Sleeping on the floor of a Chicago police station for weeks, some migrants say it’s still their best option

CHICAGO -- Carlos Ramirez, who was a police officer in Venezuela before he says he was persecuted by government officials, now sleeps on an air mattress on the floor of a police station in Chicago.

He and his wife Betzabeth Bracho have nestled their suitcases on a bench at the 5th District police station in Pullman. About seven weeks since arriving in Chicago from San Antonio, Texas, they have established a routine for themselves. They came to the city because they’d heard its sanctuary label made it a friendly place for migrants.

Before bed, they eat donated food and store-bought sandwiches in plastic containers, bathe in the public restroom, blow up their air mattress bed and call their two young sons across borders.

Ramirez, 38, and Bracho, 33, haven’t been selected as part of the cohort of people with “medical or special needs, families, or singles with other critical needs such as pregnancy” who have been prioritized by the city for removal to temporary shelters, and like many recent arrivals, they are fine with that. They’re getting better treatment at the police stations than they would at city-run shelters, they say, despite what onlookers might describe as inhumane living conditions.

The Tribune spent a night at the 5th District station to observe what it is like for migrants to fall asleep on hard tile floors, with bright lights shining in their faces, residents spilling into the station at any hour of the night and police sirens occasionally blaring.

As of Friday, there were 4,878 asylum-seekers in 13 city-run shelters and 460 waiting in police stations, according to a statement from Office of Emergency Management and Communications spokesperson Mary May. Police district census numbers are analyzed each morning, according to the statement, and “decompression” decisions are based off volume of clients at specific stations, people with special circumstances, availability of space and transportation plans.

“Individuals receive a service request number from 311 upon arrival in the system. This helps with tracking when they arrive,” the statement said. “As new arrivals and asylum-seekers continue to arrive in Chicago via bus and other means, City officials are working simultaneously to identify spaces to convert into temporary shelters and to assist individuals and families in identifying more permanent housing opportunities.”

Oftentimes when the number goes down, it quickly goes back up with additional asylum-seekers arriving, the statement said. Nearly two dozen buses have arrived from Texas since May 9, according to the city, including seven since the middle of this month.

The city brought about 38 of the migrants to the 5th District station in early May and 12 remain, Bracho said on a recent night.

7:25 p.m. — Bracho stood outside the station, and said she spent the day building houses. She said every day a man comes around 9 a.m. to pick up a group of men from the station in his truck and take them to a construction site. He drops them back off a little before 7 p.m.

Ramirez can make $120 to $150 a day, and when she goes too, they make even more, Bracho said. In Venezuela, Bracho was studying to be a kindergarten teacher.

Police officers mostly leave them alone, she said, but sometimes they give them bad looks. And they certainly don’t try to help them, she said.

“We’re not here because we want to be. I want to leave,” she said in Spanish. “My husband goes out every day to find work. I go out every day to find work. I’d like to tell them we’re trying to make money so we can move out as quickly as possible.”

Two to three times a week, a volunteer brings them to a different location to shower.

Tonight, they washed off using a plastic bucket of water which they fill up in the sink, then walked to a store nearby to get hot chicken. The store was closed Thursday evening, she said, so they ate the non-perishables they had saved.

“No es fácil estar aquí,” said Bracho. “It’s not easy living here.”

She pointed to a cluster of bikes leaning against the wall of the station and said a group of volunteers had donated them. Most of them were kids’ bikes, and the volunteers had asked if the migrants still wanted them. They’d all said yes.

Bracho’s sons — 7-year-old Jose Ramirez and 11-year old Jubert Javier — are living in Venezuela with their aunt and grandmother.

8:54 p.m. — While Bracho showered and ate, others from Venezuela milled around the station.

Huberth Espinoza, 65, lay on a metal bench outside with his 27-year-old son Kalil Espinoza sitting beside him. The bottom of his belly bulged out from his green T-shirt. They’ve been at the station for a month, he said.

Espinoza said he also fled his country for political reasons, and is saving money to buy an apartment in the city. His face lit up when he described the way his country used to be, before Nicolás Maduro began cracking down on oppositional forces and before millions lost access to health care and nutrition.

He said the inside of the police station can be loud and hostile at night, especially on the weekends.

“When it’s cold outside it’s worse,” he said in Spanish. “People urinate on the floor.”

Espinoza said he worked in solar electric in Venezuela. He said his 11 kids are scattered across Latin America, his wife in Chile.

Like many, his journey to the United States was brutal, he said.

“We came through the mountains, crossing rivers, women were violated, people died,” he said, recounting the months he spent passing through Colombia, Panama, Costa Rica and Honduras.

Crossing from Juarez to El Paso was the most difficult, he said, because he was separated from his son in an Immigration and Customs Enforcement roundup in the Franklin Mountains. When he got to the United States, he turned himself into authorities so he could be reunited with his son. They have a court date scheduled in September, he said.

He cried thinking about that time without his son, looking up at the sliver of moon which shone down on the police courtyard.

The two now sat side by side, tinkering with a phone and data card Espinoza bought. When it got late enough, they entered through the revolving door of the station, pulled a donated mat next to an EZ Pay kiosk and in front of a used prescription disposal box, layered it with donated blankets and laid down side by side. They scrolled on Espinoza’s new phone.

9:16 p.m. — Police officers drove up and walked to the counter to start their shift as migrants wound down for the evening.

Two women who didn’t give their names to the Tribune lay close together on an air mattress and put a blanket over their heads, whispering. Later, they watched TikToks and laughed.

10:06 p.m. — Sylvia Mares, a volunteer from the Chicago Police Station Response Team entered. She walked around with a pen and paper, hoping to take down the names of people who might want to be moved to a shelter.

Everyone she asked said no. They are comfortable here, they have a job and they’ve had enough unknown in their lives recently, she said. And many of them have heard from their contacts that conditions at other shelters are worse than at police stations.

The Tribune recently spoke to migrants from nine shelters who said that they are crowded in hotel rooms or sleeping on the ground, eating cold and unappetizing meals and unsure of where to find resources. Volunteers have said they are unable enter shelters and provide donations such as clothes and hot meals, and the city has rejected numerous requests by the Tribune to see inside.

Mares comes two to three times a day to bring migrants food and resources at Districts 3, 4 and 22, she said. Alejandra Mendez, 25, in District 5 is two months pregnant and Mares has been helping her. She took her to buy a pregnancy test, and has brought her to the hospital for routine checkups, she said.

“I’m just doing what I can,” she said.

She calls them her “kids” and says they “grow up so fast in three months.”

Mares was born in Chicago, but lived in Mexico for a large part of her youth.

At Mares’ request, she asked Ramirez to gather a group of people to go through the trash bags full of clothing donations in the back of her car. People stood outside and held up shirts and shorts for a full view. They draped corduroys and sweatshirts and plaid shirts over their shoulders.

“Look, so beautiful!” said Mares in Spanish to a woman holding up a satin orange blouse. She whistled.

“This one is sexy, with a flower,” she said to another, picking out a sweater.

Ramirez and Bracho lingered and followed Mares to her car. She gave them rental assistance advice and tips about how to search for furniture once they have found an apartment.

10:38 p.m. — Migrants refilled their trash bags after inspecting the clothing and entered the shelter to lie down.

Through the windows of the station, people covered in blankets could be seen lying horizontal on the plastic mattresses. Old Easter decorations hung from the ceiling. Police officials walked briskly down the corridors on the second floor of the building, visible from the courtyard.

12:26 a.m. — A man wearing mostly black came into the station and put his stuff on the bench next to Ramirez and Bracho’s neatly stacked suitcases. He spent a few minutes rummaging through his backpack, stretched his legs on the bench and started to snore.

The station filled up and then emptied out with various residents from the neighborhood, some going up to the desk to talk to officers.

One woman had an arm in a sling. A man entered and four officers urgently followed him out.

3:36 a.m. — A woman walked inside and slowly staggered to the front.

“Is anybody going to get me a bologna sandwich?” she said.

Another woman entered the station, mumbling and pacing. She crumpled up on the floor at the foot of Ramirez and Bracho’s bed, covering herself with a light blue sheet, squirming.

Officials sat at the counter and typed. The automatic door opened and closed. Some migrants covered their eyes with strips of cloth to block out the light.

Mendez, the pregnant woman, got up to go to the bathroom for the third or fourth time, carrying a plastic bucket with her.

6 a.m. — Sunlight flooded the station, streaming in the windows on the individuals and couples who had spent days and nights traveling miles, riding trains, crossing rivers and jungles to get here.

But packaged sandwiches and a few police officers who stare is better than living in constant fear, Bracho said.

“We’re uncomfortable, but all we can do is wait,” she said in Spanish.

She said she woke up feeling sad and stressed. She knew she would have to look for work, and wondered where and how she and her husband would find an apartment.