Last week, the United States Supreme Court handed the Trump administration a worrying legal victory, allowing it to resume fast deportations of immigrants to so-called "third countries." When I heard the news, my heart skipped a beat, as my thoughts immediately focused on Tuan T. Phan.
For weeks now, Phan and eight other men from countries such as Myanmar, Vietnam, and Cuba have been detained in a converted shipping container on a naval base in Djibouti. They await a chance to plead their case against being forced on a plane bound for South Sudan, a country that has a Level 4 travel advisory — the highest level — from the U.S. State Department. A federal court in Massachusetts had issued an immediate injunction against the deportations because none of the people on the flight were given a chance to argue that their abandonment in Sudan would place them in grave harm, including exposure to death. The Trump administration has labeled Phan and the other deportees as "some of the worst of the worst illegal aliens" and claims this is necessary to protect the safety and security of the American people.
Phan is not a threat. I know him as Brother T. Though he served 25 years in prison after pleading guilty to first-degree murder and second-degree assault, he is a man who has paid his debt to society, who has transformed, who has brought light and laughter into one of the darkest places imaginable. We were both inmates at Clallam Bay Corrections Center for many years before we finished our sentences. And as Muslims, we celebrated cherished holidays like Eid, which passed just a couple of weeks ago, with fellow inmates. I remember one Ramadan, sitting shoulder to shoulder in a circle on the floor, our faces lit with joy. Apples and oranges were traded for packets of peanut butter and jelly; bags of chips were bartered for breakfast bars. Laughter filled the air, mingling with the warm scent of strong instant coffee passed from hand to hand. In those precious moments, the prison walls faded into the quiet gratitude of another day survived, another fast completed, and a sense of brotherhood that no barbed wire could contain.
At the center of it all was Brother T., his smile infectious. Wearing a simple white kufi and a khaki prison-issued shirt, he cracked jokes in English laced with a beautiful Vietnamese American accent. He teased Brother Abdullah about his patchy beard and how he stained his shirt with prayer oil to mask the smell of cigarettes. We erupted with laughter. Brother T. wasn't just making us laugh — he was reminding us of our humanity. That even in prison, stripped of identity and clothed in the garments of criminals, we could still find dignity, faith, and family.
That night, surrounded by laughter and the scent of warm coffee, I saw something that defied every stereotype about who we were supposed to be. We were men who had made terrible mistakes — but we were also men who had changed, who had grown, who had found purpose in the most unlikely of places. And at the heart of it all was Brother T., reminding us that we were still worthy of joy.
But if redemption is real — if we truly believe in second chances — then why is Brother T. now shackled in a shipping container on the other side of the world?
This is the question I can't stop asking since I learned that Brother T. was deported, without warning, to a country he's never known, separated from his family and community. It's a question that cuts to the core of who we are as a society, and who we choose to forgive.
Like Brother T., I grew up in a community where criminality was rampant. I too was still a child when I took the life of an innocent man and was sent to prison with adults. I too spent decades incarcerated. But because my parents were white — because our ancestors sought refuge in this land before laws could bar them from it — I am now free.
Since my release, I've had the privilege of building a beautiful life with my loved ones and serving as the head of one of Washington's most influential legal aid organizations. I now meet regularly with judges, lawmakers, and philanthropists — all in service of making a living amends to my victims and the communities I harmed.
I am no longer viewed merely as a violent offender. Most people I work with would never imagine I was once a prisoner, sharing a cup of coffee with Brother T. — who is still being punished for his crime, even after serving his sentence.
So, I ask again: What do we really believe about redemption?
Is it a principle we extend to all people, regardless of where they were born or the color of their skin? Or is it a privilege reserved for those of us whose families arrived here early enough to be woven into the fabric of belonging?
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Musa Abdul-Mateen is the executive director of the Seattle Clemency Project.
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