鈥淭hey took us when we crossed into Chiapas and took everything we were carrying, except for [a] cell phone,鈥� says Rivera, who is now residing in Casa Monarca, a shelter in Monterrey, Mexico. 鈥淭hen, they took us to some bushes and made me undress to see if I was hiding any money.鈥�

After the men searched Rivera and her mother for hidden items, they allowed the two women to get dressed again. While Rivera is grateful she and her family did not experience significant harm during their journey north, she says she is still deeply troubled by witnessing the women in her family being separated and treated differently than her male relatives. 鈥淚t was very complicated,鈥� she explains. 

Rivera left Honduras with her mother and 15-year-old brother in January 2024, aiming to reunite with their two older brothers in the United States. For more than a year, they have been at Casa Monarca and, instead of migrating to the United States, they are awaiting a residency visa in Mexico.

Rivera鈥檚 experience is becoming more common as migrant shelters in Mexico are increasingly filled with children and teenagers who run through the rooms or tents, play soccer, or gather to watch TikTok on a parent鈥檚 phone. Since Donald Trump began restricting migration along the U.S鈥揗exico border, families remain stranded in shelters, camps, and other locations as they contemplate whether to stay in Mexico or return to their homes.

Father Luis Eduardo Zavala, director and founder of Casa Monarca, said these new, harsher U.S. immigration policies have significantly altered the level of care families need. Children and teenagers journeying through Mexico face , exploitation, kidnapping, forced recruitment, and sexual abuse.

Those risks disproportionately impact women, including girls and teenagers. Oscar Misael Hern谩ndez, a social anthropologist and researcher at , a research center focused on the U.S.鈥揗exico border, says that while the risks are high for all undocumented migrants, there are notable generational and gender distinctions.

鈥淭hey know that men can perform certain functions and women can perform others if they are forcibly recruited. And there is a gender reproduction in these jobs that they are then forced to do,鈥� Hern谩ndez explains. 鈥淵oung bodies are more susceptible to sexual exploitation. Adult bodies have less of this 鈥榖odily capital,鈥� less aesthetic capital for these illicit purposes,鈥� he adds.

While comprehensive initiatives and safe spaces to protect these young migrants remain insufficient, the distinct impact of migration on them鈥攊ncluding their increasing vulnerability鈥攊s gaining significant attention in Mexico. Organizations such as Casa Monarca are stepping in to thwart these threats and attempt to guarantee more safety for migrants. 

Networks of Information and Support

鈥淲e strive to create an environment for them that is as similar to a home as possible,鈥� Father Zavala explains. 鈥淭here are enormous challenges because some [teenagers] arrive having experienced a lot of violence, pain, and suffering. The parents communicate the anguish [of the journey] to their children, and sometimes even typical teenagers rebel.鈥�

Zavala says Casa Monarca provides information about the risks migrants may encounter on their journey to the border, including human and sex trafficking. 鈥淲e always advise parents to be careful with their daughters during the journey,鈥� Zavala added. 鈥淯nfortunately, we鈥檝e encountered cases of families who come with daughters who are exposed during migration and end up becoming victims of trafficking through kidnapping.鈥�

But the desperation to get to the U.S.鈥揗exico border puts migrants at greater risk. They鈥檝e even had people return to the shelter after being victimized. Yasm铆n Ramos, a psychologist at Monarca, agrees, adding that 鈥渆xtreme and urgent need鈥� also exacerbates the risks. 鈥淚t鈥檚 the 鈥業 don鈥檛 have the time, perhaps, to rule out job options because I urgently need to eat, I urgently need my children to eat, so the first offer is it.鈥� And then there鈥檚 the issue of documentation 鈥� This informality makes the undocumented population much easier to target,鈥� she says.

Thanks to social media such as Facebook and WhatsApp, many migrants are aware of the risks of robbery, extortion, abuse, and kidnapping and have established safety networks along their routes that allow them to communicate, share locations, and warn of potential dangers.

Tamara Segura, a social anthropologist and researcher at the Center for Research and Higher Studies in Social Anthropology, says that Central Americans are among the groups who often rely on these networks as they move along their routes. 鈥淭hey are supposed to spread the word about what they are doing, and above all, to look out for each other, so to speak, on social networks,鈥� Segura explains. 鈥淔or instance, they post videos of their location, and if they鈥檝e already crossed into Mexico, they鈥檒l post a photo of a Mexican landscape as a tip for others to know where they are.鈥�

However, this network remains fragile and vulnerable, particularly to organized crime. Segura explains that prearranged agreements can be disrupted, leading to detention in certain locations for not paying the fee鈥攁 quota imposed by organized crime for the right to cross along the routes under their control.

鈥淚f they don鈥檛 know how to negotiate, or if the person they鈥檙e traveling with doesn鈥檛 know how to negotiate, they detain them and hold them hostage, or they have them detained in certain places for the payment of the fee,鈥� Segura adds.

Though shelters can sometimes be part of the cycle of violence migrants face, places like Casa Monarca believe that providing more home-like conditions and opportunities for local integration can offer families, regardless of their final destination, a chance to recover from their journey and calmly rethink their next steps, acknowledging the complexity of their emotional processes.

鈥淲e have very strict protocols regarding harassment,鈥� Zavala explains. 鈥淲e have very strict protocols for situations of potential domestic violence. These are families who are stuck here, and there鈥檚 a process of frustration coming from them, a process of anguish, even a process related to those who have debts.鈥�

Putting Education and Mental Health First

A significant percentage of the migrant population arriving at Monarca has experienced sexual abuse, whether in childhood, adolescence, or adulthood, Ramos explains. While more prevalent among women, some men have also been victims. Additionally, sexual violence permeates the entire migration process.

鈥淭hese are people in a vulnerable position due to a lack of support networks. Many don鈥檛 know their rights in Mexico, and they are obviously afraid to report anything,鈥� Ramos says.

Casa Monarca has been working on strengthening psychological support and developing methods to promote mental well-being. They often organize outings to movies or museums for children and teenagers to foster a sense of normalcy, offer optional psychological counseling, and provide educational opportunities.

Erendira is traveling alone with her five children who range between the ages of 7 and 18. They were separated at some point during their journey on the freight train, commonly used by migrants to cross Mexico toward the border. 鈥淭hose two days were the worst,鈥� she says. 鈥淚 thought I was never going to see them again.鈥� 

For Erendira, it is her children鈥檚 forward-looking vision of their journey that sustains her through the ongoing uncertainty. She says, with a slight laugh, 鈥淭hey see it as an adventure and say, 鈥業magine how we鈥檒l tell this story to our kids.鈥欌�� They attempted to cross the border twice, but the water level became too dangerous for the children, and they decided to return. Their CBP One appointment never materialized, and they now await Mexican documentation at Casa Monarca.

Despite the prolonged waiting times, which often mean a lack of access to educational services and the stability crucial during these formative years, Erendira鈥檚 children have been able to attend school thanks to a Casa Monarca program in collaboration with the public school system. 

Through an agreement between Nuevo Le贸n鈥檚 Secretariat of Equality and Inclusion and Secretariat of Education, children are enrolled in schools near the shelter. This partnership allows parents and their children to follow a routine that includes going to school and doing homework. Additionally, it fosters intercultural processes within the schools, supporting the state鈥檚 evolving migration landscape.

鈥淎ny moment is a good time for children who go to school to have an integration process that allows the students at the school to learn about migration firsthand from the [migrant] children and adolescents, which benefits the school as well,鈥� Father Zavala says. 鈥淚n this way, the children and adolescents themselves also become promoters of migration.鈥�

Imperialists and colonizers alike have storied Asian food as strange, revolting, and/or impure, limiting narratives that have persisted through generations of settler colonialism, extractivism, and Western military domination. 

As Soleil Ho argues in her evergreen article 鈥�,鈥� many of us have internalized these stories鈥攅specially when the cultural rejection of our foodways is folded into our experiences of racialization鈥攁nd are also actively refusing them, given the second and third generations鈥� desire to form new attachments to tastes, traditions, and stories that have been forgotten on our behalf.

For me, food has been my strongest anchor in recuperating ancestral relationships in diaspora. A mixed white and South Asian Sikh who is regularly consumed as white, I am the product of my mother鈥檚 lineage of white settlers on the Dakota lands and waters of Mni Sota Makoce (called Minnesota) and a Punjabi Sikh settler who moved to the same unceded lands.

I only learned about my Indianness when my father and I visited our family farm during childhood Christmas breaks. I do not speak Hindi or Punjabi because it was not spoken to me at home, and I only attended gurdwara in the United States in elementary school. These were not my choices, but they acutely impact how I have been perceived by family, community, and everyone else for my entire life.

That said, I, like many children raised in an even obliquely Sikh household, knew that my people were fighters鈥攈ad been forced by circumstance to become not just warriors, but committed protectors of all who face oppression. Our holidays celebrate the martyrdom of children and elders who submitted to death rather than convert to Islam under Mughal rule, gurus who risked their lives to free people of other faiths they had been imprisoned with, and so on.

Sikhs celebrate our love for our people and all people鈥攚e are called upon to 鈥渟ee the whole human race as one鈥濃�攊n shared prayer and contemplation, which is inevitably followed by dancing and eating and joy. There is no Sikh history without food and no food without our history.

Food is a vehicle through which Asians in diaspora cannot just imagine, but perhaps embody and emulate, ancestral revolutionary traditions for our own times. More, in thinking with food, we can recuperate ways of knowing otherwise鈥攐f seeing ourselves in futures we have legally, socially, discursively, or materially been excluded from鈥攖hat help us understand historical and ongoing modes of community building and collaborative survival across Asian America.

As soon as I was conscious of the world around me, I knew that my self鈥攎y essential, uncategorizable mixed-ness鈥攚ould always be understood as an aberration or something to be 鈥渇ixed鈥� by Punjabis and Sikhs, white folks, and, ultimately, everyone else.

My families reinforced this in their own ways and, while not malicious, the lesson of my childhood was that I couldn鈥檛 please anyone given my inability to perform the idealized traits of both identities.

There were two people who never made me feel like a failure, an aberration,

or a complication to be dealt with, though: my paternal grandparents. My dadaji, or paternal grandfather, told anyone who would listen how I taught him English because once I learned to speak, I never stopped. This was not true, but became a running joke for as long as he remembered my name and face. My dadiji鈥攑aternal grandmother鈥攏ever learned English, but took great pride in watching me trace my fingers across new words in picture books, smiling at my excitement rather than lamenting my lack of language. 

In the absence of shared words, she brought me into our family and culture by teaching me about food. Every year, my father and I visited our family farm bordering Nepal. Although my grandparents were both born in Punjab, they had fled home in their teens during the violence of Partition, ending up a subcontinent鈥檚 breadth away from loved ones, support structures, and the land their families had cultivated for generations.

As a child, I didn鈥檛 understand what Partition, the British Raj, or refugeeism were; all I knew was that my grandparents had made a lovely life for their five children by tending the land. 

This land, former jungle sold by the Indian state to refugees displaced by colonizers who drew borders where they saw fit, was a haven for my 18-year-old dadaji, dadiji a few years later, their children, and my cousins and me, the third generation to think of 鈥渢he farm鈥� as a second home. A small revolution, perhaps, but isn鈥檛 survival under impossible conditions always revolutionary?

My childhood trips to the farm always centered around the kitchen, where my dadiji would let me observe as she made meals. One of my earliest memories is of her showing me how to use a thumbnail to shimmy peas from their pods. I laughed as the fruit she had so lovingly tended in her kitchen garden pinged into a steel bowl, then grew frustrated at my own inability to wield my much smaller, less dexterous fingers with nearly the same precision.

She would bring me into the kitchen, motioning to me to sit on a braided stool so I could watch as she added oil to a pan for tadka (spices tempered in oil) before dumping its contents into a freshly pressure-cooked vat of dal. The way she could slice peppers and carrots with a paring knife鈥攄rawing the blade through the vegetable and stopping it with her thumb鈥攚ithout cutting herself amazed me.

I distinctly remember my awe at my grandmother鈥檚 pantry, which was stacked with shelves of pickle, jaggery, and other dried goods neatly nestled in a broken refrigerator someone had converted into extra storage space. On Christmas鈥攁 holiday that wasn鈥檛 a part of the Sikh calendar but had crept into our family鈥檚 own traditions鈥攕he would use an ancient-yet-perseverant toaster oven to make a plain yellow cake, which will persist in my mind as the best dessert I鈥檝e ever had.

My dadiji passed when I was 12. She was drinking cha in her bedroom

when she had a massive heart attack brought on by hereditary heart issues. I was not allowed to go with my father to her final rites. Twenty-odd years later, I still miss her every day.

Punjab, the land my paternal family is from, is called such because it historically was home to five rivers: the Beas, Satluj, Ravi, Chenab, and Jhelum. Before Partition, these rivers made the land perfect for growing, so much so that the region is often still referred to as 鈥淚ndia鈥檚 breadbasket.鈥�

On March 24, 2020, Indian prime minister Narendra Modi announced that in 14 hours, the whole country would go into COVID-19 lockdown. As the markets for rural industries like agriculture became more tenuous in the global COVID-19 economy, hundreds of thousands of people were forced out of work, leaving urban centers for homes several days鈥� walk away. Most of the places where they would be forced to recuperate a stable life relied on agriculture. 

During the 21-day lockdown that followed, Modi passed three laws that undid farmers鈥� long-standing access to price assurance, or a minimum fixed price for their yield. For a decade, India鈥檚 farmers were living under constant threat of suicide. Their labor and land have been so undervalued on the market and so threatened by environmental change that the practitioners of the foundational livelihood of 70 percent of the nation鈥檚 rural population did not know whether it was possible to stay alive under crushing debt.

The new farm laws doubled down on these ongoing and compounding vulnerabilities, essentially telling farmers that while their livelihoods were the backbone of the country and heavily contributed to feeding the world鈥檚 people, they should not expect to be able to live off that work. Should not hope to make life from the land they had fought so hard to keep solvent. Should not expect to make life at all.

Modi was hoping to bring more foreign investors and private money into

the agricultural sector, and he was willing to sacrifice the labor that had made the sector a global force to begin with. This guaranteed vulnerability鈥� institutionalized expendability, in the eyes of most farmers鈥攕ent shock waves across all of the nation鈥檚 agricultural regions. 

Punjab, the so-called breadbasket of India, began mobilizing. I knew that many Punjabis and Sikhs would be impacted, both in the country and across the diaspora. Impacted because they could not make a living in the country. Impacted because they were too far away to do anything. Impacted because our marrow has traces of Punjab in it, and the ache for life and land is foundational, no matter how many borders or generations removed we are.

The movement now known as the Farmers鈥� Protest began among Sikh farmers in Punjab and solidified in Delhi, where Sikh, Muslim, Hindu, Christian, Jain, and many other farmers from all over the country converged to block roadways into the capital city. 

As the farmers, so many of whom looked like my grandparents, aunties, and cousins, pressured the government to repeal laws that ultimately underwrote Modi鈥檚 agenda of religious purity, they made a temporary home in the city streets.

At every blockade鈥攃alled a 鈥渕orcha鈥� by the protestors, which in British English translates to 鈥渁 hostile demonstration against the government鈥濃�攑rotestors weatherized tractor trailers to sleep in, built massive communal kitchens and lavatories, and erected free stores, libraries, and schools for elders and youth alike.

When the protesting farmers were beaten with lathis and shot with water cannons on Republic Day, farmers established medical clinics, patched up their wounded, and refused to leave. When Delhi police installed barbed-wire walls and tire-puncturing spikes around them, farmers nailed down the spikes with shoe heels and planted flowers and herbs in their stead, an act of refusal that made me cry.

We will grow anywhere, they said. Will bloom in response to your barbed wire. Your open-air prison cannot contain our spirit. We will prevail because we are the revolution.

The COVID-19 lockdown brought me back to my kitchen. While I made all of the requisite COVID foods鈥攎y sourdough starter never really matured鈥擨 craved the dishes my dadiji made for my cousins and me when we were ill as children, the dishes that brought our family together at the table, and the ones that felt like a celebration. Each time I remembered and tried to replicate my family鈥檚 recipes, I lit a candle in the kitchen and on my altar. This was both an invitation and an ask: here, let鈥檚 make something together and please, help me remember how it should taste.

When the Farmers鈥� Protest began, I knew that I had to learn more about my community鈥檚 histories and our presents. While I continue to negotiate my own and others鈥� complicated relationship with my identities, in 2020 it became clear to me that because I am descended of the Punjab, I am of every farming family who remade their lives at the morcha. I knew it was important that I understand and value what they are risking their lives for.

While the protestors ached to return to their already emaciated land, I tried to understand the Sikh precepts that kept them away from home for more than a year. Lighting a candle, I pulled out books that I had borrowed from but never returned to my father, reading about our history at my altar with my ancestors. 

Then, I would cook. Adding onion, garlic, ginger, and tomato to my pressure cooker before choosing what dal or sabji to add to what a friend called 鈥淧unjabi mirepoix,鈥� I stirred the texts and what came through at my altar into every step of my meal, testing out Punjabi words in the safety of my home, my cat Loui the only witness to my linguistic incompetence.

As I brought our precepts and histories into conversation with our foodways, I was reminded that  responding to injustice is Sikhs鈥� duty: to see someone in distress and do nothing is to fly in the face of every teaching our gurus had cultivated across ten generations and a myriad of revolutions.

I would put ingredients or a bite of the finished product on my altar. A way to share, remember, and create across time, space, and tangibility. We all ate well. We ate together.

Tens of thousands of suicides, draught, erratic weather, and so much else have created so much distress. But living communally, moving toward a common cause, making the world see their brilliance and values, also made the morcha joyful. 

Clip after clip on social media showed protestors feeding each other and their neighbors, dancing bhangra, and reading side by side quietly. Instagram posts showed elders teaching math to local children who couldn鈥檛 attend school, youth leading elders in daily exercise, and everyone sharing in the burdens of cooking, washing, and surviving, together. 

The amount of love present in these multigenerational spaces, which brought organizers for labor, against caste and religious violence, and growers together, was overwhelming, palpable even from my far remove in North America.

When, after a year of occupying Delhi鈥檚 streets, the farmers prevailed and the laws were rescinded, knots I didn鈥檛 realize had formed across my shoulders and down my thighs slowly released. For a week, tractors rolling back into Punjab were greeted by crowds of people dancing, singing, and showering their kin with marigolds and sweets. It wasn鈥檛, as some might say, a victory for the tenacious people who had endured heat, monsoon, and near-freezing to keep their livelihoods. No, these days and weeks were celebrations of a collective future that had become more possible because of the protestors鈥� tenacity. They were celebrations of the few who gave so much for the many鈥攖he many families, critters, seeds, and soils who did and still have so much to lose.

They were a promise of survival, and a refusal to accept things as they are. 

They were also a promise to return if the government reneged on its agreements. 

To return if harm continues to be done to the land, people, water, and animals.

To refuse to be cowed in the face of violence today, tomorrow. 

To make resistance a daily act, one seed, one bite at a time.

To reverberate from the other side. To make revolution inevitable.

This excerpt, adapted from edited by Robert Ji-Song Ku, Martin F. Manalansan, and Anita Mannur (New York University, 2025), appears by permission of the publisher.

During his arrest, Ulises invoked his Fourth Amendment rights to remain silent, talk to a lawyer, and review a warrant. Instead of respecting his rights, ICE officers beat his car window with batons to force him out and then physically assaulted him until he lost consciousness. Paramedics rushed Ulises to a hospital, where he presented with symptoms of heart attack and stroke. 

Ulises鈥� family contacted their local rapid response hotline, and SCC RRN dispatchers activated two on-call emergency legal responders from Pangea Legal Services. This collective response worked, connecting Ulises and his family to a strong network of legal and community support. 

Elena Hodges, the on-call lead attorney responder, traveled to the hospital to provide a free legal consult and document ICE鈥檚 ongoing violations, with help from remote support and other on-call responders and colleagues. Over the course of the rapid response activation, the legal team averted Ulises鈥� immediate deportation, mobilized community support, and coordinated referrals to ensure ongoing legal representation. 

The SCC RRN also connected the family with material and accompaniment resources, including rent support and mental health services to address the trauma of witnessing Ulises鈥� unlawful arrest and the impact of ongoing family separation. Two months after his unlawful arrest, Ulises remains detained. But his family and community have prevented a deportation and continue to organize for Ulises鈥� release, so that he can reunite with his wife and daughter and fight his immigration case from home. 

Ulises鈥� case illustrates how rapid response is a vital tool for community safety and resilience, offering a model of defense grounded in care, mutual aid, and a refusal to let our people face harm alone. And, given the political climate, our communities need rapid response now more than ever. 

For immigrant communities across the country, the past few months have been filled with fear. Parents are afraid to take their kids to school. Workers are skipping shifts because they are too scared to drive. Rumors of mass raids flood social media, spreading panic. While these rumors are inaccurate鈥攏o mass raids have taken place in the San Francisco Bay Area as of this writing鈥攖hey do express a shared recognition: We are living through a renewed era of targeted enforcement and rising repression.

And yet, amid this fear, people are showing up for one another. They鈥檙e protecting their neighbors, organizing in real time, and building systems of resistance grounded in solidarity. 

A Community Model for Defense

is a nonprofit that provides direct legal representation to immigrants facing deportation along with community organizing. We are building toward a world where no immigrant is detained and where all people have a pathway to citizenship and the resources they need to thrive. 

When the first Trump administration escalated deportations in 2017, the team of organizers, movement lawyers, and immigrant justice advocates at Pangea realized traditional legal services weren鈥檛 enough to meet the demand. By the time someone needed a lawyer, it was often already too late. 

We needed something proactive, community based, and ready to respond in real time when ICE made arrests. We also needed public actors, especially county governments, to help fund these efforts. Pangea Legal Services and its partners responded to the community need by building such a network from the ground up.

Across the San Francisco Bay Area, and other rapid response networks emerged to monitor ICE, verify enforcement activity, and provide emergency legal support. Parents, students, and day laborers became first responders in their own communities. They trained in Know Your Rights, set up hotlines, and formed rapid response teams that could mobilize within minutes. 

These networks didn鈥檛 disappear after Trump left office. Rapid response continued under the Biden administration, even as ICE enforcement became less visible. Now, as targeted enforcement ramps up again and protections are rolled back nationwide, these same networks are being activated and expanded. 

Rapid response is more than legal support. It鈥檚 mutual aid, organizing, and community defense, which is informed by and reflects the Bay Area鈥檚 decades-long history of community-based resistance: from the immigrant rights and Black Power movements to disability justice and Indigenous sovereignty to LGBTQ liberation, free speech, and anti-war movements. At its core, rapid response is an embodiment of community power and the recognition that we protect ourselves.

When Pangea began our rapid response work, only a few team members participated; just four of the organization鈥檚 20 members were leading rapid response. But anticipating that the community need would surge after the 2024 elections, our team prepared. 

We engaged in months of collective discussion and made a strategic decision: Rapid response would become an organization-wide commitment for a limited period of time, as we continued to advocate for longer-term solutions at the county and regional levels. 

鈥淚f we do our jobs well, the impact of our rapid response networks will be that immigrants lead in our local and state-wide policy decisions on community safety and power, in a sustainable way that outlasts any single federal administration,鈥� says Jessica Yamane, a co-director at Pangea and an immigration attorney. 鈥淭o achieve this vision, we have to create systems that do not concentrate power with single organizations or individuals, but instead encourage collaboration and sharing responsibility.鈥�

Our whole team, including legal and non-legal staff, now takes part in rapid response. We all rotate on the hotlines for three Bay Area counties. We all train. We all respond when our communities need us. 

It wasn鈥檛 an easy shift. Many staff worried they weren鈥檛 equipped to do this work. Nearly all feared burnout. But by democratizing the process, offering training, and building collective buy-in, we have ensured that no one person carries the weight alone. This is community defense at its best: shared leadership, shared responsibility, and shared power.

Beyond the Bay: A National Blueprint

The Bay Area鈥檚 model of community-led rapid response is spreading. The details look different across regions, but the goal is the same: protect our people. Some models focus on removal defense while others center community organizing, legal accompaniment, and public education. No matter their focus, each of these models exists because government systems have failed to offer meaningful safety, and communities have moved in to meet that need. 

In New York, the and similar grassroots coalitions offer a 24-hour community-based response system. Similarly, in Philadelphia, the and provide accompaniment and legal support. In Chicago, groups such as offer emergency hotline response and accompaniment services. In Los Angeles, the coalition and the have mobilized and defended entire neighborhoods for years. And yet, the need still persists. 

Since Trump鈥檚 second inauguration, deportations are surging once again. In the Bay Area, ICE is ramping up targeted enforcement (distinct from mass raids) by systematically tracking, detaining, and attempting to deport specific immigrants, from long-time community members with past criminal system contacts to individuals with prior deportation orders. Agents are testing the boundaries of sanctuary ordinances, showing up at parole offices, waiting outside of homes, circling grocery stores, and conducting .

We know that the federal government鈥檚 current attack on immigrant communities is connected to assaults on the rights of other linked and often overlapping communities, including trans and queer people, Muslims, and activists speaking in support of Palestinian liberation. 

Rapid response offers a blueprint for community defense and collective care in the face of government repression. The networks that sustained communities through previous waves of attacks are mobilizing once more, reminding us that our greatest strength lies in collective action. 

How We Resist

For those feeling overwhelmed, know this: We are not powerless. Here are tools we can use to protect ourselves and each other. Remember, rapid response is a form of mutual aid! 

• Save your hotline number. Add your local rapid response hotline to your phone. If you live in California, check out this .听
• Know your rights. ICE depends on fear and misinformation. Use Know Your Rights (KYR) tools and resources such as聽, , and to make sure you and your neighbors know how to respond if ICE shows up.
• Make a family preparedness plan. Designate emergency contacts, guardianship plans, and safe points of contact. Keep important identity documents and immigration records in one secure, accessible place鈥攁nd let a trusted friend or family member know where they are. Use to get started.听聽
• Organize your workplace. Talk with your team about creating a protocol for ICE enforcement. This is especially important for schools, construction sites, restaurants, and public-facing organizations.听聽
• Show up for your neighbors. Volunteer with rapid response networks like and those listed . Offer accompaniment support. Always verify reports before sharing them.
• Demand stronger protections. Local governments have a responsibility to fund and enforce real protections鈥攏ot just in name, but through sustained investment shaped by impacted constituents. Call on your city and county officials to support rapid response, uphold sanctuary policies, and prevent collaboration with ICE.

This moment calls us to choose courage over fear, action over silence, and one another over isolation. History shows us that when we build together, we don鈥檛 just endure; we transform. 

On Jan. 22, the , a community-building and land restoration organization led by Indigenous women, announced that it purchased a section of the site the BOP identified as its first choice for the new prison. With the acquisition of 68 acres of private land, the ARP aims to heal the land and the local community鈥攊n part by stopping the prison from ever getting built.

鈥淭his land has already seen so much harm in the strip-mining industry and has already been out of access [to] environmental care and tending,鈥� said Tiffany, one of the leaders of ARP who declined to use her last name for privacy and safety reasons. 鈥淭he thought of adding another extractive industry鈥攐ne that extracts people from their communities and extracts labor out of them鈥攚as really horrifying to us.鈥�

The land purchase, made with the help of the Institute to End Mass Incarceration (IEMI), comes after 20 years of back and forth between the federal government and residents of Letcher County, the eastern Kentucky municipality with a population of 21,000 where the prison was originally intended. The saga began in 2006, when Republican Rep. Hal Rogers requested that the BOP evaluate the potential for a new prison in Kentucky, citing the need for an economic stimulus. 

Ten years after, the BOP approved $500 million for a new prison built atop a former mountaintop coal-removal site. In 2018, a small coalition of 聽in forcing the agency to table the project. By then it was clear that the BOP preferred to spend the funds improving aging prison infrastructure rather than on building new prisons. Also concerning to locals was that most of the initial cost for the Letcher County facility was slated for preparation of the land, as mountaintop removal sites require extensive remediation.听

鈥淭he last time [Donald] Trump was in office, he did speak out vocally against this project; he thought it was a wasteful allocation of funds,鈥� said Joan Steffen, an attorney at the . She told Prism that the Department of Justice has consistently asked for the earmarked funds to be taken out of the agency鈥檚 budget. 

This is why it was a surprise when in 2022, the BOP announced that it was revisiting the project鈥攖his time under the guise of constructing a medium-security facility. When the agency released the Record of Decision in late 2024, locals assumed it was the end of the road for any resistance, despite significant聽gaps聽in .听

But throughout 2024, the ARP quietly organized and collected funds for the purchase. Tiffany also met with the landowners multiple times and built a relationship with them, finding common ground in that they were both born and raised in Letcher County. The landowners even knew her mom. She emphasized the importance of community ties in Appalachia, explaining that her deep roots in Letcher County resonated with landowners. 

There鈥檚 no chance that the ARP will sell to the BOP, Tiffany told Prism. This means that the federal government has to reconsider its plan and reevaluate potential sites for prison construction鈥攁 lengthy and bureaucratic process that can take years. Meanwhile, the price tag for a new construction project will balloon beyond what the agency wants to spend.

In this latest iteration of the fight against the prison in Letcher County, organizers hoped to articulate not just what they are against, but what they are for. 

鈥淩ematriation is a solid strategy for abolition,鈥� Tiffany told Prism. One of the hopes of organizers is to return bison to the land. The animals were once ubiquitous throughout the Midwest and Appalachia until they were hunted into extinction for the purpose of rendering Indigenous life unlivable. They also plan to plant native and non-native plants like persimmons, pawpaws, and grasses, both as food sources and as natural flood prevention. Of course, they鈥檒l also need to hire local people to put up fencing for the bison, help plant and restore the area, and manage other projects.

The ARP鈥檚 approach to economic development and land care offers a tangible alternative to the promises made by the region鈥檚 congressman. Rogers insisted that a prison would result in jobs and a local boost to the economy. However, locals worried about the educational requirements for correctional officer positions as well as mounting evidence that prisons depress local economies. 

In one study of how the introduction of prisons affected rural Central Appalachian communities, researchers found that poverty rates remained just as high as before construction. The federal agency, Appalachian Regional Commission, lists the Kentucky counties where three federal prisons have opened under Rogers鈥� tenure as 鈥渄istressed.鈥� Recent research from the Prison Policy Initiative also found that chronic understaffing at prisons and jails isn鈥檛 effectively countered by promises of pay increases or workplace benefits. In other words, the growing body of research contradicts the purported reasons for constructing prisons. 

鈥溾�婭t鈥檚 become something that [Rogers] is so ingrained towards establishing that his ego will not let him let go of it,鈥� said Artie Ann Bates, a resident of Letcher County and organizer with the coalition group Concerned Letcher Countians. 鈥淚 think when someone is so driven to acquire something that they no longer listen to logic or reason or dissenting voices, then that鈥檚 a problem.鈥�

But it鈥檚 not just claims about jobs that concern local residents like Bates; it鈥檚 also that the BOP appears to have no comprehensive plan for issues such as flooding. Eastern Kentucky and much of Central Appalachia faced catastrophic flooding in 2022. This includes Roxana, where the Letcher facility was planned for. Not only have the impacts of mountaintop coal removal increased streamflow, bringing greater amounts of contaminated water at faster paces through Kentucky鈥檚 mountains and hollers, but when disaster strikes, prisons rarely have adequate plans for how to evacuate people in their custody. 

鈥淔olks who are incarcerated really do get bottom-of-the-barrel treatment,鈥� Bates said. 鈥淭hey鈥檙e sort of the forgotten population.鈥�

Bates has a different view of Letcher County鈥檚 potential for economic revitalization. She鈥檇 like more mental health services provided to locals and to see an economy based on regenerative agriculture. The ARP鈥檚 acquisition is a great place to start. For her it also offers another benefit: healing. 

鈥淸Concerned Letcher Countians] think that it will be the kind of growth and development that will provide the nexus for young people to learn Indigenous practices and restorative use of the land,鈥� Bates said. 鈥淚t鈥檚 economically good. It鈥檚 ecologically productive, it鈥檚 culturally positive. It鈥檚 the beginning of righting a wrong that started 500 years ago.鈥�

This story originally appeared in .

After they eloped, the couple, who are interfaith, sought the district court鈥檚 protection from their parents and broader society. Imran is a Muslim man and Neha is a Hindu woman in a country that has always frowned upon interfaith relationships, but they are even more vulnerable now due to rising religious extremism. The court instructed police to mediate between the couple and their families, leading Imran and Neha to relocate to a safe home.

A similar scenario played out for Suhana Begum*, a Muslim woman who lived with her family in Bharog, also near Ambala. Her parents forcibly confined her to their house in 2019 after she told them she loved a Hindu man named Rajiv Saini* and wanted to marry him, despite the difference in their religious backgrounds. 

鈥淲e met at my aunt鈥檚 wedding where he worked as a DJ operator,鈥� Begum, who is 32, says. 鈥淗e gave me his number through friends, and a few months later we started talking to each other.鈥� But when her family discovered their relationship, they held her captive to prevent her from communicating with Saini. 鈥淔or two years, we couldn鈥檛 speak to each other, let alone see each other,鈥� she says.听Since their villages are close to one another, she would hear news of his well-being from mutual contacts.听

After being confined for four years, Begum persuaded her family to allow her to join a polytechnic school in the village so she could enroll in a grooming and beauty course. That鈥檚 when the couple decided to elope and seek refuge at the Ambala safe home, where they would both have police protection.  

Begum joined Arya Samaj, a Hindu temple that conducts legally valid Vedic wedding ceremonies without elaborate rituals or caste restrictions, and converted to Hinduism in order to marry Saini. 鈥淥ur parents were upset with us when we ran away from our homes,鈥� she says. 鈥淲e were scared that they might come after us, so we decided to seek legal help. One of Rajiv鈥檚 friends had also had an intercaste marriage, so he helped us get married and get police protection in the safe home.鈥澛�

Begum says she endured taunts and mockery from Saini鈥檚 village community and his family for being a Muslim. 鈥淏ut eventually, everyone calmed down,鈥� she shares. 鈥淲e moved to Ambala right after we got married. 鈥� Initially, it was difficult to get everyone to love us and respect us. But slowly, they have come to terms with our marriage. Everyone in his family calls me Khushi since I changed my name to Khushboo after our wedding.鈥澛�

Begum and Saini never considered religion a barrier to their love. Now, even her own family agrees that Saini is the best partner for their daughter. 鈥淚t doesn鈥檛 matter that his religion is different,鈥� she says. 鈥淗e is a good person, so I fell in love with him.鈥�

How Haryana Became the First Indian State With Safe Homes

In the early 2000s, people in Haryana scorned and actively attacked intercaste and interfaith couples, as well as couples from the same Gotra (clan), village, or adjoining villages because these were considered incestuous relationships. Their resistance to these couples helped give rise to honor-based killings. The families of these interfaith and intercaste couples鈥攐r an unlawful village council, called a Khap Panchayat鈥攕ocially ostracized, harmed, or killed their relatives for wanting to marry people of their own choosing rather than those chosen by their families.听

Thanks to concerted efforts from social activists, socially conscious law-enforcing agents, and the judiciary, in 2010 the High Court of Punjab and Haryana directed police in Haryana and Punjab and the union territory of Chandigarh to create operational safe homes for runaway couples. Since Haryana had a deeply entrenched tradition of honor killing those involved in self-choice marriages, the then Haryana government became the first state to establish these safe homes.

Jagmati Sangwan, a member of All India Democratic Women鈥檚 Association (AIDWA) and an active campaigner for safe homes, remembers how the honor killings of several couples pushed AIDWA to call for safe homes, an idea favored by Haryana鈥檚 government at the time. 

鈥淭hese safe homes have been instrumental in saving so many couples from being mercilessly killed, and it allows space for runaway couples to rebuild themselves to face society together,鈥� says Sangwan. However, as Sangwan notes, 鈥淎fter the safe homes were formed in Haryana, we pushed for a law against honor killing, but that was never enacted.鈥澛�

It is difficult to ascertain accurate data on honor killings because they are grossly underreported, and in most cases, the families of the couples, the Khaps, and the village community hide such killings until they are reported by the media. 鈥淭he bride鈥檚 parents faced a lot of social pressure, so they would coax the newlywed couple to come to the village and meet them,鈥澛� says Vikas Narain Rai, retired deputy general of law and order of Haryana. 鈥淭hat鈥檚 when they would kill them, or if they see them in the market then they would murder them.鈥澛�

In 2000, conducted a study that estimated that as many as 5,000 girls and women lose their lives to honor killings around the world each year, though some nongovernmental organizations estimate that there are each year. By June 2024, with one in the Jind, Sirsa, and Hisar districts, respectively.

Given these statistics, Rai explains there has been a 鈥渂arrage of petitions from young couples seeking police protection,鈥� so 鈥渢he High Court ordered that the couples be given protection in the initial period until the pressure from their families is tapered and they can figure out their life forward.鈥�

Hindu Supremacy鈥檚 Influence on Interfaith Couples

Aside from social disapproval of self-choice marriages, India is seeing a growing trend of brutal attacks on interfaith couples, particularly Hindu鈥揗uslim couples, by Hindu supremacists and Bajrang Dal members鈥攖he youth wing of the Sangh Parivar, which is the ideological branch of India鈥檚 ruling Bharatiya Janata Party. 鈥淭he opposition against interfaith marriages has become more aggressive than ever before,鈥� Rai says. 鈥淚t鈥檚 gone beyond the families in the current scenario.鈥�

Ashutosh Kumar* married Alfia,* a Muslim woman, in June 2023 after meeting on Instagram and feeling instantly connected. They lived less than one mile apart from each other, so they decided to run away from their families to seek protection in the Ambala safe home for seven days. Now, nearly two years later, Alfia鈥檚 parents don鈥檛 speak with them, though Kumar鈥檚 parents were on board with the marriage.

鈥淲e were in a relationship for about two and a half years before we ran away to get married,鈥� Kumar shares. 鈥淚鈥檇 started saving up money for a year because I knew she would call me any day to say that she had run away from her house and then I鈥檇 have to run too.鈥�

When the two landed at the Ambala safe house, Alfia had nothing with her. However, Kumar had taken a friend鈥檚 advice and withdrew more than $175 (Rs15000 in his own currency) from his bank account, so they were able to begin rebuilding their lives. 鈥淥ne doesn鈥檛 need phones to pass the time,鈥� Kumar says. 鈥淲e were accompanied by five [other] couples, so everyone would share their stories, and that鈥檚 how we spent our time away from everyone at the safe home.鈥� The couple made friends with others in similar circumstances. 鈥淲e continue to stay connected,鈥� he says.

The couple eventually left the safe home and married at Arya Samaj temple, after which they stayed with different relatives and friends for more than a month before returning to Kumar鈥檚 home. However, it wasn鈥檛 a smooth journey for the couple, as Alfia鈥檚 parents kept intimidating and invoking fear among Kumar鈥檚 family and distressing the couple.听

Meanwhile, Kumar benefited from being a Hindu man marrying a Muslim woman and was able to gain a Bajrang Dal member鈥檚 support. When the scenario is reversed and Hindu woman marries a Muslim man, right-wing agents call the pairing a 鈥渓ove jihad,鈥� an unverified conspiracy theory in India that alleges Muslim men lure Hindu women into relationships to convert them to Islam.听聽

Asif Iqbal, founder of , a nongovernmental organization that helps interfaith couples register and legalize their marriage without religious conversion, says it has become an increasingly common practice for Hindu men marrying Muslim women to approach a right-wing organization and persuade them into intimidating their families into accepting the marriage.

Runaway Couples in Haryana

Between 2018 and 2021, 10,736 couples took advantage of the shelter offered by safe homes. A female guard at one of Haryana鈥檚 safe homes tells 修车大队 that most couples consist of young women between the ages of 18 and 21 while most of the young men are between the ages of 21 and 24. 鈥淭he highest numbers are that of intercaste [couples,] but interfaith couples also come, and about 10% are from the general category or same-caste couples,鈥� says the guard, who asked to remain anonymous. 鈥淥nce the couples arrive at the safe home, they are not allowed to step out even to the verandah of the building but they are free to roam around inside. We are responsible for them so we have to ensure their safety.鈥�

Couples from the neighboring state of Rajasthan also use safe homes in Haryana because there are none in their state.听However, as more couples seek safety in these homes, the homes themselves are facing a major funding challenge. As a police superintendent who asked to remain anonymous explains, 鈥淭he police department doesn鈥檛 have an additional budget for the maintenance of the safe home.鈥�

There is a 2018 apex court directive for all 22 Indian states to implement safe homes. As a result, there are such facilities in Punjab, Maharashtra, and New Delhi. However, neither the state governments nor the central government has passed a law to implement the directive.听

In current-day India where interfaith unions are increasingly under state-sanctioned assault, Dhanak for Humanity鈥檚 Iqbal points out the need for political will to be used to expand Haryana鈥檚 model and make safe homes a part of the legal system across the country. 鈥淭he future for safe homes is bleak, and it will continue to be a makeshift arrangement unless an act is brought in to formalize it,鈥� he adds.

Despite the challenges, safe homes are critical to the security of runaway couples and help reduce incidents of honor killing in Haryana. 鈥淪afe homes are a very good thing for couples like us,鈥� Kumar concludes. 鈥淧eople should not look at love marriages negatively. Whether parents choose or the boy and girl choose, ultimately, it is the couple who have to live together, right?鈥�

* The names of some people have been changed to safeguard them from potential abuse and harassment.

Here鈥檚 a simple way to understand how trauma starts and how trauma spreads: A person goes to sit in a chair, but the chair breaks. Perhaps they are embarrassed because someone witnessed their humiliation. The primal part of their brain automatically wants to prevent a similar event, so they begin to fear chairs. They might think twice before they sit in a chair again. Maybe they avoid chairs altogether or let someone else sit in the chair first to ensure it won鈥檛 break.

In this instance, the traumatic memory of the event has changed the way the person responds to similar situations.

Now, let鈥檚 apply this metaphor to real life. If a young person witnesses one parent being beaten by another parent, then that young person may feel both fearful and helpless. They may even subconsciously say to themselves, 鈥淚鈥檓 never going to let that happen to me.鈥� As that young person gets older, they may have a fervent desire to acquire a knife or a gun without actually realizing why they have such a strong need to feel protected. 

, which is when people repeat behaviors associated with past traumas, may manifest in the form of bullying aimed at their peers. As they spread their trauma onto others, they or their peers may take it out on society. They may rob or otherwise hurt others. They may even harm themselves through cutting, substance abuse, or violent crimes against others. 

When someone hurts others, their victims and the criminal justice system push for them to be prosecuted to the maximum extent of the law. This is the real-life contagion of trauma. While we very rarely link such outcomes to the initial traumatic events, this is the way trauma actually works: Hurt people tend to hurt others.

Inequality Causes Trauma

Modern American society is marked by , , , , and , all of which cause stress and hurt people, and thereby fuel trauma.

We have the means to equalize social strata. Yet too often we choose to spend disproportionate public revenue on reacting to crimes rather than preventing them, enforcing inequality through 鈥渢ough on crime鈥� policies such as policing, aggressive prosecution, and harsh sentencing. Punishment does not stop the cycle of trauma but worsens and either fuels existing trauma or creates new ones.听

When people suffering from the trauma caused by inequality are violently policed, they suffer even more, their families and communities suffer, and such suffering continues for years, decades, or even generations. When children of the incarcerated grow up without parents around to support them, we contribute to the contagion of trauma. We merely rinse and repeat the cycle of trauma to no end.

It鈥檚 no wonder the United States, whose cities invest between of public revenue into policing, subsequently has high levels of incarceration. There are currently confined behind bars around the U.S. About half a million of those are jailed before trial, which means they may be innocent. The trauma such systems inflict can be measured by the level of trauma reenactment in any given society. Yet, we continue to pour limited resources into a system that fails to keep us safe.

What If We Prevent Trauma?

Our current system does little to address the hurt victims of crime suffer. Indeed, victims are not the loudest advocates of policing and mass incarceration and tend to support non-punitive approaches. The found that victims 鈥渟upport rehabilitative over punitive responses to crime鈥� and 鈥減refer state spending on mental health and drug treatment, job creation, and education over spending on prisons and jails.鈥� And 鈥�60% of victims prefer shorter prison sentences focused on rehabilitation over longer sentences aimed at incapacitation for extended periods.鈥�

What if, instead of spending huge percentages of our city budgets on policing and prisons, we reduce the source of the traumas that fuel crime and pain? Effective crime mitigation includes , , , , and publicly funded , all of which are that remain poorly funded.

In 2020, when mass public protests against racist policing and violence made connections between city and police budgets, the idea of 鈥溾�� became a rallying cry. The was swift, as politicians equated the idea to an attack on police officers as individuals.

Yet if we envision a fairer world where we aim to prevent traumas before they begin, where people have the collective apparatus to build strong social connections and have their needs met, we can reduce the need for policing and prisons altogether.

Today鈥檚 modern-day abolitionist movement鈥攏amed deliberately to draw parallels with the movement to abolish slavery鈥攃ould be called trauma abolition, and is centered on investing public dollars into stopping trauma, and therefore crime, before it begins, and divesting from the architecture of trauma contagion, such as violent policing and mass incarceration. It is an idea we need to keep . 

On the other side of abolition is a fairer world where there is less need and thus, less violence. In this world, crime and punishment are prevented rather than responded to. Who wouldn鈥檛 want to live in such a world?

For 30 years, Gastelum鈥檚 routine in Tucson, Arizona, was based on congeniality and familiarity. But when the Trump administration鈥檚 crackdown on immigrants without legal status in the United States hit close to home, nabbing an employee of the bakery near him, an unsettling uncertainty set in around his Southside neighborhood. 

鈥淵ou don鈥檛 see as many people out and about,鈥� he says. 鈥淪tores that used to be quite busy are now nearly empty.鈥�

Some 7 miles north, at the nonprofit , located near the city鈥檚 downtown, Xochitl Mercado and her colleagues field a daily flood of calls from worried undocumented people. The organization is among various advocacy groups offering resources to immigrants. 鈥淧eople are looking for guidance on what to do if they have an encounter with immigration agents or police officers,鈥� Mercado says. The nonprofit is distributing packets with materials informing undocumented people of their rights and various means to access legal services and community support.

Just days after President Donald Trump took office for his second term on Jan. 20, 2025, his administration launched the he repeatedly promised during his campaign. Border czar immigration agents would first focus on , but made it clear that no one would be immune from deportation. And, despite news reports that U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement isn鈥檛 , the mere threat of mass deportations has had a chilling effect in immigrant communities.

鈥淭here鈥檚 definitely more uneasiness in our community now than during the last Trump administration,鈥� Mercado says. 鈥淲e鈥檙e hearing from many callers that they鈥檙e not sending their children to school, that they鈥檙e afraid to go to work.鈥�

In response, a coalition of immigrant advocates quickly moved to quell concerns of undocumented immigrants. Many of them have mixed-status families that include U.S. citizens and permanent legal residents. At a recent community gathering, attendees received training on exercising their rights when confronted by immigration agents and learned of an available hotline for rapid assistance. Parents were also encouraged to make arrangements with a relative or trusted friend to care for their children if they are suddenly deported.

鈥淲e鈥檙e living in very difficult times, very aggressive times,鈥� stemming from policies that justify racism, attorney Alba Jaramillo, a defender of immigrants鈥� rights, told the crowd. 鈥淏ut we are not going to allow them to separate our families,鈥� she said, referring to immigration authorities. 鈥淲e are not going to allow them to keep us terrorized. We will not allow them to enter our homes without judicial search warrants.鈥�

Rafael Barcel贸 Durazo, the Mexican consul in Tucson, encouraged those at the gathering to use a mobile app that Mexico鈥檚 government rolled out as an emergency communication tool through its 53 U.S. consulates to assist expatriates at risk of deportation. He also highlighted, a that includes free transportation from border cities to the country鈥檚 interior for Mexicans who are deported, as well as those who choose to return on their own. 

At the consulate, there鈥檚 been an increase in the number of people seeking official documentation that could help ease a transition to rebuild a life in Mexico, Barcel贸 Durazo says. 鈥淢any people are interested in having their Mexican nationality, probably because they feel that the political environment is different.鈥�

Among those trying to secure documentation are fathers and mothers lacking legal status and whose children were born in the U.S., the consul says. Across the country, an estimated 4.4 million U.S.-born children under 18 live with an undocumented parent, according to the .

In 2022, the U.S. undocumented immigrant population was estimated at around 11 million, or about 3% of the total population, according to the center data. But the Migration Policy Institute, a think tank in Washington, D.C., puts it at 12.8 million, or 3.3% of the population. By mid-2023, according to the Institute, a record number of migrants arriving from the Northern Triangle countries of El Salvador, Guatemala, and Honduras helped swell the undocumented population to about 13.7 million (about 4% of the total population).

In Arizona, where some of the nation鈥檚 strictest immigration laws have consistently targeted undocumented residents, an estimated 250,000 people live in the state without legal authorization.听

Margo Cowan, an attorney who has practiced immigration law since the early 1970s, says in all those years she鈥檚 never seen the level of anti-immigrant sentiment now pervading many parts of the country. In Texas, in early February after being taunted in school about her family鈥檚 immigration status. 鈥淭here are many layers of assault against the undocumented community: psychological, obviously physical, name calling, disparaging, no recognition of the contributions that folks make to our economy and to our communities in every aspect,鈥� Cowan says.

She founded Keep Tucson Together in 2011, a year after the state鈥檚 , commonly known as the 鈥渟how me your papers鈥� law, went into effect. The U.S. Supreme Court in 2012 found the measure to be largely unconstitutional, although it upheld a provision allowing police to ask the immigration status of people suspected of being in the country unlawfully.

Since those days, Cowan and a cadre of volunteers have held weekly legal workshops where people seeking permanent legal residency, citizenship, or some form of legal status can get help navigating the complex immigration system. The workshops also teach undocumented people about certain protections they have in this country, including the right to due process, the right against unreasonable searches and seizures, the right to legal counsel and the right to education.

鈥淢any people think that because they have no status, they have no rights,鈥� the attorney says. 鈥淎nd that鈥檚 not true.鈥�

Meanwhile, educators reassure worried parents that student rights are still protected at school. Gabriel Trujillo, superintendent of the Tucson Unified School District, held a news conference to address community fear over Trump鈥檚 rollback of a federal policy prohibiting immigration authorities from making arrests at sensitive locations such as schools, churches, and hospitals. Immigration agents and police officers will be permitted to enter public school campuses only if they present a judicial warrant and valid identification, Trujillo said.

He emphasized that , a 1982 landmark case ensuring equal access to education for undocumented children, remains in place. 鈥淲e stand firmly behind the belief that the traditional public school is, and always will be, safe for children and young people, regardless of immigration status,鈥� Trujillo said. 

That鈥檚 the message Mercado works to impart at Keep Tucson Together, both by phone and in person, to worried parents who want to keep their children at home. But, she says, the threat of life-changing deportation can weigh heavily on people鈥檚 minds.

Back on the Southside, home to many Latino residents, a woman stands quietly inside an unassuming food truck adorned with photos of tacos, burritos, and other Mexican specialties. Customers are hard to come by since immigration raids were announced, says the woman, who declined to give her name.  

Under the shade tree outside the bakery, Gastelum and his friends lament the anxiety undocumented people and their families are feeling these days. He empathizes; he was once in their shoes. To peacefully protest Trump鈥檚 mass deportations, Latino immigrant  communities鈥攑eople with and without papers鈥攕hould boycott all businesses for a day, he says. 鈥淭hat would show the impact that we have on the economy.鈥�

Gonzalez, 56, had spent most of her adult life recovering from the pain and trauma of childhood abuse and domestic violence. She has a loving family and a stable marriage of 25 years. Her family couldn鈥檛 understand why she would want to talk to the kind of person she鈥檇 spent her life trying to escape.

But for Gonzalez, sharing her story was a way to bring her healing journey full circle. After years of perseverance, she鈥檇 established herself as a community services manager for House of Ruth, a nonprofit organization based in Pomona, California. Every day, she helps survivors wrestle with similar challenges to the ones she鈥檚 faced. 

When she received an invitation to speak at the California Institution for Men, a prison in the city of Chino, California, in August, she saw a new opportunity to help interrupt the cycle of domestic and sexual violence: talking directly with people who have caused harm.

鈥淚 know that change is possible,鈥� Gonzalez says. 鈥淚t鈥檚 good when somebody is able to tell you that a life without violence and any type of abuse in the home is possible.鈥�

The panel was organized by a program called the Victim Offender Education Group. Founded by, the program provides rehabilitation activities for men at the California Institution for Men. The curriculum is grounded in principles of restorative justice, commonly defined as an alternative to punitive justice that promotes healing for the person who was harmed, the person who carried out the harm, and the communities they both belong to. 

Although the group was not created specifically for people involved in domestic violence and intimate partner violence, it has increasingly focused on serving this population as it became clear that many program participants had committed these types of crimes, said Rev. Nora Jacob, a minister at Covina Community Church and program lead in restorative justice at the prison.

Jacob has been organizing education groups in prison settings since 2014 and has facilitated the rehabilitation of several cohorts of men who have committed a variety of crimes, including domestic violence and intimate partner violence. A two-hour session is held once per week and consists of a mix of readings and empathy-building exercises. Participants spend time sharing and self-reflecting on the decisions and circumstances that led to their incarceration.

鈥淧eople come out changed,鈥� Jacob says. At the introductory meeting, she tells participants: 鈥淲e are asking you to share as much as you鈥檙e willing to share, and we are going to ask about everything.鈥�

Reconciling with hurt is something that Jacob has had to do in her own life. As a child growing up in upstate New York, she was sexually abused. 鈥淲hat I鈥檇 been told about God鈥攖hat a creator was real, that God had not seen or heard me when I cried out鈥� she could no longer believe, she says. 鈥淪o I rejected any kind of organized religion for a long time.鈥�

Decades passed, and Jacob found herself married and living in Orange County, California. She then faced a crisis when her husband of 19 years suddenly passed away from a brain aneurysm. 鈥淥ne night I was contemplating suicide and called out to God鈥擨 didn鈥檛 believe in God鈥攁nd had a feeling of the Holy Spirit coming over and reassuring me.鈥�

Jacob, a library services director at the time, joined the Disciples of Christ denomination church in her county. She eventually enrolled in Claremont School of Theology where she spent time with social justice activists. After graduating, Jacob trained at Insight Prison Project in the Bay Area to be a restorative justice facilitator and eventually secured her current position at the California Institution for Men.

鈥淚鈥檓 committed to restorative justice,鈥� Jacob says. 鈥淚 live differently because of restorative justice, and anything that can do that [kind of transformation] for a person I think is worth the pursuit.鈥�

Restorative justice started gaining momentum among grassroots organizations in the 1970s, but it is not a new practice, as its roots are in Indigenous customs, such as talking circles. Restorative justice has grown in popularity for its, which is the likelihood that a previously incarcerated person will re-offend for the same crime. That鈥檚 what Jacob has seen among the men her program works with. Incarcerated individuals who take part in rehabilitative programs are less likely to reoffend than their counterparts who don鈥檛, according to by the California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation.

The Costs of Violence

Domestic violence refers to any type of physical, sexual, or emotional abuse inflicted on a person by their partner, family member, or cohabitant. Intimate partner violence is similar, but refers specifically to violence from a partner, spouse, or ex-partner. These crimes don鈥檛 just affect the victims and their families; they also have huge financial implications for society at large.

Intimate partner violence against women costs California $73.7 billion in health care, lost earnings, criminal justice expenses, and survivor support, which accounted for 2% of California鈥檚 gross domestic product in 2022 alone, according to . The study, which primarily uses data compiled from the, measures both the tangible and intangible costs of intimate partner violence. The study also draws on data from other sources, including the U.S. Department of Justice, the state budget, health care providers, the Centers for Disease Control, and many others.

, PhD, an associate professor at UC San Diego and principal investigator for the survey, said that while the price tag might be high, it only represents a fraction of these crimes鈥� negative impacts because of gaps in data collection. 

Thomas gave some examples, such as lack of data quantifying the amount of time police spend investigating intimate partner violence, or more specific data regarding health care costs and the impact on survivors鈥� quality of life. 鈥溾�奣his is not just costing taxpayers,鈥� Thomas says. 鈥淚t costs the people who have to deal with that violence quite dearly, both financially and in intangible ways.鈥�

Breaking Cycles of Abuse

For the panel event, Gonzalez and other nonprofit advocates were paired with an education group member and filled the role of a surrogate survivor, someone who could tell their member how it felt to be the victim of domestic or intimate partner violence. The exercise represented the culmination of the members鈥� education and was meant to gauge whether each man could feel empathy for their surrogate survivor and remorse for the immense hurt they had caused others.

For the surrogate survivors, sharing their stories is potentially a cathartic experience, said Melissa Pitts, the chief program officer for , who also served on the panel. That鈥檚 because many survivors have never had the opportunity to address the people who caused them harm.

That鈥檚 what convinced Gonzalez to participate in the panel. She said she was initially skeptical of the idea. 鈥淭hen I thought about it and [realized] I鈥檝e never been able to face any of my attackers and let someone know exactly how I felt,鈥� Gonzalez says.

Pitts said that organizations like House of Ruth are increasingly interested in restorative justice practices, while remaining survivor centered. One motivation, she said, is that domestic violence is widespread, but carceral solutions typically don鈥檛 get to the root of the problem. For example, many people who cause harm are replicating abusive patterns they learned in childhood, she explained.

The need is widespread. 鈥淚f you go to the prison system, a corrections officer will tell you 90% of their caseload has experienced domestic violence growing up in the home,鈥� Pitts says. 鈥淎nd then you can go to an affluent community with lots of monetary resources, and they are experiencing domestic violence.鈥�

One former education group participant at the California Institution for Men, who requested anonymity because of safety concerns, believes the harm he committed stems back to his traumatic adolescence. The participant was sentenced to 15 years to life in prison for a domestic-violence-related murder.

The man said he grew up in a household where violence was commonplace. Years of neglect and abuse carried out by his father, mother, and other adults in his life pushed him toward drugs and gangs, he said. The violence also distorted how he viewed relationships. 鈥淭he way that my mom, father, and stepfather talked about women led me to believe that you couldn鈥檛 trust women, and I carried that into my relationships,鈥� he says.

Once incarcerated at the California Institution for Men, the man began to meet other people in rehabilitation classes who had faced similar struggles. After connecting with Jacob and other advocates affiliated with the Victim Offender Education Group, he decided to apply. He spent the next few years in group restorative justice circles unpacking his pain and learning to accept responsibility for the violence he inflicted upon women and others.

The man said his life-changing moment came when, after years of therapy and reflection, he took part in a surrogate survivor panel. 鈥淗earing the raw emotions coming out of someone that had been a victim of a similar crime, it stirred up something in me which I had never felt, which was empathy,鈥� he says. 鈥淚 really started to realize the harm that I caused. Before, I always felt that no one cared about me, so why should I care about anybody?鈥�

The participant was paroled over a year ago and is now involved in restorative justice advocacy, speaking to youth in juvenile hall. He also visits the California Institution of Men to share his story with those who are incarcerated. For him, being able to feel guilt and remorse for his past actions has been the key to genuinely turning his life around.

鈥淔or me, genuine change is remorse,鈥� he says. 鈥淚t changes who you are, so you don鈥檛 鈥� continue to harm people.鈥�

For Gonzalez, participating in the panel didn鈥檛 go as well as she鈥檇 hoped. She said she left the event feeling like the incarcerated person she鈥檇 spoken with had more work to do, a sentiment she shared with Jacob afterward.

鈥淭he reaction I got from this individual wasn鈥檛 what I was expecting, so I walked out of there feeling a little confused,鈥� she says. 鈥淚 thought I was going to see the remorse. My expectation was to see something visual.鈥�

Instead, the man didn鈥檛 say much and, according to her, didn鈥檛 appear to show empathy. Still, Gonzalez said she believes in the program鈥檚 mission and thinks the person she talked to can benefit from it.

鈥淓ven with the harm he鈥檚 caused, I feel he deserves to have somebody continue to teach him, whatever needs to be done for him to come to terms with how he has caused harm,鈥� Gonzalez says.

She also walked away feeling proud of the progress she鈥檇 made to date.

鈥淭he biggest thing I took [away] is that change is so powerful,鈥� she says. 鈥淓ven as a victim, it鈥檚 possible to become 100% a survivor and have full control.鈥�

This story was produced in collaboration with the.

When Tisoy was 20, she began transitioning. Within five years of her transition, Bucaramanga, which was once her refuge, no longer felt safe. So in late 2024, Tisoy, who is now 25, decided to begin journeying toward the United States because she鈥檚 drawn to what she calls the country鈥檚 鈥渙pen-minded culture.鈥�

鈥淭he last time I went [to my community] was very difficult because there was criticism, insults, threats, and I made the decision to leave Colombia,鈥� Tisoy said from a migrant shelter in northern Mexico. 鈥淚 said I鈥檓 [also] not doing well in Bucaramanga, so I want to change my life.鈥�

Since taking office, U.S. President Donald Trump has taken a series of as well as transgender and nonbinary people. For trans migrants like Tisoy, who are already undertaking arduous journeys to the United States, asylum options have been shut down, and the hope of finding safe haven is dwindling.

In response to the changing environment, key initiatives in Mexico are focusing on developing more long-term and comprehensive support for LGBTQ migrants, who may be in Mexico for a longer time than originally intended.

A Continuous Search for Safety

The LGBTQ community experiences continuous displacement, especially if they are rejected by their communities and families and are seeking access to medical care. However, there is little data on LGBTQ refugees and asylum seekers in the U.S., which hinders a better understanding of their characteristics and experiences.

found that between 2012 and 2017 an estimated 11,400 asylum applications were filed by LGBTQ individuals. Nearly 4,000 of these applicants sought asylum specifically due to fear of persecution based on their sexual orientation or gender identity. 

Ra煤l Caporal, director of , which provides refuge for LGBTQ migrants in Mexico City, Tapachula, and Monterrey, Mexico, explained that the majority of the individuals they serve are fleeing violence and seeking international protection.

鈥淭he population we focus on leaves their countries because of persecution and violence motivated by sexual orientation, gender identity, and expression,鈥� Caporal says.

鈥淸This is compounded] by organized crime taking advantage of their vulnerability, the absence of the state, and the inability to access justice institutions when they try to report crimes.鈥�

Latin America and the Caribbean report the highest number of trans murders of any region in the world. According to Transrespect Versus Transphobia Worldwide, globally occur there, with the majority of victims being Black trans women, trans women of color, and trans sex workers. In Mexico alone, according to data from Mexico鈥檚 National Trans and Nonbinary Assembly (Asamblea Nacional Trans No Binarie), last year, making it the second deadliest country in the world for trans people, after Brazil.

Brigitte Baltazar, a Mexican trans activist who resides in Tijuana, Mexico, after being deported from the U.S. in 2021, explains that trans asylum seekers no longer see the U.S. as a safe haven as Donald Trump signs harsh executive orders targeting trans and nonbinary people as well as immigrants. Baltazar says that these executive orders 鈥渋ncrease the stigma and discrimination [trans migrants are] already experiencing,鈥� which 鈥渃reates a state of panic.鈥� 

Though Casa Frida documented that 67% of the people they served in 2024 didn鈥檛 have the U.S. as their final destination, the remaining 33% intended to reach the U.S. using CBP One, a mobile app that migrants can use to apply to enter the U.S. However, that option was discontinued by the Trump administration in January.

Activists and organizations agree that strengthening access to asylum in Mexico, along with health care and job opportunities, is key to sustaining support for trans migrants. 

鈥淢exico has a great opportunity to strengthen its local public policies on integration, particularly at the municipal and state levels,鈥� Caporal adds. 鈥淯ltimately, it is the municipalities where refugees will reside, where they will find work close to their homes, where they will generate an income, and where people can continue their studies.鈥�

Strengthening Support Systems for Trans Migrants in Mexico

The persecution and violence LGBTQ individuals face often continue during their journey. Shortly after crossing the Mexico鈥揋uatemala border, Tisoy and a fellow group of migrants were kidnapped. She recalled being held in the backyard of a house for 12 days until her best friend in the United States could raise $1,000 to meet a ransom demand.

Caporal explained that the lack of state protection and inaccessible justice institutions increases the vulnerability of trans migrants, making them easy targets for organized crime. In its latest report, highlights the risks and precariousness faced by people in the U.S.鈥揗exico border, at the hands of both state and non-state actors. The report warns that many migrants are forced to pay bribes to Mexican authorities, criminal groups, or individuals at checkpoints.

Tisoy arrived in Matamoros, Tamaulipas鈥攁 city less than three miles away from Brownsville, Texas鈥攄ays before Trump鈥檚 inauguration. She planned to cross the river and request asylum, but she didn鈥檛 have the $200 fee she needed to pay the cartel to cross. With deportations beginning, she now waits near the border as she doesn鈥檛 want to risk being taken back to Colombia.

鈥淚n this journey, you have to be very positive because if you get depressed, you鈥檙e in a city that isn鈥檛 yours, in a country that isn鈥檛 your own,鈥� Tisoy says. 鈥淚 cried and prayed a lot, but then I realized I had to keep going. I wiped away my tears and here I am.鈥�

Waiting near the U.S.鈥揗exico border is increasingly dangerous. Most migrants in Matamoros remain in shelters due to threats of being kidnapped and robbed. For Tisoy, even being at the shelter can be uncomfortable due to the lack of specific support for LGBTQ individuals. 

After families complained about her presence in a shelter with children, she moved to a neutral room in a nearby shelter, but her stay is uncertain with more migrants seeking an extended stay in Mexico. 鈥淚 arrived normally, and no one had said anything to me,鈥� Tisoy explained. 鈥淭hen one mother said I was trans and went to complain, but I didn鈥檛 understand why she did it.鈥�

After the cancellation of CBP appointments, some migrants returned to Casa Frida to seek legal advice for requesting asylum in Mexico. To seek asylum in Mexico, individuals must apply within 30 days of arrival at a Commission for Refugee Aid (COMAR) office. The application requires completing a form explaining their reasons for leaving their home country, providing supporting documentation, and detailing their fear of persecution based on factors such as race, religion, nationality, political opinion, gender, or social group membership. 

Casa Frida, along with other organizations, is currently working with COMAR to find alternatives to the 30-day rule for those who didn鈥檛 apply for asylum because they were waiting for their CBP appointment. Caporal says that Mexico must strengthen its asylum system and provide COMAR with the resources to meet the increasing demand for guidance, incorporating both gender and sexual diversity perspectives.听

鈥淲e are preparing a draft bill to reform the refugee law in the Chamber of Deputies, which seeks to include persecution based on sexual orientation and gender identity as a direct cause for obtaining and recognizing refugee status,鈥� he added.

Guaranteeing Safe and Dignified Spaces

Along with legal counseling, Baltazar said 鈥渄ignified access to health care鈥� is also a critical need. Baltazar, who also coordinates the LGBTQ program at the migrant organization , explained that Mexico鈥檚 bureaucratic and often inhumane health system poses a significant challenge, particularly for trans individuals. 

She regularly accompanies trans migrants to health centers to access antiretrovirals or STI medications, a challenge even for internally displaced Mexicans. The lack of documentation鈥攃ommon for both domestic and foreign migrants who fled without documents or lost them on their journey鈥攆urther complicates their access to proper health care. 

鈥淲ith hormone treatments, unfortunately there is no program and there are no specialized doctors, like endocrinologists, who can care for this population,鈥� Baltazar added. 鈥淭his puts their health at risk since they do not have a hormone treatment controlled by a specialist.鈥�

Tisoy has been struggling to get tested after being sexually assaulted on the train north. 鈥淚 spent 15 days on the train, and I was raped. So it鈥檚 important to me to get tested,鈥� she says. During a stop at Casa Frida in Mexico City, she tried to get tested, but after three days, she decided to continue her journey rather than waiting. 

Before Trump鈥檚 inauguration, there was a focus on helping people 鈥渨hile they were able to cross,鈥� but now, Baltazar says there鈥檚 an urgent need for a longer-term strategy where people can access health care and other services and opportunities in Mexico. 

鈥淧eople cannot return to their countries or regions because their lives are in danger. The idea is to offer them workshops and integration support, giving vulnerable people tools so they can do anything in a new country,鈥� Baltazar added. 鈥淧erhaps they even discover passions they didn鈥檛 have the opportunity to explore in their countries because they weren鈥檛 free or didn鈥檛 have access to schools, universities, or job training.鈥�

Most shelters and resources for LGBTQ asylum seekers rely on grassroots efforts by activists like Baltazar and organizations like Casa Frida, which depend on volunteer and community support. Casa Frida obtained external funding to continue growing, but nearly 60% of its 2025-2026 budget is at risk due to USAID cuts. 

Though they are developing an emergency plan to continue operations, Caporal warned that wait times for services will likely increase. 鈥淥ur operational capacity will likely be reduced,鈥� Caporal says. 鈥淭his may result in longer wait times for those who visit our facilities daily and we will have to ensure that we continue providing the 54,000 meals we serve daily.鈥澛�

Caporal agrees that the focus should be on strengthening paths to settle in Mexico and pushing to implement these integration policies, particularly at the local level. Casa Frida is concentrating on these local integration opportunities, providing a safer environment where individuals can explore a wide range of life options.听

鈥淭hat is when they begin to make the decision that in reality it is not that they want to reach the United States,鈥� Caporal added. 鈥淚n reality what they want is to reach a safe territory where they can live in freedom, autonomy, and鈥攁bove all鈥攚ith pride in being who they are.鈥�