From Surviving Systemic Violence to Liberating People from Prisons and ICE Detention by Ny Nourn
For anyone to survive nearly 16 years of incarceration immediately followed by ICE detention and the threat of deportation would be nothing short of a miracle. With 16,000 Southeast Asian refugees in the United States currently facing deportation, however, these conditions are far from uncommon. Witnessing and enduring domestic violence, surviving the conditions of both prison and ICE detention, finding freedom from incarceration, and organizing for the freedom of immigrants and refugees has not only prepared me but shaped me into who I am today: a freedom fighter working in the movement to abolish the carceral system.
In 1978, my mother, barely 18 years old, escaped from Cambodia during the genocide that killed over 1.5 million of my Khmer people. For weeks, she fled on foot, swam through muddy rivers, and walked over land mines, before finding safety in the neighboring country of Thailand. While living in one of Thailand’s refugee camps, my mother met my biological father, who abandoned us shortly after I turned one. The memories that I have growing up in the refugee camp for the first five years of my life are foggy, but I can still distinctly remember the loneliness, fear, and sadness that I felt, and the physical pangs of cold and hunger. In 1985, my mother and I arrived in the United States as part of the largest refugee group of over 1.2 million Southeast Asians. And like many Southeast Asian families that came between the late ’70s and early ’80s, we had difficulties resettling in the United States without adequate resources or access to social services, such as mental healthcare and language accommodations.
Growing up in San Diego, California, was difficult for me because my family and I moved often, and because of the constant moves, I had problems adjusting and focusing in school. To add to that, my life at home was consistently unstable because of the domestic violence that I was exposed to by my mother and stepfather. I can only imagine that as refugees, they were both unable to deal with their own personal traumas, which ultimately carried over as anger and bitterness that seeped into their relationship with each other. Unfortunately, their abusive relationship was my only model for what relationships should look like, and I became trapped in an abusive relationship of my own as a result. At 17 years old, I met a guy twice my age over the internet. In the early stages of our relationship, he was constantly showering me with affection, and we were inseparable. Shortly after, though, he started to become critical of my physical appearance and choice of attire, and became jealous of me spending time with my friends and family. His words went from light teasing to deliberately hurtful remarks that made me doubt my own self-worth and question whether I was worthy of being loved. In public, he was respectful with everyone he encountered and gentle with me in front of others. Whenever we were alone or out of public view, however, he would verbally put me down and yell at me. His promises of love and a future together turned instead into a cycle of lies, verbal abuse, and manipulation in an attempt to control my life. At the time, I was unequipped to recognize the red flags or warning signs of an abusive relationship, and I had no one to confide in about what I was experiencing. During my senior year of high school, shortly after turning 18, I became involved with another person while still in that abusive relationship. My abuser found out about the person, and out of rage and jealousy, forced me to confront the person with him. He then shot and killed that person. I feared that if I tried to tell anyone about what he had done or if I tried to leave him, he would find out and kill me and my family. Despite the fact that the physical abuse worsened after that, I remained silent for three years. I was finally able to break free from him after a co-worker encouraged me to report the murder to the police. But instead of being protected from him, I was arrested, charged, and convicted for the murder my abuser had committed. The police, prosecutor, and judge all believed that I was responsible for my abuser’s deadly actions and blamed me for his behavior; they didn’t care that I was not the one who had taken the victim’s life. Sadly, domestic violence survivors like me, people of color from poor economic backgrounds, are often criminalized by the legal system that is supposed to protect them. Instead of being supported, survivors are punished for actions done in self-defense and/or are blamed for their abuser’s behavior. Survivors are sentenced to an excessive amount of time in prison and often end up serving anywhere from 15 to over 25 years before they are eligible for parole. At just 21 years old, I was sentenced to life without the possibility of parole (LWOP), which meant I was going to spend the rest of my natural life behind barbed wire fences.
In 2003, I was sent to the Central California Women’s Facility in Chowchilla, California—the largest women’s prison in the world. After being separated from my family for the first time, over five hundred miles away in an unfamiliar place, I fell into a deep depression that was accompanied by thoughts of suicide. After spending some time attending a domestic violence support group, however, I started to take in what the other survivors were sharing. I soon realized that the personal circumstances that had led to my conviction were not isolated or even uncommon. It was their first time in prison, as it was mine, and they were all serving lengthy or life sentences. The survivors' backgrounds were strikingly similar to mine, particularly the abuse and trauma we had experienced prior to the events that led to our convictions. These support groups were the starting point of my healing journey. I relied on these survivors not only for my personal healing, but also for our shared hope for freedom. It was beautiful how we supported each other’s growth and the belief that our court sentences were not final, that one day we would be free and reunited with our loved ones, and that society's judgment of us as monsters and villains was only their opinion, not ours to accept.
As the years went by, I continued to challenge my conviction while I was incarcerated. In 2008, an appeals court finally gave me an opportunity to be one step closer to freedom. The courts granted me the opportunity to appear before the parole board because they had recognized that the circumstances of my conviction were directly related to the abuse I had received from my abuser. I ended up being resentenced to 15 years to life, which meant that I'd have a chance at freedom if I could present my case to the prison parole board. Knowing that I could possibly be paroled one day, I continued to work hard on my healing and growth, preparing myself for life outside the walls with my family and community. During that time, I had many personal accomplishments, including becoming a substance abuse mentor and obtaining certification in paralegal studies, as well as becoming a fitness and health coach. I also earned a college degree while continuing to do volunteer work with the California Coalition for Women Prisoners (CCWP), a grassroots organization whose goal is to help challenge the excessive sentences and inhumane conditions for women inside California prisons. A few years before my parole hearing in 2015, however, a friend of mine told me that I would be facing deportation despite being a permanent resident. I looked into it and received a response back from the Asian Law Caucus (ALC) in San Francisco telling me that despite being a child of a refugee parent and green card holder, my conviction would make me deportable to Cambodia. I was beyond devastated that no one had told me this, not even my attorney at the time I was arrested. But Anoop Prasad, an attorney from the Asian Law Caucus, visited me in prison and shared with me that there was immigration relief available to stop my deportation. But that chance of relief was slim. Nevertheless, I knew I had no choice but to fight for my freedom and try to remain in the United States with my family.
In January of 2017, I appeared before the prison parole board and was recommended for parole. I was told that it was unlikely that I'd be deported to Cambodia. Because I knew better than to believe what the parole board told me, I consulted Anoop, who informed me that Cambodia was accepting deportees, and only a Convention Against Torture (CAT) claim would provide me with protection from being deported. Although there was about a 50 percent chance I’d be able to win a CAT claim, that was still better than nothing, and I tried my best to keep hope alive inside of me. In the months before my release, I couldn’t even look forward to leaving prison because an ICE agent had already visited me to tell me that they were going to arrest me on the day of my release. Thinking about being arrested by ICE left me overwhelmed with feelings of fear and anxiety. And in May of 2017, after 15½ years in prison, on what was supposed to be a day of celebration, I was shackled by the leg and waist in chains by a private security guard contracted by ICE, who then escorted me into an unmarked white van. I was temporarily detained in a freezing-cold holding tank at the Fresno ICE field office for a couple of hours before being put in another unmarked white van and driven nearly four hours to the Yuba ICE detention facility near Sacramento.
Yuba County Jail was a coed facility that also rented space for ICE. It was a place that could only be described as a suffocating and filthy dungeon, filled with hopelessness and despair. The first evening I was there, it gave me flashbacks to when I was first arrested, but this time, it seemed like my time in prison had made me more aware of the horrendous conditions I was now dealing with in Yuba. I was housed in a pod, a dormitory-like setting, with about thirty other women. Like me, they were all facing deportation without any idea if they would ever be reunited with their loved ones in the United States or if they’d be facing potentially much worse and more unsafe conditions when/if they were deported. We had to share two toilets, two sinks, and four showers that were lined up side by side with only a flimsy piece of green plastic that was supposed to be a curtain for privacy. If we were lucky, we got an hour of fresh air per day. There were two phones in the pod, and they were in constant use, as many of the women were attempting to contact an attorney or a legal aid organization for help with their immigration case. Unlike in state court, people are not automatically assigned an attorney in immigration court, so very few can afford to hire their own immigration attorney. As a result, many people end up representing themselves in court, which ultimately seals their fate for deportation because immigration judges only see people for what they have been convicted for, with little interest in stopping their deportation. In my case, I was fortunate enough to have my community by my side every step of the way, particularly when the #FreeNy campaign was launched for me after I was transferred from prison to ICE detention.
Despite the support I had, my time in detention was difficult, due to the conditions inside and the constant worry that I would be deported to Cambodia rather than reunited with my loved ones. I’m grateful that I had more hopeful days than days filled with anxiety and fear. I was able to stay connected with my community through letter writing, phone calls, and visits from members of Survived & Punished (S&P) California—an organization working to fight for the freedom of criminalized domestic violence and sexual assault survivors—and the Asian Prisoner Support Committee (APSC)—a grassroots organization helping to provide direct support to API immigrants and refugees—as well as countless other individuals who encouraged me to stay hopeful. My community’s endless support also inspired me to make my own commitment to do organizing work to help free survivors, immigrants, and refugees from prison and ICE detention.
On November 9, 2017, after six months in ICE detention, and after a total of 16 years and one day of incarceration, I was released on bond and was finally reunited with my family and community. Being released from ICE detention was only possible because my community raised over $10,000 to make sure my bond would be covered. That evening, as I was waiting in the jail lobby for my attorneys Anoop and Melanie to pick me up, I was consumed with a mix of excitement, relief, and nervousness, knowing I wouldn't have to spend another night sleeping in detention and wouldn't have to sit behind a plexiglass window waiting for my visitors to come see me. Since being freed, I still think about how grateful I am that I can open a door without fear of it being locked behind me, that I can ride a bus without cold and heavy leg and waist chains gripping my skin, and that I can enjoy a meal with my family and friends without a guard standing behind us, watching our every move.
After my release, I became a first-time resident of San Francisco, and have had the opportunity to explore its beauty. I’ve now traveled up and down California, and have even taken a few trips to the East Coast. In 2018, I accepted the Yuri Kochiyama Fellowship offered by the Asian Law Caucus. The fellowship was established to empower formerly incarcerated API immigrants to lead advocacy-bridging movements against prisons and deportation. The fellowship gave me many opportunities to share my story as well as the stories of other incarcerated immigrants and refugees facing deportation, including numerous occasions to lobby local and state elected leaders, and to speak at hearings, events, and rallies at various college campuses. Through this fellowship, my voice was heard at the State Capitol, in Washington, DC, and in front of multiple prisons and ICE detention facilities. I also became an organizer with S&P to aid in the release of criminalized survivors, while also serving as a council member with APSC and doing anti-deportation work. In addition, I continued to volunteer my time with CCWP, where I was involved with the #DropLWOP campaign. Following the completion of my Yuri Kochiyama Fellowship, I was offered the community advocate position with the Immigrant Rights program at ALC, where I would continue to provide support for immigrants and refugees in state prisons and ICE detentions, advocate for pardon campaigns for many Southeast Asian refugees, and help build on immigration policies to stop ICE transfers of people from local jails and prisons to ICE detention.
Despite the fact that I had been out of ICE detention while on bond for nearly three years and had developed a solid relationship with my community, I was still concerned that ICE could arrest me and begin deportation proceedings at any time. Then, unexpectedly, one morning in June of 2020, the governor’s office informed me that the governor had granted me a full and unconditional pardon. A pardon meant that I no longer had to fear being arrested by ICE and that I could remain in the US with my family and community. The pardon also gave me a lot of relief because I knew I could continue to organize and fight for the freedom of people in prisons and ICE detention.
After experiencing decades of violence in interpersonal relationships, prison, and ICE detention, I’m grateful that I’ve survived these traumas—but knowing that many others have not is heartbreaking. It's also heartbreaking to know that so many Southeast Asian refugees have been exiled to countries where they have no family or community ties. Seeing the irreparable harm that incarceration and deportation causes people fuels me, along with many other freedom fighters, to continue the movement to liberate community members and reunite them with their families. I know that as long as the carceral system exists, it will only perpetuate harm and continue to cause division among our diverse communities. We must stand up against these oppressive systems and dismantle them until the walls crumble and the cages are ripped apart. That means it will take all of us to free them all, and for me, that means using my voice to protect the most marginalized communities, sharing my journey as part of healing dialogues, and holding sacred the priceless gifts of love and compassion bestowed upon me by my community.
NY NOURN works as Community Advocate for the Immigrant Rights Program at Advancing Justice - Asian Law Caucus (ALC). Outside her work, Ny volunteers as an organizer with Survived and Punished Coalition, a Council Member with the Asian Prisoner Support Committee, and a member of the California Coalition for Women Prisoners, supporting the release of incarcerated domestic violence survivors and immigrants facing deportation. Ny is also a formerly incarcerated community member and domestic violence survivor, who after serving 16 years in prison, was immediately detained by ICE. But after many months of advocacy from community groups across California, Ny walked out of ICE detention. In June of 2020, Ny was granted a full and unconditional pardon preventing her deportation to Cambodia.