Highlandtown sidewalks tell a much different story today than they did a year ago. Shops that once bustled with conversation sit emptier; families who once roamed the streets have now retreated. The day-to-day has become filled with fear under President Donald Trump’s mass deportation push, sending shockwaves through the largely Spanish-speaking neighborhood. 

Both noncitizen, long-time U.S. residents L and E (whose full names Baltimore Beat is not using for their safety) are family members who are two sides of the same coin: L was already forced to leave the country; E feels imprisoned in his fear. Every glance from strangers, every passing security officer a reminder of the attention their brown skin draws. 

Their parallel lives reflect a community sentiment, where daily rhythms are interrupted by immigration enforcement vans and streets become more desolate with every deportation.

While L’s fight ended when she was forced to leave the country, E’s continues toward an unknown. L has walked her final moments in the United States, holding the hands of her two young children, and E could not walk beside her. In this moment in history, to get too close would be a risk to his own freedom. His life the last seven months has been characterized by living in the shadows. His heart is still heavy that he could not comfort his loved one in the way he wanted to.

L, 32, came to the U.S. four years ago seeking safety for her son and was granted refugee status. At first, her check-ins were annual, then every six months. At her most recent appointment, her lawyer backed out at the last minute, telling her the location was “too far.” She asked immigration officials to reschedule and was denied. Speaking no English, L faced them alone.

There, she was ordered to leave the country within 60 days and was fitted with an ankle monitor. If she failed to self-deport, agents told her she would be forcibly deported without her children. “As a mother, my kids always come first. They are everything. I don’t look like myself without my kids next to me,” L told the Beat.

Under Donald Trump’s push for widespread deportations, what used to be a straightforward immigration appointment has taken on a different weight. 

These check-ins now carry a looming threat of being arrested and put into immigration jail, replacing procedure with a steady undercurrent of fear and reshaping daily life in immigrant communities. Advocates say fear of being taken away from everything they know with essentially no notice is discouraging community members, regardless of status, from participating fully in their neighborhoods.

Immigration experts working in Baltimore say that authorities are increasingly focused on individuals who had previously been allowed to remain in the community while their cases slowly progressed through backlogged courts.

Immigration experts working in Baltimore say that authorities are increasingly focused on individuals who had previously been allowed to remain in the community while their cases slowly progressed through backlogged courts. Most have no criminal record and comply with regular check-ins, including L.

Immigration check-ins are a way for ICE to monitor individuals with pending asylum claims or other immigration cases while they await a ruling. ICE officials have not disclosed how often detentions occur during or following scheduled mandatory check-ins. 

After pleading for more time, officials gave L an additional 30 days to arrange her departure, buy her ticket, and prepare to go to Honduras.

L is the mother of a seven-year-old son and a two-year-old daughter, the latter of whom was born in the United States and is a citizen. For the past four years, L has built a life in Baltimore — working steadily in a local restaurant, active in her son’s school community, and surrounded by friends and family. Baltimore is where she felt safe, where she put down roots, and the only place her children have known as home. 

Still, the country she has contributed to and sacrificed so much to reach has forced her out. Her kids are the only thing keeping her together. She insists that she must remain strong for them. She does not let them see her cry, but behind closed doors she breaks down. She listens to people tell her, “This is not right. This shouldn’t be happening.” But it is happening.

“I hope God gives me the chance to come back,” she said. “For the future of my kids.” The United States will always be her dream.

Historically, asylum seekers were allowed to live freely in the U.S. while their cases were pending in court, said Caroline Barrow, a child immigration attorney with the Amica Center for Immigrant Rights. 

“The current administration wants all of those people in detention, anyone pending in immigration court,” Barrow said. This often leaves people with no options to pursue legal channels toward citizenship. 

Carla Paisely, director of Southeast Community Development Corporation (CDC), a community organization that offers housing and business development resources, called immigration policy a “moving target,” noting that many clients are deported through expedited removal without ever appearing before a judge, and that they are often the breadwinners in their households. She says the constant, low-level anxiety in immigrant communities is now punctuated by sudden absences. 

“Clients and people you’d normally see don’t show up and your first thought is that they’re gone,” Paisley said.

About 1,400 arrests, or 8% of the nearly 16,500 in Trump’s first month in office, likely took place during or immediately following a check-in appointment, according to arrest data from the Deportation Data Project, a team of academics and lawyers compiling immigration enforcement data. 

Barrow says the administration is applying “very aggressive interpretations that every immigrant ever” should be denied bond across the board. As of September 21, the most recent data available, ICE was holding nearly 60,000 people in detention, among the highest figures in U.S. history, compared to an average of 37,500 in 2024. To sustain those numbers, the Trump administration implemented a 3,000 arrests per day minimum quota and will “keep pushing to get that number higher,” Stephen Miller, White House deputy chief of staff for policy, told Fox News in May. ICE has since denied the quota’s existence, amid a lawsuit linking recent Los Angeles sweeps to its enforcement.

It is not just undocumented people who are being targeted. Eric Lopez of the Amica Center noted that DHS has narrowed asylum protections and reinterpreted immigration law more aggressively than ever. The result, he says, is profoundly chilling: families watch loved ones get funneled into ICE custody with little chance of release or fair treatment, and accessing court or finding a lawyer has become an uphill battle.

ICE made 2,280 arrests in the first seven months of 2025 within its Baltimore Area of Responsibility, which indicates its physical jurisdiction for operation, surpassing the 1,498 total arrests in all of 2024 by a large margin. According to the Deportation Data Project, the Baltimore Area of Responsibility is all of Maryland and can include some parts of Virginia and Delaware. The overwhelming majority of arrests involved people from Guatemala, El Salvador, Honduras, and Mexico.

Detentions and deportations long predate Trump. What differentiates his approach from other administrations, advocates say, is the near-eradication of legal pathways entirely and the push to detain nearly all pending cases — a sharp escalation from prior administrations.

Expansive expedited removal, for example, is now being applied to people who have been in the U.S. for years, according to Adonia Simpson, an immigration attorney. “Before, it was just for people that had arrived within 14 days within 100 miles of the U.S. border,” she said. But now this tactic is applied to individuals already settled in the United States, “and oftentimes people that have been here for more than two years.”

One undocumented Baltimorean, who asked not to be identified, knowingly entered the United States illegally to save her daughter from human trafficking. In her home country, a local gang warned they would return for her child when she was older. She chose to move to the United States, bypassing closer countries where she believed gangs could more easily reach her.

Immigration courts now operate under new constraints such as judges having expanded powers to dismiss cases outright and the acceleration of visa cancellations under programs like “Catch and Revoke,” a Trump administration-proposed policy that enforces zero-tolerance for noncitizens, particularly aimed at noncitizens who express political dissent toward the current administration.

Advocates say these shifts show that the administration is not just tightening enforcement but dismantling the systems that once offered a path to lawful residency. Policies once seen as safeguards, like check-ins during pending cases, now feel like traps. The result is widespread fear across immigrant communities, where long-standing routes to stability and citizenship are disappearing along with hope. 

Attorneys with Amica say many of their clients face serious health challenges on top of their precarious immigration status. One attorney described a client, several months pregnant with her first child, who avoids prenatal checkups out of fear of being detained. The constant threat of ICE raids targeting anyone who appears to be Latino has led many to avoid medical care, advocates say, putting their health at risk. “People are afraid to be out. They’ll go out to get essentials and go quickly,” Paisley said. 

Another Amica advocate shared the story of a chronically ill client who was arrested while traveling to visit their comatose child.

“The reality is that everyone is a priority for detention and arrest,” Eric Lopez of the Amica Center said. “People who pose absolutely no risk to public safety, even using ICE’s own metrics, are not being released from ICE custody.”

“The reality is that everyone is a priority for detention and arrest,” Lopez said. “People who pose absolutely no risk to public safety, even using ICE’s own metrics, are not being released from ICE custody.”

A case manager at Southeast CDC, who asked not to be named, says many of his clients — legal residents and noncitizens — are too afraid to use or open bank accounts. Carrying cash has left them vulnerable, earning a reputation as “walking ATMs,” but many believe the risk of theft is safer than the fear that money in the bank could be seized if they are deported.

The same fear carries over to housing. Without the documents required by reputable property managers, noncitizens often turn to landlords who exploit their status, using it as leverage against them. Even when mistreated, most tenants refuse to push back. “90% of my clients, even when they’re right, won’t take action against a landlord,” the case manager said. “They don’t believe me when I tell them their immigration status has nothing to do with their rights.”

The chilling effect reaches families with U.S.-born children as well. Case workers note that many parents avoid applying for benefits their children qualify for, worried that doing so will put their own status under a microscope.

For some, the strain has become unbearable. One client, a mother of young children, attempted suicide earlier this summer under the weight of bills, unstable work, and constant fear. She had stopped responding to her case manager weeks before her mother finally called to explain what had happened.

These experiences leave case workers feeling stuck. “Tell people their rights, and that’s great, but they need a lawyer,” the case worker said. 

“Knowing your rights only goes so far when there’s no one to fight for you. People need lawyers, fact of the matter. And there’s nothing. I refer them, and attorneys have this huge waiting list.”

a case manager at Southeast CDC, who asked not to be named.

“It is great that they know their rights but how useful is that right now? Knowing your rights only goes so far when there’s no one to fight for you. People need lawyers, fact of the matter. And there’s nothing. I refer them, and attorneys have this huge waiting list.”

Simpson, the D.C. and Baltimore-based immigration attorney, has observed a rise in scams targeting noncitizens, with individuals impersonating ICE agents or falsely presenting themselves as legal authorities to extort immigrants. Crisaly De Los Santos, director of CASA’s Baltimore and central Maryland branch, echoed Simpson’s concerns, alleging that ICE itself has used deceptive tactics, such as job postings for Spanish speakers and translators, to ensnare immigrants. 

“Unfortunately, in times like this, when things are sensitive, there’s a lot of misinformation, there’s a lot of fear, a lot of uncertainty,” Simpson said in a community meeting. “There are bad actors that look to take advantage.”

Beyond the immediate trauma of ICE arrests, there are questions around how long the community can tolerate the chilling effects of ICE’s presence before being forced into impossible economic choices. Johanna Barrantes, small business project manager at Southeast CDC, notes that the heavy ICE presence, coupled with the fear it instills in the surrounding Spanish-speaking communities, citizen and noncitizen alike, is eroding the community stability and sense of security. 

Advocates and case workers at Southeast CDC report a steep drop in foot traffic, with local business revenues falling even more sharply. Paisley likens the desolate streets to the early days of the pandemic, noting that many business owners are reverting to strategies they used then to keep sustaining patronage and paying their employees so they can meet their financial needs. 

While the pandemic posed a shared threat that everyone was learning to manage together, the current operation against immigrants is driven by a few against the many.

But this is not COVID, Paisley stresses. While the pandemic posed a shared threat that everyone was learning to manage together, the current operation against immigrants is driven by a few against the many. Those in power shift the rules at will simply because they can, Paisley noted.

Southeast CDC offers a range of community programs including a Know Your Rights training. Yet the central lesson — “don’t open your door” —  exposes a painful contradiction: While individuals can exercise that protection at home, small businesses do not have the luxury of refusing to open. Their survival depends on keeping their doors open to customers. 

Meanwhile, many legal residents face precarious work permit situations. Southeast CDC sees expired permits weekly, with residents hesitant to renew for fear of ICE encounters. Under the current administration, this limits the types of jobs they can take and increases liability for employers, further restricting economic opportunity.

Barrantes works as the bridge between Southeast CDC and local entrepreneurs. Since January, her role has increasingly centered on daily conversations about immigration enforcement. Even on the rare day the topic does not come up, she admits it is never far from her mind. Before, only a few businesses had installed buzzing systems to screen customers; now, she wonders how many more will feel compelled to follow suit. 

Many community members are turning to Uber or delivery for essentials, earning less while spending more, further straining fiances. “We are about to head into event season, fall festivals, holiday events, which are a really big source of revenue for many small businesses, both brick and mortar and home-based. And for many folks that are in these targeted communities, they are going to have to make, yet again, another really difficult choice: what’s more at risk? My financial resources or my physical safety?” Barrantes said. “For many of our communities, they’ve always had to dance around, which is more dire?”

All of these pressures are taking a toll on small businesses, especially those owned by Black and brown immigrants. Barrantes notes a slight rise in vacancy rates, and if the trend continues, it will likely leave an already vulnerable community even more exposed to the encroachment of large developers.

“Mom and pop shops and microbusinesses know their communities,” Barrantes said. “They hire local, join associations, know their neighbors. Supporting them isn’t just about business success, it’s about fostering the strength and impact of the whole community.”

Across Baltimore, fear permeates daily life. The sight of masked agents in neighborhoods leaves lasting emotional scars. The “arrest first and ask questions later” reality forces families to spend immense energy on safety planning, rights rehearsals, and preparing for potential detentions, fraying the very foundation of community well-being.

The strain reaches beyond legal status. Heightened enforcement disrupts work, schooling, healthcare, and public life, shrinking once-vibrant cultural spaces. The community’s safe, joyous gathering places, once hubs of life, are shrinking. 

Yet neighbors continue to act by raising their voices, banging on doors, and forming barriers, demonstrating solidarity and hope.

Barrantes emphasizes that Black and brown communities have long navigated safety concerns; what is new is the speed and scale of impact. Still, resilience persists. Paisley says her staff remains committed to showing up, prioritizing community needs, and fostering joy. 

“We’re seeing a number of people who are from this community, people who come to our doors saying, ‘We’re going to march because you can’t right now. You’re our neighbors,’” Paisley said.

This post was originally published on The Real News Network.