Communities continue to resist ICE raids. (Photo: ellerieann11, WikiMedia)
This article was originally published in Spanish in Hispanic L.A.
On Friday, June 6th, I found out through a colleague that Immigration Customs Enforcement (ICE) had raided several locations in downtown Los Angeles. I was in a meeting when I began to recognize the images and videos showing federal agents storming Ambiance Apparel, a store my mother has visited for years to buy merchandise for her small business.
That moment broke something open in me. I know that store. I know its workers. I know the vendors who rely on it. Seeing it being raided, watching people dragged away, and not knowing who was taken or why, it left me spiraling in panic and despair. And I wasn’t alone.
That same afternoon, people began to gather downtown. We didn’t know what the plan was. We just knew we had to show up. I’ve always believed in showing up, and even with a broken foot, I made my way there. I wasn’t sure what we’d accomplish, but the sheer number of people who came out gave me hope. In the midst of all this chaos, this is what gives me hope, seeing the humanity in people who still choose kindness, who still show up for one another.
That night, we learned at least seven confirmed raids had taken place in downtown LA, possibly more. Families were torn apart. A girl had screamed “Te quiero mucho, apá,” as agents took her father away. Her words still ring in my head, especially as I think of my own father, who lived undocumented for much of his life until his passing.
I’ve worked in crisis spaces. I understand trauma, how it freezes you in place and floods your body at the same time. And yet, nothing prepared me for how disoriented I felt seeing places I know, neighborhoods I frequent, suddenly overtaken by ICE agents. It was like the air changed. Even when I got home, my emotions felt tangled, trying to process something my body had already absorbed.
What we’re experiencing is not just fear. It’s the kind of trauma that rewires your sense of safety. That dulls your appetite. That makes you hyper aware of every car that slows down near your house. It is not abstract. It lives in the body.
The next day, I saw livestreams from Paramount, just a few blocks from the swap meet where my family has sold for years. ICE was there too, so I got in the car, I parked far away, and I walked through tear gas. When I arrived, people were hurt. I overheard a man explaining that he had been shot in the face with a plastic round. A woman was bleeding, likely from a rubber bullet. And yet, they remained peaceful and steady, protecting one another.
Weeks later, this has only escalated. ICE agents continue to move through our communities, often in plain clothes, without identification. People are taken suddenly, without cause or explanation, and through it all, we’re told that we are the threat.
President Trump has called in the National Guard. The media and politicians have labeled us “rioters,” focusing more on property damage than people. And I keep asking, why are we blaming the people being hurt, and not the ones inflicting the harm?
Let’s be clear, what’s happening is a form of state-sanctioned domestic abuse. This is not just “immigration enforcement.” This is coercion. This is fear. This is domination. It is a system with all the power targeting the most vulnerable families who work, who love, and who belong here. It is violence dressed in the language of law.
It mirrors the very dynamics in domestic violence and abusive relationships — power and control, threats and isolation, the destruction of safety and agency. And like all abuse, its scars are long-lasting. We may not see the full impact for years, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t already shaping the lives of children, elders, workers, and whole communities.
And it is already affecting people like my mother. She’s a vendor at the swap meet, a small business owner. Since the raids began, sales have plummeted. Customers are afraid, foot traffic is gone. She kept showing up anyway, not for profit, but so her workers could still earn an income. That’s what solidarity looks like.
But now, as swap meets have begun to close, out of fear, and to protect their employees, vendors, and customers. She has had to shut down at least one of her locations. No income means her workers no longer get paid. She held on as long as she could. That’s the weight small businesses are carrying right now.
So no, this isn’t chaos. This isn’t disorderly conduct. This is grief. This is resistance. This is the community defending itself against an abusive system, and we must keep showing up: show up to the streets, show up to city halls, show up to policy fights.
H.R.1, the so-called “One Big Beautiful Bill,” has already been signed into law. It is now our political reality. A reality that expands ICE’s enforcement power while gutting much needed programs our communities rely on. It is a roadmap for more fear, more raids, and more violence carried out under the guise of public safety.
But the fight isn’t over. H.R.673, the ICE Security Reform Act, is still possible. And so is every other policy that pushes back against this kind of inhumane treatment. We need to keep pushing for oversight, for limits on enforcement, and for investment in care instead of criminalization.
And while we organize and advocate, we must also stay awake. We cannot afford to become desensitized to this violence. We cannot normalize these raids. This is not just another policy moment, it is a defining one. And our communities are watching.
What side will your representative take? Whose voices will they listen to? The pressure we apply matters. The silence we break matters. Because we know the truth. And we will not let it be buried. We keep showing up, because we have to.
Carielle Escalante is a Latina woman, a housing specialist, and an advocate for survivors of gender-based violence. She has over ten years of experience working to ensure equitable access to services for marginalized communities. She is a Public Voices Fellow with The OpEd Project, an initiative that has allowed her to raise her voice and contribute to a more inclusive public dialogue grounded in her personal experience and community commitment.
