When the passengers behind him heave their heavy suitcases to the elevator in the parking garage where Benson stands with his telescope, most of them ignore him. “They think I’m a freak,” he says and smiles briefly. “Some guy who watches airplanes with a lens that’s way too big.”
At one point a man stopped, watched for a while and laughed as Benson explained what he was doing. “He said, ‘Well, at least the deportees would be able to get some warmth now.'” Most of the flights go to Texas. Benson then exploded: “I asked him if San Antonio feels like a vacation when you’re in chains.” The man simply didn’t believe him that there were no criminals on the plane, but his neighbors.
Even people who work security at the Minneapolis airport have been deported by ICE, Benson says. “Of all people who have to go through the toughest security checks here.” The airport company remains silent about this. No official statement, no standing up for your own employees. “If they at least communicated this fact. Then people who don’t believe us would get the information they obviously need.”
At 11:15 a.m., Benson counted 19 people. “That’s all of them,” he says and types the number into his smartphone, sending it to the chat groups at 50501 Minneapolis. Behind every number there are people’s stories.
Benson believes the government’s deportation program is not only a human disaster, but also a financial one: More people would have to be employed on this one flight than there are prisoners on board: the crew, the ICE agents, the operator’s employees, the airport employees. “For this and with our tax money, they terrorize our neighborhoods and put people in fear,” he says.
Benson suddenly starts counting again: this time from one to six. Six people leaving the plane. They are prisoners who were flown from Texas back to Minneapolis on the plane. “Their lawyers were lucky. They were able to get a reprieve for their clients in time and sue for due process,” he explains. A first small, fragile victory, won with painstakingly adhered to deadlines, forms and based on his data. Benson exhales loudly and heavily. “I’m sticking to that,” he says. “Otherwise…” – he doesn’t want to finish the sentence or think it through.
Benson has never seen children on ghost flights. He assumes that they will be flown to Texas on normal passenger planes. Only Delta operates this route from Minneapolis. “If people knew that their seat had previously been occupied by a child like the five-year-old boy in the blue bunny-eared hat, they might not be as keen on flying Delta anymore,” says Benson. He means the boy who ICE officers used as a decoy so that his father could be arrested; the story was widely covered in the media.
The wind is icy. The stairwell of the parking deck smells of exhaust fumes and kerosene. Benson shifts from one foot to the other, takes a sip of his mocha from the Starbucks cup. He seems thoughtful. “History really does repeat itself,” he says. During the Dakota War of 1862, thousands of indigenous people were interned in camps right here, not far from the airport. A bishop named Henry Whipple denounced the cruelty at the time. Many died, but the priest was also able to save many. “Today, ICE officers are sitting in the Whipple Federal Building in Minneapolis, which is named after him,” says Benson. The building serves as their headquarters for mass deportations.
The last bus leaves at 11:58 a.m. The runway empties. The white GlobalX jet with the blue tail stands still, its doors now closed. Benson looks at his cell phone again. No new news. “People think it’s happening somewhere far away,” he says. “At the border. In the desert. But it’s happening here.” It affects restaurant owners, employees of the Target department store chain, Walmart or the home improvement company Home Depot. “In Minneapolis, children cry whose parents don’t come home in the evening.” Benson is breathing heavily again.
At 12:13 p.m. the plane’s engines roared to life. The plane starts rolling, slowly at first, then faster until it turns onto the runway. Benson follows her through the lens until she takes off and floats south, destination: San Antonio, Texas. He lowers the camera. “Nineteen neighbors,” he says. “Away.” Benson says it quietly, almost tonelessly.
It’s quiet in the stairwell next to the “7 Gold” parking deck. The cold presses in. Cars arrive below, park, and drive away. Travelers rush to their flights. Benson packs up his telescope and tripod. He’ll be here again tomorrow. To keep counting.
