OurTupelo

The National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration expects a so-called “dead zone” roughly the size of New Jersey to develop in the Gulf of Mexico this summer.

Also known as a hypoxic zone, a reference to the low-oxygen conditions that kill fish and marine life, this year’s measurement is expected to cover more than 7,000 square miles.  Although that forecast falls below the record size of nearly 8,800 square miles in 2017, it is higher than the four-decade average of just over 5,200 square miles.

“The trend has been one of growth mostly since they started measuring it,” said Doug Daigle, a research associate at Louisiana State University and coordinator of the Louisiana Hypoxia Working Group of researchers, government agencies and other stakeholders focused on the issue.

As a researcher with years of experience working on the Gulf’s dead zone, Daigle said it’s important to focus on the overall goal to reduce the size of the dead zone. 

“We don’t get too hung up on any particular year because what we’re interested in is affecting the trend over time,” Daigle said.

That’s a goal shared by the Environmental Protection Agency’s Mississippi River/Gulf of America Hypoxia Task Force, a cooperative of federal, state and tribal agencies. Currently, the group is working to shrink the deadzone to 1,900 square miles — or 5,000 square kilometers — by 2035.  

The annual dead zone forms due to an overabundance of nutrient pollution, such as nitrates and phosphorus, that is caused primarily by agricultural industries and urban areas throughout the Mississippi and Atchafalaya rivers. This excess in nutrients then causes algae to overgrow, die, decompose and then deplete oxygen in the surrounding waters. 

With little to no oxygen, fish populations in the Gulf sharply decline, along with those of shellfish, coral and aquatic plants. As a result, both the seafood and tourism industries have suffered critical losses.

“So it not only has ecological and environmental impacts, it has economic impacts as well,” said Kelly McGinnis, executive director of One Mississippi, a national nonprofit that works on conserving and restoring the river.

But along with the levels of discharge, Daigle said each year’s measurements can be affected by climate conditions such as drought, flooding or rainfall. If the forecast is high, he said that usually means there’s been rain or flooding upstream.

“And then when you have the dry periods, it’s less, but a lot of those nutrients will get flushed out later,” Daigle said.

While changing weather can affect the annual results, the work toward reducing the size of the dead zone appears to be progressing, Mike Naig, the secretary of agriculture for Iowa and co-chair of the Mississippi River/Gulf of America Hypoxia Task Force, said in a mid-June press release. The task force  announced then that it had achieved its interim goal of reducing pollution from the Mississippi and Atchafalaya rivers into the Gulf by 20%. 

According to the group, that’s likely a result of states in the basin — such as Missouri, Illinois and Wisconsin — implementing their own nutrient reduction programs. 

“State-driven, science-based strategies and local partnerships are critical to continue scaling up conservation practices, accelerating implementation and delivering measurable results,” said Naig in the press release.

Each year, NOAA uses multiple models and datasets, such as the U.S. Geological Survey’s, to track nutrient levels, which help to inform its hypoxia forecast model and identify sources. In turn, the members of the task force use the data to support their states’ nutrient reduction strategies and the overall goal for the Mississippi River and the Gulf of Mexico. Meanwhile, researchers have also conducted a cruise survey for over four decades to compare dead zone predictions in the Gulf.

Despite the many years of collaborative efforts, Daigle does not expect the dead zone to disappear completely. Yet, he is concerned about the future of hypoxia reduction programs both in the Mississippi River and in the Gulf downstream. 

“What a lot of folks don’t realize is that it’s never really gotten the resources adequate to reverse the trend,” he said.

As such, Daigle’s Louisiana Hypoxia Working Group — along with 62 other organizations in agriculture and conservation — signed a letter last December to ask Congress to support their efforts. Previously, lawmakers authorized funding for fiscal years 2022 through 2026 for the EPA to implement its hypoxia program in the Gulf. Without future funding secured, advocates like McGinnis said the reduction goal for 2035 seems “highly unattainable.”

“I want the federal government to be successful in reaching that goal,” she said, “but it is hard to see the pathways that will lead to it.”

This story is a product of the Mississippi River Basin Ag & Water Desk, an independent reporting network based at the University of Missouri in partnership with Report for America, with major funding from the Walton Family Foundation.

CLINTON – Mauricka McKenzie didn’t grow up imagining he’d become a beekeeper one day.

By profession, he is a civil engineer and president of Cornerstone Engineering, LLC, in Clinton.

His path to beekeeping began in one of those subtle, unexpected ways: as a casual, out-of-the-blue suggestion from a friend after McKenzie purchased acreage along Kickapoo Road in rural Clinton that was once a pecan orchard. 

“I thought, ‘I’ll rejuvenate this pecan farm.’ Sell pecans,’” McKenzie said. “But Mother Nature had other ideas. Those trees just weren’t producing like I knew they could. One day, a friend of mine said, ’Get you some honey bees.’” 

For McKenzie, that planted a seed. 

“I liked the idea of it,” said McKenzie. “Honey bees.” 

Even now, the thought of those first inklings makes him smile. And Kickapoo Honey was born.

“So I started doing the research. I learned about types of honey bees, cross-pollination, which flowers attract bees and the honey they produce. My bees are Italian honey bees. They’re gentle and famously industrious,” he explained. “They’re known for their calm temperament and steady honey production. Ideal for Mississippi’s long, warm seasons.”

“My first year, I started with two nucs, consisting of a queen and ten thousand bees,” McKenzie said. “My bees did pretty good and I realized how much I loved being out here. They fascinate me and I admit, I’ve become a bit obsessed. I also planted a couple of acres of wildflowers and white clover.”

Nucs, pronounced “nukes,” is short for nucleus colonies of bees. They are “starter” beehives and are the most popular way for people to begin their journey into beekeeping. Italian honey bees, like McKenzie’s, have been prized in American apiaries since the 1850s.

By year two, McKenzie had grown his apiary, a bee yard, to six nucs and had successfully caught two swarms, producing 10-15 gallons of honey. However, disaster struck in his third year. Mites decimated nearly half his hives. 

“That was unexpected and kind of scary, and I knew I had to do more research,” he said. “I learned a lot online and from other beekeepers like Mack Busby in Soso. He’s been a beekeeper for ages. I treated my bees, saving those the mites hadn’t reached.” 

Beekeepers treat their bees against mites using miticides – organic acids such as formic acid and oxalic acid, or synthetic chemicals used in vaporizers. A popular, nontoxic method is dusting bees with powdered sugar. Bees groom themselves and other bees. Powdered sugar compels bees to groom, which rids them of mites before the mites can attach.

Out at his farm, McKenzie spotted a swarm trap he’d placed in a nearby tree, covered in hundreds of honey bees. He explained how he traps wild bees or bees that have swarmed from his own hives by tricking them.

“See all these bees on the outside of the trap? That tells me the box is full and it’s time to move these bees to a hive,” he said. “For the trap, what I do is soak a cotton ball with lemongrass oil. It smells similar to a queen bee’s pheromone. A scout bee picks up the scent and alerts other bees to my box.”

He donned a beekeeper’s suit and ignited the contents of his smoker before heading to the hives. McKenzie took a moment to survey his hives, watching his honey bees zip to and fro to gather pollen and nectar before returning to the hives. 

“The smoke doesn’t hurt them,” McKenzie said. “It just blocks their pheromone signals to attack. They’ll tell you what they need if you pay attention.”

He checked on a frame covered in bees and honey.

“Sometimes, I come out here and just sit and talk with them. It’s calming listening to them, their rhythmic hum. And their honey boosts immune systems by providing antioxidants. You know, a lot can be learned from that hive mentality. It teaches how to work together for a common goal, for the good of the family.”

This bear of a man doused his smoker, and sat on a bucket watching as his tiny honey bees covered his outstretched, gloved hand. 

“You see, they don’t panic. They just work,” McKenzie beamed. “They love the white clover I planted out here, and they make the most delicious raw spring honey. My busy li’l bees turn fall wildflowers into a darker, richer honey, but the spring honey is my favorite and really popular with customers.” 

This is the honey that is building Kickapoo Honey’s reputation: clean, light and unmistakably tied to the land.

Contact Kickapoo Honey: 600 E. Northside Drive, Clinton. The honey store is open 8 a.m.-5 p.m. Monday-Friday. Before you go, call to be certain someone is at the store: 601-946-4450.

WASHINGTON — Holiday gatherings and major life events have come with an empty seat. Certain dates on the calendar meant time at a cemetery, standing before granite stones.

They are a relatively small group of people, scattered across different states, but they share a common bond that stretches back decades: Each had a family member die violently in the struggle for voting and civil rights, victims on a long and difficult path marked by blood that ended when the country seemed to mature into the nation of its creed.

But 61 years later, and as the country marks its 250th anniversary, those sacrifices are in question. In a series of decisions over the past dozen years, including one in April, the Supreme Court has effectively dismantled the law that their family members died to see enacted, the Voting Rights Act of 1965.

“My mother’s blood is on that bill. We were always proud of that, and now it’s gone,” said Anthony Liuzzo, whose mother, Viola Liuzzo, died on an Alabama highway between Selma and Montgomery while driving marchers in 1965.

Critics of the law argue that times have changed, a point Chief Justice John Roberts made in a 2013 decision that was the first major step in rolling back the law.

Survivors of lost loved ones disagree, pointing to the speed with which Republican-led state legislatureseliminated majority-Black congressional districts after the court’s April ruling, which severely weakened a section of the law that had protected voting rights for minority communities. They feel anger and sadness that a milestone political victory decades ago has been reversed, but they are committed to keep fighting.

A church bombing and a chunk of concrete

Lisa McNair was born Sept. 19, 1964. Her older sister, Denise, died in the Sept 15, 1963, bombing of the 16th Street Baptist Church in Birmingham, Alabama. The church had been a central organizing point for civil rights protest.

The explosion killed Denise McNair, 11, Addie Mae Collins, 14, Carole Robertson, 14, and Cynthia Morris Wesley, 14. Nearly two dozen others were injured. Three Klansmen were convicted years later.

One of Lisa McNair’s early memories of her sister was of the box that their grandmother kept from the funeral home. It included Denise McNair’s shoes, a purse and a rock-sized piece of concrete that had been embedded in her skull.

The crime brought the civil rights struggle onto the national stage and outraged Democratic President John F. Kennedy.

The times were tumultuous, McNair said, but it seemed the nation was heading in the right direction. Most of her life, “I’ve seen advances” on television, in commercials, with interracial marriages, civil rights and voting rights, “a plethora of rights that we got over the greater part of my lifetime.” But that has changed, she said.

McNair, 61, said she is “physically sick” about the Supreme Court decision and subsequent actions by lower courts and legislatures.

“I am constantly working to pray my way through it, so I can get up and go to work in the morning and do what I need to do. But I just want to ask every white person I see, What more do you want?” she said. “Why do you hate us so?”

They left for Freedom Summer and never came home

Michael Schwerner, known as Mickey, came from a family in which human rights activism and challenging social norms were expected. He was in Mississippi in 1964 as part of Freedom Summer when he, Andrew Goodman and James Chaney vanished one day in June while investigating a bombing at a Black church.

Their bodies were found weeks later, buried in an earthen dam in a rural area of Neshoba County. Schwerner, 24, and Goodman, 20, were white; Chaney, 21, was Black.

Stephen Schwerner, who died earlier this year and was a social activist in his own right, told The Associated Press in a 2023 interview that as soon as the family heard his younger brother and the other men were missing, they knew they were dead.

“Our family was very out front in the media that the only reason there was international attention was two of the young men were white,” said Stephen’s daughter, Cassie Schwerner. “Had all three of those young men been Black, they would have ended up absent from our history and our narrative.”

Cassie Schwerner, executive director of Morningside Center for Teaching Social Responsibility, said her family has followed voting rights through their ups and downs. That includes the 2013 Supreme Court decision that allowed states and counties with a history of discriminatory voting rules to make changes without prior approval from the Department of Justice.

The court’s April decision, she said, brought rage “and a good deal of sadness — not for me and my family, but for this country.” There is, she said, work to be done on multiple fronts.

Rights paid for in blood turned out to be fragile

Tamara Orange said among her many thoughts when she heard of the Supreme Court decision in this year’s Voting Rights Act case, there was relief — “relief that my dad is not here to see that; that Jimmie Lee Jackson is not here to see it; that Viola Liuzzo is not here to see it,” she said. “I’m relieved for them because to me, it’s as though the sacrifices that were made were done in vain.”

Her father, James Orange, was working with the Southern Christian Leadership Conference to organize voting rights protests in Marion and Perry County, Alabama, in 1965. When juveniles joined the effort, he was arrested for contributing to the delinquency of minors. Concern arose that Orange was going to be taken out of the jail and lynched.

A protest to intervene ended with Jackson, a 26-year-old Black church deacon, being shot in the stomach by a state trooper while Jackson tried to shield his mother and grandfather.

His death was the catalyst for what became the Selma to Montgomery march and “Bloody Sunday.”

Orange stayed in the movement all his life and died in 2008, Tamara Orange said. But even after the Voting Rights Act passed, “He would say, be careful or we’re going to lose it.”

‘We got bad news for you’

Anthony Liuzzo had just turned 10 when his mother, 39, left their middle-class neighborhood in Michigan and headed for Selma, Alabama. She had cried as she watched scenes from “Bloody Sunday” on television.

Viola Liuzzo participated in a portion of the second march and then helped drive other civil rights protesters around the Black Belt region of the state. On March 25, 1965, she was driving one protester between Selma and Montgomery when a vehicle pulled alongside and fired into the car.

The phone call came around midnight. Anthony Liuzzo remembers the caller asking his dad, “Is your wife Viola? We got bad news for you. She’s been shot.” When his father asked whether she was all right, the caller said “No, she’s dead,” and then hung up.

An informant for the FBI quickly identified members of the Ku Klux Klan as her killers. The three men charged would escape conviction on state charges but be convicted in federal court.

Anthony Liuzzo and his siblings lived with the lost birthdays and other missed milestones. His comfort was that the voting rights she had died for had become a reality. But the April ruling by the Supreme Court and the subsequent rush by Republican-led legislatures in several Southern states to eliminate congressional districts represented by Black lawmakers left him angry and distraught.

Even so, he said he is still proud his mother had the courage to go to Selma “when others sat in their pretty little houses.”

One morning, the Klan returned

The inscription at the bottom of Vernon Dahmer Sr.’s tombstone reads simply: “If you don’t vote, you don’t count.”

It is a message that embodies his life’s work and the story behind his death.

Even after Democratic President Lyndon Johnson signed the Voting Rights Act, not every state was eager to implement the new law. In Mississippi, it came with a “poll tax.” The amount was $2, but in a world where a farmworker’s wages might only be $5 a day, that was substantial, said Dahmer’s son, Dennis Dahmer Sr.

The elder Dahmer, 57 at the time of his death, was a successful businessman who owned a store, sawmill and farm near Hattiesburg. He also was a civil rights leader and NAACP president in Ford County. He offered to pay the $2 for Black residents who wanted to register to vote.

He had already been under scrutiny by the local Ku Klux Klan. There was harassment and there were threatening phone calls. The windows were shot out of his store, but no one challenged him directly because his sons were always present and armed.

That seemed to trail off after Johnson signed the law.

“The Klan quit calling,” Dennis Dahmer said. “They quit shooting out the windows, so my family thought that all of this was behind us.”

That changed in the early hours of Jan. 10, 1966, when two carloads of Klansmen showed up. They firebombed the house and adjacent grocery store and began shooting at the house. The elder Dahmer shot back, using his ample arsenal to fight off the attack.

His wife and the three children who were home survived, but he suffered severe injuries from inhaling the smoke and fumes from the flames. He died later that day.

Dennis Dahmer was 12 as he stood next to his dad’s hospital bed. He wondered why some people wanted his father dead just for trying to help Black people vote.

A former Imperial Wizard of the Ku Klux Klan, Sam Bowers, was convicted in 1998 for the attack and sentenced to life.

Like the families of other survivors, Dennis Dahmer’s family has witnessed the methodical dismantling of the Voting Rights Act.

“Finally, they basically turned it into a relic,” he said.

His plan now is activism, to speak out and promote the need for a massive voter turnout. He also wants to remind people of the price that certain families paid for everyone to have the right to vote and be represented by someone of their choosing.

“We’re living in a time when America has a lot of the same characteristics of the 1960s that I grew up in,” he said. “People say, are we going back? Hell, we’re already there.”

Mississippi Today Ideas is a platform for thoughtful Mississippians to share their ideas about our state’s past, present and future. Opinions expressed in guest essays are the author’s own and do not necessarily represent those of Mississippi Today. You can read more about the section here.. 

“We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.” 

— Declaration of Independence, July 4, 1776 

For 250 years, America has wrestled with the meaning of these words. 

The history of one small Mississippi Delta town offers a window into how we’ve grown into these ideals.

Benjamin Grubb Humphreys was a founding father of the Magnolia State. A planter, slaveholder, military officer and politician, Humphreys helped build the antebellum Mississippi we read about in history books.

When his family’s Claiborne County plantation fell on hard times in 1846, Humphreys steamed up the Yazoo River and selected a plantation site near Roebuck Lake. The rich Delta soil surrounding it, farmed by the Choctaw for centuries and opened to settlement through the Treaty of Dancing Rabbit Creek, was an ideal spot for a plantation. 

Humphreys named his new plantation after the Choctaw phrase for a home in the woods: Itta Bena. 

As war approached, Humphreys devoted himself to the Confederacy, serving with distinction at Antietam, Chancellorsville, Gettysburg and Chickamauga. 

After the war, Humphreys returned to Mississippi politics and became the state’s first post-war governor. Like many members of Mississippi’s planter class, he sought to restore the social hierarchy that had defined his successful antebellum life. 

As governor, Humphreys opposed ratification of the 13th and 14th Amendments and enacted the infamous Black Codes. These laws imposed harsh restrictions on newly freed slaves and helped establish the segregated order that would dominate Mississippi for generations after the war.

Gov. Humphreys and his contemporaries rebuilt the post-war South, characterized by sharecropping, disenfranchisement and discrimination that dominated the Delta for decades.

Five miles west of Humphreys’ old plantation site stands a historical marker commemorating the 1925 birthplace of Riley B. King in a sharecropper’s home. 

Born in the cotton fields of Itta Bena, King learned the hard realities of a sharecropper’s life early on. In the blazing Mississippi sun, children would spend long days chopping cotton, picking cotton and singing about it alongside the adults. 

Orphaned by age 9, Riley bounced across the state, moving from Itta Bena to Kilmichael, then to Lexington and eventually to Indianola. 

Religion was a big part of Riley’s life. Early on, he was enthralled by a preacher’s unconventional delivery, which included using a guitar in his sermons. While he continued to move and change jobs, the music stayed with him. 

By the time he was 20, King had progressed to performing on street corners. And as soon as he learned that playing the blues yielded more tips in his open hat than the old religious standards, he escaped life in the fields and moved to Memphis. There, the hardships of his upbringing became a source of opportunity. 

King’s first job off the farm was serving as a disc jockey at WDIA. Soon after, calls and fan mail flooded into the radio station addressed to the personality they knew as “The Beale Street Blues Boy.” The nickname stuck and was eventually shortened, creating the name history remembers: B.B. King. 

Born into extreme poverty and surviving on his own as a kid, King used talent, discipline, persistence and a surprisingly positive outlook on a hard life to escape his situation and master a form of music deeply rooted in the suffering and endurance of the Mississippi Delta. 

Years later, King reflected on the role the blues played in his life in his autobiography. 

“As a little kid, blues meant hope, excitement, pure emotion. Blues were about feelings. They seem to bring out the feelings of the artist and they brought out my feelings as a kid. They made me wanna move, or sing, or pick up Reverend’s guitar and figure out how to make those wonderful sounds.” 

Widely regarded as one of the greatest guitarists in history, this great-grandson of slaves carried Mississippi’s music to the world stage and became one of the most celebrated musicians in America.

In 1946, as King fled the Delta, the Mississippi Legislature continued taking steps to keep society segregated. That year, lawmakers authorized the creation of the Mississippi Vocational College as a separate institution for Black students. 

After local protests prevented the school from opening at the old Greenwood Army Air Base, legislators selected another, more remote, location six miles to the west. And in a twist that could only take place in the Mississippi Delta, old plantation land in Itta Bena was transformed into an institution of higher learning for the descendants of the enslaved. 

Dr. James Herbert White was recruited to lead that institution when it opened in 1950. 

Also the son of sharecroppers, White envisioned something greater than an isolated vocational school designed to preserve the state’s “separate but equal” vision. White devoted himself not simply to constructing buildings and classrooms, but to constructing hope. 

Dr. White dreamed of building a true institution of higher learning that could lift students into lives of opportunity, dignity and excellence. Under his leadership, the school became Mississippi Valley State College, reflecting a vision that had grown well beyond its vocational beginnings. Today, the university nicknamed “The Valley” continues to produce educators, professionals, athletes and leaders whose influence extends far beyond the Mississippi Delta.

Take a Sunday drive through the Mississippi Delta, and you’ll notice historical markers everywhere. 

A few miles north of Itta Bena, there’s a marker on the banks of the Tallahatchie River memorializing the site of Emmett Till’s 1955 death. A couple of hours south, another one describes how Gen. Ulysses S. Grant used Mississippi College’s Provine Chapel as a field hospital during the Vicksburg campaign. Everywhere in between, marker after marker tells the story of how events from the front pages of American history played out across the Delta. 

What other stretch of soil could intertwine the stories of a plantation owner, a musician, an educator and the president of the United States? 

Four months after the Battle of Gettysburg, Abraham Lincoln gave voice to an understanding of the American experiment that would eventually transform a thousand different corners of America, including Itta Bena. 

Standing among the graves of those who died preserving the Union, he returned to the Declaration of Independence and its central claim that all men are created equal. Lincoln acknowledged that America remained engaged in unfinished work, bringing the nation’s actions into closer alignment with its founding ideal. It was work to which he ultimately gave his life. 

Lincoln’s greatest contribution to those of us looking back across 250 years of the American experiment, though, may have been the challenge he left behind. Speaking to a generation enduring circumstances far worse than our own, he called on his countrymen to show an “increased devotion” to the cause of liberty. 

Itta Bena, Mississippi, offers a remarkable view of the American experiment today because it demonstrates that Lincoln’s challenge did not end at Gettysburg. Slowly but surely, generations of Americans accepted the responsibility of enlarging the promise contained in the Declaration.

Today, the only visible evidence of Benjamin Humphreys’ plantation is an aging historical marker at the intersection of Humphreys Street and Mississippi Highway 7 in downtown Itta Bena. 

Glance east while reading it, and you can picture the columned porch of a plantation home still rising above the Delta landscape. Walk a few minutes in any direction, and you are standing in fields once worked by Humphreys’ slaves nearly two centuries ago. 

But other than those fields stretching to the horizon, neither Humphreys, Jefferson nor Lincoln would recognize much of the small Delta town today. Those fields that once supported a plantation produced one of the most celebrated musicians in American history and gave rise to a state-supported, historically Black university. Free elections have taken place across the Delta for decades now, with candidates from all parties up and down the ballot. 

The meaning of Itta Bena was not settled at the time Benjamin Humphreys founded it. As the American story unfolded, it eventually outgrew the antebellum world that created it.

The window it offers into the American experiment is one of hope.

Viewed through the lens of history, the American experiment in self-government is much more than a battle over political opinions. Every generation inherits an unfinished country. Progress isn’t just a debate over who wins elections; it is about what we choose to build. 

If the United States of America someday celebrates a 500th anniversary, it will not happen because Americans agree on everything. We never have, and we never will. It will happen because generation after generation of Americans accepted Lincoln’s challenge, overcame their differences and devoted themselves to preserving a government of the people, by the people, and for the people. 

In the Mississippi Delta, those fading historical markers tell the story of how previous generations helped our country achieve those founding ideals. Hopefully, the historical markers that have yet to be placed will say the same about us someday.

Nason Lollar was born in Leflore County. He currently serves as principal of Germantown Middle School in Madison County. Over his 26-year career in Mississippi’s public schools, he has served as a teacher, coach, assistant principal and principal. He holds a doctor of education degree from William Carey University and is the author of “The Five Principles of Educator Professionalism: Rebuilding Trust in Schools.” A husband and father of four, he writes about education, leadership, Mississippi history and life in his spare time. 

Mukta Joshi is an investigative reporter at Mississippi Today. She is spending a year as a New York Times Local Investigations fellow examining immigration and criminal justice issues. She can be reached at mukta.joshi@nytimes.com.

Immigrants arrested within the country are entitled to a bond hearing within 90 days of detention, the 5th U.S. Circuit Court of Appeals ruled 2-1 Thursday. The court, which covers Mississippi, Louisiana and Texas, held that unjustified detention beyond this period would violate the due process guaranteed by the Constitution.

More than 58,000 immigrants held by U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement have petitioned federal courts across the country, challenging their detention. Nearly 600 of those petitions have been filed in Mississippi. The federal judge assigned to all of their cases, David Bramlette, has not decided on the merits of a single one, leaving hundreds of detainees in limbo. Some have been held in Mississippi for more than a year. 

The decision Thursday was made by a panel of three judges, which means the government will have an opportunity to seek a rehearing of the panel’s decision by the full appeals court.

Earlier this year in a separate case, the same court had interpreted the federal statute invoked by ICE to deny bond hearings en masse.

For decades, federal courts across the U.S. had distinguished between people arrested and detained at the border while trying to enter the country and people who had already been living in the United States for years. Those arrested inside the United States were automatically provided bond hearings by ICE. Bond hearings are the stage at which an immigration court would determine whether the detainee was dangerous, or posed a flight risk. 

But in 2025, the Trump administration began enforcing a mandatory detention policy, meaning most people would be denied bond hearings and be held in ICE custody until an immigration court decided whether they should be deported or allowed to remain in the country. 

As a result, federal courts across the country were flooded by constitutional habeas corpus petitions by ICE detainees challenging their continued detention without bond hearings. The decision on Thursday said the situation was creating “enormous difficulties” for district courts. 

In February, the conservative New Orleans-based appeals court became one of two circuits upholding this mandatory detention policy. It held that federal law did not make any distinction between where people had been arrested and how long they had been living in the U.S.

On Thursday, the same court, while agreeing that the statute made no distinction, held that ICE could hold detainees “for ninety days but no longer” without a bond hearing, because continued detention without justification would violate the Constitution. 

The case decided on Thursday came before the court on appeal when judges in Texas granted bond hearings to three ICE detainees who had filed habeas petitions. Federal immigration authorities challenged those decisions, arguing they had the right to hold those detainees without providing them with bond hearings.  

The three petitioners, who were all detained by ICE during traffic stops, had entered the country more than a decade before, resided in the United States and were fathers to U.S. citizens. When Texas judges granted their habeas petitions after months of detention, the government had argued that they were not entitled to due process and had no right to a bond hearing. 

The court upheld that freedom from detention is a fundamental right the Constitution provides to all human beings within American jurisdiction, not just U.S. citizens. Referring to the Board of Immigration Appeals, the court said Thursday, “Even though the BIA reinterpreted the meaning of statutory language, the Constitution has not changed.”