Teresa Reyes made a 300-mile drive to be with her son, Guillermo, on his 32nd birthday in May. But despite the long journey, she could not give him a gift, share a meal, or hug him. Guillermo, a tattoo artist from San Jose, is held at the California City immigration detention center, the largest facility of its kind in California. This detention center, operated by the private prison company CoreCivic, has not allowed any in-person contact visits since it opened last year under the Trump administration. Families visiting must speak through phones while their loved ones sit in a separate room, separated by thick glass. “I want to hold my son, I want to touch him, I want to assure him everything is going to be OK, but I can’t,” said Reyes, 63, speaking in Spanish. “When I see him, I have to hold back tears. I have to pretend to be strong, because I don’t want him to think I am suffering.” The total denial of contact visits is an extreme restriction, especially in a facility housing people accused of immigration violations. In most U.S. prisons, families are allowed to sit together during visitation, with restrictions only applied in cases of safety concerns. Advocates say the harsh policy is part of a broader strategy by the Trump administration to place more people in overcrowded facilities while their cases drag on, subjecting them to harsh conditions and limiting their ability to connect with the outside world. This can increase pressure on detainees to accept deportation. In California City, detainees are not staying silent. They have begun working with advocates to launch a public campaign, asking the warden to allow them to hug their loved ones. Allen Tayson, a 37-year-old father of two from Gilroy, appeared on a video call from the facility, his voice strained by the noise and chaos behind him. “We feel isolated in here,” he said. “Everything is meant to break you down and discourage you and make you give up hope. If I was able to hug and hold my wife and kids, it would be like a brief getaway that would take me away from this setting. I’d cherish every second.” Tayson, who was detained by ICE during a green card interview, has missed most of his wife’s pregnancy. His wife, Samantha Sanchez, is now seven months pregnant and struggling with stress and depression. “I have this baby growing inside me, and he hasn’t even touched my belly,” she said. She wants to see her husband in person for reassurance. Their five-year-old daughter asks daily when her father will return and often prays alone, hoping for help from God. The family communicates through video calls, which cost 21 cents per minute, a financial burden for a family already stretched thin. The lack of access to visitation is part of a growing human rights crisis across the U.S. According to ICE’s websites, four of the 10 largest ICE detention centers entirely prohibit contact visits. Advocates say this has become a persistent issue since the Trump administration took office. Some facilities, like Otay Mesa in San Diego, have even restricted visits to video calls with poor connections. Despite the government allocating record funds for detention, advocates argue that there is no excuse for inhumane conditions. A recent audit found that California City’s ban on contact visits may violate CoreCivic’s own policies, which allow for physical contact visits unless there is a security risk. The facility has the space for such visits, but instead, detainees are limited to speaking through phones. “It’s just a denial of people’s humanity,” said Reverend Deborah Lee of the Interfaith Movement for Human Integrity. In response, detainees at California City have begun organizing. They have written letters to the warden demanding regular visits and launched a campaign called “Hugs Beyond Bars.” Some residents have even recorded themselves pleading for contact visits on social media. Advocates have taken these efforts to lawmakers, including a recent visit to Senator Alex Padilla’s office. While the senator’s office was sympathetic, CoreCivic and the warden have not responded to the demands. For now, Teresa Reyes remains in her home, waiting for the day she can finally hug her son.