My mother remembers Nuestra Señora del Pilar as a place of hushed corridors and wind-swept balconies, where nuns ushered her from class to class. Students went to church every morning.
A witness tells the Portland Press Herald that Guerrero’s last words were, "I tried to stop."
One video published by The Bangor Daily News shows agents pulling his unmoving body out of the driver’s seat—then handcuffing him. It is unclear if he is alive. I wondered how much fear must have been in the minds of those ICE agents that they felt the need to still restrain him.
As a Latina, it is impossible for me not to see my father when I think of Guerrero and Araujo. In them, I see men who wanted nothing but a better life for their children. Families like mine can’t help but feel their families’ pain, and fear for each other and our own.
I wished my dad would tone it down. While he had received his documents, my mother’s had been rejected. The application fees changed, and my sister, who was filing for my mother, had paid the previous amount. She was told the money would not be returned to us and would need to start the whole process for my mother again. While my father happily bought a plane ticket in June 2025, headed to Minnesota to start his life alongside my sister and his grandchildren, my mother remained in Mexico, alone.
My father feared going outside, understanding that how he looked—brown and indigenous— put him at risk. My father, documented, afraid, still went every day to pick up his granddaughters at their school bus stop.
Throughout 2025, as my mother lived alone for the first time in her life, I called her every day during lunchtime. My mother hates cooking, as do I and we entertained ourselves by complaining about the slimy texture of onions over speakerphone. Our conversations turned, always, to my father.
Sometimes, I tiptoe around my mother’s feelings. In this case, I needed her to understand. I told her the fear was being taken, regardless of paperwork, and being held in an ICE detention facility. During the second Trump Administration, these facilities had become more dangerous than ever.
“Over the weekend, U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) law enforcement arrested more worst of the worst criminals across the country, including those convicted for murder, sexual assault of children, aggravated assault, drug trafficking, and other despicable crimes,” DHS declared this week.
Last December, on his way back to Mexico City to see my mother and take her to medical appointments, my father was afraid ICE would be at the airport, that they might apprehend him and hold him indefinitely. He asked me to send him the citation for when I was a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize. I sent him a PDF with all my awards. He printed them and he put them in a folder that not only included all his legal documentation, but other documents that made a case for his humanity. This broke my heart. I waited all day by my phone for him to say that he was safe. Sat on pins and needles. I flitted between thinking our fear unlikely and reasonable. The drumming up of fear made me afraid.
Now, I often think about the irony of us escaping Colombia only to be seized by the fear of detention in America.
When I call my mother, like all mothers of her age must do, she lists all the things going wrong with her body. She says, "Nobody calls to ask me how I am." Even though that is what I am doing. "Nobody calls me," says my father, when I call him. What is clear to me is that they miss each other. The fullness of what they are to each other when they are together none of us can be for each of them.
The deaths of Salgado and Guerrero are a collective grief. To grieve is to take stock of what we have lost, can lose, and to spend time deconstructing the harmful narratives that cause our grief. What happens to a country where going to work is enough to get killed?
What of all the other stories of migrant families?
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