The last few days have been freezing cold in Chicago, even by local standards. In a neighborhood called Little Village people bundled up against the frigid air hurry past the bright Mexican murals. At a half empty restaurant on the main street, clips of President Trump's inauguration ceremony are blasting over some ranchera music.
Every time someone opens the door, a waitress named Caridad looks up and braces. "I'm scared that it will be them," she says, referring to Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) agents.
In his inauguration speech President Donald Trump promised to "begin the process of returning millions and millions of criminal aliens back to the places from which they came."
Border Czar Tom Homan told CNN on Tuesday deportation actions are already underway today - focusing on migrants who are considered a public safety threat. But he warned that all migrants without legal status could also be arrested and deported - especially those living in sanctuary jurisdictions like Chicago, where law enforcement is prohibited from cooperating with federal deportation actions.
Last year, Homan warned Democrats not to interfere. "Help us protect you," he said during a speech to Chicago Republicans. "If you don't, get the hell out of the way."
The possibility of mass deportations coming to Chicago has already sent immigrant neighborhoods in the city into a panic. Many in this community have been staying home for the last few days - and it's not just to avoid the bitter cold. The day before President Trump took office, Caridad says she went to the supermarket. It was packed with people stocking their shopping carts to the brim. "People have told me they've been buying enough groceries to stay indoors for some time and avoid immigration agents."
Little Village, or La Villita as its residents call it, is a historically Mexican immigrant community. "It is one of the largest commercial corridors here in the city, and the biggest Mexican community here in the Midwest," says Jennifer Aguilar, executive director of the Little Village Chamber of Commerce. "We have over a thousand businesses, over 100 restaurants." Her office overlooks some of them. Sparkling quinceañera shops, botanica stores with saints adorning the windows. "This corridor is always busy with activity and right now it seems almost like a ghost town."
At the restaurant where Caridad works, the fear is palpable. We've been asked not to give the name of the establishment, because it employs several workers in the country without legal status. Caridad, a widow who lives in Little Village, is one of them. She asked that we withhold her last name out of fear of deportation. She is originally from Mexico. She's 64 years old. She has been in the US for more than three decades. "Half my life," she reflects. She's spent almost all of that time working at this restaurant.
Caridad says she's watched anxiety take hold of her community in the days leading up to the inauguration. "It's more than fear, it's panic," she says. She still goes to work every day, but with a growing sense of unease. "In these last few weeks, I get home from work and I thank God I made it."
As she talks, she flips through the local Spanish newspaper. The title, in large bold lettering reads: "ILLINOIS: SANCTUARY STATE. NOT AFRAID."
For all the panic, there is also a very tangible sense of defiance here.
Illinois is a sanctuary state, and Chicago a sanctuary city, which means police are prohibited from cooperating with federal deportation actions. On Tuesday, Chicago Mayor Brandon Johnson , told NPR that "as a welcoming city and as a sanctuary city, we are firm in that our police department will not intervene or participate [in immigration enforcement] in any way."
Immigrant advocates have been preparing for months. It's not their first time dealing with immigration raids, but they say this time around feels different for everyone involved. Caridad says she feels that across the country, "they hate us. They really hate us and reject us."
"What we are telling people is we are not running, we are fighting," says Jorge Mujica, an immigrants rights organizer with the non-profit Arise Chicago. "And in order to fight, you have to know how to fight. You have to be prepared. You have to have the famous red card."
Red cards are palm-sized cards distributed by immigration advocates to migrants, which they can hand over to ICE agents in the event of a raid."I am giving you this card because I don't want to speak with you or have any further contact," every card reads. "I choose to exercise my constitutional right to remain silent and refuse to answer your questions. If you arrest me, I will continue exercising that constitutional right."
Despite Chicago's sanctuary status, immigration is enforced by the federal government, which means ICE agents can enter and conduct operations at their discretion. That's why immigration rights advocates have also encouraged migrants to have a plan.
One woman named Yessenia, a bartender for private events in the city, says in the last few weeks she and her family have assembled a detailed plan. She asked that her last name be withheld for fear of retaliation: she qualifies for deferred work action, which protects non-citizen workers like herself from threats by exploitative employers. She worries about becoming a target for removal because her name is in the system.
Yessenia is 37 years old. She's originally from Mexico. Her youngest children, aged 8 and 9, are US citizens. The family's new rules are that everyone has to check in every five hours. "If someone does not report, start asking friends. If no one has seen the person, start looking on the immigration website," she explains.
Back at the restaurant, owner Laura (she asked that her last name be withheld because she's worried about being targeted by raids) says she considered closing. But employees like Caridad asked her not to.
She says staying open has kind of become her line in the sand. Laura herself is the daughter of Mexican immigrants. "No shame of being an immigrant. People want to put shame upon us. And it's not what we are. And it's not who we are. This is what makes America great. The immigrants."
Still, she estimates she's lost some 30% of her clientele in the last week or so. She hears from people who just don't want to leave the house. At lunch, some customers trickle in. Every time the door opens, Caridad looks up, alarmed.
The younger staff, they could run to the kitchen, but she says she's too old. "I could fall." And immigration advocates have advised them not to. "It's worse if you run. And I'm not a criminal."
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