NOGALES — The morning light beams down harshly through the sparse branches of a few trees growing on the edges of Cancha Reforma, a vacant basketball court in Colonia del Rosario, one of the many colonias — or neighborhoods — of Nogales, Mexico.

The benches, once places for gathering and community, now sit abandoned and weathered. The paint is peeling and their surfaces are cold. A gentle breeze rushes empty chip bags and soda cups across the court’s cracked asphalt, creating a faint rustle.

This abandoned space has transformed into an unwilling refuge where deported migrants and displaced families from the United States are now forced to call home.

In the shadows behind the court, there are fragile structures made of tarp, plywood, scraps of metal and plastic, providing just enough shelter to survive.

“We have formed a community here. We know we are not alone in this,” said María Rosario Lopez, a maid and mother of two who lived in Avondale before she was deported more than a year ago.

María Rosario Lopez gets emotional while sharing the story of her traumatic deportation and separation from her two sons on Feb. 24, 2025 in Nogales, Mexico. (Photo by Sydney Lovan/Cronkite News)

U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement agents raided her friend’s home during a carne asada gathering in search of undocumented immigrants.

Despite having a pending asylum case for her legal status, the agents detained Lopez and sent her to the Eloy Detention Center in Arizona, where she waited for more than 6 months to fight her case to stay in the United States.

Lopez is one of the estimated 11 million undocumented immigrants in the U.S. who are at risk for deportation. Standing alongside her are other deported women, men and children, huddled together.

The conditions in the detention facility were so cruel, Lopez said she could not withstand the internal pain, living in solitude and confined to a small cell. She chose deportation for the sake of her mental well-being, leaving behind her 13- and 30-year-old sons.

“I have no other choice,” Lopez said. “I have to keep moving forward for them."

ICE operates more than 190 facilities for detention across the U.S. to hold noncitizens while they go through immigration proceedings or wait to be deported after a final removal order.

According to Lopez, ICE agents were unapologetic, arrogant and blatantly racist: “They treat us like we’re some criminals, it’s not a detention center — it’s a prison.”

Lopez suffered from a fractured foot while she was in the process of deportation. When offered an opportunity to have surgery, Lopez denied help. She said she didn’t feel comfortable with the agents and medical staff and felt like she was in danger.

“‘Let go of my foot,’” Lopez told the ICE agents as they tightly cuffed her fractured ankle during her deportation. “My ankle was in a lot of pain but they didn’t listen to me, they didn’t care.”

Her deportation experience and neglect is not unique.

People in detention frequently experience lengthy delays in accessing mental health services, and many of their requests for care go unanswered, according to a report from the National Immigrant Justice Center.

At least six people have died in ICE custody during this fiscal year, according to the Detention Watch Network.

“Each of these deaths represent a preventable tragedy, and underscores the systematic danger posed by placing people in immigration detention. ICE has failed to provide adequate — even basic — medical and mental health care and ensure that people in detention are treated with dignity,” said ACLU Senior Staff Attorney Eunice Hyunhye Cho in a report published last year.

Detention and deportation not only increase fear among immigrant families but also have serious negative effects on their health and well-being, according to focus group studies by Kaiser Permanente.

Lopez said she is still coping with her experience in ICE custody.

“When I told the psychologists how bad I was suffering mentally, they refused to listen,” Lopez said. “They said they couldn’t do anything for me and that was the last time I looked for help.”

“These people are forgotten,” said Alma Mendoza, founder of Esperanza, a nonprofit that helps deported families with food, medical equipment, clothing, toys and other basic necessities.

Esperanza means “hope” in Spanish. Volunteers from the nonprofit visit Cancha Reforma three to four times a month, arriving in a minivan loaded with coolers of water for hydration, energy drinks, and tuna to make protein sandwiches for the stranded people.

“To so many of us, our everyday necessities seem so insignificant, but to them, it means everything,” Mendoza said.

Mendoza gathers donations from her day job cleaning houses in Phoenix — used clothes, shoes, socks, backpacks. Her family also helps, purchasing items from thrift stores to take to the border.

Azucena de Mendoza, right, a volunteer with Esperanza en la Frontera, and Antonio Mendoza prepare sandwiches to give to migrant families in need on Feb. 24, 2025. (Photo by Sydney Lovan/Cronkite News)

“They are immigrants helping sustain the economy but they are more than just immigrants, they are human beings, too,” Mendoza said.

In the end, the reality for many deported immigrants and their families is a life defined by fear, limited access to health care and overwhelming uncertainty.

“There is no justice system,” Mendoza said. “It is a broken system”.

At Cancha Reforma, Mendoza carefully passes out food and water in the blazing heat.

Children run across the cracked court giggling. Mothers sit on worn benches chatting and watching over them.

Even in the middle of displacement, a community endures. Esperanza, or hope, is what keeps this community alive.

For Lopez, she hopes justice will prevail and dreams about being be reunited with her family soon.