Inside the Chicago Resistance
On Tuesday afternoon, Pauly stood at the corner of 105th and Avenue N next to the La Flor corner store, examining three metal containers he picked up off his street: a tear-gas canister, a smoke-grenade can, and a pepper-ball projectile round. The Feds had been here.
That morning, a car chase ended in Pauly’s neighborhood, on the East Side of Chicago, a working-class Latino and Black community. Federal agents had been pursuing a car they say was driven by an undocumented immigrant and then allegedly rammed that car intentionally.
As they pursued the occupants on foot, residents like Pauly came out to check on the commotion, and more federal agents arrived. Later, the crowd turned into a kind of protest. It was, by this point, a common scene in Chicago: masked neighbors waving Mexican flags and FUCK ICE banners, lawyers documenting arrests on steno pads with clergy, neighborhood moms, and teenagers, all standing side-by-side. Pauly was cloaked in all black, revealing only his eyes. Federal agents threw smoke grenades, shot pepper balls, and deployed at least three rounds of tear gas against the throng over the next few hours.
For the past five weeks, in response to the Trump administration immigration crackdown known as “Operation Midway Blitz,” neighborhoods have mobilized in experimental and collective ways. In their free time, or, in some cases, by actively taking time off work, everyday Chicagoans are building rapid-response teams to keep eyes on the streets and follow the movements of federal agents. Some pass out whistles in bars and laundromats; others keep vigil outside Home Depots and taquerías. Activists have begun locating agents’ suburban hotels and hosting noisy protests outside. Some take shifts patrolling their neighborhoods on foot, in cars, and on bikes to alert neighbors to the presence of federal agents and to document their aggressive tactics and arrests. For a week, I followed around a number of these civilians turned frontliners.
It is a resistance that extends to the highest offices in the city. “You are not welcome here,” Olga Bautista, vice-president of the Chicago Board of Education, said in a statement directed at ICE agents. J.B. Pritzker, the governor of Illinois, has called the siege a “manufactured performance.” In recent weeks, Mayor Brandon Johnson created “ICE Free Zones,” barring federal agents from using city property as staging grounds for immigration enforcement. Chicago is a sanctuary city, which prevents the denial of city services based on immigration status and limits city-government cooperation with federal agents. “We cannot allow them to rampage through our city without checks and balances,” said Johnson at the signing of the executive order. “If Congress will not check this administration, then Chicago will.” President Donald Trump has since threatened to arrest Pritzker and Johnson. He has also attempted a takeover of the Illinois National Guard, though a court blocked it from being deployed in Chicago.
After the car chase, Pauly, who has asked to be referred to by a pseudonym, pursued federal agents’ cars on foot all the way to the Indiana state line a few miles away. “I told them to get the fuck out of my neighborhood,” he says. “They’re tyrants; they don’t respect the law.” He threw up from the tear gas, a feeling he’s now used to after attending weekly pickets at the Broadview Detention and Processing Center; these began in response to its inhumane conditions, the aggressive tactics used by federal agents, and the surge of immigration enforcement. A U.S. district judge recently required federal agents to wear badges and body cameras and banned them from using riot-control techniques, such as tear gas, without warning. The way Pauly sees it, no one is going to protect your community, or your block, like you. He is part of his neighborhood’s patrol. “Nobody else is going to do it,” he says. “On this road, you’re not going to get nowhere if you’re a coward, man.”
On Sunday, Jose, a 60-year-old volunteer, stood alert in a cherry-red tracksuit and a Bulls cap outside of a Home Depot near the North Side. He positions himself most mornings at dawn, before his own workday begins, at the hiring corner as part of the Latino Union of Chicago’s “Adopt a Day Labor Corner.” The program was inspired by similar efforts in California to shield immigrant workers from rising harassment by ICE at their workplaces. “At first, it was hard for them to understand why we were doing it,” he says of the workers. “They would be like, ‘Why are you here? Don’t you have a job?’” he says.
Outside of Home Depot watch, Jose, who asked to use a pseudonym, also takes shifts driving in a clandestine rapid-response group through which Chicagoans work to identify, follow, and document federal agents. These extra sets of eyes are essential to alert the Illinois Coalition for Immigrant and Refugee Rights’ Family Support Network, which tracks and verifies immigration raids, alerts surrounding community members, and connects detained immigrants and their families to services. Rapid-response work, though, is increasingly risky. There have been reports of people being arrested or assaulted while tracking agents. DHS, meanwhile, alleges that rapid-response-gropu members, along with other protesters, have assaulted officers by “ramming” federal law enforcement vehicles with their cars and throwing objects at agents.
Behind Jose, a small group of day laborers wait for jobs. Some lean against a fence, others scroll on phones. “My dad did this kind of work,” Jose says. “He used to come home without pay. Employers told him, ‘Complain, and we’ll call immigration.’” Fear is high, and work is scarce, but Jose offers more than a watchful eye; his presence is a quiet form of protection. “They know that we’re not going to be able to stop an abduction,” says Jose, “but at least they’re not going to disappear and nobody else will know what happened to them.”
Even as raids have picked up, day laborers can’t afford to stay away for long. After a recent raid, Jose “gave the guys $10 and said, ‘Go to a restaurant; get yourself a cup of coffee.’” But a few hours later, he saw the same group of day laborers back on the corner. “People don’t really understand that these guys often can’t miss a day’s work.”
Later, while sitting in my car at another Home Depot on the other side of town, I watch day laborers scatter as federal agents swarm the scene. They do not ask the day laborers to identify themselves; their approach is to detain and ask questions later. The laborers flee into eight lanes of oncoming traffic, hoping to lose the federal agents running after them. One of Jose’s fellow volunteers runs after them on foot. Cars at the intersection immediately stop and honk horns or blow whistles; it’s unclear if they’re responders or just regular people, witnessing the chase.
The next night, in the restaurant Pozoleria El Mexicano, Renee Jackson leads a packed house in assembling whistle kits as part of an event series called Whistlemania. The kits contain a whistle, a “Know Your Rights” guide, and a zine on how to use whistles to alert neighbors to immigration raids when federal agents are close.
The events were started by the neighborhood group Belmont Cragin United, but Jackson isn’t an organizer or part of any official group. Instead, she sees herself simply as a concerned Chicagoan who believes in solidarity. Earlier this year, she remembers watching the news and seeing a migrant worker running through a field away from immigration officers. Jackson, who is Black, says she “thought about my own family members from Abbeville, Louisiana, who may have run from an overseer without being paid for their labor.” She started donating money in her parents’ name immediately and, several weeks ago, started showing up to Whistlemania events; she’s now leading some of them.
Across town, other forms of quieter action happen every day. Manny Mendoza, a local chef and organizer, started Pueblo Eats, which prepares ready-to-eat meals for vulnerable neighbors. Sin Titulo, an apparel-and-events brand, has built up a robust volunteer network of more than 200 people to deliver groceries to nearly 1,000 families. (It was inspired by the founders’ loved one: “She asked us to deliver her a pizza. She didn’t even like pizza, and that’s when we knew that we needed to cover groceries for individuals and deliver them, because people are afraid right now.”) The Street Vendors Association of Chicago has raised more than $200,000 so vendors can afford to stay home.
Tara Woods attended her first whistle-packing event at Whistlemania on Tuesday night. She has noticed some of her child’s friends are no longer coming to day care, and some local businesses have started to close. “People may have voted a certain way, thinking they are not going to be affected. I wish people knew that is not true, whether you are a citizen or not,” she says. “Oh, this won’t come back to me — you’re wrong. You think this won’t come to your city. It will.”