Say His Name

Kilmar Abrego Garcia.

That’s his name.

He came to the U.S. when he was sixteen, fleeing gang threats in El Salvador.
Built a life here. No criminal record. Full-time job. Married. Father to a five-year-old American kid.

In 2019, a judge looked at his case and said:
You’re protected. You cannot be deported.
It was written into law.

But just over two weeks ago—on March 15th—our government deported him anyway.
Knowingly.
They admitted in court that they knew he had legal protection—and they sent him back to El Salvador anyway.
To a prison built for terrorists.
A place called the Terrorism Confinement Center.

And now they say—“There’s nothing we can do.”
Like that’s the end of the story.

But it’s not.
Because he’s not just “one man.”

He’s a husband. A father. A worker. A person with a face, a name, a life.

And apparently, none of that matters.

This isn’t justice. It’s erasure.
The moment an ICE officer suspects you of something—no proof, no charges—
you go from person to “gang member.”
From father to threat.
From someone with a story to someone erased.

And even if a judge says otherwise, even if the law protects you—
if the wrong person writes the wrong word in the right box?
You're gone.

And if that’s allowed to stand, what even is the rule of law?

I used to think it was a guardrail.
Now, I wonder if it’s just a line we erase when we’re afraid.

I think about his son. Five years old.
What do you tell a child when their dad disappears into a prison two countries away?

That someone made a mistake?
That people with power said it was “too complicated” to fix?

Or do you just not talk about it?
Let silence do what fear started?

The administration calls this foreign policy.

But this is what happens when fear becomes the only story we tell about people who don’t look like us.
When a rumor becomes a sentence.
When innocence isn’t enough.

We like to think the law protects the vulnerable.
We like to believe it means something.

But if a man can be erased on suspicion alone—
if a name is all it takes to disappear you—
then we have to ask: who’s really safe?

Because just two weeks ago.
On March 15th.
It was Kilmar.

Tomorrow… it could be someone you know.
Someone with a name.
Just like Kilmar.
Just like any of us.

I Am a Man Who Will Fight for Your Honor by Chris Zabriskie is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 license.

Source: http://chriszabriskie.com/honor/

Artist: Chrisza Briskie