This story was produced as part of ThreeSixty Journalism’s 2025 Opinion and Commentary Workshop for youth, in partnership with Sahan Journal and MinnPost. ThreeSixty is a multimedia storytelling program for Minnesota youth, focused on contributing to more accurate narratives and representative newsrooms.
On one Thursday night in early October 2025, my mother’s phone rang. It was an automated message alerting her that ICE would be targeting my school along with other schools in the Twin Cities the next day. That Friday, I skipped school. As a young Latina, I was afraid of being racially profiled.
When I returned to my charter school in southeast Minneapolis the following Monday, everything seemed normal. I expected classmates or even teachers to talk about what had happened. No one did. Not a single word. It felt like we had silently agreed to ignore it, as if it did not matter.
But it does. This is the daily reality of many immigrant communities. Parents are detained and treated like animals. Children are left to figure out how to care for themselves, their siblings and manage their future.
“Si me llevan …” “If they take me,” is something I have heard parents tell their children as they prepare for the worst. It’s a conversation that should never have to happen.
Children are losing their support systems. Since Trump took office, immigration crackdowns have intensified. More than 20 people have died in ICE custody this fiscal year. Detention centers are overcrowded, dehumanizing spaces. Many in my community call them concentration camps. Members of the Trump administration have pushed for more than 3,000 arrests a day.
Here in Minnesota, I have watched families being ripped apart. Fathers, mothers and siblings taken in broad daylight. One of my relatives was pulled out of his work truck alongside his co-workers. His wife heard the commotion from down the street. In an instant, she and their four daughters lost their husband, father and main source of income.
Their family had to sell some of their belongings just to pay rent, food and legal fees. I saw their things laid out in their yard: clothes, decor, jewelry, scattered all over for strangers to buy. As I stood there watching people buy their belongings, I realized how real it was. I saw grief on their faces.
Up until that moment I had only seen these stories on the news. A stranger crying on camera and begging God for their safety, to bring them back, for this nightmare to be over. But this time, it was my family.
“Dónde está papi,” “Where is daddy?” is the question I have heard from children in my community. Often, no one has answers as some detainees are never properly registered, and families don’t even know they have been taken. No one explains what to do after your family member is detained.
“Pronto estaremos juntos,” they promise as they’re loaded into vans. “We’ll be together soon.” But often, they don’t come back.
Have we forgotten what this country claims to stand for? Have we forgotten who built the U.S.? Many immigrants take any job they can, just to have a roof over their heads. And yet, they live in constant fear, even at school.
For young people like me, this is overwhelming. I am a senior and sometimes wonder: Is it worth going to college knowing that there is a possibility that at any moment you could lose all you know? Who would be there during the accomplishments, graduation, college move-in, their birthdays? It’s like we are forced to choose between our family and our future.
“Yo me voy con ustedes,” a classmate once told me. “If my family gets deported, I’ll leave, too.”
We are witnessing history, and we need to start telling the stories the way they are and not the way the government wants us to believe. Instead of moving forward as a country, America seems to be moving backwards, voting for politicians that strip away our rights.
The question now is: Are we going to give up, or are we going to keep fighting for our communities, our families, and our future? If we don’t fight, who will?
