Objective
- Explore the rise of weekly prayer services outside Delaney Hall detention center.
- Humanize the stories of families waiting for loved ones to come home.
- Trace the history of immigrant detention in Newark and its connection to broader systems of policing and incarceration.
- Examine the role of faith, community, and grassroots organizing in sustaining hope.
- Compare Newark’s struggle with immigrant detention to similar movements across the country.
- Call readers to act: support, share, and submit their own stories.
A Circle of Faith on a Street of Uncertainty
Every Wednesday evening, as Newark’s streets settle into a mix of commuter traffic and neighborhood routine, something unusual happens on a quiet block near Delaney Hall Detention Center. Cars slow down. People gather. Hands clasp. Prayers rise.
Mothers hold photographs of sons they haven’t seen outside of Plexiglass. Children kneel on the concrete, repeating words they half-understand but fully feel. Pastors lift their voices above the hum of buses and trucks passing by. It’s not a protest in the traditional sense. It’s not a rally with megaphones and placards.
It’s a prayer service one that has quietly transformed into an act of resistance.
Why Delaney Hall Matters
Delaney Hall is more than just another building in Newark’s industrial corridor. For decades, it has functioned as one of New Jersey’s primary immigrant detention facilities, contracted by ICE but operated by private prison companies. To many, it looks like a bland, brick-walled structure on the outside. To those who wait outside, it is the site of heartbreak.
Inside, immigrants from dozens of countries are held for weeks, months, even years — not because they have committed violent crimes, but often because they overstayed a visa, missed a hearing, or were swept into ICE’s wide net during raids. Families are left outside to pick up the pieces.
For Newark, a city already wrestling with poverty, unemployment, and housing insecurity, Delaney Hall is a wound that never heals.
Prayer as Protest
At first, the gatherings started small. A handful of relatives, a local priest, and a few volunteers from immigrant rights groups. They prayed quietly on the sidewalk, hoping their loved ones inside could somehow feel the words through the walls.
Over time, word spread. More families joined. Churches across Newark began sending delegations. Soon, the prayers became structured , a weekly ritual with songs, scripture, testimonies, and calls for justice.
Activists noticed something too: the consistency of these gatherings was reshaping the narrative. Instead of detention being hidden, shameful, and silent, it was now public, visible, and rooted in faith.
“When we pray here, we tell the city and the state these men and women are not forgotten,” says Maria Lopez, whose husband has been held at Delaney Hall for nearly a year. “We cannot touch him. But we can surround this building with prayer.”
The Emotional Toll
The emotional cost of detention is rarely captured in statistics. For every one person held inside Delaney Hall, there are five, six, ten family members waiting outside. Parents forced to explain to children why Daddy isn’t home. Spouses stretched thin working two jobs to cover legal fees. Communities losing members who once coached soccer or volunteered at food pantries.
Mental health workers in Newark report a growing wave of anxiety and depression tied directly to detention cases. Prayer, in this sense, isn’t just ritual, it’s survival.
The System Behind the Walls
Delaney Hall isn’t unique. It is part of a larger national system where private companies profit from human detention. In 2021, Essex County officially ended its contract with ICE at the Essex County Correctional Facility, but Delaney Hall — operated by GEO Group remained untouched.
For families, the message was clear: even as politicians declared progress, detention found new ways to survive.
Critics argue that immigrant detention functions less as a tool of justice and more as a revolving door of trauma and profit. A 2019 report found that GEO Group, which runs Delaney Hall, made billions in federal contracts even as allegations of abuse, overcrowding, and neglect piled up.
Lessons from Other Cities
What’s happening in Newark is not isolated. In places like Tacoma, Washington, and Elizabeth, New Jersey, prayer vigils have become weekly forms of protest. Each site is different, but the themes are the same: families outside, voices raised, communities refusing to forget.
Comparing Newark’s prayer gatherings to others reveals a unique strength: the city’s long tradition of faith-based organizing. From civil rights marches to anti-police brutality campaigns, Newark churches have historically doubled as both sanctuaries and staging grounds for resistance.
Youth Voices Emerging
One striking shift is the participation of Newark’s younger generation. College students from Rutgers-Newark, high school youth groups, and even children of detainees have begun leading songs and chants. For many, this is their first experience with civic action.
“We are here because this could be any of us,” says 19-year-old Jasmine Rodriguez, a Rutgers student whose cousin was detained last year. “We don’t have to wait until it happens in our family. We stand together.”
The energy of young people ensures that the gatherings don’t just mourn the present, but imagine a different future.
Where Do We Go From Here
The prayer services outside Delaney Hall won’t solve the crisis of detention on their own. But they have done something powerful: they’ve broken the silence. Families once isolated in grief now know they are not alone. Newarkers who never thought much about detention now pass by weekly gatherings and wonder why their city is still hosting such practices.
Faith leaders say the next step is linking prayer to policy. Organizers are pushing for state-level restrictions on private detention contracts, more transparency around ICE transfers, and legal aid funding for detainees.
A Call to Remember
Every prayer circle is both an act of faith and an act of resistance. As Newark’s skyline grows with new apartments and development, Delaney Hall remains a reminder that progress isn’t always shared. The people gathered outside each week prove that justice isn’t only decided in courtrooms or council chambers. Sometimes, it begins with clasped hands on a sidewalk.
Conclusion
Your story matters. The silence around detention is broken when we speak, share, and connect.
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