Recently, I shared a post on Facebook reflecting on the ICE raids in Los Angeles. The post wasn’t political. It wasn’t partisan. I wasn’t arguing law or policy. I simply asked a deeper question:
“What are we willing to accept as normal? What part of us remains silent, not out of peace, but out of fear?”
The raids weren’t just another headline to me — they were a reminder of how fear and power often intersect, and how quickly dignity can be discarded when enforcement becomes the only goal. But the response to that post? Honestly, it said more about the current state of our collective consciousness than the raids themselves.
Here are some of the real comments people left:
“The LAWS of our nation are being enforced.”
“Making excuses for criminal activity is not compassion.”
“We don’t accept paid anarchists, Algenon.”
“Congratulations, you just announced that you are a sympathizer and will illegally aid and abet illegal border crossers.”
The volume of comments like these — bold, defensive, dismissive — is staggering. And I disagree with most of them. Let’s be clear: This isn’t just about “the law.” It’s about how that law is applied, who it targets, and the way it leaves people — real people — terrified, vulnerable, and exposed.
It’s about the undocumented mother who works a double shift prepping your food, only to come home and find ICE waiting at her door. It’s about the child whose father gets arrested while dropping him off at school. It’s about the idea that being “legal” is the only moral standard, while compassion, nuance, and context get erased.
I keep hearing the phrase: “We’re a nation of laws.”
That’s true. But we’re also a nation of contradictions. A country that profits off immigrant labor, culture, and entrepreneurship — while publicly shaming, raiding, and detaining the very people it depends on.
And now, President Trump has ordered 700 active-duty military troops to Los Angeles — a move so unprecedented that it hasn’t happened in over half a century. If ICE raids were already stoking fear, this escalation risks turning fear into full-blown unrest. Military presence in an American city, against the will of local and state officials, is not enforcement — it’s provocation.
The point of my original post wasn’t to start a debate. It was to call for awareness. Awakening. Discernment. But for many, the reflex wasn’t reflection — it was rage.
We are witnessing the soul of this country get tested again and again. How we treat the most vulnerable says everything about who we are and who we’re becoming.
I’m not here to change everyone’s mind. But I will not be silent to keep others comfortable.
And I will not stop asking harder questions — even when the answers make people uncomfortable.
If your version of patriotism has no room for empathy, it’s not strength. It’s fear. And we’ve seen what fear does when it becomes policy.
So what it does mean to stay locked in?
It means questioning narratives that make cruelty sound like justice.
It means listening before reacting, and reflecting before reposting.
It means speaking up, even when it’s easier to scroll past.
It means remembering that behind every “raid,” “detention,” or “enforcement action,” there’s a human being — and often, a child.
Staying locked in isn’t passive. It’s active. It’s inconvenient. And it matters now more than ever.
