Friday, June 05, 2026
‘We call it the P-word’: Chicago professor suspended after assignment mentions Palestinians
‘We call it the P-word’: Chicago professor suspended after assignment mentions Palestinians
“A tenured art therapy professor at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago was suspended after a student complained about a case study mentioning violence against Palestinians. The student, involved in separate investigations regarding alleged antisemitism, claimed the assignment was discriminatory. The professor, who denies any wrongdoing, argues the suspension is motivated by the mere mention of Palestine and plans to file a discrimination complaint.
School of the Art Institute of Chicago professor put under investigation after a student complained about a case study
A tenured art therapy professor at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago(SAIC) was suspended from teaching and placed under investigation following a student’s complaint about an assigned case study that mentioned violence against Palestinians.
Savneet Talwar, a faculty member with the school’s art therapy and counseling program, assigned the case study in April to a class on the cultural dimensions of therapy. The assignment asked students to develop an ethical treatment plan for a hypothetical queer, Muslim woman living in the US.
The language of the assignment read: “While she was not particularly politically active in her home country, protests in support of Palestineresonated with her on a personal level. She felt deeply affected by the violence against Palestinian civilians and was critical of the home government’s limited response.”
The two-page assignment, which was reviewed by the Guardian, mostly focused on other elements of the client’s case, including her family history, relationships and status as an immigrant. It made no additional references to Palestine or Palestinians, and no mention of Israel. But Talwar’s department had already been mired in multiple complaints and investigations about alleged antisemitism involving the same student, and faculty had been required to take anti-bias training as the school sought to address the “climate” in the department.
The school was also sued in late 2023 by an Israeli student in the same program over alleged antisemitism, including an assignment for which students were asked to review images drawn by children depicting violence by Israeli soldiers against Palestinian civilians.
After Talwar’s student received the case study, the professor got a call from a dean asking whether she had assigned “anything with Palestine in it”. She was then called into an “urgent” meeting with the school’s provost, and her class for the following day was canceled. The following day, on 17 April, the school formally notified Talwar that she was being put on paid leave, and forbade her from speaking about the matter with students and colleagues. The case study was removed from an online learning platform used for the class. In a letter, a school official warned Talwar that assigning the student the case study may constitute “discrimination, harassment and/or retaliation”.
According to the letter, the student was also involved in separate investigations “involving claims by her as a Jewish Israeli related to alleged conduct expressing an anti-Israeli, antisemitic, and/or pro-Palestine viewpoint”. The official wrote that despite being aware of the other investigations, Talwar “gave an academic assignment that focused solely on the issues of a Muslim woman with strong sympathies for the Palestinian cause”. In a separate letter to Talwar, a dean appeared to question her judgment for assigning the case study under the ongoing “circumstances”.
“One of the reasons this issue raises such serious concerns is that there have been multiple, prior complaints alleging the creation of a hostile environment within your department,” the dean wrote.
Talwar told the Guardian in an exclusive interview that she was “stunned” by a suspension that appeared to be motivated by “the mere mention of the word Palestine”.
A spokesperson for SAIC declined to comment on personnel matters or ongoing investigations, but said that the school is committed “to learning environments in which ideas are freely exchanged and students and faculty are welcomed, respected, and valued”. The Guardian could not reach the student who complained.
Talwar, through an attorney, submitted a formal grievance letter and argued that the suspension might itself be discriminatory. Nearly a month after she had been suspended from teaching, on 13 May, school officials outlined other issues involving the same student that predated the case study.
The school officials cited included exchanges in which Talwar allegedly characterized the Bondi beach terror attack in Australia as “gun violence” without acknowledging antisemitism, and suggested that the student “consider” whether or not to attend a lecture by a guest described as a “strong anti-Zionist activist”.
Talwar declined to respond to allegations involving the student, citing confidentiality she is bound to. She flatly rejected that the case study she assigned was antisemitic or discriminatory in any way, and plans to file a formal employment discrimination complaint against the school.
Rima Kapitan, her attorney, said in a letter to school officials that they don’t even have a clear “theory of discrimination”. She wrote that Talwar had “bent over backwards” to accommodate the student.
“Are SAIC faculty expected to ethnically cleanse Palestinians from their course materials? Are Arab Muslims unworthy of their own case studies?” Kapitan wrote. “If a white supremacist student filed a discrimination complaint with the University alleging that he was triggered by a case study about a Black client who was struggling with police violence against Black people, would SAIC proceed with an investigation against the professor who drafted the assignment?”
Talwar said her case was an example of mounting “political pressure” in higher education.
“We call it the ‘P-word’ now,” she said, referring to faculty’s hesitation to discuss Palestine amid a repressive climate on US college campuses. “There is no tolerance for the very word.”
‘They are disturbing the dead’: reconstructing the site of the forgotten first genocide of the 20th century
‘They are disturbing the dead’: reconstructing the site of the forgotten first genocide of the 20th century
(As usual European colonialists minimize the numbers of people they murder in their colonization of indigenous populations.
What is Genocide?
One of five hundred children’s drawings collected by Waging Peace showing killings, bombing and looting committed by government troops. In November 2007, the drawings were accepted by the International Criminal Court as contextual evidence of the crimes committed in Darfur.
Courtesy of The Wiener Holocaust Library Collections.
Genocide is defined as an act committed with intent to destroy, in whole or in part, a national, ethnic, racial or religious group. The term ‘genocide’ was coined in 1944 by the Polish-Jewish lawyer Raphael Lemkin in his book Axis Rule in Occupied Europe. In creating the term ‘genocide’, Lemkin intended to more clearly define the crime of mass murder of groups of people and to raise awareness of it.
Genocide became a crime in itself following the adoption of the ‘Convention for the Prevention and Punishment of the Crime of Genocide’ by the United Nations General Assembly on 9 December 1948, as result of the events of the Holocaust. The Convention came into force on 12 January 1951.
Various different acts are defined in the convention as acts of genocide, including:
Killing members of a group.
Causing serious bodily or mental harm to members of the group.
Deliberately inflicting on the group conditions of life calculated to bring about its physical destruction in whole or in part.
Imposing measures intended to prevent births within the group.
Forcibly transferring children of the group to another group.
The Stages of Genocide
In 1987, Gregory Stanton, a professor of law, published a paper which explored how genocides develop and unfold.
In his original work, Stanton identified eight key stages which resulted in acts of genocide. According to Stanton’s model, some of these stages can happen at the same time or in a different order. In 2012, Stanton expanded on these ideas, and added two further stages (Discrimination and Persecution) to make ten. According to Stanton’s current model, therefore, the stages of genocide are as follows:
Classification – Dividing people into ‘them’ and ‘us’.
Symbolisation – Forcing groups to wear or be associated with symbols which identify them as different.
Discrimination – Excluding groups from participating in civil society, such as by excluding them from voting or certain places. In Nazi Germany, for example, Jews were not allowed to sit on certain park benches.
Dehumanisation – To deny the humanity of one group, and associate them with animals or diseases in order to belittle them.
Organisation – Training police or army units and providing them with weapons and knowledge in order to persecute a group in future.
Polarisation – Using propaganda to polarise society, create distance and exclude a group further.
Preparation – Planning of mass murder and identifying specific victims.
Persecution – Incarcerating groups in ghettos or concentration camps , forcibly displacing groups, expropriating property, belongings or wealth.
Extermination – Committing mass murder.
Denial – Denial of any crimes. This does not necessarily mean denying that the acts of murder happened, but denying that these acts were a crime, and were in fact justified.
Stanton hoped that by identifying these stages it would be easier to recognise genocide before it took place and thus stop it from happening.
The Herero and Namaqua Genocide
A photograph showing German forces gathered in GSWA to join in the conflict against the Herero people in 1904.
Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons [Public Domain].
The Herero and Namaqua Genocide was the massacre of approximately 50,000 – 65,000 Herero and 10,000 Nama between 1904 and 1907 by German military forces in German South West Africa (GSWA) – modern-day Namibia .
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‘They are disturbing the dead’: reconstructing the site of the forgotten first genocide of the 20th century
Summary
The exhibition “Fractured Lifeworlds” in Berlin, created by Forensic Architecture and Forensis, uses digital technology to investigate the legacy of the Herero and Nama genocide in Namibia. The exhibition examines how colonial violence is inscribed into the Namibian landscape, focusing on sites like Shark Island, where a concentration camp operated from 1905 to 1907. The exhibition also highlights the ongoing impact of colonialism, including the Hyphen project, a green hydrogen initiative that threatens to disturb ancestral lands and burial grounds.
At least 3,000 Herero and Nama people died in a German concentration camp at Shark Island, Namibia. A new forensic exhibition in Berlin is using digital technology to unearth how colonisers scarred a landscape, and a community
Hanno Hauenstein
A black and white photograph of 1897 Namibian grassland showing a large tree, hills, and mountains
‘A digital shield against historical denial’ … an 1897 photograph from Hatsamas, Namibia, matched with a 3D digital reconstruction. Photograph: Forensic Architecture/Forensis, 2025
Visiting the Namibian port town of Lüderitz in late 2024, I came across a small museum run by descendants of German settlers. Alongside imperial German flags and memorabilia, it displayed artefacts of the Herero tribe that had been recovered from nearby Shark Island. What went unmentioned is that, from 1905 to 1907, Shark Island was the site of a concentration camp where Herero and Nama prisoners were subjected to forced labour, starvation and systematic abuse. At least 3,000 people are estimated to have died there.
Shark Island was used as a tourist campsite when I visited. Monuments on the island honoured Adolf Lüderitz and Heinrich Vogelsang, the German merchants who helped establish the colony known as German South West Africa. Today, it is widely reported that Namibia’s white minority – less than 2% of the population – owns roughly 70% of commercial farmland.
Fractured Lifeworlds, a new exhibition opening in Berlin this week, is built around questions of memory, geography and accountability. The show presents four years of research by Forensic Architecture, a multidisciplinary research agency that uses visual reconstructions to investigate human rights abuses from Syria and Palestine to Greece and Germany.
Produced jointly with its Berlin-based sister organisation Forensis and developed in collaboration with Namibian researchers, the exhibition traces the legacy of what has been described as the first genocide of the 20th century. Originally presented at Namibia’s National Art Gallery in Windhoek last year, it now arrives at Spore Initiative in the form of three seasonal chapters, Bush, Wind and Sand, each examining how colonial violence became inscribed into Namibia’s arid landscape.
The show’s centrepiece is a series of films that combine oral testimony from descendants of genocide victims with meticulous geological research. An eerie 30-minute film on Shark Island reconstructs the concentration camp, showing how German authorities weaponised the island’s harsh environment against prisoners – and shipped their skulls back to Germany for pseudoscientific research. The investigation also identifies sand mounts nearby, believed to be unmarked mass graves for prisoners killed on Shark Island.
Underneath Shark Island, the Lüderitz port is set to expand as part of Hyphen, a multibillion-euro British-German green hydrogen project developed in Namibia. The project would use Namibia’s rich wind and solar resources to produce green hydrogen and ammonia for export. For Germany, it promises clean energy and greater independence from foreign fossil fuels.
For many Nama and Herero descendants, it recalls familiar patterns of extraction. Much of the project’s infrastructure is being developed across a 4,000 sq km area of ancestral land that belongs to Nama communities. According to human rights groups, they have been excluded from any meaningfully participation in the project.
Before and after images of Hatsamas, Namibia.
Before and after images of Hatsamas, Namibia. Photograph: Forensic Architecture/Forensis
Many descendants also fear that the Hyphen project could undermine efforts to preserve Namibia’s sites of the genocide as places of remembrance. Sima Luipert, adviser to the Nama Traditional Leaders Association (NTLA) and a collaborator on the exhibition, fears the port expansion could disturb burial grounds. “When they dredge, they don’t seem to realise that they are not simply moving dirt. They are disturbing the dead,” she says. “The water is the burial site.”
Germany refuses to pay reparations to Herero and Nama descendants, offering instead development aid payments negotiated with the Namibian government. When Germany formally recognised the atrocities in 2021, it described them as a genocide “from today’s perspective” – a formulation critics say avoids the legal and political implications of recognition. By that logic, no act committed before the 1948 genocide convention could fully qualify as such.
To Luipert, the agreement reflects a glaring double standard. “Germany can swiftly compensate victims of the Holocaust while invoking strict legal technicalities to deny reparations to Africans,” she says. To her, the show is a way to provide evidence – “a digital shield against historical denial”.
In recent years, Forensic Architecture’s work has divided opinion. Critics see its work as persuasive visualisations built on evidence that can be ambiguous; supporters argue the collective has pioneered new ways of exposing structures of violence that might otherwise remain hidden or obscured.
In the works presented in Berlin, transparency about methodology is central. This is perhaps most convincing in a film on the Hornkranz massacre of 1893, when German colonial troops under Curt von François attacked the settlement of Nama leader Hendrik Witbooi, killing dozens of civilians. Drawing on oral histories, photographs and in-depth analysis of changes in the landscape, the film reconstructs an atrocity largely absent from German collective memory.
The film’s process of reconstruction is visible throughout the exhibition space. Historical drawings, maps and a letter by Von François are displayed alongside digital models that imagine how the village might have looked before the massacre.
Evidence of a massacre: spent cartridges at Horncranz, dating back to 1893
Evidence of a massacre: spent cartridges at Horncranz, dating back to 1893. Photograph: Forensic Architecture/Forensis
Mark Mushiba, the lead curator of Fractured Lifeworlds and a researcher at Forensis, explains that historians have largely relied on colonial documents. Forensic Architecture and Forensis instead sought to “read the landscape”. In Hornkranz – which is now used as a private farm – that meant locating old bullet cartridges, identifying former homesteads through distinctive vegetation patterns and treating plants as historical evidence. “We were absolutely shocked by the lack of physical investigation that was done here,” Mushiba says.
Forensic Architecture founder Eyal Weizman describes their approach in Namibia as a form of “forensic botany”. With Forensis, the research agency analysed shades of grey in colonial photographs to infer patterns of grass density, and combined these findings with other sources to reconstruct the erasure of local communities. The aim is to recover a record inscribed in the landscape. In Weizman’s words, the show is about finding ways to “send a satellite back in time”.
This approach is mirrored in a work titled Satellite Images of Hatsamas, consisting of three digital prints in flashy red and green tones. Combining local knowledge, historical photographs and modern satellite data, the prints aim to visualise changes in vegetation over 150 years. The result will show how colonial settlement has shaped the land, leading to bush encroachment and desertification.
Contemporary artworks add a further layer to the show. Tuli Mekondjo contributes an embroidered Herero uniform titled Schutztruppe. Originally worn by German colonial soldiers, the garment was adopted by Herero communities as an act of resistance and commemoration. By stitching a human skeleton on to the fabric, Mekondjo transforms it into a wearable memorial for prisoners who died on Shark Island.
In speaking about the exhibition, Weizman repeatedly returns to the relationship between genocide and the desert: from the forced marches of Armenians into the Syrian desert to Gaza, where widespread destruction has transformed much of the territory into flattened terrain. Fractured Lifeworlds shows how colonial violence leaves traces in the land. As Germany continues to debate the meaning and scope of its memory culture, this exhibition is a timely reminder that the past remains part of the present.
Fractured Lifeworlds is at Spore Initiative, Berlin, from 7 June to 30 April”
“The exhibition “Fractured Lifeworlds” in Berlin, created by Forensic Architecture and Forensis, uses digital technology to investigate the legacy of the Herero and Nama genocide in Namibia. The exhibition examines how colonial violence is inscribed into the Namibian landscape, focusing on sites like Shark Island, where a concentration camp operated from 1905 to 1907. The exhibition also highlights the ongoing impact of colonialism, including the Hyphen project, a green hydrogen initiative that threatens to disturb ancestral lands and burial grounds.
At least 3,000 Herero and Nama people died in a German concentration camp at Shark Island, Namibia. A new forensic exhibition in Berlin is using digital technology to unearth how colonisers scarred a landscape, and a community
Visiting the Namibian port town of Lüderitz in late 2024, I came across a small museum run by descendants of German settlers. Alongside imperial German flags and memorabilia, it displayed artefacts of the Herero tribe that had been recovered from nearby Shark Island. What went unmentioned is that, from 1905 to 1907, Shark Island was the site of a concentration camp where Herero and Nama prisoners were subjected to forced labour, starvation and systematic abuse. At least 3,000 people are estimated to have died there.
Shark Island was used as a tourist campsite when I visited. Monuments on the island honoured Adolf Lüderitz and Heinrich Vogelsang, the German merchants who helped establish the colony known as German South West Africa. Today, it is widely reported that Namibia’s white minority – less than 2% of the population – owns roughly 70% of commercial farmland.
Fractured Lifeworlds, a new exhibition opening in Berlin this week, is built around questions of memory, geography and accountability. The show presents four years of research by Forensic Architecture, a multidisciplinary research agency that uses visual reconstructions to investigate human rights abuses from Syria and Palestine to Greece and Germany.
Produced jointly with its Berlin-based sister organisation Forensis and developed in collaboration with Namibian researchers, the exhibition traces the legacy of what has been described as the first genocide of the 20th century. Originally presented at Namibia’s National Art Gallery in Windhoek last year, it now arrives at Spore Initiative in the form of three seasonal chapters, Bush, Wind and Sand, each examining how colonial violence became inscribed into Namibia’s arid landscape.
The show’s centrepiece is a series of films that combine oral testimony from descendants of genocide victims with meticulous geological research. An eerie 30-minute film on Shark Island reconstructs the concentration camp, showing how German authorities weaponised the island’s harsh environment against prisoners – and shipped their skulls back to Germany for pseudoscientific research. The investigation also identifies sand mounts nearby, believed to be unmarked mass graves for prisoners killed on Shark Island.
Underneath Shark Island, the Lüderitz port is set to expand as part of Hyphen, a multibillion-euro British-German green hydrogen project developed in Namibia. The project would use Namibia’s rich wind and solar resources to produce green hydrogen and ammonia for export. For Germany, it promises clean energy and greater independence from foreign fossil fuels.
For many Nama and Herero descendants, it recalls familiar patterns of extraction. Much of the project’s infrastructure is being developed across a 4,000 sq km area of ancestral land that belongs to Nama communities. According to human rights groups, they have been excluded from any meaningfully participation in the project.
Many descendants also fear that the Hyphen project could undermine efforts to preserve Namibia’s sites of the genocide as places of remembrance. Sima Luipert, adviser to the Nama Traditional Leaders Association (NTLA) and a collaborator on the exhibition, fears the port expansion could disturb burial grounds. “When they dredge, they don’t seem to realise that they are not simply moving dirt. They are disturbing the dead,” she says. “The water is the burial site.”
Germany refuses to pay reparations to Herero and Nama descendants, offering instead development aid payments negotiated with the Namibian government. When Germany formally recognised the atrocities in 2021, it described them as a genocide “from today’s perspective” – a formulation critics say avoids the legal and political implications of recognition. By that logic, no act committed before the 1948 genocide convention could fully qualify as such.
To Luipert, the agreement reflects a glaring double standard. “Germany can swiftly compensate victims of the Holocaust while invoking strict legal technicalities to deny reparations to Africans,” she says. To her, the show is a way to provide evidence – “a digital shield against historical denial”.
In recent years, Forensic Architecture’s work has divided opinion. Critics see its work as persuasive visualisations built on evidence that can be ambiguous; supporters argue the collective has pioneered new ways of exposing structures of violence that might otherwise remain hidden or obscured.
In the works presented in Berlin, transparency about methodology is central. This is perhaps most convincing in a film on the Hornkranz massacre of 1893, when German colonial troops under Curt von François attacked the settlement of Nama leader Hendrik Witbooi, killing dozens of civilians. Drawing on oral histories, photographs and in-depth analysis of changes in the landscape, the film reconstructs an atrocity largely absent from German collective memory.
The film’s process of reconstruction is visible throughout the exhibition space. Historical drawings, maps and a letter by Von François are displayed alongside digital models that imagine how the village might have looked before the massacre.
Mark Mushiba, the lead curator of Fractured Lifeworlds and a researcher at Forensis, explains that historians have largely relied on colonial documents. Forensic Architecture and Forensis instead sought to “read the landscape”. In Hornkranz – which is now used as a private farm – that meant locating old bullet cartridges, identifying former homesteads through distinctive vegetation patterns and treating plants as historical evidence. “We were absolutely shocked by the lack of physical investigation that was done here,” Mushiba says.
Forensic Architecture founder Eyal Weizman describes their approach in Namibia as a form of “forensic botany”. With Forensis, the research agency analysed shades of grey in colonial photographs to infer patterns of grass density, and combined these findings with other sources to reconstruct the erasure of local communities. The aim is to recover a record inscribed in the landscape. In Weizman’s words, the show is about finding ways to “send a satellite back in time”.
This approach is mirrored in a work titled Satellite Images of Hatsamas, consisting of three digital prints in flashy red and green tones. Combining local knowledge, historical photographs and modern satellite data, the prints aim to visualise changes in vegetation over 150 years. The result will show how colonial settlement has shaped the land, leading to bush encroachment and desertification.
Contemporary artworks add a further layer to the show. Tuli Mekondjo contributes an embroidered Herero uniform titled Schutztruppe. Originally worn by German colonial soldiers, the garment was adopted by Herero communities as an act of resistance and commemoration. By stitching a human skeleton on to the fabric, Mekondjo transforms it into a wearable memorial for prisoners who died on Shark Island.
In speaking about the exhibition, Weizman repeatedly returns to the relationship between genocide and the desert: from the forced marches of Armenians into the Syrian desert to Gaza, where widespread destruction has transformed much of the territory into flattened terrain. Fractured Lifeworlds shows how colonial violence leaves traces in the land. As Germany continues to debate the meaning and scope of its memory culture, this exhibition is a timely reminder that the past remains part of the present.
‘Alligator Alcatraz’ detainees say guards deny them food and clean water until they sign English documents
‘Alligator Alcatraz’ detainees say guards deny them food and clean water until they sign English documents
“Detainees at Florida’s “Alligator Alcatraz” immigration jail allege guards are withholding food and water until they sign English documents they cannot understand. The detainees claim the water is contaminated with mosquito larvae and has a foul taste. The facility, operated by the state of Florida for ICE, has faced criticism for alleged human rights abuses.
Detainees say they’re given ‘rotten’ water and denied meals for not signing papers in English that they don’t understand
Detainees at Florida’s notorious “Alligator Alcatraz” immigration jail said guards were denying them food and fresh water on Thursday until they signed documents presented to them in English that they did not understand.
In an audio recording of a telephone call to an immigration advocacy group heard by the Guardian, more than half a dozen detainees alleged that the water given to them over the last three days was “rotten” and containing mosquito larvae, in an apparent attempt to pressure them to sign.
During the call, all the detainees identified themselves by name and the section and cage number they are being held in. The Guardian is withholding those details because of the men’s stated fear of reprisals.
“They took all the water, and they don’t want to give us water,” one detainee said in the call to a representative of the Workers Circle, an advocacy group that has acted as a liaison between detainees and their families.
“They haven’t given us lunch, and they are mistreating us here. Right now, at this very moment, half past one in the afternoon, we haven’t had lunch here in Alcatraz, and they wanted to make us sign a paper in English that we don’t know what that paper says.
“They’ve taken reprisals with us for not taking that paper, not signing that paper. They took away the water and medicine to people who need medication. Today the medicine came very late, but here we have people here who are diabetic, one here with high blood pressure.”
The detainee said he and others had been complaining for several days about the quality of the water they had been given, and on Thursday morning chants of “agua, agua” broke out when it was withheld altogether.
“The water has pests, the water has a bad taste, [you] open the water tubs and they have mosquito larvae,” he said.
Another detainee said the water was “stinky and rotten”, and that he saw mosquitoes emerging from a substance contained within it.
He said nobody in his cell had yet signed any document.
Reports last month said “Alligator Alcatraz”, operated by the state of Florida as an immigration jail on behalf of the federal Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) agency, would wind down operations in June, leading to its eventual closure.
In its almost one year of operation, the tented facility, built on a little-used training airport deep in the Florida Everglades, has developed a reputation for the brutal treatment of undocumented detainees kept in metal cages, and a succession of alleged human and civil rights abuses.
Among the claims are a denial of access to immigration lawyers, frequent and sudden movement of detainees to other detention facilities, and pressure to consent to agree to deportation without legal representation.
Noelle Damico, director of social justice for the Workers Circle, said Thursday’s developments appeared to be a ramping up of that pressure to force detainees to agree to leave.
“They’re being asked by guards to sign documents that they cannot fully see, nor do they understand,” she said. “This has been going on for several days, and right now they’ve stopped giving them water.
“The water in the past three days has been unusually disgusting with mosquito larvae, dirt in it, and tasting absolutely rotten. So that predates today, now they’ve removed the water.
“They were fed breakfast this morning, but lunch was withheld. This is an outrageous violation of basic human rights under international and national law.”
The Guardian has contacted the Florida department of emergency management, which oversees the operation of the facility using private guards, for a response.
In a statement on 29 May, following a previous allegation that a detainee with diabetes was denied medication, Stephanie Hartman, the department’s director of communications, said: “Medical facilities and staff, including a pharmacy, are available 24/7 to detainees.”
The department has also previously denied any mistreatment or abuse of detainees.“
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