And then it happened-what we had planned for, but I had never really imagined happening. The Border Patrol agent boarded the bus, and began walking down the aisle, asking the immigration status of everyone. We did not respond, having already launched into "We Shall Overcome" and holding up our badges with the statement explaining that we, as Immigrant Worker Freedom Riders, have chosen to exercise our right to remain silent until consulting with our lawyer. The agent seemed half amused, half annoyed, and nonetheless asked the immigration status of everyone, then gets off the bus.

We are boarded twice more by agents. In between, we note the growing number of agents outside the bus, the fact that the sheriff has arrived (a violation, we are informed, as this is a federal matter and has no cause to involve state level agents), and that dogs have been passed by the now opened compartments of the bus. We continue to sing solidarity songs, and are constantly reassured and informed by the legal team of events.

It was unexpected for me when it happened. We were boarded the third time, and one of the agents headed to the back, moving forward. We continued to sing, keeping our expressions neutral, and facing forward, badges raised. Suddenly, one by one, riders from the back began getting off the bus. I felt my stomach drop out, and I recognized the last row, then the one before. I thought at first that they were selecting a few particular riders, but it soon became clear that we were all being taken off.

So when my turn came, and the agent said, "Country of citizenship, ma'am" I ignored him, holding up my badge, and singing. He said, "Please get off the bus." So I got up, passed by the other agent observing, and stepped off the bus. We were lined up, and although I was honestly scared, I looked at my fellow riders, and felt reassured. I stepped next to one of my sisters, and continued to sing.

We were then marched into the detention center, and placed in little rooms. We were separated into about six different rooms, and it was obvious that they deliberately attempted to separate the two buses, perhaps thinking that we wouldn't be as comfortable with our fellow riders from the other bus. They were quite mistaken. We continued to sing, even stomping our feet to our cries of "What do we want?" "Justice!" until an agent jerked open the door and screamed at us, "Stop that stomping or I'll have you charged with destruction of government property!" We stop the stomping, but sing even louder.

The detention center cell was a humbling experience for me. Working for Derechos Humanos, I communicate with many who have gone through this experience, and I now understand the frightening, clinical feel of the detention cells. I pace off about 9 feet in width, and there is a metal toilet with no privacy, toilet paper, or door. The metal door has a one foot square window, out of which you can see the cell across the hall. On the door, names and cities have been carved into the paint. One message questions "Why am I here?" and I can't help but wonder the same.

We are 14 women in our cell. Some of us cry, others laugh to ease the tension, and others just sing. We hold hands, hug, and keep up our spirits with chants and songs. We can see out of the window at our brothers across the hall. When we falter, their voices singing start us up again. We wave and smile through the windows.

Then, the door opens, and the agent calls for 12 women. Inez and I are at the back, so we are left alone when the door shuts again. We continue to sing, but I am more than a little numb, and keep focusing on the words and our brothers across the hall. The agent returns for us, and leads us out to the main room. We are lined up, and 10 other women brought in to stand with us. One of the agents reads us our rights, then asks whether we understand. Some of us respond, others don't, but the agent seems satisfied. Then, one by one, we are led off by different agents.

My agent is tall, Anglo, and blond. He wears dark glasses and seems more than a little annoyed. He asks me my country of citizenship. I do not respond, holding up my badge that explains that I have chosen to remain silent until I speak to my attorney. He asks me again, then he says, "Do you speak English? Can you at least tell me if you speak English?" I hold up the card, and look for a moment at where I guess his eyes to be behind those dark shades. He says, "I can't read that. What does it say? Tell me what it says" I don't respond, and am beginning to feel angry; I have asserted that I have the right to remain silent, and here this guy is trying to force me to talk! I hold the badge up higher, and grit my teeth. He says, "Do you speak English? You won't even nod or shake your head?" I hold the badge even higher, and feel the anger in my eyes. He is obviously disgusted, and says to another agent who is about to lead one of my fellow riders away, "Take this one, too."

We are led back to the bus, and wait again. Finally, after what seems like forever and is actually almost four hours, we are permitted to leave. We maintain total silence as we drive away, and pull of at the first exit to count riders and get back to the correct buses, and to celebrate our solidarity. Everyone stood together in solidarity, and not one rider strayed from the plan.

Standing outside the buses, hugging and cheering, I realized that these people who were starting to become my friends have now become my family.

Space prevents us from publishing all the journals we received, but suffice it to say, the facts were all consistent--as well as the feelings --particularly those of solidarity when the ordeal was over.