Invisible Walls

This fear is especially felt in areas of the city like Corona, home to New York’s largest Latin American immigrant community. Local business owners reported a noticeable drop in customers the first few months of the Trump administration. 

“People think they’re going to take all of us,” said a nail salon worker who asked to remain anonymous due to concerns around her legal status. “But we can’t afford to stay home. We have to work.”

Vendors at Corona Plaza say police presence has increased in recent months, especially since the launch of Operation Roosevelt last fall, a citywide crackdown on unlicensed vending and sex work. The crackdown disproportionately impacted undocumented residents. Neighbors and advocates worry the heightened enforcement signals deeper coordination between the NYPD and federal immigration authorities.

“There’s a noticeable uptick in the use of digital surveillance tools, including social media monitoring and data-sharing with local agencies,” said Veronica Cardenas, an immigration attorney who left her role as an ICE prosecutor in 2023 after witnessing firsthand the treatment immigrants receive. “More people who would have previously been considered low priority are now at risk.”

Even as streets begin to feel normal again this spring, fear spreads online. “We see people on TikTok saying ICE is coming when it isn’t,” said Niurka Meléndez, founder of Venezuelan Immigrant Aid (VIA), a volunteer-run group that connects asylum seekers to legal and social services. “Or worse, spreading confusion about immigration law.” 

VIA has been leading a regular event called Miracle Mondays at St Paul & St Andrew Methodist Church in Manhattan since 2022. Once considered sanctuary spaces, churches are no longer off-limits to ICE, prompting VIA to take extra precautions. Event locations are now shared privately via WhatsApp, rather than being posted publicly on social media.

In response to growing fears, the Venezuelan-led group has also started organizing legal clinics in neighborhoods like Corona to reach those too afraid to attend the church. At one such event in March, dozens of Latin American migrants gathered to ask lawyers from the New York Legal Assistance Group how they could regularize their immigration status.

“If I give birth here and they deport me, will they keep my baby?” asked Stefani, a Venezuelan woman eight months pregnant. One lawyer responded cautiously, explaining that while she would have the right to bring her baby with her, the government can still act in ways that disregard the law. Lawyers also handed out one-page notices saying that individuals with pending asylum cases cannot be detained without due process.

Local community groups like ICE Watch have adapted to this new climate by educating communities about their rights. They track immigration enforcement and send real-time alerts via encrypted Signal chats across the five boroughs. Its members also conduct training to teach people how to recognize ICE agents, document encounters, and support those being targeted. Social workers, English teachers, activists and small business owners are often among those who attend.

“The system thrives on isolation,” said one organizer, who requested anonymity due to safety concerns. “People need to know we’re here to help.”

Training also focuses on defending private property. If ICE agents enter the private space of a business without a warrant and someone records it, that video can become legal evidence. At a recent session, one attendee recalled hearing a Trump official on TV admit they were struggling to meet deportation quotas in sanctuary cities because “too many people know their rights.”

Garfield Green, a Jamaican green card holder, spent nearly 30 years living in the Bronx and working on major construction projects like LaGuardia Airport and the Staten Island Ferry terminal. More than a decade ago, during a period of financial hardship, he committed a robbery and served four years in prison. After completing his sentence, he was transferred to ICE detention in Florida in 2021 for violating the terms of his permanent residency. There, officials told him he could be deported at any moment.

After months of declining physical and mental health, he was released in 2024. Green now lives in a homeless shelter under strict ICE supervision, required to check in regularly at their Manhattan office, and remains under a deportation order that could be enforced at any time.

“I tried to commit suicide because I could not bear it anymore,” he said, speaking from the office of Families For Freedom, an organization fighting against deportation. “The hardest part is explaining to my seven-year-old son that I could be taken away at any moment.”

Robert Panton, 59, a Harlem-based activist, came to the U.S. from Jamaica as a permanent resident when he was four. In 1992, he was sentenced to life in prison for a drug offense, but released in 2020 after a judge reduced his sentence. Though briefly detained by ICE upon release, he was freed in 2021 and complied with check-ins for four years—until March, when he was detained again, this time while accompanied by his son, a U.S. citizen and NYPD officer. He now faces deportation to a country he hasn’t seen since childhood.

Cardenas said cases like Green’s and Panton’s reflect a broader shift in enforcement priorities. "We’re seeing more long-term residents, many with deep community ties and no recent criminal history, targeted for both surveillance and removal."

For Juan, who fled Colombia after gang members shot his father in the head, life in New York has come at the cost of constant paranoia and a sense that safety remains out of reach. His young daughter notices everything. “She sees how I live and blames herself,” he said. At times, they’ve talked about returning to Colombia, but he quickly added, “I fear something worse than death could happen if I go back.”