This reporting is made possible by the Northern Michigan Journalism Collaborative, led by Bridge Michigan and Interlochen Public Radio, and funded by Press Forward Northern Michigan.
On Jan. 17, one week after Fernando Ramirez was released from the massive federal immigrant detention center in Baldwin, he sat beside his eldest grandchild, Liam, in a family member’s home in Grand Rapids and placed a lit candle on the 13-year-old boy’s birthday cake.
“You are affectionate and charismatic. I wish you everlasting happiness,” the grandfather told the newly minted teenager in Spanish as a smile spread across the boy’s face and he held back tears.
Fernando was one of the lucky ones.
His daughters, Samantha and Nahomi, lived a relatively short distance from Baldwin and could visit Fernando at the North Lake Correctional Facility each week — unlike some families who lack transportation or the time off work or who felt unsafe driving across state lines during a time of heightened fears for immigrants. When Fernando was released, they could be there for him, while other detainees had no way of getting home from the rural northern Michigan detention facility.
So Samantha and Nahomi decided to do all they could to help the detainees Fernando had called his familia and who had called Fernando “comandante.”
Using social media, the sisters set up a network of advocates who could help released detainees get home and help advocate for immigrants still inside. Since launching their network in early December 2025, the sisters estimate they have helped 164 detainees at North Lake either get home or reconnect with loved ones.
“Every day, we have volunteers ready to go,” said Samantha. “Someone might pick up a person from the Baldwin facility and drive them to Grand Rapids. Someone else drives them to Michigan City. Then someone else drives them to Chicago. I have three people on my list who need to go to New York, Ohio, or Georgia.”
Baldwin opened as an ICE facility as President Donald Trump aims to keep a campaign promise to deport a record number of undocumented immigrants. Last week, the White House celebrated on social media new federal data showing net immigration fell in every US metro area last year.
Migrant roots
The Ramirez sisters helped others inside the prison walls reconnect with their families.
Some detainees were separated from cellphones when they were arrested and hadn’t memorized the numbers of their loved ones. They interpreted for family members who didn’t speak English and sometimes phoned the North Lake staff to share important medical information. The Ramirez sisters facilitated donations into detainees’ commissary accounts so they could buy snacks.
When one of Fernando’s friends posted bail and was released, the sisters picked him up at the facility and gave him room and board until he could secure transportation back to his home community. During visitations with Fernando, they comforted other families who broke down when the 90-minute sessions ended.
“It’s emotional to be with your loved one and then see them walk away again. It’s heartbreaking,” said Nahomi. “I’ve witnessed mothers pulling their tiny children away from their dad. I’ve seen young men in their early 20s crying and chasing after their dad when it’s time to leave.”
The sisters initially collaborated on the Facebook page Reencuentros de la Luz — “reunions of light” — which is dedicated to helping Chicago-area families reconnect during and after detentions in immigration facilities.
Then, late last year, they decided to start their own page called Raíces Migrantes — “migrant roots” — to help families in west Michigan whose loved ones are detained by ICE — many of them at the North Lake facility in Baldwin.
Since launching in December, Samantha and Nahomi have used Raíces Migrantes to network with other mutual aid organizations — such as No Detention Centers in Michigan, Indivisible Greater Grand Rapids, Kent County Indivisible, Movimiento Cosecha GR and a northern Michigan retired pastor — to offer advice and bridge language barriers for families of detainees.
They have also posted videos on Facebook of family reunifications following the release of a detainee.
“The reunion videos are important for people to see what separations are doing to families,” said Nahomi. “Also to humanize the person who’s being taken by ICE. People need to see that this is a person. They have kids at home who are waiting for them. A brother, a sister, a mom who worry about them.”
The sisters also serve as dispatchers who network with allies who employ a phone tree through the Signal app to coordinate rides for those released on bond from North Lake. Some detainees have been set free at odd times and at an hour’s notice outside the rural facility, with no easy way to travel to Chicago or Detroit or cities farther afield.
Locked up with no criminal record
The Trump administration says its nationwide crackdown on undocumented immigrants will help rid the streets of dangerous criminals.
Fernando, a 59-year-old native of Mexico, had no criminal record other than a speeding ticket. He was driving a tractor-trailer when he was stopped by state troopers on Sept. 29, 2025 at a weigh station in northwest Indiana.
Fernando had crossed the border undocumented to San Diego at age 19 and moved to Grand Rapids at age 31. He worked for decades in west Michigan for a company that cleaned local big-box stores before he realized his childhood dream of driving a big rig. For three years, he drove semis, first transporting fruit to California and lately staying closer to home at the request of his family.
Aware of the dangers posed by ICE’s ramped-up presence in Chicago during Operation Midway Blitz last fall, Fernando had agreed with his daughters that the late-September trip would be his last.
After he was apprehended, Fernando spent a couple days in Chicago’s Broadview detention center before he was moved to Baldwin. The Baldwin facility is owned by the private, for-profit prison corporation Geo Group on a contract with ICE. North Lake currently holds nearly 1,500 detainees, making it the largest in the Midwest.
Like Fernando, 86% of detainees at North Lake do not have criminal records, according to ICE data.
The Baldwin prison sits in rural Lake County, one of the poorest in Michigan — equidistant between Grand Rapids and Traverse City. North Lake immediately became the biggest employer and contributor to the local tax base when it reopened in June 2025.
Since then, the facility has drawn scrutiny for the Dec. 15 death of a Bulgarian who operated a small business in Chicago prior to his arrest. Inmates have complained of overcrowding and not enough staff. Their families on the outside have heard rumors and worried about tuberculosis, chickenpox and COVID-19 outbreaks. Detainees have also reported cold temperatures, intermittent electricity, and a lack of warm meals for dinner.
ICE, the US Department of Homeland Security and GEO Group did not respond to messages seeking comment on this story.
From truck driver to comandante
Samantha and Nahomi got their advocates’ hearts from their father.
According to the sisters, Fernando immediately became a leader and advocate for fellow prisoners in his pod at North Lake — most of whom were Hispanic. Older than most and fluent in English, he interpreted for them, bonded with them, encouraged them to eat meals, remain active and avoid sleeping too much. He shared stories with them and used humor to keep their spirits high.
One young detainee from Columbia called Fernando “comandante” — a nickname that stuck. On visits and phone calls with Samantha and Nahomi, he described the young men in his pod as his familia.
He stuck up for them, too. One day when an impatient guard yelled at the detainees to hurry down a corridor through a door that was still locked, Fernando confronted the worker.
“We’re not your livestock,” he said in a loud voice.
The sentry grew angry and threatened to send Fernando to an isolation cell. Another employee stepped in and calmed the situation.
According to Fernando, most guards at North Lake showed empathy and kindness toward the detainees and didn’t treat them like criminals. The Ramirez family said that the minority of workers who lacked compassion usually turned their name badges around so inmates and visiting families couldn’t identify them.
Fernando’s familia was broken up when staff moved him into a new section of the prison for detainees with diabetes. He said that conditions in that pod were colder and dirtier, and he received his meals later in the day, which stressed his blood sugar levels. Nevertheless, he took it as a “sign from God” that maybe someone else needed to take his place with the familia.
The comandante spent the holidays separated from his prison family and his real family. Detainees were given turkey legs to eat for Thanksgiving. On Christmas Day, Fernando received a chicken leg for lunch, and, because the kitchen staff didn’t work in the evening, he was given a cold turkey sandwich and apple for dinner.
Fernando celebrated his Jan. 10 release with a steak, bacon mushroom pasta and a beer. Since then he has enjoyed pho from the family’s favorite Vietnamese restaurant in Grand Rapids and eaten at a local hibachi grill, where, according to Samantha, he was served an extra layer of crab legs.
This reporting is made possible by the Northern Michigan Journalism Collaborative, led by Bridge Michigan and Interlochen Public Radio, and funded by Press Forward Northern Michigan.
