ICE agents are enforcing an immigration crackdown in the Chicago area and affecting the entire city, including teachers, their students, and families.

Today’s post is a guest commentary on the situation from a local teacher. She wishes to remain anonymous—she doesn’t want to bring public attention to her students and their families who remain at risk.

Here’s her account of what’s occurring:

In recent months, our peaceful, family-oriented community in the suburbs of Chicago has been shaken by a wave of immigration raids that have left residents traumatized, terrified, and divided. Families who once shared soccer games and conversations at the bus stops now look out behind curtains drawn, afraid of who might be next.

It started quietly. One morning, a mother who was still nursing her baby was taken on her way to work. Her husband, who works full time at a local pizzeria, was left to care for their three children alone. Many of us wanted to believe the official story: that these raids targeted people with criminal records or outstanding warrants. Surely there had been a mistake—this mother had never even had a parking ticket.

Soon, unmarked SUVs circled the apartment complex late at night, and someone even mentioned drones hovering in the area. In neighborhood text chains shared by moms and community organizations, we began seeing blurry photos and frantic messages: ICE is in the area—warn the kids to get inside. Each time the phone buzzed, we would read another instance of someone taken, another family torn apart.

My former students would message me in fear: “Miss, what should we do? They are dragging someone out! I am so scared!” Parents and school staff rushed to meet buses and escort children home. Volunteers verified reports and tried to keep families calm. But it is impossible to feel safe when every few days brings another story of someone detained—someone from our community. Many had no criminal records; these are asylum seekers faithfully attending their court appointments, doing what they are supposed to be doing. Yet, none of that seems to matter.

Then the raids turned violent. One of my former soccer players was driving, and his car was hit by an ICE truck on his way to work. Panicked, he called his mom, who told him to come home. He made it inside his apartment just as agents arrived, threatening to break down the door if he didn’t surrender—accusing him of hitting their truck. He sacrificed himself and opened the door to protect his parents. The next day, the charges of hitting a federal vehicle were dropped, but his legal nightmare continues as he waits in detention.

That same day, a U.S. citizen (a mom who had been protesting the raids) was shot at with pepper pellets while sitting in her car and arrested for “impeding an investigation.” We were all in shock, and this only heightened the climate of fear.

It seems to never end. Last week, a young child on a school bus recorded my former soccer goalie getting detained. Imagine the anxiety, fear, and emotional trauma of the kids witnessing parents being apprehended at their bus stop—it creates a constant state of terror, wondering if they, too, will be separated from their parents.

In this case, his partner (also a former student) immediately called me screaming and crying and asking what to do. He is the young, loving father of a 4-year-old and he had surrendered himself to immigration at the border and applied for asylum several years ago. After a day in detention, they flew him to Guatemala.

These are not isolated incidents. They are part of an escalating campaign of fear and intimidation that has devastated families who came here seeking safety. Local families who work extremely hard in the factories and restaurants that prepare the food and products that we all enjoy. One friend from Central America who arrived 10 years ago told me, “I fled horrible violence and death threats, to seek asylum here in the U.S. … and now I feel like I am being chased by the same kind of people I once escaped.”

Now, our community lives in constant anxiety. Parents keep children home from school, workers skip shifts, and every unfamiliar car sparks suspicion and a flurry of texts.

As teachers, we do our best to tell our students, “You are important to us and you are safe here.” But daily we are pushing down the fear we feel when the end-of-day bell rings and our students go home into uncertainty.

This is not what safety looks like. This is not what a community looks like. This is not what democracy looks like. Our neighbors deserve dignity and due process, not terror.

We can’t stay silent while families are torn apart, while children watch their parents disappear, while people who work and learn alongside us live in daily fear. It’s time for our schools and citizens to stand together and say: enough. Speak up, document and share incidents, support local organizations, call your elected officials, and most importantly: Let our students know we stand with them and their families.

Thank you to this educator for sharing her thoughts.

Consider contributing a question to be answered in a future post. You can send one to me at lferlazzo@educationweek.org. When you send it in, let me know if I can use your real name if it’s selected or if you’d prefer remaining anonymous and have a pseudonym in mind.

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