ICE Raided Our Town. What They Took Was More Than People.

When neighbors disappear, and fear fills the streets—what does it take to stay human together?

When my son and I arrived here four years ago, we were searching for a fresh start. We had just left an emotionally abusive relationship, carrying more wounds than luggage. What we found in this town was more than a new beginning—it was healing. It wasn’t just the safety. It was the welcome. The kindness. The neighbors who quickly became loved ones. Our lives began to weave themselves into the fabric of this place—and in that fabric, we found strength.

The Beauty and Complexity of Our Town

Though we’re part of one of the largest metro areas in the country, our town occupies less than a square mile—and holds the soul of small-town America. Friday nights at our town center hum with the laughter of kids on the playground and neighbors catching up. The patch of grass next to Town Hall doubles as our soccer field, now a dirt patch worn smooth from decades of play. Our local market serves ice cream and gossip in equal measure. And like any small town, we argue about speed bumps, stop signs, and who should be the next mayor.

But our town holds more than charm—it holds history. And complexity.

Once a sundown town, our roots are steeped in racial division. A metal barrier erected in the 1950s physically separated us from our neighbors—one of the first African American incorporated towns in the U.S. That barrier stood for decades. Today, with only 15% of the population identifying as White, we are a racially and culturally diverse community still learning what it means to build a different future than our past. We are a snapshot of an evolving America—where the past is complicated, the present calls for progress, and the future is still ours to shape.

A Community Day Stolen

Highlight of every year is our annual town celebration. There’s a parade of local leaders, community groups, bands, and, of course, the jubilant waves of kids from our schools. Musicians fill the streets with soul. Vendors fill the air with the scent of handmade food and fresh culture. Children run wild, balloon animals in one hand, snow cones dripping down the other. It’s the day we come together and celebrate who we are as a town.

But this year, something shifted.

The morning of the event, messages like this appeared in my phone and feed:

“Two ICE teams are reported to be at our community celebrations today. The events are still on, but residents should exercise caution.”

My heart sank. My eyes filled with tears. ICE had already taken so much. Now it was taking our joy too?

When Home Stops Feeling Safe

For months, our area has been targeted by ICE. One case that made national headlines was the deportation of Kilmar Abrego Garcia—a man from our county illegally deported and imprisoned in El Salvador due to what Trump called an “administrative error.” His story is just one of many. One family, among so many, torn apart.

Like other communities, we’ve had ICE enter the wrong home—an old address of someone who hadn’t lived there in years. A mistake. But the trauma it left behind? That stays.

I can’t even imagine. Dozens of armed men storming into my home. Pointing guns. Handcuffing me. Interrogating me while my child screams. And there’s nothing I can do. I can’t move. Can’t comfort. Can’t protect. All I can do is sit in fear—of my own government.

Like other communities, we have children whose worlds have been shattered. Children whose parents—their heroes, their protectors, their everything—were detained, deported, or forced into hiding. Their experiences haunt me. A child walking home from school, skipping along like always, only to arrive at their door and find their home—and their family—ripped apart by armed men with covered faces. Faceless men who now haunt their dreams. Because when there’s no face to the one who harmed you, every face becomes a threat.

Like other communities, we have mothers who watched the homes they built with love be decimated in minutes. Mementos shattered. Pictures broken. And worse—how the sacred space of family laughter and joy was replaced by screams and violence. The door that once opened to safety is now the door no one dares to touch. Because the safety of home wasn’t just broken—it was stolen.

And like other communities, we have fathers—cuffed in front of their children, escorted away like criminals. Good men. Family men. Men who simply wanted to keep their children alive and safe and loved.

Now they sit in silence, stripped of dignity and voice, weighed down by worry.

I can only imagine their thoughts:

How will my family survive? Where will they live? Who will provide for them?

America is dangerous—but so was home...

What does a father or mother do when every choice leads to harm for their family?

Family is everything. And the destruction of family, by the hands of the very country meant to protect, cuts deeper than policy.

This isn’t about politics.

It’s about people.

It’s about neighbors.

It’s about us and who we want to be.

The Damage We Don’t Always See

Our town celebration wasn’t well attended this year. And in a country where a father can be deported and imprisoned because of an “administrative error,” it’s understandable that people stayed home.

Some who did come weren’t there to celebrate—they were there to protect. Watching for ICE. Warning others. Standing in quiet, resolute solidarity.

The threat of ICE changed our celebration. Moments of joy were stolen. Children missed out on memories. Vendors lost vital income. Neighbors didn’t gather.

But the damage goes deeper than one day. Raids like these fray the very fabric that holds a town together. The trust. The safety. The joy. Even Friday nights at the town center are quieter now.

What was taken can’t be undone. But what we choose next still matters.

When Neighbors Do Better

The raids will keep coming. ICE will continue to terrorize our neighbors. And my anger will persist.

I do have hope in my little town. Not because everything’s fixed—it’s not—but because people are showing up anyway.

In response to the raids, a neighborhood watch group came together—walking the streets, attending school events, mobilizing to make a difference. They look for ICE. But more importantly, they look out for our community.

When families were raided, our neighbors raised thousands to help them stay afloat.

Some in our town support the raids. Some may have even been the ones to report their neighbors. That’s the ugly, depressing truth.

But I’ve also seen something else:

People showing up for their neighbors.

People refusing to stay silent.

People choosing each other over fear

People fighting for a better future.

This Isn’t About Politics. It’s About Our Humanity.

I don’t know what the right immigration policy is. But I do know this:

When a child is too afraid to walk to school, we’ve lost something precious.

When a family skips their town celebration because their government might be there, something is broken.

When a neighbor disappears in the night and we pretend not to notice, something in us fractures.

We can disagree on laws. But we cannot afford to disagree on love.

Because at the end of the day, we’re not red or blue.

We’re a town.

We’re a community.

We’re neighbors.

We're the fabric of this nation.

And our kids are watching, waiting to find out what these words really mean.

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