‘What I feel now is fear’: how migrants in Oregon are guarding against immigration enforcement

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Organizations are helping educate immigrants with Defensa del Barrio workshops and more traditional know-your-rights trainings.

At a tiny church in Cornelius, nearly a dozen people pass a candle as they share their names, how they feel and what they’d like to emotionally jettison. Most in the group, which includes undocumented immigrants, say they’re fearful. They’d like to be relieved of uncertainty.

“It would be a lie if I said I wasn’t afraid,” said one of the attendees, sitting next to her husband. The fear? La migra. La chota.



La verde. La perrera. ICE.

The group gathered at the church last week not in search of spiritual enlightenment but, instead, to learn about their constitutional rights and what to do if confronted by immigration agents. The Defensa del Barrio workshop, or defending the neighborhood, provides much of the same information as traditional know-your-rights trainings. But the workshops embrace a grassroots model, with fewer participants, more intimate locations and invites that often spread through word of mouth.

Organizers of such events say they’re particularly valuable at reaching people who might not attend larger educational trainings. And they’ve taken on added importance in immigrant communities since President Donald Trump returned to office and his administration launched an aggressive deportation campaign. Advocates are aware of only targeted arrests in Oregon by U.

S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement in recent months. No large raids have been reported.

But advocates say the community must be prepared because no one knows what could happen, or when. Nationally, the Trump administration has already forcibly removed alleged gang members – some of whom have no criminal records – to El Salvador in defiance of a court order. International college students, including some in Oregon , have lost their visas while others have been sent to detention centers across the country.

As of early this month, the Tacoma Northwest Detention Center was operating near capacity, which is close to 1,600 people in custody, according to advocates. Leading last week’s educational workshop was Francisco Aguirre, who is undocumented himself and is well-known to immigration authorities. In 2014, he spent 81 days at Augustana Lutheran Church in Portland, seeking sanctuary, after immigration agents tried to arrest him without a warrant.

Aguirre hopes a judge will grant him political asylum during his next immigration court appearance in December. Teaching other people about their rights might put an even bigger bullseye on him, he said, but he wants to help. “I do get scared but I’m already an immigration target,” he said in Spanish during an interview.

“It wouldn’t cause me more harm than what I already have.” At last week’s training, the group sat on folding chairs in a small room next to the chapel area as Aguirre stood toward the front. Using a projector, he worked through a PowerPoint presentation, flashing education slides written in Spanish and pausing to take questions.

Aguirre taught the group about their constitutional rights, such as the right to remain silent. “There’s no need to speak with immigration” officials, he told the group in Spanish. “Let’s not cross words with them.

If we know it’s them, it’s better to remain silent and not open the door. That’s the solution.” Some wondered what they should do in the event of a worst-case scenario.

“God forbid, both of us get deported, would our children be able to keep the place where we live despite not having a document?” asked the woman who earlier had said she was afraid. Aguirre said families should make a will and name beneficiaries to avoid potential legal battles over property and possessions. He also described what forms and other documentation should be included in family preparation plans.

Aguirre recommended people in the group proactively fill out an “ICE Form 60-001.” It’s a privacy waiver that allows immigration authorities to share information with family members about someone’s detention location, among other things. But he warned that after signing and dating the document, it’s good for only 90 days.

Defensa del Barrio trainings like these are more intimate than traditional know-your-rights events, Aguirre said in an interview, and try to reach those most likely to be impacted. Beyond churches, they take place in people’s apartments or homes, in bakeries or workplaces. “The community feels more comfortable,” he said in Spanish.

Most people who attend learn about them through conversations with friends, neighbors or other trusted members of their community. “When you promote it, the people don’t arrive,” Aguirre said in Spanish, adding that sometimes more publicized events draw only advocates who already know the information. One thing has been abundantly clear during the handful of workshops Aguirre has given since Trump returned to office: “Honestly, they are very afraid,” he said in Spanish.

“I get to see people’s fear up close.” That was evident last week. “What I feel now is fear and sadness,” a young man said in Spanish.

“What I feel is fear because I don’t know what could happen to my family, not knowing what tomorrow will bring,” one man, whose wife also acknowledged being fearful, said in Spanish. “Of seeing how we are all terrified,” another woman said in Spanish. Aguirre also spoke with the immigrants about Defensa del Barrio’s views on the use of so-called red cards that typically get handed out at know-your-rights trainings.

Typically the size of business cards and printed on red paper, they can slide into wallets for easy access at a time of need. The cards advise people not to open their door to immigration officials, answer their questions or sign any documents. They also instruct people to give immigration officials the card, which states that the person is exercising their constitutional rights and do not want to answer any questions and do not give permission for authorities to enter their home or search their possessions.

Aguirre said the cards provide important information but, in his mind, effectively identify someone as being undocumented. “A card, such as the red card, doesn’t protect you,” Aguirre told the attendees. Aguirre’s concerns aren’t necessarily universal.

Reyna Lopez, executive director for PCUN, the state’s farmworker union, said in an interview that she’s aware “some people have mixed feelings” about the cards. “But even with that little red card,” she said, “knowing that you can be able to exercise some of those rights is really helping a lot.” The Immigrant Legal Resource Center makes red cards available on its website “as a tool to empower all individuals regardless of immigration status.

” “These cards are about ensuring people know how to safely assert their rights if confronted by immigration enforcement,” the national organization said in a statement. “In a time of increasing fear and disinformation, we believe education is protection.” Alvaro Huerta, director of litigation & Advocacy for the Immigrant Defenders Law Center based in Los Angeles, said his organization regularly passes out red cards to clients and community members, with even staff members carrying them.

“We encourage everyone, not just noncitizens, to understand their legal and constitutional rights when they come into contact with federal immigration agents and other law enforcement officials,” he said in a statement, “whether or not they choose to carry a red card with them.” Either way, Lopez, with the Oregon farmworkers’ union, said she’s grateful to see education happening. Although she’s aware of only “very individual, targeted” immigration arrests in Oregon so far, “we should be ready for any scenarios.

” “We just don’t know what’s going to happen,” she said. “..

. I wish I had a crystal ball.” And that uncertainty under Trump is unlikely to go away.

At the conclusion of last week’s workshop, more than two hours after it began, Aguirre reminded attendees that he’s not a lawyer but simply trying to help educate people about their rights. A line soon formed. Some of the immigrants, snacking on oranges late into the evening, waited nearly 30 minutes for an opportunity to ask more questions.

— Yesenia Amaro is an investigative reporter with a focus on social issues and communities of color. Do you have a news tip related to immigration, deportations or publicly funded programs designed to help immigrant Oregonians? Get in touch, 503-221-4395; [email protected] .

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