In the face of what the Trump administration terms the "largest deportation operation in American history", a powerful grassroots resistance is mobilising across the United States. A year into his second term, Donald Trump's pledge has led to nearly 300,000 deportations and a record 65,000 people held in detention centres. Aggressive raids by Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) and Customs and Border Protection (CBP), sometimes backed by federalised national guard units, have sown fear in immigrant communities nationwide.
From Bicycles to Book Clubs: The Frontline Responders
In Chicago, the launch of "Operation Midway Blitz" in early September saw hundreds of federal agents descend on the city. The response was swift and local. Jose, a 49-year-old real-estate appraiser with no prior organising experience, joined the core team of Protect Rogers Park. On 9 October, a Signal message alerted him to ICE agents harassing a tamale vendor in his lifelong neighbourhood.
"I jumped on my bike," Jose told The Guardian. He and a fellow responder chased a suspect Jeep, with Jose attempting to block its path at a stop light. Confronted by a yelling agent, he eventually let the vehicle go. Three days later, the strategy evolved. "We had all begun wearing whistles," he said. They followed agents' vehicles on bicycles, blowing whistles to alert the community.
Jose emphasises that direct confrontation is not the only role. "If you can be a person behind the computer screen directing people or checking license plate numbers – that's so helpful," he noted. The group's preparations included simulated trainings to face down agents and a book club reading Timothy Snyder's On Tyranny. "It's community building," Jose explained. "We're going to outlast them. They can't sustain this forever."
Tools of Resistance: Whistles, Groceries and School Patrols
The resistance manifests in diverse, pragmatic forms. In Rogers Park, Mark Selner, 59, owner of the Red Vault fetish shop, began distributing free plastic whistles from his store in October. Motivated by a desire to counter what he sees as bullying by ICE, he has given away almost 400 whistles. He also posted signs stating ICE cannot enter without a judicial warrant and marked his backroom as private. "I'm using some of my white privilege for good," Selner said.
In Los Angeles, public health student Miguel Montes saw raids in June causing families in Boyle Heights to miss medical appointments and avoid shopping for food. He and friends launched a grocery delivery service for scared families. Since June, they have delivered to about 1,500 families and hope to expand while connecting people to mental health resources. "Everything that I've done has been trial and error," said Montes, whose mother was undocumented until recently.
On the East Coast, parents at a predominantly Latino elementary school in Montgomery County, Maryland, organised a "walking school bus" network. After initial community scepticism, they established a system with about 30 volunteers stationed around the school during arrival and dismissal. "The worst outcome is that we're not there and people are getting kidnapped," said parent Sarah Hunter, 47. The volunteers, identified by buttons, focus on greeting families and building community, while staying informed of local ICE activity via Signal.
Beyond the Raid: Care in the Aftermath of Detention
The support extends to those already ensnared by the system. In New York, a chilling pattern sees asylum seekers arrested by masked ICE agents immediately after leaving immigration court hearings. Court watch volunteers bear witness and collect detainees' details. These are passed to Mi Tlalli, a volunteer collective providing "ongoing care".
Maria, an undocumented social worker and Mi Tlalli member, said the group has contacted 3,000 people and families since May, providing direct support to 300 detainees. This includes putting $50 weekly into detainees' commissary accounts, offering mental health care, and running mutual aid distributions. They even maintain contact with deported individuals, sending money for essentials. "That's better than going to your court appearance and being put on a plane in chains without ever knowing that someone cared about you," Maria said.
Enabled by a Supreme Court ruling that activists say effectively legalised racial profiling, Trump's deportation drive has separated families and disrupted lives. Yet, from Chicago to Los Angeles, New York to Maryland, a patchwork of ordinary citizens is responding with organisation, compassion, and a steadfast refusal to let fear dictate life in their communities.
