Deportation to Guantanamo Bay: A Troubling Expansion of U.S. Detention Policies
As much as I am personally alarmed by President Trump’s handling of the border crisis, historically speaking, his draconian policies are far from unprecedented. Shamefully, confining specific ethnic groups in detention centers appears to be as American as eating a hot dog at a baseball game on the 4th of July.
The first substantial U.S. detention program began in 1838 under President Martin Van Buren, who ordered the U.S. Army to enforce the Treaty of New Echota (an Indian removal treaty). Over 7,000 soldiers, led by General Winfield Scott, were tasked with evicting the Cherokee Nation from their southern lands and forcing them to trek 1,200 miles west to reservations in Oklahoma. Before the men, women, and children were sent on the “Trail of Tears,” they were detained in six “emigration depots” in North Carolina, Tennessee, and Alabama.
During the American Civil War, thousands of freed slaves were recaptured by the Union Army and placed into hard labor camps. Women and children were locked away in these camps and left to die from starvation and smallpox. It’s estimated that over 20,000 emancipated slaves perished in these makeshift concentration camps, the most infamous of which was the Devil’s Punchbowl in Natchez, Mississippi—a site surrounded by towering bluffs that concealed its grim reality.
In 1917, President Woodrow Wilson, fearing German espionage, set up internment camps in Hot Springs, N.C., and Fort Oglethorpe, Ga., for German Americans and suspected sympathizers. This practice was codified when Attorney General A. Mitchell Palmer declared that all “aliens interned by the government are regarded as enemies, and their property is treated accordingly.”
When the bombing of Pearl Harbor occurred, President Franklin D. Roosevelt took this policy to its most extreme form by signing Executive Order 9066 in 1942. This order allowed the U.S. military to forcibly remove Japanese Americans from their homes and place them into internment camps. The U.S. government even went so far as to document people’s ethnicity in the 1940 census, laying the foundation for this discriminatory practice.
Nearly a half-century later, President Truman’s government issued the Emergency Detention Act of 1950, which authorized the construction of six concentration camps in the event of a national emergency. These camps were designed to hold communists, anti-war activists, and other political dissidents in the event of heightened tensions during the Cold War.
More recently, following the events of 9/11, the U.S. government opened the Guantanamo Bay Detention Center in Cuba and the Bagram Theater Internment Facility in Afghanistan. These facilities became synonymous with human rights abuses. Amnesty International and the New York Times documented widespread instances of torture, with Guantanamo Bay being described as the “Gulag of our times.”
These are not isolated instances of abuse but part of a broader, ongoing pattern of detaining and isolating individuals perceived as threats. In this light, President Trump’s proposed expansion of detention facilities—specifically at Guantanamo Bay—should not be seen as a shocking new policy but rather as a continuation of a troubling historical precedent.
This is not to say that Trump’s actions are excusable. On the contrary, the internment of migrants, especially children, in inhumane conditions is nothing short of a violation of basic human rights. But we must recognize that these practices are rooted in a deep history of xenophobia, fear, and exclusion that has plagued the United States for centuries. The same mindset that justified the forced relocation of Native Americans, the internment of Japanese Americans, and the systematic abuse of enslaved people is at play today in our treatment of migrants.
Reflecting on our country’s history helps to contextualize the current crisis, but it doesn’t absolve us of our responsibility to change. The question we must ask ourselves is not just how we got here but how we move forward. In moments like this, the words of Thomas Paine resonate: “Whatever is my right as a man is also the right of another.”
President Trump’s decision to expand operations at Guantanamo Bay to hold migrants, as outlined in an executive order signed in January 2025, is a dangerous escalation of a longstanding pattern. The administration claims this expansion will house up to 30,000 individuals, focusing on detaining individuals accused of being members of violent gangs like Venezuela’s Tren de Aragua. The government contends that this is a necessary step to ensure national security and remove dangerous criminals from U.S. soil.
This policy raises serious questions about its constitutionality and its impact on the nation’s reputation. Detaining non-citizens on a military base traditionally used for high-security prisoners is a slippery slope. What rights will these individuals have? Will they be allowed access to due process? And most importantly, how does this affect our standing as a nation committed to the rule of law and human rights?
Right here in my hometown of Rochester, NY, we too have a chapter in this sordid history of detention centers. Cobb's Hill, now a popular park, wasn’t always a place for picnics and sports. During World War II, it was used as a detention site for prisoners of war. Initially, Italian POWs were housed there, followed by German POWs in 1944. The park was never used to detain civilians or those suspected of aiding the enemy, as some might believe, but it remains a stark reminder of how easily ordinary places can be repurposed for purposes of confinement and control.
I hear often from supporters of President Trump that this is what we elected him to do, that he is merely fulfilling his promises and using the mandate he has been given. I can understand why millions of Americans are concerned about illegal immigration. I can understand why many voted for Trump, believing that he would remove dangerous individuals from our society. But I cannot accept that the use of Guantanamo Bay as a detention site was ever discussed on the campaign trail, or that it’s something the majority of Americans support. This is an overreach of power, plain and simple. It is un-American, and it will only put our nation in greater danger.
We must remember that this policy is not just about the people who will be detained—it is about the message it sends about who we are as a nation. If we are willing to imprison individuals without due process or adequate oversight, what does that say about our commitment to democracy, liberty, and justice? History has shown us the dangers of such actions. It’s time to break the cycle.
~ George Cassidy Payne is a writer, philosopher, and advocate based in Rochester, NY. His work delves into themes of spirituality, social justice, philosophy, and the human condition. Known for his introspective essays, evocative poetry, and thought-provoking commentary, George contributes to various publications and platforms, offering a distinctive perspective on contemporary issues and timeless questions. Deeply engaged with his community, George writes on topics that resonate locally and globally, including peacebuilding, environmental ethics, and the interplay of faith and reason. His work strikes a balance between intellectual rigor and accessible language, inspiring reflection and connection among a wide audience.
Comments