ICE in DC: Fear Paralyzes Migrant Life in the District
An empty barbershop, "raided" restaurants, bilingual schools on high alert, and nine lowkey migrants hid away in a backyard.
WASHINGTON—The barber's chair was still warm when I sat down, but the shop was cold with absence. One woman stood behind the counter, scissors in hand, her eyes flicking to the door like she was expecting ghosts.
Usually, it’s loud in the barbershop, with reggaeton blaring from a busted speaker, kids arguing over candy, someone’s cousin cutting in line. But today, it was just me, the barber, and the buzz of her clippers in the silence, like a fly in a jar.
She finished fast, too fast. When she muttered the price—thirty bucks—it sounded like an apology. I gave her forty in cash, but she didn’t thank me, just gave a distant nod, like her mind was far away, trying not to cry.
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Outside the barbershop, a white paper flier flapped in the wind, taped to a pole, with two words in black: “ICE WARNING.” It fluttered as I waited for the bus, a quiet ride. No one dared speak Spanish when la migra’s in town. Latinos vanish from public transit, leaving just Black and White riders, sitting like statues, avoiding each other.
The Metro was the same. No immigrants anywhere. The District hadn’t gone quiet—it had gone hollow. A “help wanted” sign leaned against a locked door like a joke. I stopped for lunch at a little Mexican place I’ve always liked. Shrimp soup. The waitress smiled, called me “amigo,” and asked if I’d heard the news.
“ICE raids,” she whispered, like it might summon them. “Read it all on Migrant Insider.” I played dumb. She kept talking anyway. “My mother’s locked in at home. I didn’t let my kids go to school. It’s not safe.” Her smile was brittle. “They’re taking people, just like that.”
She wasn’t wrong. The schools looked like they’d been forgotten mid-sentence—empty playgrounds, locked doors, curtains drawn. But then, at a small school on my walk back, I found a scene that didn’t fit: dozens of kids chasing soccer balls under a hot sun, laughter cutting through the dread.
An older White lady stood nearby, watching them like she was counting. She caught me looking. “Hello, dear,” she said. “Have you seen any of those strange men around?” I blinked. She wore a flip phone on a lanyard, like a panic button. Her sunglasses caught my reflection—sweaty, brown, foreign.
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“They’re out there. Snatching people. Restaurants, schools, you name it!” I shook my head. “No, ma’am. Haven’t seen anything.” She looked me up and down, squinting. “Well, you don’t look like them. If you see anything, let me know. I’ve got a phone. We can help you,” she offered.
My phone pinged: “Come by. We’re in the backyard.” I found them quickly, all eight of them at a patio table—smokes in hand, waters half-drunk, faces pulled tight with paranoia. “I bailed from work today,” said Artos, a Greek waiter from the island of Aegina. “Our other spot got hit. I locked myself in the bathroom. Just sat there, smoking. Boss sent everyone home. Said it’s not worth the risk.”
“Whatever happens, it’s good,” said Munir, from Morocco. “I used to work at these restaurants. These owners screw people over. They don’t hire legal immigrants or even Americans. They only hire those without papers, ’cause they can abuse them. Pay them like $9 an hour. Hold a two-week payment if they don’t like how they work. Screw these owners.”
“Yeah, but fine the owners then, not deport the workers!” Artos said. “The only way this is going to work is if you are strict,” Munir responded, grabbing his bike to DoorDash. Artos muttered, “ICE should deport him.” Kumar laughed, flicking ash. “Maybe Robert should be careful, too.”
Robert was our Black friend from California. “No, no,” he said, laughing. “Black people have been here this whole time. It’s you guys that are on the run. We’ve been through this. It’s your turn now.” Everyone laughed nervously.
“But you know, I’m going to be honest,” Robert continujed. “As immigrants, why don’t you guys stand up for your fellow colleagues? Like, surely it only benefits you to stand with them and make sure their liberties are protected.”
Hussein, a Ghanaian econ student, laughed out loud. “What the hell are you talking about? The least we care about is other people.”
Robert frowned. “But I don’t get it. Like, if you get a visa here in the States, doesn’t that also imply that you embrace the American values of life, liberty…”
“Man, no one gives a damn about other immigrants,” Hussain said. “Let me tell you the truth. I think like 90% of all immigrants that come to the United States don’t care about the culture. What is that? They come here because they can make money.”
Munir laughed. Everyone knows Munir loves money more than anything. “I came to study,” Kumar said, lighting his thirteenth cigarette. “It took me forever to get my visa. I just focus on my studies. Everyone else, well, it’s sad, but it’s not my problem. Anyway, I’m here legally. They can’t just arrest me and deport me. All this is exaggerated. It’s fake news,” he went on and on went Kumar.
Then my phone buzzed. “They just hit Jaleo and Clyde’s,” my editor texted.Ping. Another text: “And Call Your Mother.” Artos saw my face. “Kumar’s spoiled,” he said. “Probably never had to fight for a visa. Probably his family did everything for him. He has no idea how hard it is to get a visa here. It’s like hell.”
My phone buzzed again. And again. I slipped away, walked toward home. On the way, I passed a Mexican restaurant with a giant TV. Barça vs. Inter. Champions League, second leg. A match that would normally shake the building with cheers and boos.
But inside, the tables were full of empty chairs. The volume was up, but the voices were gone. When Inter scored and the players dropped to their knees in prayer, the place didn’t move.
The sound of silence was louder than ever.
The ICE stormtroopers are choking the lifeblood of our country STOP!