suggests the conversation about America’s immigration system is finally refusing to stay quiet.

For now, the bell still rings, volunteers still shout numbers, and the hope that one day, perhaps, everyone will truly be “free” remains a stubborn, stubborn chant echoing across the Newark horizon.