Teresa Reyes drove 300 miles to California City in May to mark her son's 32nd birthday. She could not embrace him, share a meal, or even touch his hand. A thick pane of glass separated them as they spoke through telephones. Her son, Guillermo, a tattoo artist from San Jose, is held at California City immigration detention center, the state's largest ICE facility. Since it opened a year ago under the Trump administration, the center has forbidden all contact visits. The roughly 1,600 people detained there cannot sit at tables with visitors or hug relatives who travel to this remote desert region north of Los Angeles. Instead, they speak through phone handsets while separated by glass barriers. The total prohibition on physical contact visits is extreme for any long-term detention facility, especially one housing people whose only alleged offense is an immigration violation. Prisons across America housing people convicted of serious crimes typically permit families to sit together, restricting contact only when immediate safety concerns arise. CoreCivic, the private prison company running California City, defended the policy in an email, citing security and contraband concerns. ICE did not respond to requests for comment. The policy is causing severe pain. Allen Tayson, a 37-year-old repair shop worker from Gilroy, has been detained since February when ICE arrested him at a green card interview. He came to the United States as a child from the Philippines and is married to a U.S. citizen. His wife is now seven months pregnant with their third child. Tayson has not held any of his family members since his detention. "We feel isolated in here," Tayson said in a video call from the facility, his voice competing with clangs and shouts behind him. "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." Tayson and his wife, Samantha Sanchez, chose not to visit at all given the glass barrier rule. They made that decision from experience. Years ago, when Tayson was briefly jailed on firearm charges that were later dismissed, their then-three-year-old son reached out to hug his father at the end of a visit and collided with the glass. The memory haunts them both. Video calls from the facility cost 21 cents per minute, or $6.30 for 30 minutes. Sanchez manages this expense while working and caring for two children, all while navigating a high-risk pregnancy without her husband's physical presence or support. "I have this baby growing inside me, and he hasn't even touched my belly," Sanchez said. "It would just be a bit of relief on my nervous system to hug him." Their five-year-old daughter asks daily when her father is coming home. Sanchez often finds her daughter praying alone, asking God to help her dad. Of the 10 largest ICE detention centers nationally, four entirely ban contact visits. California City is joined by Stewart in Georgia, South Texas in Pearsall, and Montgomery in Conroe, Texas, according to ICE websites. Michelle Brané, former immigration detention ombudsman for the Department of Homeland Security, said contact visits were common at ICE facilities before 2016. But during Trump's first term, more detention centers shifted to glass-only visitation. That pattern has persisted. "When you have as much money as this administration, there's no excuse for inhumane conditions," Brané, now executive director of the advocacy group Together and Free, said in reference to record detention funding. A California Department of Justice audit in spring found that the contact visit ban appeared to violate a CoreCivic policy the company had provided to the state. That policy stated there should be opportunities for physical contact, with restrictions only for "security risks." Photos from the audit showed the visitation room has picnic tables where families once gathered years earlier when the facility operated as a state prison. Those tables now remain unused. Detainees see visitors only at a row of phones at the edge of the room. Reverend Deborah Lee, executive director of the Interfaith Movement for Human Integrity, said the setup prevents meaningful communication. Only one person can speak through a phone at a time, making group conversations impossible. During a July visit, Lee asked California City Warden Christopher Chestnut why contact visits were banned. He cited higher overdose rates at facilities that permit contact, without elaboration. Detained residents began organizing in April. Gustavo Guevara, held since the facility opened, helped draft a letter from his dorm demanding regular visits. The effort spread to other dorms. Some residents had transferred from ICE facilities where contact visits were allowed and were shocked to lose that access. "Not only are you immediately deprived of that human interaction, but what is hanging over your head is the possibility of being sent to another country, not knowing if you'll ever hold your loved ones again," Guevara said. Working with the California Collaborative for Immigrant Justice, an Oakland nonprofit, activists launched the "Hugs Beyond Bars" campaign. They delivered demand letters to the warden and published videos of detained residents pleading for contact visits on social media. Tayson recorded himself reading his own letter, released on Instagram. Guevara had a close friend visit him regularly behind glass until June, when he was deported to Mexico. They never hugged goodbye. Guevara does not know if he will see his friend again, but he continues advocating for those left behind. Last month, Sanchez joined advocates for a visit to U.S. Senator Alex Padilla's office in San Francisco, urging Congress to pressure CoreCivic. "I wanted my kids to see that mom can have a voice," she said. "That I'm doing this for dad and other families." The senator's office appeared sympathetic. CoreCivic and Warden Chestnut have not responded to the demands. When Reyes visited her son in May, she noticed vending machines for visitors. She asked staff if she could buy her son a snack. They said no. Advocates asked if she could have one brief hug as an exception. The officers refused. Reyes has not returned since May. She says she will only come back when she can hug her son. Author James Rodriguez: "This isn't about coddling immigration detainees, it's about basic human dignity that even convicted felons get in most prisons, and the hypocrisy of that gap is indefensible."