dying

The last time Abdullahi Alabi heard from his friend, Oluwafemi Adeyemo, it was a voice note. “I dey Terminus… I sey make I update you,” his friend said in Nigerian Pidgin. He was restocking his foodstuffs at the market, but he never came back.

Abdullahi and Oluwafemi had been friends and coursemates since they came on campus. “We became brothers, I knew his family, he knew mine,” Abdullahi said.

Two days before that, on March 29, terrorists had opened fire on residents and passersby at Angwan Rukuba, a busy roadside community in Jos, Plateau State, North Central Nigeria, killing at least 30 people. The Plateau State government immediately clamped a 48-hour curfew on Jos North, the kind of precaution the city has learned, through painful experience, to take, given how quickly such attacks can tip into ethno-religious reprisal violence.

When the curfew lifted on April 1, Oluwafemi, a final-year Quantity Survey student at the University of Jos (UNIJOS), had just received his upkeep allowance from the Nigerian Education Loan Fund (NELFUND). He headed to Terminus Market that morning, a 15-minute tricycle ride from where he and Abdullahi lived, to buy foodstuffs.

What made Abdullahi check his phone that morning was hearing that something was happening around Terminus. He wanted to know if his friends were alright. That was when he saw the voice note.

“I actually did not take it that seriously,” he said. But as the updates on social media got worse, he started calling. Oluwafemi’s number was not going through. He and other friends kept trying.

By evening, Oluwafemi had not returned and was still unreachable. Abdullahi called the family, who said he had not been in touch with them either. “I took permission from the family to file a missing person report, and we also made a post on social media,” he said.

Then another of Oluwafemi’s friends reached out. She sent Abdullahi a screenshot of her last chat with him. He had told her there was a fight at Terminus, that he had escaped, and that he had made it to Bauchi Road, near the university’s Main Campus. After that, nothing.

The next day, Abdullahi and other friends went from one police station to another. On the third day, they started checking mortuaries. That afternoon, a call came asking them to come to the Jos University Teaching Hospital to identify a body.

“When we got there, it was his body,” Abdullahi said, with a sigh. “He was attacked at Bauchi Junction. According to the autopsy, he sustained a gunshot wound to his back and was macheted as well.” He added that they were told that the police officers who brought his corpse to the hospital had intervened. The identities of the perpetrators remain unknown.

Oluwafemi was one of at least eight people killed in reprisal attacks that swept through Jos on 1 April, after the night of terror at Angwan Rukuba took on an ethno-religious colouration.

“Femi was ready to make a change in the world,” Abdullahi said. “A few days before his death, he sent a voice note in a group lamenting about how Nigeria is bad and what he thinks needs to be done to fix the challenges.” He never got the chance.

In that same voice note, obtained by HumAngle, Oluwafemi turned his frustration toward the government’s response to the recurring violence. Precautions like curfews, he said, were not enough. “What has curfew done?” he asked. “Make we speak up, abi na until dem kill everybody finish.”

Oluwafemi is not the first UNIJOS student the city has claimed. With over 40,000 students – according to its website – living and studying in Jos’s most volatile neighbourhoods, the university community has, for more than two decades, been one of the most consistent casualties of the city’s recurring violence. And with no meaningful change in how students are protected, many fear it is only a matter of time before the next name is added to the list.

Caught in harm’s way

To understand why Oluwafemi’s death is not an isolated tragedy, it helps to know the city he was living in. To outsiders, the speed with which violence can spread across Jos often appears bewildering. Yet the city has endured recurring cycles of conflict for more than two decades, fuelled by a complex mix of ethno-religious tensions, disputes over indigene-settler identities, political representation, land ownership, and access to resources. While many incidents are framed as clashes between Christians and Muslims, residents and researchers have long argued that the roots of the conflict run deeper than religion alone.

“…as is often the case with identity conflicts in Africa, these are socially constructed stereotypes that are manipulated to trigger and drive violence in Jos,” said Prof. Chris Kwaja, a Researcher at the Centre for Conflict Management and Peace Studies at the University of Jos, Nigeria, who also serves as the Plateau State’s Special Envoy on Peace and Security. 

“The ethnic or religious dimensions of the conflict have subsequently been misconstrued as the primary driver of violence when, in fact, disenfranchisement, inequality, and other practical fears are the real root causes. Capitalising on such conditions, many political rivals have instrumentalised the ethnic and religious diversity of Jos to manipulate and mobilise support. Each outbreak of violence worsens suspicions and renders communal reconciliation more difficult, deepening the cycle and further incentivising polarisation,” he noted. 

Over the years, many neighbourhoods have become identified with particular ethnic and religious communities, creating a city that is deeply polarised along social and geographic lines. Areas such as Angwan Rukuba, Terminus, Bauchi Road, and other mixed communities often function as fault lines where residents from different backgrounds live, trade, commute, and study side by side. When violence breaks out, fear, rumours, and reprisals can quickly travel beyond the immediate scene of an attack, drawing in people who had no connection to the original incident.

For students of the UNIJOS whose campuses, hostels, and daily routines are woven into these communities, that vulnerability is particularly acute. A journey to class, the market, or a friend’s place can suddenly become dangerous when the city descends into unrest.

Jos North is where most of the university’s campuses sit, including the Township Campus, Bauchi Road Campus, Naraguta Campus, the Jos University Teaching Hospital, staff quarters, and other facilities. Student hostels, both university-owned and private, are scattered all across the area. Angwan Rukuba, where the March 29 attack happened, is one of the neighbourhoods with the highest concentration of students. Meanwhile, Terminus Market, which borders it, has long been an epicentre of violence in the city.

Several residents and students who spoke to HumAngle said the university community is always caught in the middle when violence breaks out, which is hardly surprising, given how deeply the campuses and student hostels are woven into those areas.

Although no comprehensive data exists on the total number of students killed across incidents, HumAngle’s research — drawing on interviews with students and staff, as well as archival news reports — indicates that at least five students have died in every major episode of violence, and often significantly more.

In 2018, Shedrach ‘Kums’ Fenan, a 300-level Law student, was shot and killed by a stray military bullet near the Students’ Village Hostel during a similar crisis. That same year, the bodies of several students were found floating in nearby rivers. 

Plangna’an Daor, who studied law at UNIJOS and now works as team lead of the post-conflict rehabilitation and recovery desk at the Plateau Peacebuilding Agency, knew Kums personally. 

“I still remember how we were all glued to social media, checking on friends in different parts of Jos, asking questions and trying to understand what was happening,” she told HumAngle. “Imagine finding out that the student was someone you knew personally, someone with immense potential.” As an executive leader of the National Association of Plateau State Students at the time, she travelled with other students for the burial. “It was a stark reminder that students are not merely observers of conflict; they can become direct victims of it,” she said.

Aondona Kwaghaondo, a medical student at the university, almost lost his life when a mob attacked him in August 2021, along the Bauchi Road near the Naraguta Hostels, which sits between major university communities. “It was a very traumatising experience; till this day I am a bit triggered by similar sights and sounds,” he said. Aondona survived, but he sustained several injuries from the attack. 

During one of the crises, while she was a student, Plangna’an lived off campus near Dariye Park, barely 100 metres away from the main gate of the Naraguta Campus. “I remember the tension of that period vividly,” she said. “We could hear gunshots at night and constantly monitored developments around us.” 

The fear was not abstract. During that same period, Plangna’an narrated that a young man attempting to reach Bauchi Road Junction was stabbed after ignoring a neighbour’s warning and was brought to her compound, where a medical student provided first aid before he could be taken to the hospital. “The atmosphere was one of constant fear and uncertainty,” Plangna’an recalled. Her roommates told her, “This is not the time to sleep in a nightie. Wear trousers. Wear something that, if we have to wake up and run, you can simply get up and leave.”

She also highlights a dimension of the crisis that is easy to overlook: the particular vulnerability of students like Adeyemo, who are from outside Plateau State. “Those of us from Plateau State at least had some understanding of the context,” she said. “But imagine students who came from other states and had no understanding of the local dynamics. They arrived expecting a safe learning environment and suddenly found themselves navigating fear, insecurity, displacement, and uncertainty.” Many students, she notes, are simply unfamiliar with which areas are considered high-risk during periods of tension, and which routes should be avoided. 

Prof. Lazarus Maigoro, former chairperson of the Academic Staff Union of Universities (ASUU) UNIJOS chapter, said the pattern has left the university community exasperated. “We have suffered untold damages in relation to loss of lives and property… each time there is a security breach in Jos, and as a union, we have tried to understand how the university community is always at the receiving end of each crisis in Jos,” he said. 

“In spite of all the provocations, we have continued to offer community service to all, irrespective of religion, culture and tribe; the university administration has, over the years, made overtures to host communities in terms of undergraduate admissions and staff employment, yet our students and staff are killed at the slightest provocation, however far the epicentre of the crisis from the institution.” 

Plangna’an, who now works on post-conflict recovery, points to structural factors that compound the danger. The communities surrounding the university include areas with high concentrations of informal settlements, illegal structures, motor parks, and markets. “Some of these spaces have become hideouts for criminals, street gangs, drug users, and other vulnerable groups susceptible to recruitment into violence and extremism,” she said. Students living off-campus must pass through these environments daily.

As Prof. Maigoro noted, the attacks not only threaten the security of life and property within the university community but also disrupt the academic calendar, causing students to spend more than the stipulated number of years to complete their programmes. “Some who were meant to spend four years will end up doing six, that is, if there are no labour union strikes,” said Liamhuan Akpenmo, a student of the university’s Faculty of Education. 

For instance, Adeyemo got admission in 2019, but by the time of his death, he had spent seven years on a five-year programme, his progress interrupted by the COVID-19 lockdown and the 2021 crisis that forced the university to close.

The evacuation

When the situation following the March 29 incident worsened, the university management rescheduled the semester examinations and placed academic and related activities on hold.  Prof. Ishaya Tanko, the vice-chancellor, also announced the evacuation of students from hostels, in collaboration with the Plateau State government.

In the days that followed, specifically from April 2, other state governments and private individuals began sending dozens of buses to evacuate students who were indigenes or residents of those states. More than 1600 students were reportedly evacuated by about seven state governments, including Benue, Delta, and Kaduna. Such arrangements are often collaborations with state student union groups and relevant state government ministries.

“It was all familiar,” said Liamhuan, a student who first experienced a similar evacuation in 2021. She and her younger sister, who is also a student, left for Benue; other students travelled as far as Lagos.

Then, even as the crisis was still unfolding, the university management announced that examinations would go ahead. “It was abrupt,” said Liamhuan. The city was not yet safe. A 6 p.m. curfew was still in effect. In one press statement issued around that time, the Student Union Government advised students to either split their journey into two legs or arrive early enough to beat the curfew. Social media was still full of missing-person posters.

“Let me state clearly that since the beginning of the crisis, no single breach of the peace was recorded on any of our campuses,” the Vice Chancellor said at a press briefing. But students like Oluwafemi, who died during the incident, were attacked in areas immediately surrounding the university, a distinction that offered little comfort to those who had lost someone.

For instance, in August 2021, at the peak of a similar crisis, a 100-level microbiology student of the university was murdered by a mob at a filling station, near Dariye Park – where Plangna’an lived – which is located adjacent to the university. 

HumAngle reached out to Emmanuel Madugu, the university’s Deputy Registrar for Information and Public Relations, for comment on how the university intends to prevent casualties among students and staff. Madugu acknowledged the request and indicated that he would respond after consulting the relevant units, but had not done so at the time of publication.

An alumnus of the university with knowledge of security matters, who spoke on condition of anonymity, said there is only so much the institution can do. When students and staff are attacked outside the university environment, he noted, the university’s hands are largely tied. The responsibility, he argued, falls primarily on the state and federal governments to secure the city.

For Liamhuan, the management’s decision to continue with the session reflected a pattern she had seen before. “I prefer to leave because the school environment does not feel safe, and everywhere feels threatened. So, home is where I feel safe, and if anything happens to you, it is you and your family that will bear the burden.” She added that the situation is even more difficult for students like herself who live off campus, largely due to a lack of sufficient student hostels.

“Even those on campus are not protected,” Liamhuan added. She once lived in one of the student hostels at the Naraguta Campus before moving off campus. “Students are still attacked by mobs when they are close to the school facilities.” Aondona’s testimony confirms this. Additionally, a viral video during the recent incident showed a man who was attacked right at the entrance of the university’s Naraguta Campus, which houses the administrative building and most of the faculties and student residences.

Although armed security posts existed near university campuses around 2017 and 2018, HumAngle observed that most of those posts no longer exist, and security is now mostly provided by unarmed officers of the university’s Security Division. More recently, through the Tertiary Education Trust Fund, a police station was constructed at the Naraguta Hostels Gate, along the Jos-Bauchi Road, but students say it is insufficient.

When HumAngle visited the campus in June, no police officers were seen on the grounds, but an unarmed Security Division security guard was at the gate.

For Abdullahi, authorities do not need to wait for violence to break out before they start mapping how to protect the students and the rest of the university community. “If there are checkpoints at flashpoints like Bauchi Road, when a crisis starts, there will be an immediate response, ensuring that killings are avoided,” he said, adding that surveillance cameras can also be installed.  

During a condolence visit to Plateau State after the March 29 attack, Nigeria’s President, Bola Tinubu, disclosed that the Federal Government would deploy an artificial intelligence-enabled network of over 5,000 digital cameras to help law enforcement agencies combat insecurity in the state. At the time of this report, the project had yet to commence. 

The General Officer Commanding of the 3rd Division, Maxwell Khobe Cantonment, Major Gen. Eyitayo Oyinlola, visited the university during the recent incident “to assure the Vice Chancellor of the Division’s high priority of securing the University in the face of threats to the lives of its community”. But students who were on campus during the incident said little to no security was actually provided.

Younglan Taylong, the university’s Student Union Government president, did not respond to requests for comment. However, students who spoke to HumAngle, including Abdullahi, say the union was supportive during the crisis, providing information, aid, and evacuation support to students.

In the absence of protection, students have had to fend for themselves. Another student, a recent graduate who declined to give his name for fear, recalled that during tense periods, particularly in 2021, students would mobilise to act as a vigilante force around the hostels at night. 

“Sometimes, we will just carry kitchen knives, I do not even know what we were thinking,” he said.

What can be done?

For those who have spent years studying or working on the crisis, the frustrating reality is that the recommendations are not new. The Greater Jos Master Plan already includes provisions to relocate illegal motor parks, markets, and informal settlements away from critical public institutions, such as the university. Similar proposals have appeared repeatedly across various commissions of inquiry. “Many remain unimplemented,” Plangna’an said. “There is a need for greater political will to translate these recommendations into reality.”

Among the measures she and others who spoke to HumAngle advocated for are: the establishment of a Mobile Police barracks or dedicated security formation near the university; the construction of additional student hostels to reduce the number of students living off-campus; the strengthening and securing of perimeter fencing at the Permanent Site to control access and deter encroachment; and the provision of secure shuttle bus services for students living off-campus. “While no transport system is completely immune to attack, organised transportation would significantly reduce students’ exposure to risk,” she added. 

The post-conflict rehabilitation and recovery expert also calls for dualising major roads around the university and constructing an interchange at the Bauchi Road junction — a congested gateway into the state that regularly creates both mobility and security problems. Beyond infrastructure, she argues for sustained investment in peacebuilding programmes that directly involve students, university staff, and surrounding communities, including support for those living with the psychological aftermath of violence. “There are many students who continue to live with trauma from experiences they have had as victims or witnesses of violence,” she said. “These experiences can affect academic performance, mental health, and overall well-being.”

Plangna’an insists the approach must shift from reactive to preventive. “Every time violence occurs, similar recommendations are made, yet implementation remains weak,” she said. “Early warning without early response has limited value.” 

Until that changes, students and experts who spoke to HumAngle say that the university community will remain, as it has been for more than two decades, caught in the crossfire. 

Brayan Rayo Garzon was distraught. Detained by Immigration and Customs Enforcement, he was on his fourth day of isolation in a Missouri jail as he battled the fevers and chills of COVID-19.

His request for mental health treatment had been put off, records show, and staff had forbidden Rayo from making his nightly call to his mother as a precaution intended to prevent the spread of illness.

He pleaded with his jailers in handwritten notes to arrange a conversation with her. “I feel in my heart that she’s very worried about me,” he wrote in Spanish.

A guard collected the note and walked away. Within an hour, jail records show, he was found unconscious in his cell. An autopsy determined he killed himself.

Rayo’s April 2025 death was the first suicide in a spike among ICE detainees that has alarmed public health officials and jail experts. They said the unprecedented number of suicide deaths is an indication that authorities are failing to properly oversee the detention of tens of thousands of immigrants swept up in the Trump administration’s aggressive deportation strategy.

An Associated Press investigation found that at least 10 detainees, all men, have died by suicide since President Trump took office in January 2025, a pace that far exceeds the growth in the detainee population, according to a review of ICE data, autopsy reports, coroners’ rulings and police records. Since October, seven deaths have been classified as suicides, a number that is already the most for any fiscal year in the agency’s history. ICE has usually recorded one or no such deaths annually.

“Something is going profoundly wrong from any kind of public health or mental health perspective,” said Dr. Sanjay Basu, a University of California-San Francisco epidemiologist who cowrote a study documenting the increase in mortality and suicide rates among ICE detainees. “This is one of those alarming, sudden increases.”

Nine of the deaths were of Hispanic men who had arrived in the U.S. from four countries, the AP found. One man was a Chinese citizen. Their average age was 32. While Trump has characterized those facing deportation as the “worst of the worst,” seven of the 10 had no record of violent crimes in the U.S.

The suicides account for nearly a fifth of the 51 deaths in ICE custody since January 2025. The majority of those deaths were from natural causes and experts say many of them would have been preventable with timely medical care.

Department of Homeland Security acting assistant secretary Lauren Bis said suicide deaths in ICE custody remain “extremely rare.”

Bis said detention staff follow protocols to protect detainees who show signs of self-harming and that ICE requires annual suicide prevention training. She said detainees receive comprehensive healthcare, including mental health services.

Reacting to AP’s investigation, Colombian President Gustavo Petro wrote Wednesday in a post on X that the country’s foreign ministry should issue a formal protest regarding Rayo’s death and that the U.S. government should “reflect on how its immigration policy is killing Americans and Latin Americans.”

Investigation finds violations of ICE detention standards

The reasons behind any suicide are complex, and each death often has multiple contributing factors, according to experts. ICE detainees report intense stress after being detained, fear of being returned to countries where their safety may be jeopardized, and frustration and loneliness over the inability to communicate due to language barriers.

Detainees can also feel helplessness because of the complexity surrounding immigration law. Unlike those in the criminal justice system, most detainees do not have lawyers and their detention on immigration violations is not meant to be punitive.

ICE becomes responsible for their well-being when they enter detention, and experts say well-run lockups should have few, if any, suicides. That’s because staff can take steps to mitigate the chances that detainees harm themselves by identifying those at risk, getting them care and monitoring them closely, the experts said.

AP’s investigation found that ICE detention centers have repeatedly fallen short in ways that violate ICE’s own standards.

An examination of the 10 suicide deaths found the men died across ICE’s detention network, including at centers long run by private contractors and county jails that recently became ICE partners. The AP found that staff in the facilities ignored signs of distress, delayed mental health treatment and failed to monitor detainees who were already deemed at risk. They also permitted detainees to have access to materials that could be used for self-harm, according to AP’s review of ICE inspection reports and death records.

In some cases, they jailed distressed detainees in isolation, which can exacerbate feelings of humiliation and helplessness, according to experts.

ICE has repeatedly asserted that it screens detainees within 12 hours of arrival for medical, dental and mental health conditions.

At least three of the nine facilities where ICE detainees died by suicide have struggled to meet that standard, according to ICE inspection reports and jail records.

Dr. Homer Venters, former chief medical officer of New York City jails who previously consulted with ICE on preventing detainee deaths, called the rise in suicides terrifying.

The increase “reflects failures in how the system’s being operated, and particularly failures in how the first stages of coming into detention are happening so that people aren’t being assessed adequately,” Venters said. “And then if that receiving screening picks up red flags, they’re not acted on in a way that reduces the risk of them having preventable death.”

From border crossing to detention

Among those who took their own lives was a 19-year-old from Mexico who had been detained following a misdemeanor traffic stop while riding his scooter.

Another was a 36-year-old restaurant worker who lost contact with his relatives in Nicaragua after ICE detained him in Minnesota and sent him to a crowded camp in Texas. A third was a 45-year-old who had repeatedly crossed the U.S.-Mexico border illegally and had a long criminal record.

Rayo, who took his own life after pleading to talk to his mother, was a veteran of the Colombian military who had worked as a street vendor in his home country. A week after he turned 26 in 2023, his family crossed the U.S. border in California. He was detained for three months before being permitted to settle with family in St. Louis, records and interviews show.

His mother, Adriana Garzon, said Rayo caught on quickly to life in the U.S., making friends easily and working as a housepainter and food delivery driver. He wanted to save money to hire a lawyer to help him stay in the country after a judge in 2024 ordered that he be sent back to Colombia, she said.

He was arrested in March 2025 by St. Louis police after being caught using a stolen credit card, which he had obtained from a friend, at a vape shop, court records show. ICE then took him into custody. An ICE record obtained by AP classified Rayo as a laborer who was a low risk to public safety.

ICE placed Rayo in the Phelps County jail in Rolla, Mo., about 100 miles from St. Louis.

Suicides reveal shortcomings across ICE’s detention network

The deaths have revealed holes in treatment and oversight across ICE’s system, where the detained population has spiked by 50% to 60,000 during Trump’s second term.

Five died in centers run by longtime ICE detention partners CoreCivic and the GEO Group. A sixth died at a camp operated by an inexperienced contractor that ICE has since replaced. Three died in jails run by sheriffs, and one at a federal prison.

“We are deeply saddened by and take very seriously the passing of any individual in our care,” CoreCivic spokesperson Brian Todd said.

GEO Group spokesperson Christopher Ferreira said the company trains staff on suicide prevention and seeks “to maintain a safe and secure environment in compliance with the standards and requirements set by the federal government.” Officials at the three jails either declined comment or didn’t return messages.

Leo Cruz Silva, a 34-year-old who had repeatedly illegally entered the country from Mexico, suffered an acute mental health crisis following his detention after an arrest for public intoxication last fall in a St. Louis suburb, records show.

For two nights in Missouri’s Ste. Genevieve County Jail, Cruz screamed, hid under his bed and reported hallucinations, according to an ICE report on his death. Yet he did not get help quickly.

A nurse ordered antipsychotic medications and planned to get him treatment the next week, the ICE report said.

On the third day, he was found dead in his cell.

Chaofeng Ge arrived in ICE custody last summer at a Pennsylvania facility run by the GEO Group in mental distress, having pleaded guilty to a minor gift card fraud and attempted suicide in state custody, said David Rankin, an attorney representing Ge’s family.

In five days at the facility, he did not get mental health treatment and was unable to communicate because no one spoke Mandarin, Rankin said. Ultimately, Ge went unmonitored before he was found hanged in a shower stall.

“It’s clear that ICE has taken very few steps to ensure the safety of these people,” Rankin said. “They appear to want to make this process as cruel and inhuman as possible. It’s completely unacceptable.”

At Camp East Montana in El Paso, Texas, 36-year-old Victor Diaz died by suicide in a medical holding room in January, according to an ICE report. He had been moved into isolation after reporting harassment by fellow detainees, the report said.

Days earlier at the same facility, Geraldo Lunas Campos died of asphyxia after ICE said guards restrained him following a suicide attempt. His death was ruled a homicide by a medical examiner and Trump administration officials said the FBI was investigating its circumstances.

ICE inspectors visited the facility in February, documenting 49 violations of detention standards at what was then ICE’s largest detention facility, according to their report.

The report found that staff did not record “required checks to prevent significant self-harm and suicide” while inspectors found tools and equipment unsecured and unaccounted for throughout the facility that could be used for harm. Calls to 911 show several other detainees had attempted suicide there.

At the time of the deaths and inspections, Acquisition Logistics was the contractor running the facility. ICE has since replaced Acquisition Logistics with another contractor. Acquisition Logistics did not return messages seeking comment.

Detainee spent final days sick and isolated

The Phelps County Jail had started taking ICE detainees a month before Rayo’s arrival. Sheriff Michael Kirn, a Republican in a county where voters overwhelmingly supported Trump’s reelection, told commissioners his department’s budget was hurting and partnering with ICE could generate millions in revenue.

Records show Rayo’s trouble started immediately. It took the jail 35 hours to conduct the initial medical screening ICE promises within 12 hours, according to jail records obtained by the AP under the open records law.

Rayo exhibited labored breathing and told a nurse he was anxious and wanted mental health treatment.

A nurse who didn’t speak Spanish used a “handheld translator” to assess Rayo, concluding he denied thoughts of suicide and depression, according to the documents compiled by the Missouri State Highway Patrol during an investigation into Rayo’s death.

She recommended him for the general population, listing his physical and mental condition as stable, records show. And she referred him for a routine mental health appointment.

Two days later, he reported head pain and body aches. Staff learned he was positive for exposure to tuberculosis bacteria. He was sent to a hospital, where he was diagnosed with COVID-19. He was returned to jail the following day.

The mental health appointment was scheduled but canceled due to “mental health clinic time and staff,” a jail record shows. Two days later, they again canceled his appointment, this time citing his coronavirus infection.

The delays violated an ICE standard requiring mental health treatment within a week of a referral.

Bis, the DHS spokesperson, said Rayo received “high-quality medical care during his time in ICE custody.”

To ease his anxiety, Rayo called his mother before bed to share a Catholic blessing. “I gave him strength,” said Garzon, whose first name, Adriana, was tattooed on her son’s arm.

As Rayo grew sicker with nausea, chills and aches, staff moved him into a cinderblock isolation cell with a surveillance camera overhead for closer monitoring and to prevent the spread of disease. He was not allowed to call his mother.

On his fourth day of isolation, Rayo passed two notes under his door, begging guards to let him talk to his mom. In one, which was reviewed by AP, he appealed to the guard’s humanity. “I know you have family, and you know that they worry about us,” he wrote in Spanish. “God bless you.”

The English-speaking guard used a colleague’s phone to translate the notes and wrote in a report that he planned to follow up.

Within an hour, guards found Rayo unconscious on his bed with a sheet around his neck.

Emergency responders tried to revive him, transporting him to a hospital. That’s when an official called Rayo’s mother — to let her know her son was in very bad shape and would be flown to a St. Louis medical center. At the hospital, a doctor gave her the devastating news: Her son was dead.

Foley, Biesecker and Lee write for the Associated Press.

The 4,140-sq-km bay is the largest estuary on the west coast of the US. Before 2018, this species of whales wasn’t known to stop seasonally or consistently in the bay, bypassing it on their migration route down to Baja California and back up the Arctic, said Josephine Slaathaug, who led a recent study on gray whale mortality in the bay.