The fear stays, but the community reorganizes to survive.
Across American cities, a sweeping intensification of immigration enforcement has set in motion a quiet upheaval — families separated, livelihoods disrupted, and entire communities reshaped by fear. Since January 2025, thousands have been detained or deported under policies the Trump administration frames as national security, while advocates and data suggest the majority of those swept up carry no criminal history beyond their immigration status. In the spaces between raids and courtrooms, immigrant communities are not simply enduring — they are organizing, mourning, and rebuilding, as they have in every era when belonging itself has been made uncertain.
- ICE operations in Los Angeles, Chicago, and other major cities have detained between 5,000 and 7,000 people since January, with the majority holding no criminal record beyond immigration violations — a scale of enforcement that advocates call unprecedented in its brutality.
- The raids have fractured daily life: small businesses have hemorrhaged revenue, children have been left without caregivers, and parents of disabled U.S.-born children now face deportation with no clear plan for who assumes their responsibilities.
- Legal systems are buckling under the pressure — immigration applications for Cuban and Venezuelan nationals have been suspended, thousands of asylum cases sit stalled, and attorneys describe a landscape of compounding delays with no resolution in sight.
- Communities are fighting back through mutual aid: CHIRLA raised $800,000 for bail funds that are nearly exhausted, school patrols formed to shield families, and cultural gatherings like Colombian novenas have transformed into networks of solidarity and survival.
- The psychological toll is pervasive — fear has not lifted even as people return to work, and the gap between those needing legal help and those who can receive it remains a chasm that organizations are struggling to bridge with dwindling resources.
Under Donald Trump's second term, immigration enforcement has reshaped life across the United States with a force that advocates say has no modern parallel. Detentions and deportations accelerated from the moment he took office, but by June the strategy sharpened — concentrating enforcement in cities with large immigrant populations. Los Angeles was first. ICE raids triggered protests, National Guard deployments, and what Mayor Karen Bass called a wave of terror through the community.
Between 5,000 and 7,000 people have been detained or deported in the Los Angeles area since January, according to CHIRLA, a local immigrant rights coalition. Its communications director, Jorge Mario Cabrera, noted that 60 to 70 percent of those detained had no criminal record beyond immigration violations — a figure consistent with national data showing more than 75 percent of ICE detainees in fiscal 2025 had no other criminal history. The White House has defended the operations as necessary to stop what it calls an invasion of criminal illegal aliens.
Yet the community has not stood still. CHIRLA organized cultural and religious events centered on immigrant rights, launched a summer education campaign, and raised $800,000 for a bail fund — nearly all of it spent by year's end, as bonds routinely exceeded $20,000. The coalition can provide legal services to perhaps 1,000 of the roughly 7,000 people who need them, prioritizing the most urgent cases.
In Chicago, Colombian-born U.S. citizen Jorge Ortega spent the summer protecting his annual Colombian Festival from the threat of raids while watching Latino-owned restaurants, bakeries, and street vendors suffer through devastating seasons. More than 1,000 people were detained in Illinois between September and October. In response, communities reorganized: officials began monitoring federal agents, parents formed school patrols, and Colombian novenas became occasions for mutual aid — food, toys, and solidarity distributed through nine-day religious gatherings.
In Florida, immigration attorney Laura Jiménez has watched the crisis compound for her Cuban and Venezuelan clients. The Trump administration suspended immigration applications for both nationalities, leaving Cubans eligible under the Cuban Adjustment Act unable to obtain residency and Venezuelans who lost Temporary Protected Status in November with nowhere to turn. She represents parents of U.S.-born children with autism and serious illnesses who now face deportation. 'If they are not there, who takes care of the family?' she asked. For attorneys and clients alike, the answer remains suspended in a legal system stalled by delays that are only growing deeper.
The landscape of immigration enforcement in the United States has shifted dramatically over the past year. Under Donald Trump's second term, hardline policies have upended the lives of millions—people detained, deported, or choosing to leave voluntarily; employers facing financial ruin; families torn apart by federal action. The enforcement has been relentless, reaching into spaces once considered safe: churches, schools, immigration courts.
When Trump took office, detentions and deportations accumulated rapidly. But starting in June, the government shifted tactics, concentrating its enforcement machinery in cities with large immigrant populations. Los Angeles became the initial target. In early June, Immigration and Customs Enforcement agents began conducting raids across the city, triggering protests—some violent—and prompting the National Guard to deploy. Mayor Karen Bass described the moment plainly: a wave of terror had swept through the community.
The fear has not subsided, but immigrants cannot afford to stop working. Jorge Mario Cabrera, communications director for the Coalition for the Rights of Immigrants (CHIRLA), a Los Angeles nonprofit, explained the bind in an interview: between 5,000 and 7,000 people have been detained or deported in the Los Angeles area since January. "We are witnessing an assault on the immigrant community," Cabrera said. "We have not seen an attack this brutal." The White House defended the operations as essential to stopping what it called an "invasion of criminal illegal aliens." Yet according to CHIRLA's data, 60 to 70 percent of those detained in Los Angeles have no criminal record beyond immigration violations. Nationally, more than 75 percent of people in ICE custody in the first eight months of fiscal 2025 had no criminal history apart from immigration or trafficking offenses.
Yet the community persists. CHIRLA has organized religious observances—a recent celebration honoring the Virgin of Guadalupe centered on immigrant rights—and cultural initiatives like a 30-day "summer of resistance" to educate people about their legal protections and organizing strategies. Between July and August, the organization raised $800,000 for a bail fund to help detained immigrants, whose bonds can exceed $20,000, though the legal minimum is $1,500. By late in the year, only $200,000 remained. The need had been so acute that the money was nearly exhausted. CHIRLA also distributes food and provides emergency legal services, though the gap between need and capacity is staggering: roughly 7,000 people require legal help, but the coalition can assist only 500 to 1,000. They help the most urgent cases.
The pattern has repeated in other cities. In Chicago, Jorge Ortega, a Colombian-born U.S. citizen who founded the city's annual Colombian Festival, found himself scrambling in July to secure the event against the threat of ICE raids. He has lived in the country for more than five decades and depends on the work he generates for many others. Between September and October, Trump's enforcement push in Illinois resulted in more than 1,000 detentions. Ortega has witnessed the scars most clearly in small Latino-owned businesses—restaurants, street vendors, bakeries—that endured brutal seasons. He has tried to help by visiting these places multiple times a week. But the community has also reorganized: public officials monitor federal agents; parents formed school patrols to protect students and families; the Colombian government has partnered with local organizations to distribute food and toys through Colombian novenas, nine-day religious celebrations that have become gatherings of mutual aid.
In Florida, immigration attorney Laura Jiménez represents mostly Cubans and Venezuelans facing deportation or seeking asylum and residency. The Trump administration has suspended immigration applications for both countries, compounding the crisis. For her clients, the burden is both legal and emotional—the cost of representation, the weight of bail, the terror of family separation. She has represented clients with disabled children born in the United States, children with autism and serious illnesses, whose parents now face deportation. "If they are not there, who takes care of the family?" Jiménez asked. "This is an emotional burden on someone who has done nothing wrong." For attorneys like her, the weight is different but equally crushing: thousands of cases stalled, good asylum claims destined for denial, Cubans eligible under the Cuban Adjustment Act unable to obtain residency, Venezuelans who lost Temporary Protected Status in November with no change in the conditions that made them vulnerable. "It is another layer of uncertainty," Jiménez said. "It will create more significant delays on top of delays that already exist."
Citações Notáveis
We are witnessing an assault on the immigrant community. We have not seen an attack this brutal.— Jorge Mario Cabrera, CHIRLA communications director
This is an emotional burden on someone who has done nothing wrong.— Laura Jiménez, immigration attorney in Florida
A Conversa do Hearth Outra perspectiva sobre a história
What does it feel like to be an immigrant right now in a city like Los Angeles or Chicago?
It's a constant calculation. You need to work, you need to feed your family, but every time you step outside, there's a possibility. People are reorganizing—mutual aid networks, legal clinics, bail funds—but it's like building a raft while the water is rising.
The numbers are striking. Sixty to seventy percent of detained people have no criminal record. Why does the government frame it differently?
The framing serves a purpose. It justifies the enforcement, the resources, the visibility. But the reality is that most people caught up in this are working people, people trying to survive. The gap between the narrative and the facts is where the real story lives.
You mentioned bail funds running out of money. What happens when they do?
People stay detained longer. Families wait. Children go without parents. The organizations keep trying to fundraise, but the need is bottomless. CHIRLA raised $800,000 and it was nearly gone in months. That tells you something about the scale of what's happening.
Jorge Ortega is a U.S. citizen. Why is he affected?
Because his entire community is affected. His businesses depend on immigrant workers. His cultural festival depends on immigrant participation. And emotionally, he's watching people he knows, people he's built a life alongside, get caught in this machinery. Citizenship doesn't insulate you from that.
What's the difference between the burden on an immigrant and the burden on an immigration attorney?
For the immigrant, it's existential—will I be deported, will my family be separated, can I afford bail? For the attorney, it's the helplessness of knowing you have a good case, knowing your client deserves protection, and watching the system deny it anyway. Both are crushing, just in different ways.
What comes next?
More uncertainty. The suspension of applications for Cubans and Venezuelans means people are frozen in limbo. The conditions that made them vulnerable haven't changed—in Venezuela's case, they've gotten worse. But the legal pathway has closed. That's the trap.