Where There is Humanity, There is Hope
About the Author: Jacqueline is a graduate student pursuing a Master of Arts in Psychological Research at California State University, Long Beach. She participated in the Justice In View courtwatching program in Southern California.
Abstract: Even in a court system filled with fear and grief, moments of solidarity remind us that humanity and hope remain.
Keywords: Santa Ana, resilience
Citation
Nguyen, Jacqueline T. 2026. “Where There is Humanity, There is Hope.” Semi-Structured (Washington, D.C.), On Ethnographic Witnessing: Student Encounters with Immigration Court, vol. 1 (3). https://doi.org/10.57912/34113339
Access link: www.publicethnography.com/semi-structured-all-issues/issue-3
The first time I attended immigration court, I was terrified. Over the next four visits, I learned what it means to be an observer. By the sixth visit, the security guards began to recognize me. By the seventh and eighth, they were even making conversation.
“Welcome back,” they would say with smiles that never seemed to match the atmosphere of the courthouse.
“See you next week,” they would say as I left.
Eventually, I had observed every judge with a Monday morning docket and knew the court personnel by name. But I never got used to it; each visit felt as difficult as the first.
I can acknowledge that familiarity developed, in a sense of the word, but certainly not belonging. What had disappeared was simply a sense of anonymity, yet the overwhelming feeling of isolation and detachment remained as salient as ever.
Reflecting on my experiences observing in immigration court in Santa Ana, I grapple with a jumble of thoughts. I think first about the routine I built: morning coffee with a spoonful of dread, a jacket to protect from the air-conditioned courtrooms, whose chill always managed to settle deep into my bones. But then again, what good is a jacket against the cold, harsh, detached reality of American law?
I think next of those appearing before the court: people anxiously tapping their feet, whispering quietly to their families, listening to non-reassurances from their attorneys. I think of their steel-faced reserve, or their silent expressions of fear. I think they deserve to feel like they belong here, in a place where they are promised respect, safety, and justice. I think this court is not the place that grants them that.
March 6th, 2026. A woman sits alone before the judge, back straight, shoulders squared, but she is crying. She is alone. No one comforts her. The judge speaks firmly. He is not unkind, but he is not on her side. She says her daughters were kidnapped and raped in her home country, and she fears returning. “It doesn’t matter how bad I feel for you,” he replies. “The law is the law. And I will not break the law for you.” He talks at her for what feels like ages, his tone matter of fact and unmoved.
My mind is screaming, “Let her breathe. Let her collect herself. Let her think.”
She accepts voluntary departure; she has no choice. DHS requests a $500 bond for her and each of her daughters. She cannot afford it, and they know that too. She agrees anyway.
The reality is that nothing can fully prepare you for what happens in these settings. There are laws, protocols, fees, documents, and “big, beautiful bills” designed to make the process difficult, if not impossible, for anyone not intimately familiar with American law and court proceedings. I could say that it is easy to feel pain, anger, or to leave court with a lump in my throat and a pit in my stomach, but this would be a misrepresentation. Nothing about this is easy.
Still, in the waiting areas, hallways, and courtroom galleries, I have seen eyes of hope, symbols of strength, and shoulders of resilience. Even as the formality of law serves to dehumanize and deprecate immigrants, I have seen how their humanity is insisted upon. The strength is in this insistence, in the sole fact that their humanity is not the system’s to take away. If there is one thing I hope to take away from this experience, it is to carry that memory, and to remind myself, there is humanity despite it all.
March 6th, 2026. Outside the courthouse, a group of people stand side-by-side. Their brows are furrowed, but they show no fear. They stand in unity, braver than most will ever know; and they say nothing, but their silence speaks volumes. A single sign is held between them for every immigrant who enters: “YOU ARE NOT ALONE.”
About this issue
This article is part of On Ethnographic Witnessing: Student Encounters with Immigration Court, a special issue of Semi-Structured. This collection features the work of 22 student ethnographers, who offer insights, analysis, and experiences based on hundreds of hours in immigration courtrooms across the country over the last few years. Through their work in observation projects under the direction of scholar-activists Lauren Heidbrink, Amelia Frank-Vitale, and Rebecca Galemba, students gained critical training in ethnographic practice and a crash course in immigration law, especially in the disjunctures between law on the books and law in practice. Understanding that wider audiences would benefit from hearing and learning directly from their students, Heidbrink, Frank-Vitale, and Galemba approached Semi-Structured to steward this thoughtful, ambitious collection. We are honored to run this issue and invite readers to consider what student observers witnessed, felt, and learned in court and why ethnographic observations are important to broader publics.
Semi-Structured is the open-access journal from the Public Ethnography Lab. The journal is dedicated to showcasing ethnography as it unfolds in the world. This journal exists because we believe ethnographic work matters beyond the academy—that the insights generated through sustained engagement with communities, organizations, and institutions can and should inform decisions, shape practices, and drive meaningful change.