The Power of Human Kindness
On April 14, I received an assignment of a new pen pal to connect with named David. Now, I should tell you that David wasn't my first incarcerated friend. By then, he was number 167 of more than 250 people I've helped while volunteering to assist detainees. You'd think after helping that many people, every story would begin to sound the same.
They don’t.
Every person has a different story. Every family has a different heartbreak. Every case reminds me that behind every file number is a human being.
Ironically, our friendship didn't begin with deep conversation. It began with homework.
To help David, I needed two things: his alien registration number (A#) and his country of origin. Easy enough...except David didn't know his A# number. This is not uncommon, but unfortunate because it’s impossible for an immigrant to know what’s happening with their case without it. But he told me he was from Eritrea. A country I’d never heard of before. A quick google search told Eritrea was in Africa. In lieu of his A# he gave me his cousin's name and phone number in Seattle, and I went into what I jokingly call my "detective mode."
I sent a text early one morning explaining who I was and that I was in contact with David and we needed her help. I woke her, not thinking about the time change in Seattle, but she called me immediately. After explaining what I needed, his cousin searched through all his paperwork. No luck.
David explained that he and his wife had filed an I-130 petition (an official document from US customs enforcement, used to prove a valid family relationship, (their marriage) and the first step to obtaining a green card. He’d also applied for asylum due to the dangers in his country. I suggested contacting his wife for the information.
That's when the conversation changed.
He quietly told me there were relationship problems and he believed she had played a role in his detention. He was a truck driver from Washington State who had been detained in Missouri, where he ironically also has family. And where his wife knew he’d be. Later, he shared that she had been abusive and had never wanted him to receive his green card and had kept him from his child. He hadn't seen his daughter since 2023.
Suddenly, I wasn't just helping someone find an A# number anymore. I was witnessing a life unravel.
In early May he filed an AWA I-360 self-petition, which is a confidential legal process that allows victims of domestic violence to seek lawful permanent residency independently without their abuser's knowledge, consent, or sponsorship
On May 15th, an entire month after his detention, David provided his A#. I searched the immigration court records and found his asylum case dating back to December of 2023.
Then came the waiting.
And more waiting.
David asked me the same question over and over.
"Why have I been here so long? I haven't committed any crimes."
What could I say?
I told him the truth.
Every case is different.
Please be patient.
Those words sounded so small compared to what he was living.
For nearly two months, he remained locked up with no criminal history. Eventually, a hearing was scheduled. Then another. His divorce proceedings complicated everything. His asylum case continued.
And still...he waited. Patiently, quietly sharing the shards of his life.
Then came July 20th. His attorney was fighting for a writ of habeas corpus, and he told me the Judge ruled in his favor. Finally, he was to be released! However, his bond was set at $20,000.
Twenty thousand dollars.
Imagine hearing that freedom has a price tag and knowing you can't afford it.
He realized he would have to wait in jail and let the American government decide his fate.
My heart sank. I couldn't imagine what he must be feeling.
Then, three days later, I received the message I had almost stopped hoping for.
His family had gathered the money.
He was getting out! Another thing we offer is a volunteer driver. I arranged that one be on standby and inserted myself into the picture as a passenger. We would pick him up when he was released and bring him to St. Louis.
He was getting out.
Well...sort of.
If you've ever dealt with government paperwork, you'll appreciate this part.
The first release date didn't happen because an aunt was confused by the paperwork.
Then another date came...
Nothing.
Then another.
By now even the volunteer driver, Chris, was confused. I wasn't. I'd learned that immigration detention teaches one thing...
Patience.
David and I continued to communicate; he’d call me as soon as he was free.
Maybe tomorrow.
Then another day, I even drove by the jail one evening to see if he’d been released.
Nothing.
On July 29th, 9 days later, I received a call from his sister in Washington, “He’s being released now, please go there.”
He was supposed to call me, what happened? Was his phone dead, disconnected, missing? Turns out the jail staff called his sister to let her know. Thank God she had my number.
I sent a message to Chris, who’d been cutting grass, and dropped everything.
We went to the jail and waited and waited, over an hour, but finally an officer yelled “pickup for David…..”, I stood then as they came around the corner.
Three officers escorted David into the lobby.
The moment we saw each other, we smiled. He had a beautiful smile.
Then we hugged.
You could see every emotion on his face at once.
Relief.
Fear.
Joy.
Exhaustion.
Hope.
He looked like a man who wanted to cry but wasn't sure he remembered how.
Outside, I took a picture for his sister in Washington, just as I'd promised.
David, upon release with his penpal, Ginger.
While I was moving my things into Chris's vehicle, David stood quietly, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath.
Just breathing fresh air.
Something most of us never think twice about.
As we drove toward his sister's home, I asked if he wanted food or something to drink.
"No," he said.
"I just want to get away from there."
During the drive he talked about his wife, his daughter, his truck-driving job...when suddenly he thought to look through the small bag that contained everything on his person when he was detained.
His truck key was gone.
His ID was gone.
He had just been released...and already the two things he needed most had disappeared.
How was he supposed to fly to his next court hearing which was to be held in Washington State on Monday?
Drive?
Or rent a car?
But I went to work and messaged our board president Susie, told her the predicament, and her immediate response was helpful information that he could pursue but would take time and patience.
It was incredibly frustrating.
So, I changed the subject.
He handed me a greeting card from amongst his things.
I knew if I opened it then, I'd lose every ounce of composure I had left.
Instead, I asked him about life inside the detention center.
He told me he slept on the floor in what he described as a green snow sled.
He was there for three and a half months.
He was allowed outside exactly once.
One hour.
He said he avoided drinking the water. But he was given a cup of ice every day.
He let it melt and drank that.
The jail proudly advertised providing 3,800 calories a day.
Apparently, they forgot to mention they came mostly in the form of starch.
David lost weight anyway.
He lived among convicted criminals.
There were fights.
Officers often didn't intervene.
When I asked if he was ever in danger, he simply smiled and said,
"I'm a kind man."
I don't think I'll ever forget those four words.
By noon we arrived at his sister's home.
A sound of joy rang out as she opened the door and immediately wrapped him in the warmest hug imaginable.
Her daughter screamed from the kitchen.
Not screaming in fear, a sound he’d become accustomed to.
Screaming with joy. A sound he’d dreamed of hearing again.
There was laughter, tears, hugs. Everyone talking at once.
Chris and I tried to politely stay outside.
That lasted about ten seconds.
His sister insisted we come in.
Then came one of the most beautiful displays of hospitality I've ever experienced.
Fresh raw Ethiopian coffee beans roasting over a small burner.
The aroma filled the room.
A beautiful display of small porcelain cups on saucers on a rack that rose to a point that held natural incense, the smoke drifted through the air.
An elaborate meal appeared with injera (a light Ethiopian bread), tibs (lamb) and wot, a thick stew.
Enough delicious food to convince me that declining Ethiopian hospitality simply isn't an option.
An ice cream cake appeared with "Welcome Home" written across it.
Family members joined by video call from Washington.
They thanked us.
Called me an angel.
The truth is...I didn't feel like one.
I simply reached out to a stranger on April 14th.
And found a friend.
It was time to leave, David walked me to the door.
He looked at me and quietly said,
"I'm tired. I don't want to fight anymore. I want to go back to my country."
Those words caught me completely off guard.
After everything he had endured...
After seeing the family who loved him so deeply...
I turned back, hugged him, and said,
"You have to keep fighting."
We said our goodbyes.
Later that evening, I opened the card he had given me.
His words are like poetry.
He wrote about his six years in America.
About expecting to meet many people along the way.
But never expecting to meet someone like me.
The truth is...I never expected to meet someone like David.
His kindness reminded me why this work matters.
His family's love reminded me that hope survives even in the hardest circumstances.
And his story reminded me that every act of compassion, every message, every phone call, every ride, every search for an A# number, every hour spent waiting…. can change someone's life.
So, whenever you wonder whether kindness still matters...
Remember David.
Remember that behind every case number is a person.
Remember that sometimes the greatest gift we can give another human being is simply to remind them they have not been forgotten.
Because we really are making a difference.
One person.
One act of kindness.
One life at a time.
