On February 19, community members gathered for a Solidarity Day Action at the Northwest Detention Center (NWDC) organized by Tsuru for Solidarity and La Resistencia. With gates to the Northwest ICE Processing Center behind him, Stan Shikuma, co-chair for Tsuru for Solidarity’s Child and Family Detention campaign, speaks to the crowd. Photo by Theo Bickel.

Lately, many of us have been talking about immigration enforcement and the fear and uncertainty it’s  creating, especially for communities that are being directly and disproportionately affected. That focus  matters. At the same time, I want to name something that often goes unspoken: AANHPI communities  are feeling this too.

Across the country, we’ve seen Southeast Asian refugees detained and deported after spending most of  their lives in the United States, many of them brought here as children after fleeing war in Vietnam,  Laos, or Cambodia. In Minnesota, Hmong families and small business owners have spoken about how renewed enforcement has disrupted daily life and created real fear in their neighborhoods. In other  places, raids on Vietnamese-owned nail salons and small businesses have sent shockwaves far beyond  the people who were arrested.

And it’s not always large, visible raids. Sometimes it’s people being detained during routine ICE check-ins  after years of doing everything they were told to do.

That kind of uncertainty changes how families live. People stay home more. They avoid appointments,  and some avoid public transportation altogether. Businesses see fewer customers. Even long-time  residents and U.S. citizens begin to wonder where it’s safe to be.

There is also a deeper emotional and historical layer for many AANHPI families. For some, today’s fear  echoes older stories—war, displacement, refugee camps, and forced migration. For others, it brings up  memories passed down about what happened to Japanese Americans during World War II, when  families were removed from their homes and incarcerated simply for who they were.

Those histories do not disappear. They live in families. They live in communities. And they shape how  moments like this are felt.

Moments like this remind us how connected our communities really are, and how important it is to show  up for one another. Sometimes parts of the story are quieter, easier to overlook, but still important to  name out loud.

We’re here.

We’re impacted.

And being seen, especially in moments like this, matters too.

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