Rush hour traffic in Downtown Minneapolis, and it’s snowing again. I look out the blurry window and can barely see the faces of the people in the van next to ours. I know for a fact, however, that nobody in that packed freeway can see me or any of the other six illegal immigrants on our way to be deported from the United States.

The two ICE agents sitting in the front live in a different world, their radio muting any sounds from us: the illegals in the back. An unmarked van, owned by the Department of Homeland Security, is taking us to a county jail in Albert Lea, Minnesota, near the border with Iowa. There, we will wait for our deportation date when the paperwork clears. All the other inmates are going back to the jail and already don the orange uniforms and coded wristbands. Having been caught ten hours earlier, I stand out with my winter coat and jeans. The shackles and handcuffs, however, unite me to the rest of the group.

Everybody here carries some sorrow. One man just received his final order of deportation. I had briefly spoken to him before we boarded the van. He is going back to Mexico, and divorcing his wife. She is staying in Minnesota with their 4-year-old American son. Sitting in front of me, he begins to reflect on his existence as an undocumented immigrant. Nos llevan como animales, he cries out. They carry us like animals. He is easily over six feet tall, and has a ponytail. When he speaks, he sounds more reflective than grief-stricken. Another man talks to himself, in the opposite side of the van. He is a short and chubby Mexican man. In front of him is a Nigerian young man, probably just a little older than me. He is trying to sleep, and is beginning to be anxious about the solo conversation going on behind him. Next to me is Jorge, the thrice-deported gang-banger, who is headed back to El Salvador after serving five years in jail after a murder conviction.

I try to get my mind somewhere else by going back to the church songs we sang as kids, any previously professed atheism be damned. Way before my parents entered the maze of the United States immigration system, they were people of faith. Puedo confiar en el Señor, no me va a fallar. I can trust in the Lord, he will not fail me.

This is the story of how I came back from the deported.

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Matias Ramos has been an immigrant rights advocate since high school, and has lived without legal status for ten years. He is currently facing deportation after being detained in Minneapolis last February. This new series about deportations in the United States will combining his personal stories, as well as his opinion writing. You can follow him on Twitter: @matiasramos