2025 Louisiana Legislative Session Wrap-Up 

The Regular 2025 Louisiana Legislative Session (April 14 – June 12) showcased once again the state’s obsession with punishment over people. The budget ballooned for carceral expansion, while support systems for our youth, elders, and communities remain underfunded or attacked outright. But amid it all, VOTE’s Policy team and partners showed up:  

We testified.  
We called out hypocrisy.  
We helped defeat harmful bills. 
We pushed forward the truth. 

(iStock)

Most of laws passed from the last session went into effect on August 1st. Here’s a breakdown of what went down and what it means for our communities: 

Where the Money Goes:
Punishment Over People 

The state passed HB 1/ Act 1, Louisiana’s operating expenses budget bill for Fiscal Year 2025-2026. This year’s budget was more than a financial document – it was a statement of right-wing values. What this new budget says, loudly and clearly, is that Louisiana still sees incarceration as a tool for big business to make and a means to control and marginalize Louisiana citizens. And with it came millions more for the carceral system:  

  • $444M for State Police (-$25M) ↓ (after mushrooming last year) 
  • $39M local police supplemental pay 
  • $197M Office of Juvenile Justice 
  • $129M for Department of Corrections (DOC) Administration ($8M) 
  • $104M for Probation & Parole ($2M)—partially funded by the $13M they squeeze out of citizens on supervision by charging fees 
  • $48M Public Defenders Office (constitutionally required indigent defense) 
  • $41M to District Attorneys Association 
  • $37M child welfare services 

    Facilities
  • $64M to jail deputies’ pay 
  • $87M Hunt (-$18M)↓ 
  • $66M Dixon (-$3M)↓ 
  • $46M Laborde ($2M) 
  • $41M Wade (no change) 
  • $39M Rayburn (-$16M)↓ 
  • $36M Allen (no change) 
  • $35M Louisiana Correctional Institute for Women (LCIW) ($1M) 
  • $500K Winn (30 people incarcerated at the state level), being rented to LaSalle Corrections, which rakes in millions from ICE to detain over 1,500 people. Filling this prison with people who aren’t from Louisiana leaves the state scrambling to pay sheriffs to house more people in local jails—effectively subsidizing jail guard jobs under the guise of public safety. 

Read HB 1, and all its expenditures here

Under HB 2/ Act 2, the “capital outlay” bill, which funds future infrastructure projects, the Legislature approved $257,000,000 for the following regressive projects: 

  • $64M for Lafayette Parish to build a new jail 
  • $58M for juvenile prison expansion 
  • $36M for state prison expansion  
  • $33M to the Orleans Communications District (911, 311) 
  • $27M State Police facility in St. Tammany 
  • $26M in Angola State Penitentiary maintenance and upgrades 
  • $13M in LCW repairs 

Read HB 2, and all its outlays here

Courtesy of HB 93 / Act 240, voters in the “Acadiana Regional Juvenile Justice District” should expect a 1% tax (sales, services, rent) on their ballot to fund a new prison. These parishes are Acadia, Allen, Evangeline, Iberia, Jefferson Davis, St. Landry, St. Martin, St. Mary and Vermillion. 

Louisiana doesn’t have the money to fund politicians’ obsession with prison expansion—and voters likely wouldn’t approve it anyway if ever put to the ballot. But don’t be surprised if Louisiana politicians try to funnel federal dollars through Homeland Security to keep it going (i.e. Florida got $500m to build an ICE detention facility). The real issue isn’t just profiting from cruelty—it’s that our state treats prisons like a rural jobs program while lining the pockets of big business contractors and architects who benefit from massive prison infrastructure projects. 

Prior to the recent redistricting and the rise of a punitive supermajority, Louisiana’s Legislature had been on a promising path toward reducing overincarceration through the bipartisan Justice Reinvestment Initiative (JRI)—a 2017 reform package aimed at lowering the prison population, saving taxpayer money, and reinvesting those savings into community-based services and supports for victims. The initiative led to a significant drop in incarceration and helped reduce Louisiana’s long-standing status as the most incarcerated state in the nation. This recent reversal is especially devastating—not only because it undoes years of hard-fought progress, but because it signals a willful return to failed policies that harm families, waste public dollars, and deepen racial injustice. 

So, brace yourself: they’re not done. Lawmakers will keep criminalizing everyday life, stacking on longer sentences, and pouring money into bigger prisons—doubling, even tripling incarceration costs—until all that’s left in Louisiana are cages, guards, and the people they’ve locked away. 

Wins Far & Few Between
(Not Including Defeated Bills!) 

There weren’t many clear wins this session but a few positive bills did pass:  

  • HB 405 / Act 498 – Requires election law changes to be made public. Mandates that the Secretary of State publicly share all changes in election law – boosting transparency in voting regulation. Hopefully we can use this to go backwards, and the state can finally clearly explain who can vote with a criminal conviction, and how they get registered. We’ve been doing that work for them over the past six years. 
  • SR 154 – Creates a task force to study ways to increase voter participation and ensure more people are engaged in the political process. 
  • SB 182 / Act 440 – Maintains access to Medicaid during a declared state of emergency. The federal government is poised to throw millions of people into health care related debt, poverty, and despair. 
  • HB 100 / Act 140 – Prohibits bail bond agents from using cell phone tracking devices.  
  • HB 384 / Act 497 Reduced the expulsion period for students from 2 years to 1. If the offense is cannabis, suspension only happens after a second violation. We know criminalizing kids doesn’t help them—and this is a step in the right direction. 
  • HB 457 / Act 278 – Requires access to educational and religious materials in solitary confinement unless proven to be a “security risk.” 
  • HB 584 /Act 209 – Establishes “Back on Track” Youth Pilot Program, a youth-centered alternative to incarceration.  

Ultimately Vetoed   

  • SB 87 – Ensures those who post cash bonds receive warrant notifications. Although SB 87 did pass through the Legislature, it was vetoed by Governor Jeff Landry with the below message. His prejudicial belief that only a family should post bond for someone accused of a crime ensures that people in poverty stay in jail, and only the wealthy gain their full constitutional rights. 

VETO MESSAGE FROM GOVERNOR LANDRY:  “It is no secret that George Soros, Kamala Harris, and the rest of the radical left has declared war on the concept of pre-trial bail advocating instead for letting criminals back out onto our streets and in our communities to commit further crimes with no oversight or accountability. One of the most popular tools in their arsenal is the use of “bail funds”, funded and supported by George Soros and similar radicals, that put up cash money deposits for bail for criminals they’ve often never met and with whom they have no connection. [Read more]”  

Jim Crow Juries:
We Still Refuse to Right the Wrong,
But We’ll Study It 

SB 218 – which would’ve allowed new trials (or new plea agreements) for people convicted by unconstitutional non-unanimous juries —failed on the Senate Floor after making it out of committee for the first time  ever. Only 9 senators voted yes.  

But not all hope is lost. A study commission, SR 183 is now tasked with studying and identifying how many people are still behind bars because of Jim Crow-era split jury verdicts. Impacted individuals can submit their case to the commission, which will meet starting in October 2025. Recommendations are to be developed by 2026. 

Meanwhile, HR 243 calls on the Legislative Fiscal Office for a study on how much it would cost to grant those people new trials. We’ll be making sure they also study the moral and financial cost of doing nothing—from growing medical bills for aging people in prison, to Louisiana’s reputation as a national embarrassment. 

After 5 years of failing to bestow justice upon these unjust convictions, it is past time to Let the People Decide. Lawmakers must push forth a ballot initiative for a statewide constitutional amendment decided by all, rather than 100 politicians. If nothing changes, we are spending close to a billion public dollars for 800 people to eventually die in prison. These people deserved a fair trial, and that will never go away.

Direct Blows:
Bills That Passed, Unfortunately.
 

HB 675: Attacks on Post-Conviction Relief 

Post-conviction relief (PCR) was aggressively under attack this session with multiple bills proposed. One of the most damaging bills of the session—HB 675 /Act 393 —became law. This dangerous new law makes it harder to challenge wrongful convictions, especially for those who plead guilty—even if new evidence proves innocence. This affects every person convicted and serving prison time – and specifically – the 55 people on Louisiana’s death row as well as the nearly 5,000 people serving life sentences. This represents a cor­ner­stone of Gov. Landry’s cam­paign promise to resume exe­cu­tions in Louisiana after more than a decade-long pause.  

Here’s what it does: 

  • Bans people who pled guilty from later claiming they’re innocent—even if new evidence proves it (pro-tip: file claims anyway; get denied in state court and then take to federal court). FYI: this ban includes coerced pleas, where people are being threatened or deceived. 
  • Forces people to give up attorney-client privilege if they claim ineffective assistance of counsel—allowing the state to cross-examine their lawyer (no problem) and demand disclosure of all private conversations (problem). 
  • Doubles the state’s response time to post-conviction petitions from 30 to 60 days. Despite the claims that incarcerated people are “dragging out” their demand to be heard in court… it is usually the opposite. 
  • Sets strict deadlines: if you filed a placeholder (“shell”) petition by July 1, 2025, you must complete it by July 1, 2026. Petitions filed before July 1, 2023, must be resolved by July 1, 2026, unless the court gives a rare extension. These timelines will likely overload the courts.  
  • Dismisses petitions as “abandoned” after two years of inactivity. Typically, any inactivity is related to incarcerated people desperately seeking lawyers willing to take their (often complicated) case pro bono. 
  • Eliminates the “interests of justice” exception—an important federal protection for rare, meritorious claims. The U.S. Supreme Court has always given space to extreme circumstances that should override a procedural bar, such as paperwork not being filed on time. This is a key exception for people who are filing things from inside a prison cell, through the mail, with no computer or phone access to the court or opposing counsel. 
  • Denies bail to people who win a new trial after overturning a conviction. 
  • Grants the attor­ney gen­er­al the author­i­ty to file pro­ce­dur­al objec­tions to pris­on­ers’ claims and to move to dis­miss cas­es. This is aligned with the Baton Rouge state government seeking to take over the authority of locally elected district attorneys. 

Criminal legal reform advocates, including Innocence Project New Orleans (IPNO), the Promise of Justice Initiative (PJI) and Voice of the Experienced (VOTE) raised serious concerns about the legislation—especially given Louisiana’s long record of wrongful convictions. Since 1989, the state has wrongfully convicted at least 87 people, including 12 who were sentenced to death, according to the National Registry of Exonerations.

HB 675 is a slap in the face to anyone who’s ever tried to seek justice through Louisiana’s courts. If you or someone you know is impacted, act quickly, meet deadlines, and consider taking your case to federal court. 

If you were wondering why Governor Landry was trying to pass a constitutional amendment for the creation of new “specialty courts” outside of long-established jurisdictions: A court that can dismiss all post-conviction petitions would ensure nobody ever is exonerated through the state courts, thus delaying any release for years, if not decades. 

Bleeding a Stone 

HB 199 / Act 253 doubles down on extracting money from the poorest people (“in forma pauperis”) in the system. It requires incarcerated people to submit six months of financial records just to request a waiver for civil court filing fees. Even with only a few dollars in their account, the prison must now take 20% of their income every month until the fee is paid in full. If someone has been released, they’re still on the hook—expected to report their assets and start paying once they have more than $10. Poverty, under this law, isn’t a circumstance—it’s a lifetime payment plan. Now, those claims won’t even move forward until every cent is paid. 

This matters because civil lawsuits are often the only tool incarcerated people have to challenge dangerous conditions or misconduct and hold the system accountable. We are all too familiar with litigation around medical care, unsafe heat, solitary confinement, mental health care, rats, lead, asbestos, and forced labor in unsafe conditions. Someone could be working in a prison field for years just to earn the right to file a pro se lawsuit about why working conditions in the field are unsafe

Policing Pregnancy: Civil Bounties and Criminal Traps 

HB 575 / Act 383, Louisiana’s “Justice for Victims of Abortion Drug Dealers Act,” was one of the most chilling bills proposed during the 2025 session. Previously, a person receiving an abortion could sue the provider for any wrongful injuries suffered, similar to medical malpractice, and the financial compensation would be reduced if the patient signed a consent waiver. This bill was originally an incredibly vague law designed for men, and parents of the pregnant woman, to sue over abortions that allegedly already occurred, where he was allegedly the biological father. Public pressure dialed that way back. 

What’s new? HB 575 now allows a lawsuit simply for having the abortion itself (and not rooted in wrongful injuries suffered by the pregnant woman) by expanding who can be sued. Specifically, it now includes anyone who facilitated the use of an abortion-inducing drug, whether they prescribed, sold, or distributed it. The new law also eliminated the reduction of any award based on consent. Most importantly, it creates a $100k minimum award for damages, that could be a financial incentive for every woman who knowingly and consensually had an abortion with no health complications whatsoever. The law applies retroactively and regardless of whether an abortion actually occurred. 

The law targets anyone who distributes “abortion-inducing drugs,” but exempts health care providers and pharmacists who are licensed in Louisiana. It is intended to target those who facilitate banned medications like misoprostol (legal in other states), which is used to treat miscarriages, postpartum hemorrhage, and ulcers. HB 575 is part of a broader pattern: using civil courts to criminalize care, punish compassion, and expand the reach of surveillance and control. This isn’t about protecting life—it’s about outlawing solidarity. 

HB 425 / Act 275 (Rep. Josh Carlson, R) expands the criminal definition of “coerced abortion” to include vague new definitions under the extortion statute: “a threat intended to compel a pregnant woman to have an abortion.” Even when no abortion happened, someone can be charged with “coerced abortion.” This is yet another example of the systematic control Louisiana is moving towards. The government majority’s desire to force births, by any means necessary, may only get more dystopian as time goes on. 

A Blueprint for Immigration Surveillance, Not Safety 

Louisiana didn’t just pass immigration bills in 2025—it built a surveillance regime. As ICE raids ramp up and Trump demands “3,000 arrests per day,” many of those detained end up here—where the federal government pays sheriffs around $100 a day to cage people. This is our economy of choice now: one that depends on locking people up.  However, the truth is just a small but powerful group of people are reaping the benefits of creating this Big Government Immigration Program.  

This package of laws does nothing to address Louisiana’s real issues. It doesn’t feed families, improve schools, or stabilize housing. What it does is weaponize basic services, chill access to care, divide communities, and turn the state into a foot soldier for federal immigration enforcement with no regard for civil rights, due process or common decency. It’s not immigration policy—it’s a playbook for fear. 

SB 100 / Act 419 now requires state agencies to collect and report the immigration status of anyone receiving public services—whether that’s health care, housing, food, or education. Pitched as a measure to “coordinate” resources, its true function is to intimidate. For many immigrants, documented or not, seeking help now carries the risk of being flagged, tracked, or reported. Compassion becomes a liability. And anyone who believes their own services won’t be interrupted because they are not an immigrant: the state agency will need everyone to prove their citizenship and/or immigration status for them to uncover the small number of people they are looking for. Similar to drug testing regimes, the inquiry will end up costing far more than the savings. 

SB 15 / Act 399 goes a step further: it criminalizes obstruction of ICE agents, with fines and/or a sentence up to a year for any act intended to “hinder, delay, prevent, or otherwise interfere with or thwart” ICE, even if that means choosing not to comply with a detainer request. That’s not about safety—it’s about forced complicity. It deputizes the entire state to act as ICE’s backup, under threat of jail time. And it exposes a deeper truth: Louisiana politicians love federal power when it comes to locking people up—but not when it comes to protecting our environment, enforcing civil rights, or ensuring fair elections. 

HB 307 / Act 351 mandates immigration status checks for anyone applying for public assistance and requires that non-citizens be reported to ICE. It also orders annual audits calculating how much aid was given to “illegal aliens” and “unaccompanied minors.”  

HB 554 / Act 292 brands IDs issued to non-citizens with a special code and formal notice about voting restrictions—ensuring that even lawful presence comes with a mark of exclusion. 

And HB 303 /Act 264 creates a special law enforcement unit, the Fugitive Apprehension Unit, within the Attorney General’s office to partner with ICE and U.S. Marshals in hunting down “fugitives.” 

HB 436 / Act 17 prevents an undocumented person from collecting damages in an auto accident, putting people outside the coverage of our laws, part of an intention to make the state entirely unlivable for some people under the mistaken impression our state will be better for it. 

The War on (Natural) Drugs Marches On 

The War on Drugs continues—this time targeting leaves and mushrooms. With the passage of SB 154 / Act 41 kratom—a plant-based substance long used to manage pain, PTSD, anxiety, and opioid withdrawal—is now banned statewide. Despite hours of testimony from health professionals and users advocating for regulation over prohibition, the legislature chose to criminalize it outright, backed by law enforcement and pharmaceutical interests. As of August 1, 2025, possession of kratom becomes a felony in Louisiana. 

For years, kratom was sold openly and served as a lifeline for thousands of Louisianans, especially those without insurance or access to traditional care. 

Meanwhile, HB 176 / Act 154 criminalizes derivatives of amanita mushrooms and phenibut—natural substances used for centuries—based on little more than anecdote and fear. There was no input from the Department of Health. No scientific studies. Just a Grant Parish sheriff claiming kids are “overdosing on candy” near checkout lines. 

This is how drug policy gets made in Louisiana: the Executive Branch—charged with enforcing laws—instead acts as lead lobbyist, while the Criminal Justice Committee, chaired by Rep. Debbie Villio (who officially works for the Fraternal Order of Police), does the legislating. No health experts. No science. Just sheriffs and DAs pushing prohibition through law enforcement channels.  So much for separation of powers. 

This isn’t about safety. It’s about control. And the hypocrisy is glaring. In the same session, lawmakers advanced SB 19 / Act 464 to make ivermectin—a livestock dewormer turned folk remedy—available over the counter, waving the “individual freedom” flag. But when it came to amanita and kratom, that flag disappeared. A plant became a threat.  

VOTE’s testimony reminded legislators: no one is asking why people turn to these substances. There’s no data. No proof of widespread harm. Just another swipe at individual freedom under the banner of “public safety.” 

HB 12 / Act 233 makes it a crime to sell or purchase consumable hemp products—like drinks or gummies—for anyone under 21. But rather than offering clarity, the law piles onto the chaos already surrounding Louisiana’s hemp industry, where mixed messages and scattershot bills are pushing tax-paying, job-creating businesses toward collapse. 

Meanwhile, HB 36 /Act 345 offers a rare bit of sanity: shielding businesses from lawsuits if their hemp products are approved by the health department and sold through proper permitting channels. But even that comes wrapped in contradiction—the same statute calls these regulated products “illegal controlled substances,” putting hemp in the same category as street drugs, while alcohol and nicotine—far more deadly—remain exempt. 

But Wait There’s More: Criminal Legal Bills 

HB 5 / Act 230 created a redundant “no parole” sentence for soliciting minors—even though that’s already illegal, and people convicted of this crime already are not parole eligible. 

HB 14 / Act 343 adds “cruelty to the elderly or people with infirmities” as the 16th legal justification for the death penalty in Louisiana—when intent to inflict great bodily harm is found. If no intent is proven, it mandates life without parole. This law is most likely to impact caregivers, including staff at assisted living facilities where neglect and mistreatment are notorious. Previously, the maximum penalty for cruelty without death was 10 years; for manslaughter (when there’s no intent to kill), it was 30 years. Now, caregivers could face life in prison or death for the same situations. 

HB 214 / Act 70 intensifies last year’s Crime Session goal of putting people in prison for lesser crimes and holding them for longer sentences. The key provision is that if someone commits another felony, the judge loses discretion to violate their probation. Now a violation is mandatory, no matter how petty the felony.  

HB 208 /Act 158 changes yet another part of the law where parole is denied. It is mind-boggling as to how many statutes exist to deny people parole, good time, or probation violations. So many, the Governor, District Attorneys Association, our legislators (and their lawyers) need multiple bites at the apple to get them all. Meanwhile, they are ratcheting up the concept of “one bite at the apple” on appeals, and the slightest mistake can doom your plea of innocence.  

Ironically, HB 171 / Act 248 removed the max salary cap for parole board members and makes their pay subject to annual legislative budget requests—despite parole being all but eliminated the year before. With fewer people eligible and longer wait times after denials, the board is doing less work than ever—and legislators are rewarding them. Parole has become so narrow, it’s like trying to ride a horse through the eye of a needle, yet some politicians still want it gone entirely (a violation of Constitution’s ban on ex post facto punishment or changing the rules after someone’s already been sentenced).  

SB 39 / Act 317 buries claims of false imprisonment under procedural roadblocks and shields sheriffs and the DOC from civil liability when an incarcerated person is held past their legal release date. Under this new law (effective 8/1/25), anyone wrongfully imprisoned must first go through the administrative remedy process (ARP)—often a lengthy, uphill bureaucratic battle—and win before suing. Lawsuits filed before that are dismissed outright; ones filed too late are dumped with prejudice. 

HB 64 / Act 237 gives the Attorney General sweeping power to take over any litigation filed against any local “political subdivision” (police department, city council, sheriff, school board, etc.) and blocks a local government defendant from entering into a consent decree without the approval of both the Attorney General and Governor. This is aimed at federal civil rights allegations and will generate another layer of lawyers’ fees paid by us. 

HB 206 which passed, but was VETOED BY GOVERNOR. This bill, directed at parish registrars and the Secretary of State, would have required legislative approval for any settlement agreements that arise in litigation. The Governor vetoed it because Act 237 already gives him control over these lawsuits and more. Thus, he has final say over redistricting, which is currently in the courts.  

A Constitutional Amendment for Vote in November  

HB 63 / Act 219 Do you support an amendment to change the mandatory retirement age for judges from seventy to seventy-five, provided that a judge may continue to serve to complete a term of office?  

While it may seem innocuous, the structural issues it hides are serious. Voters rarely have full insight into a judge’s mental sharpness, stamina, or health. Lawyers—those best positioned to know and the only ones eligible to run themselves—won’t speak out, since their careers depend on staying in a judge’s good graces. That’s why judges are almost never challenged and only leave when a seat is open. The best elder judges can still serve as ad hoc judges or return to private practice. This amendment isn’t about public interest—it’s about a few individuals who want to stay on the bench.  

When it comes time to vote on this: keep in mind the apparent malfeasance of New Orleans Chief Judge Derbigny, who suddenly quit this month. He had a massive backlog of cases for years, leading to the jail overflowing with people, and yet no lawyer would run against him in an election. 

What We Dodged:
Harmful Bills or Elements That Didn’t Make It
 

Not every attack on our people made it through. Here’s what didn’t pass—thanks to organizing, testimony, and pressure: 

  • SB 74 Aimed to send 15-year-olds to adult court, yet again trying to dismantle the juvenile justice system and fast-track youth into the adult system. The bill was thankfully killed in committee—but it wasn’t the first attempt, and likely won’t be the last. This push mirrors shady Amendment 3, which Louisiana voters overwhelmingly rejected on the March 29 ballot. Despite that clear message, lawmakers continue to push their own punitive, unpopular agendas instead of listening to the will of the people. 
  • HB 193 Would have made it significantly harder for incarcerated people to challenge their incarceration or conditions of confinement. The bill proposed stricter rules for filing lawsuits—allowing the state to throw out cases over minor technicalities. If someone didn’t follow the prison grievance process exactly on time, their case would be dismissed with prejudice—meaning permanently. Even if a lawsuit was filed while someone was still waiting on the prison’s internal response, it would be automatically tossed. This bill would have gutted incarcerated people’s access to the courts and made it easier to ignore serious claims of abuse, neglect, and unsafe conditions. 
  • HB 673 Would have repealed Louisiana’s wrongful conviction compensation statute entirely, stripping the state of any obligation to compensate those it wrongfully imprisoned. Even under the current law—where relief is limited and the bar for exoneration remains high—Louisiana has seen numerous qualifying cases. According to the National Registry of Exonerations, Orleans Parish leads the nation in per capita exonerations with 23 cases, while Jefferson Parish ranks eighth with 12. Rather than confronting this crisis of injustice, HB 673 is a harsh example of prioritizing punishment over people, offering no accountability for the system and no support for its victims. 
  • HB 76 Sought to criminalize exposure to sexually transmitted diseases (STDs), with felony charges and lifetime electronic monitoring for intentional exposure to incurable STDs, and misdemeanors for curable ones. In reality, it would have pushed people further from care—discouraging testing, treatment, and disclosure. 
  • HB 685 Anti-DEI (Diversity, Equity and Inclusion) programs across state government and barred race-or gender-based curricula at public colleges. Louisiana’s elected leadership struggles with addressing the past, including non-unanimous juries, voting rights, Cancer Alley, chain gangs, the Civil War, and slavery. Anyone having such a hard time accepting facts that have already gone by will sadly find it difficult to tangle with the present and plan the future. 
  • HB 262, HB 619, SB 196 Anti-homelessness bills, including a homelessness court program, did not pass. Whether they call it “public camping” or “loitering” or some new term yet to be developed: it is unfortunate that our massive crises in housing and health care are constantly invoking courts, police, and jails to intervene. 
  • HB 400 Regressive health care bill that would have required parental consent for most medical care was killed. 

Passed but Neutralized  

  • HB 310 / Act 352 was amended to remove the “any person” must file electronically in criminal court; it now only applies to “attorneys,” meaning pro se petitioners can still mail in their filings. 

The Road Ahead

While the Capitol remains hostile, the people remain organized. As we head toward the 2026 session and the 2025 elections, our message is clear:

Louisiana doesn’t need more prisons. We need housing, jobs, care, and accountability. 

To those inside and their loved ones outside—keep fighting, keep organizing, and keep holding power to account. 

Can’t get enough Lege? Check out the Power Coalition for Equity and Justice’s “Policy, Power and the Path Forward” 2025 Legislative Session Report 

The Cage Is the Same: Louisiana Takes the Lead in the Business of Immigration Detention

(Photo from Stephen Smith/AP/AP)

From the blocks of Angola State Penitentiary to the detention wings of ICE, Louisiana has long been in the business of caging human beings. Now, with the federal deportation machine accelerating, the state is leaning fully into its newest carceral frontier: immigration detention. The same cages (and new ones on the way), the same profiteers, the same isolation and abuse. In Louisiana, if you build the beds, they’ll find reasons to fill them, and keep them filled, fueling a sprawling detention network that depends on high occupancy, low oversight, and maximum disposability.

Louisiana locks up more people per capita than nearly any other state in the U.S., and unlike elsewhere, a majority of those incarcerated are held in local jails, with the state paying sheriffs a daily rate to warehouse them. As prison populations ballooned through the ’90s and early 2000s, some sheriffs outsourced state “prisoners” to private operators like GEO Group and LaSalle Corrections, embedding profit deeper into punishment. Even modest reforms, like Governor John Bel Edwards’ 2017 Justice Reinvestment Initiative (JRI) legislation that reduced the state prison population by more than 8,000 people, didn’t shrink the system. It simply shifted. ICE arrests surged under Trump, and Louisiana, with its existing infrastructure, became the easy answer. No resistance. No regulation. Just rural towns desperate for jobs and politicians eager to oblige.

Making matters worse is that legal resources have grown leaner as the need has grown. Last June, Southern Poverty Law Center laid off 35 immigration lawyers in the region while shutting down their work on immigration detention. This January, amidst cuts to federal programs, Immigration Services and Legal Advocacy (ISLA) lost funding to represent unaccompanied children in detention (many who were seeking asylum). With no right to an attorney in immigration proceedings, nonprofits are typically the only chance someone has to get due process under law.

The New York Times released “How Louisiana Built Trump’s Busiest Deportation Hub,” a chilling exposé and video tracing the deportation pipeline to its unlikely hub at the center of the state: Alexandria International Airport. A former U.S. Air Force base, AEX now serves as the top transit site for Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE). Most Americans have never heard of it. But tucked into central Louisiana, it’s become the nation’s busiest ICE flight hub, launching deportation flights almost daily to Honduras, Guatemala, El Salvador, and beyond. What looks like a sleepy regional airport is, in reality, the front door of a deportation superhighway.

And it’s no coincidence. Within an hour’s drive of Alexandria are at six ICE detention centers, most run by private prison giants like GEO Group and LaSalle Corrections. One federal official described it plainly: “ICE wants to operate like FedEx or Amazon.” In Louisiana, they can without friction—because there’s already a punishment infrastructure and economy here, designed to profit from human confinement. In fact, the daily cost of holding an ICE detainee in Louisiana is roughly one-third the cost elsewhere. Cheap land. Cheap labor. No pushback. No accident.

(Photo from NYT’s “How Louisiana Became ICE Detention Central”)

Just up the road in Jena, the region’s largest ICE detention facility, the Central Louisiana ICE Processing Center, cages over 1,100 people daily. Once a juvenile prison, it’s now operated by GEO Group and plugged into a vast, profit-driven incarceration network. Its economic impact is significant: providing 250 jobs and generating nearly $1 million in tax revenue. Like many small Louisiana towns, Jena’s survival is increasingly tied to a disturbing dependence on human warehousing.

But Jena has also become a national flashpoint. In March 2025, ICE detained Mahmoud Khalil, a Columbia student and pro-Palestinian activist, and flew him over 1,000 miles to Jena, separating him from his family and legal team, and placing him deep in rural obscurity. His arrest sparked a national outcry, drawing thousands into action: petitions, protests, media campaigns, and even a Congressional delegation. In May, over 500 people marched in Jena, calling for Khalil’s release and an end to ICE’s repression of political dissent. Representatives toured the facility, calling Khalil’s conditions “shocking,” and condemning the weaponization of detention against student activists and immigrants alike. And still, for those left behind, nothing changed.

This isn’t the first time Jena made national headlines. Nearly two decades ago, the Jena Six case ignited national outrage after Black high school students were charged with attempted murder for a schoolyard fight, just months after nooses were hung from a tree on campus. The case exposed deep racial bias in Louisiana’s legal system and drew tens of thousands to protest. Today, a new battle is unfolding in the same town, this time over immigration detention and the criminalization of dissent. A new generation is carrying that legacy forward, confronting not just racial injustice, but the machinery of surveillance, silence, and state-sanctioned exile.

Meanwhile, conditions inside these facilities remain dire. The ACLU’s August 2024 report “Inside the Black Hole: Systemic Rights Abuses Against Immigrants Detained & Disappeared in Louisiana” takes a deep look into the state’s abyss and confirmed what people inside have long said: abuse, medical neglect, solitary confinement, contaminated food, and retaliation for speaking out are routine. Many of the detained have lived in the U.S. for decades. Some are asylum seekers. Others are residents facing minor charges. But inside ICE’s shadow prison network, they are all reduced to one thing: deportable—and profitable.

Let’s be clear: Louisiana is not just complicit. We are leading. We operate 9 of ICE’s 131 detention facilities nationwide, more than any other state, with over 8,000 people locked in ICE custody at any given time. We’ve built a deportation pipeline that stretches from local jails to federal courtrooms to the belly of a plane. Every new contract signed, every old prison repurposed, every deportation flight launched from Alexandria, deepens that pipeline.

And yet, resistance is growing. People are connecting the dots, between incarceration and deportation, between Palestine and Louisiana, between Jena and global struggles for dignity. The question now is: Will we keep letting Louisiana disappear people for hollow profits that serve the few, at the cost of our humanity and tax dollars? Or will we rise to dismantle the cages—in all their forms?

Watch: New York Times, How Louisiana Became ICE Detention Central

In Conversation with Sara Louis-Ayo: Being a Refugee in the Era of ICE and Mass Incarceration

An interview between Sara Louis-Ayo, organizer with Voice of the Experienced’s Baton Rouge chapter, and Court Holden, Digital Media Coordinator with Voice of the Experienced.

The first episode of “In Conversation”—our new storytelling series spotlighting deeper dialogue and lived experience—features a conversation between VOTE’s Court Holden and Sara Louis-Ayo, a Sudanese refugee, immigration advocate and organizer for VOTE Baton Rouge.

Sara shares her journey from fleeing political persecution in Sudan to resettling in Louisiana, and how displacement shaped her commitment to advocacy. This episode explores the deep connections between immigration and the criminal justice system, especially in Louisiana, where policies like 287(g) deputize local law enforcement as federal immigration agents.

Through personal stories and policy analysis, Sara and Court call for greater solidarity between Black and immigrant communities and emphasize the importance of collective advocacy for systemic change.


In Conversation

Court: This is Court Holden, digital media coordinator at Voice of the Experienced. I’ve been with VOTE for about four years now, helping to tell the stories of those who have been impacted by Louisiana’s cultural system. On one hand, most of us think of that solely dealing with Angola, East Baton Rouge Parish Jail, Louisiana Correctional Institute for Women, arrest, judiciary proceedings, and the human and civil rights of currently and formerly incarcerated people. But the other side of that is something that has become nearly impossible to ignore, especially in Louisiana, and that is immigration.

So today, I want to bring you a different story because immigration and the criminal justice system actually have deep implications for one another. Our Baton Rouge chapter is fortunate to have welcomed an amazing new organizer to our team, Sara Louis-Ayo. Today, Sara will share her powerful story as a refugee, her work in immigration advocacy, and how we can all become better allies to those bearing the burdens imposed by the current administration.

A Journey of Survival and Resistance

Court: So, Sara, thank you for sitting down with me today. Let’s just start with who you are and your journey prior to landing in Baton Rouge.

Sara: Thank you, Court. Thank you for having me. My name is Sara Louis-Ayo. I’m originally from South Sudan, but I became a refugee at the age of six or seven. My family fled through Sudan and then Egypt before resettling in the United States under the UNHCR refugee program. The UNHCR stands for the United Nation High Commissioner for Refugees.

My father was a political activist and a freedom fighter. Many would say he resisted the regime that was happening in Sudan and he didn’t like the idea of people dignity being stripped away from them people who looked like me who spoke our languages he believed that people deserve more than to be a second citizen in their own indigenous land and that belief of refusal to be silent made us a target. My siblings and I and my mom were no longer safe to be in Sudan and so that for that reason who became refugees in Sudan.

There is a line from a poet named Warsan [Shire], a Somali poet that says, “No one leaves home unless home is a mouth of a shark.” And we did not leave for opportunity. We left for for survival. But I’ve learned that survival, too, is a form of resistance. So, yes.

Landing in Lafayette: A New Kind of Displacement

Even being in a new country, whether you’re in East Africa or in the American South, the language of oppression is still the same. When it comes to control, criminalization, and silence and how that works to dehumanize people.

Court: Could you tell me a little bit about the state that you got assigned to? Of course we know that it is Louisiana, but could you tell us a little bit about that process and what it was like when you first got here?

Sara: Sure. So, we through the UNHCR, they pick a state for you and we were given Louisiana, not knowing what Louisiana looked like, or where it’s at. But more specifically, Lafayette, Louisiana. And that was a different experience within its own. I then learned that Baton Rouge is the capital and New Orleans was like a different it seemed like a different state within a different city, but it seemed like as a state within Louisiana, but yeah, Lafayette was different.

The language, of course, we didn’t speak any English. And the accent, the Cajun accent and the accent around Lafayette was different. And I remember when we landed my siblings and I were terrified. We were crying. We didn’t want to leave the plane. We’re like, “Mom, you lied to us. These people set us up. They’re trying to kill us.” Because how different it was. You know, imagine Lafayette in the early 2000’s or late 1999 and that was our experience, but we made the best of it. So, yeah.

Court: Yeah. Lafayette is on the come up now, but I couldn’t imagine being there at that time. I often joke that it’s a village.

Sara: You know, and my mom often-time, I remember her, like, when she heard them speak, like they spoke English, yeah. But with the accent and she was like ‘that’s just their tribal language’ because of how different it is.

Sara: But I also want to add like that early displacement it shaped the fire in me. You know, it taught me how the system of oppression operates. Even being in a new country, whether you’re in East Africa or in the American South, we, the language of oppression is still the same. And when it comes to control, criminalization, the silence and how that even work of dehumanizing people, but yes.

Understanding Immigration Status: Refugees, Immigrants, and Asylum Seekers

Court: So you refer to yourself as a refugee. And oftentimes immigrant, refugee, migrant, those terms get used interchangeably, but the status of them they are different, the definition. So could you explain a little bit about what the difference is for status amongst those three?

Sara: Yes. So as a refugee while my status isn’t exactly the same as other immigrants, What connects – it’s not exactly the same as a refugee, but what connects me to them is our shared experience of displacement of leaving behind a home leaving everything we know not out of choice, but out of necessity. You know like whether fleeing war, prosecution, or economic instability, there’s a common thread of loss and of resistance and longing to rebuild something with your family.

And so as a refugee we’re vetted it into the US. They see that, oh, they’re fleeing war. They cannot no longer stay in Sudan. So therefore, we have something set for them and they could come to the United States. And that refugee resettlement program started with UNHCR started in the 1950s. And so that gives me the privilege, a pathway to citizenship, a pathway to a green card, as opposed to someone who’s an immigrant, who I also believe you could still be an immigrant and still flee prosecution, fleeing out of fear of being in your country, but you’re not given the same opportunities.

And we see that people coming through the borders, as immigrants, wanting to be asylum seekers, right? And sometime even when you’re vetted into the country as an asylum seeker, you’re not given – there’s a process to be vetted in. You might be given the options to work like a working visa, but you’re not automatically given the protection. So as an immigrant sometimes you could flee your country or leave your country to come for educational purposes, rebuilding your home or just wanting to leave a country not necessarily for that but majority of the people that come here are asylum seekers who are immigrants who are needing help or just to rebuild a life over.

Court: Did the UN come up with these these definitions or do you know who? Because it feels to me very much like a white savior type of thing where you know with refugees it’s like oh we’re saving you from something so by all means come in here because we’ve deemed you worthy of being saved whereas with immigrants it’s like, well, you know we’re not just going to give you a free hand out. I feel like they’re viewed very differently.

Sara: And I think also as I mentioned in our conversations before, one is viewed as a humanitarian. We’re saving you. We’re helping these poor Africans or poor Europeans, you know, to come in. And that started, I think, right after World War II in the 1950s where how the UNHCR was created and and that is to protect and support refugees, you know. So, but what refugee? In what way? As long as they come the way that you have created, you know, the guidelines for them to come in or to be vetted in, then that’s seen a humanitarian way.

But then how about the refugee that had to travel 50 countries to just make it to your border to seek asylum? Because you’ve also created that. You could come come as you are and and we will save you, you know. And so yes, I think there’s a white savior complex that plays into what a refugee or what a migrant or asylum seeker is. But again, it’s who is it? The definition belong to the definer more so. So I think, yeah, to me it’s all politics, but also who gets to decide who is a refugee I think it’s up to them.

From Displacement to Advocacy

Court: Right. So you said what connects you to immigrants as opposed to being a refugee is the displacement aspect. So what inspired you to sort of get into work advocating for asylum seekers?

Sara: So yeah, I feel like I’ve always been in that space ever since I came to America. Even in Lafayette, you know, not speaking English, I would, you know, I’m drawn into the communities of people who spoke second languages, you know, and ways that we could help each other. And so I’ve always been in the advocacy space, but I didn’t have a name for it. Until I met with a guy named Dawda. He’s also an African refugee who came here and saw that things were different in Louisiana and that he wanted to create something that we could all thrive, refugees and immigrants. Because, yeah, we do know that our experiences, our lived experiences, and how we could shape the way we want to live here in Louisiana. And so he came up with the Louisiana Organization for Refugees and Immigrants. And that is, you know, just giving refugees and immigrant a place, a safe haven, where they could come and connect with other people, but also ways to give back to the state that they’re living in through policy advocacy and all that extra advocacy work.

And so I became heavily involved with them doing policy work. And then I fell in love doing detention work, you know. And so I think I also had a moment while doing policy work. I was stuck for a moment because I’m like in order for me to understand what’s happening with federal immigration, I need to understand how the criminal justice system works because I’m getting calls from a lot of people who look like me, brown and black people, who are stuck in detention, you know, but there’s no universal representation. So I had to navigate what does it mean for one to have right to counsel and then the other doesn’t but it’s under the same laws you know.

The 287G Program: Where Immigration and Criminal Justice Intersect

Court: I think that you coming to work at VOTE at the time that you did was somewhat serendipitous. I mean Louisiana has been in national news many times now for its treatment of immigrants and more infamously the central Louisiana Ice Processing Center in Jena, Louisiana. So, that facility is operated by the GEO group, which is a billion-dollar private prison company. It’s not uncommon for immigrants to be kept in local prisons.

Back in 2017, VOTE helped implement the Justice Reinvestment Initiative or JRI as it’s more popularly known, but that was a package that worked to reduce the prison population. It released thousands of incarcerated people, mostly black women and men. But as we saw that population decrease, people weren’t filling the jails, of course, and they were not getting as much money as they’d like. So, they began to fill it with immigrants.

There’s a program that I wasn’t aware of until you came, which is the 287G program. Can you tell us a little bit more about that program and its impact on Louisiana’s criminal justice system?

Sara: Yes. So yes, the timing of my arrival at VOTE did you know, it’s serendipitous as you would say especially given how deeply interconnected the immigration and criminal justice system is, as I mentioned, here in Louisiana. So the 287G program is a prime example of their intersectionality here.

287G is a federal policy that went across southern states mainly and it’s between local law enforcement that have an agreement with ICE and that is the Immigration and Custom Enforcement. Under this program local officers, majority sheriffs, act as federal agencies and so when they find someone who they deem as undocumented or does not belong here, then they have the right to take them into ICE custody. And we see that a lot with majority of the immigrant population whenever they they go into the the criminal justice system.

And you know, some of them have a way of being bailed out or bonded out, but because there’s a ICE hold and this is where the sheriffs or the local police officers like, “No, we can’t let you go because we we have a hold on you, you know, and a local officer is acting as a federal agent.” And so that’s the intersectionality that is at hand in Louisiana. And a program like this is very harmful. It’s targeting people of color, specifically black people.

A Personal Encounter with 287G

Sara: I myself was at a hand of 287G being played out. I was handcuffed, and put into the sheriff’s officer car. Because I simply froze. And it was a time where Sandra Bland’s death was happening. I was heavy on advocacy work, heavy on protesting. And it was that same week where I was just done doing advocacy work. I had to drop a friend off at the airport and I was handcuffed. And I remember just forgetting how to speak English because I was like, “Oh, I could be dead, you know, that it’s either death or jail for me, you know, and I was very terrified.”

And so immediately I began to notice the treatment of sheriff, ‘Well, oh, you don’t speak English. You don’t look like a Sara,’ you know, ‘are you sure your name is Sara?’ Without even giving me the the opportunity to be like, well, what are you, you know, stopping me for? I think he did ask for my ID or my license, but I was so terrified that I couldn’t even like reach or give it to him, you know, but he automatically like assumed that I was undocumented and then god forbid if you’re Black and undocumented in Louisiana.

And so, yeah, we see how 287G is just, it’s a very racist policy. But when I was with LORI, we had the opportunity to meet with the sheriff and, you know, shared our grievances and shared our stories and at times it’s so hard to sit here and to talk, to tell people about your humanity, you know, and you’re telling them that, you know, I’ve experienced this and this is very harmful to people who look like me or my community. You need to stop. Luckily, they did not renew the contract, but they hit us with so many anti-immigrant bills all last year, and I think that’s where I met all of you guys doing the advocacy work and being at the capital.

Court: Yeah. I know, it feels like a double hit, too, because with your name in particular, it’s like, okay, well, my name is Sara and you think that would make it easier here in the United States.

Sara: You can’t be Sara and Black and African. You know? What is colonialism? It happened, right?

Court: Yeah. No, that is very traumatic. I’m sorry that that happened to you.

Building Solidarity and Allyship

Court: The scary part too, I mean, with you telling that story, at least like for me as a Black woman, and I’m sure others feel this way, is not knowing how to be an ally really, or a supporter or advocate without putting my own life in jeopardy. It really feels like we’re battling a similar beast. You know, cops are as much a danger to people who look like us as they are to undocumented people. So I guess I want to know how can others who want to show up during this time do so? How can we be better allies and supporters in this moment?

Sara: Right. Yes, you’re absolutely right. We are battling a similar beast. The system targets undocumented people, targets Black people. as I mentioned, you know, if you’re Black and undocumented or Black or immigrant, you’re a target. And I was an example of that. And how we are very interconnected. You know, this is a system that doesn’t care for your well-being and would dehumanize you in any way possible.

And I think for specifically the Black community, you know, as a as a Black African, I could say this: for the Black communities. We need each other. We need each other into this fight standing together in solidarity. I’ve seen people easily who are dehumanized, who look like us, you know, Black women. And Black women are always at the forefront fighting regardless. And but here’s what I believe and that solidarity doesn’t always have to look like standing on the front line. And I know, you know, I could say this, Black women have always done it.

But it could be like choosing to know what is immigration and how that operates in your own state and creating that collective power of learning. Even you learning about 287G or being in rooms and wanting to know what are all these anti-immigrant bills that are being passed and standing up with immigrant right groups. So we could build this collective power and collective voice to stand for one another. I think that’s one way we could all come together.

I also want to mention that allyship doesn’t mean that you have to martyr yourself. It means recognizing that our liberation is tied and if we could protect each other, we could all move forward.

Court: Well, Sara, thank you again for talking with me. If you’d like to get involved with VOTE and the work that we do here, we have chapters in Baton Rouge, Lafayette, and New Orleans. You can visit us anytime or head to our website for more information at www.voiceoftheexperience.org.


Illustration from Just Seeds