The group of women gathered on the porch of a single story house next door to Montgomery’s only abortion clinic had all been strangers until minutes ago. Now one splayed comfortably across a wicker couch, a few chain-smoked and all gripped cellphones as a humid Alabama summer morning dampened the air.

They were all at an abortion safe house – called the Power House – which was brightly lit and whose doors had been unlocked before the sun rose.

Most occupants of the Power House that day, like nearly all Fridays – the weekly procedure day for the Montgomery clinic – have spent hours driving here for abortions at the next door Reproductive Health Center.

After checking in, most have six or seven hour waits before their cellphone rings to signal it is OK to return to the clinic for their procedure. The Power House gives them – and any companions with them – a place of sanctuary to wait in as America’s abortion wars rage outside. It also has a few overnight spots that provide somewhere to sleep for those unable to afford a hotel.

As the Power House’s website says: “We serve as a shield between you and the protestors.”

Before the first patient walked through the doors this Friday, a lone police vehicle, an off-duty police officer hired by the director of the safe house, sat in front.

Protesters followed. The Life on Wheels RV, an anti-abortion mobile clinic parked across from the house, with its own off-duty police escort. Moments later, a pair of women walked through the parking lot of the clinic, huddled together, one with a pink hoodie covering her face.

They’re the first of 34 pairs that day – one patient, one friend or family member there for support – and the first to encounter a protester. He greets cars with quotes from the Bible and focuses his attention, not on the women, but instead their mothers, cousins, friends, husbands and boyfriends.

Facebook Twitter Pinterest Most occupants of the Power House have spent hours driving here for abortions at the next door Reproductive Health Center. Photograph: Khushbu Shah/The Guardian

Find Jesus, he begs as they head for the Power House. To one woman he offers $500 if she convinces her daughter to have a baby.

The Power House has found its purpose in Alabama as the state joins a wave of others – many of them conservative and southern – in passing stringent anti-abortion laws. In Alabama the legislature passed a bill to ban most abortions after six weeks even in the cases of rape and incest. Governor Kay Ivey signed the legislation in May.

Mia Raven, a pro-abortion activist, started renting the safe house in 2014 when she heard a local Baptist church wanted it for its own protesters. It might be the only “safe house” right next to an abortion clinic in the country, she thinks.

Inside coffee is brewing. Someone brought doughnuts. Baskets of peanut butter crackers and Wheat Thins sit under a chandelier. It’s better than waiting in the car, one woman says, after she returns from the kitchen. A protester had knocked on her driver-side window this morning, telling her she could stop the devil from entering her life by convincing the person she drove in not to get an abortion.

“I told him to get a life,” said M, the mother of a 19-year-old waiting inside the clinic for her abortion.

She, like all at the Power House that day agreed to speak with the Guardian if not identified by name.

Another mother, D, who has driven her daughter to the clinic, peeked through a camouflage curtain, briefly putting down her cigarette. The slight 52-year-old drove an hour to bring her own 25-year-old daughter to her procedure. She’s five and a half weeks and knew right away she didn’t want to have the child.

“She has her priorities and she’s trying to get her career going,” she began.

When her daughter told her she was pregnant, D didn’t know how to react. D had had her own abortion before her daughter was born, and hadn’t told her mother. Instead, she had confided in her male boss, who let her pay him back with small installments from her paycheck. On the day of her procedure, she had gone to the clinic alone.

Facebook Twitter Pinterest Ed Gannon, who is in charge of the Life on Wheels bus and tries to convince people to not get abortions, shows off his anti-abortion tattoo. Photograph: Khushbu Shah/The Guardian

“So that why I feel I had to be here. [She’s] my baby girl,” D said.

M offered her own thoughts. “I don’t like this more than anyone else. But I don’t want to lose my daughter,” she adds, referring to the treatment for her teenager’s rheumatoid arthritis that could potentially endanger her daughter’s life if she tried to see through the pregnancy.

The day before Ivey signed the bill, M’s daughter realized she was pregnant. In a panic, the pair called the clinic, not knowing there were months before the law could potentially go into effect.

She has her priorities and she’s trying to get her career going D

Another woman, A, says she panicked too when she heard about the legislation and the lack of consideration for rape victims. Her 29-year-old cousin, who she says was date raped in a nightclub in Montgomery, filed a police report and let authorities collect evidence through a rape test kit, just days before. Now, she’s waiting for her to wrap up her abortion procedure next door.

As she tells the group of women how her cousin usually never goes out alone, the man in charge of the Baptist-funded Life on Wheels RV across the street’s yells “diablo” at a couple walking by the house and tries to usher them into his RV. A clinic escort rushes off the Power House porch and thrusts her umbrella between the couple and the man.

The group outside momentarily scatters after the commotion. Some head indoors for water or a break from the heat.

Six hours after they drove into the clinic, D’s daughter appears at the house. Her mother jumps up, giving her a hug. “I feel a little loopy,” D’s daughter said.

“But it was OK. I’m glad it’s over.”