Author: Heather Schlitz
CHICAGO (Reuters) – Allyson Lopez had been hoping for a revival at her clothing store in Chicago’s Little Village neighborhood, which specializes in ball gowns for bar mitzvahs, a rite of passage that celebrates a girl’s 15th birthday in many Latino communities. Instead, federal immigration raids have returned this week, leaving bustling streets empty.
The first phase of the Department of Homeland Security’s deportation campaign, called Operation Midway Blitz, resulted in more than 4,200 arrests across the city in less than three months. The operation shocked Chicago, but its impact was catastrophic for Hamlet, a working-class Mexican community that had been repeatedly targeted.
On Tuesday, U.S. Border Patrol Commander Gregory Bovino returned with a swarm of agents in camouflage uniforms, some of whom peered through car windows with assault rifles, to the jeers and whistles of dozens of protesters who live-streamed the encounter on social media.
At Estela’s Bridal, a second-generation family business, Lopez specializes in custom designs, which sell for an average of $1,000. It takes 16 hours to make a dress, adjusting the shimmering fabric to the right size and adding embroidered flowers, rhinestones and sequins. She said she lost 90% of her clients during the first wave of arrests because people decided to stay home for fear of immigration agents.
Businesses find it difficult to earn rent
“As a business, we’re going to suffer again,” Lopez said. “We didn’t even pay rent this month, so it’s scary.”
A Department of Homeland Security spokesman did not respond when asked about the impact of the raids on businesses.
Even before Bovino returned, the hamlet had been devastated by the attacks.
The tourists who came to the “capital of Mexico’s Midwest” to eat tacos, sweetbreads and tamales and buy bar mitzvah dresses, piñatas and jalapeños disappeared. Community leaders say dozens of residents have been detained or deported. Others went into hiding.
“It’s like those old Western movies where all you see are tumbleweeds blowing in the breeze,” said Roxana, a 42-year-old hair salon owner from Guatemala. She declined to give her last name or immigration status out of fear of retaliation from immigration agents.
In her empty salon, where half the chairs are wrapped in plastic, Roxana pulls her neat bangs back to reveal patches of thinning hair, which she says is starting to fall out under the stress of an 80% drop in income since the immigration enforcement operation began.
When the Border Patrol descended on the hamlet again this week, Roxana was shaking. The salon was still open, but there were no customers.
“They’re in the community again,” she said. “It’s absolutely shocking and devastating to us because it’s not what we were expecting.”
neighborhood business center
Roxana’s salon sits near the stucco arch that marks the beginning of 26th Street, a two-mile stretch of shops, bakeries and restaurants that has become the city’s second most profitable shopping corridor, according to the Little Village Chamber of Commerce. Many business owners said their savings dwindled after customers, including those in the U.S. legally, stopped visiting for fear of immigration officials.
Before the immigration crackdown, shops selling elaborate ball gowns, glittering tiaras and satin bouquets were happy places where girls giggled and twirled in their dresses to the satisfaction of their mothers, shopkeepers said.
But anxiety about venturing out and concerns that large parties could become targets for immigration enforcement have hit the hamlet’s bar mitzvah shops hard.
Two store owners said they lost 90 percent of their revenue during the initial stages of the Midway Blitz.
Evelyn Flores, owner of a quinceañera shop in Alborada, said she laid off seven employees. “I can’t sleep at night now and I’m always scared during the day.”
Maria Ortiz, who owns a store that sells party supplies, said there are times when no one comes into her store.
left-behind families
For one family, the aftershocks of the fall raid have been lingering for weeks. Camilla, 15, said she has been afraid to leave her apartment except to go to school after her cousin was detained by immigration officials on his way to a carpet installer in November. He has lived in the United States for 18 years without legal status.
“I’m scared. We can’t go out because they might be waiting for us,” she said.
Asked for comment, Assistant Secretary of Homeland Security Tricia McLaughlin said: “There is no reason to fear law enforcement unless you are breaking the law.”
My cousin’s small apartment was basically the same as when he left it – the bed was unmade and his fluffy beige dog, Peruchin, scampered around the apartment. A neighbor who walked him said that since his owner was detained, Peruchin would use his little nose to push aside the dusty blinds every day and stare at the street for hours, waiting for his return.
“All his dreams, all his efforts, all his work – are here, empty,” said Camila’s mother, Sofia, 47, a housekeeper.
“My daughter is 15 years old and she doesn’t deserve to live like this,” Sophia said. She came to the United States from Mexico without legal status and is considering self-deportation. “There is no life here.”
resist
On a recent afternoon, the Little Village Community Council was abuzz with people coordinating school pick-ups and drop-offs, sharing videos and calling the families of detainees.
LVCC President Baltazar Enriquez has led local resistance to immigration enforcement, organizing federal agent patrols and distributing plastic whistles throughout the city to warn immigration agents in the area.
The close connection of “La Villita” (the Spanish name of the small village) gives residents an organizational advantage when coordinating through WhatsApp, Facebook and Signal groups. Although the hamlet has long struggled with gun violence and has the highest number of gang-related crimes in the city, residents said they felt safe until federal agents came to town.
Other forms of resistance have been quieter, like that of resident Vicky Martinez, 55, who delivers groceries to friends and neighbors who are afraid to go to the store.
“It felt like being in prison. We didn’t even know what they were going to throw at us,” Martinez said.
(Reporting by Heather Schlitz; Additional reporting by Daniel Cole, Carlos Barria and Emily Schmall. Editing by Emily Schmall and Suzanne Goldenberg)
