This article is written by a student writer from the Her Campus at UCF chapter and does not reflect the views of Her Campus.
Renée Good. Alex Pretti. Keith Porter. Heber Sánchez Domínguez. Victor Manuel Díaz. Parady La. Luis Beltran Yanez-Cruz. Luis Gustavo Núñez Cáceres. Geraldo Lunas Campos.
These nine names are not simply numbers to add to statistics or distant headlines; these are real lives cut short in 2026 at the hands of Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE). Renée Good and Alex Pretti were fatally shot by federal ICE agents in broad daylight in Minnesota; others died in ICE custody under circumstances that families, medical examiners, and protest groups have already begun questioning.
I say their names here because without our voices, the government would wipe their deaths under the rug — burying them in unauthentic press releases, euphemisms, and shifting narratives. These were real people with families, histories, communities, and stories. They are not fodder for policy debates or the Trump Administration’s political spin.
The nation is already on track to overtake 2025’s title of ICE’s deadliest year yet, a year that saw at least 32 deaths in ICE custody and multiple fatal shootings linked to immigration enforcement. Immigrant Americans remain trapped in a system that offers no real guarantee of safety as the government treats them like problems to be solved. It’s more important now than ever to fight back and keep our freedoms under this administration while we still can.
When Immigration Isn’t Abstract Anymore
My boyfriend is an American-born citizen of Hispanic descent, but lately that distinction feels meaningless. His light brown skin and fluent Spanish make him stand out at a time when ICE agents are increasingly present across Central Florida, and every time we go out together, I find myself scanning our surroundings in ways I never used to. I am constantly aware of how quickly perception can turn into suspicion, and how suspicion can escalate into violence.
He has no criminal record. He is not a threat to anyone. He works hard, studies even harder, and follows all the rules that once promised to keep him safe. And yet, recent events have shown that compliance is no longer a guarantee of protection for people who look like him. Right now, enforcement is relying more on appearance than evidence; brown skin alone has become justification enough to stop, question, detain, or worse: murder.
That is what terrifies both him and me the most.
This fear that immigrants are feeling has nothing to do with legal status anymore. It’s about racial profiling and the unchecked power of a president and a system that has repeatedly proven it can act first and explain later. The line between “enforcement” and excessive force has become increasingly thin, and the consequences are often irreversible.
In case it isn’t clear, I don’t support ICE. I’m tired of being scared because I love someone who could be misread, mislabeled, or targeted simply because he’s Hispanic. Now imagine how he feels. Imagine how all immigrants feel. I’m not the one whose body is at risk, but simply watching someone I love exist in a country where his safety feels conditional is terrifying.
ICE Beyond the Headlines
When most Americans used to think about ICE, they pictured controlled arrests, raids, or mugshots shared in press briefings. They pictured an agency that focused on removing immigrant criminals from the United States in order to keep Americans safe. Unfortunately, that couldn’t be farther from the truth.
Five-year-old Liam Conejo Ramos was just detained along with his father on Jan. 20 while returning home from school. I doubt he has ever committed a serious crime. Now, ICE is continuing to enter and even tear-gas grade schools and pre-schools, looking for not just teachers but children to detain and rip away from their families. Despite these situations being filmed and shared across social media, we aren’t seeing the quieter consequences, the ones that don’t trend on social media or make it into official statements. ICE doesn’t just remove people from their communities; they leave behind instability, fear, and trauma that ripple beyond any single arrest.
Behind every detainment is a network of people who are affected: parents and children who come home to empty houses, students who stop attending class out of fear, families forced into silence to protect themselves. Detentions are happening with little warning, limited transparency, and very few answers for loved ones left searching for information. For many immigrant communities, their daily life has become shaped by avoidance. Some are even avoiding calling for help in emergencies out of fear that an ICE agent will show up at their door instead.
However, ICE can’t do this without governmental approval. ICE is operating within a system that grants immense discretion to individual agents, often with minimal oversight. Many civil rights organizations have long raised concerns about racial profiling, unnecessary use of force, and deaths in custody, yet accountability is nowhere to be seen. Investigations can take years, if they even happen at all, while families are left grieving with no closure. In many cases, official narratives will contradict witness accounts, further disrupting the trust between immigrant communities and the institutions meant to protect them. The government claims that Alex Pretti, an ICU nurse who was murdered, was waving a gun at an ICE agent’s face, when it’s clearly caught on video that he was simply filming the agent’s violent actions.
However, the most dangerous thing about all this is the normalization. When violent enforcement becomes routine, suffering becomes background noise. People stop asking questions and are no longer shocked. Deaths are framed as “accidents,” and human lives are reduced to statistics for the current administration to show off. This desensitization allows ICE’s actions to continue unchecked, which is exactly what President Trump, his administration, and his supporters want.
The Cost of Silence
Our silence is one of ICE’s most powerful tools. Not because it’s forced, but because it’s chosen. When we stay quiet, violence fades into the background and names turn into numbers. Deaths are dismissed as isolated incidents rather than being recognized as part of a larger pattern.
For immigrant communities, silence is not neutral. It’s no longer enough to say that you’re “not political.” Human lives are political now, and you either have to be for them or against them. Avoiding what’s going on allows government language like “enforcement action” to replace accountability, while families are left fighting to have their loved ones remembered at all.
If you choose to “not be political,” then you’re privileged. Those with the most protection often have the easiest time disengaging. Immigrants and their families do not. Speaking may feel uncomfortable or scary, but silence guarantees that nothing will change. The cost of that quiet is measured in the fear, trauma, and the immigrant lives that should have never been lost.
Our Voices Matter
Now is not the time to “not be political.” Choosing to be neutral is still a political choice, one that leaves the most vulnerable people at risk. If we want our communities, classmates, and loved ones to be safe, we have to use our voices. The Hispanic people walking next to you on campus are more vulnerable now than ever, whether you realize it or not.
The good news, however, is that helping doesn’t require perfection or knowing everything. Resources are already at our fingertips, especially on social media platforms such as TikTok and Instagram, where organizers and immigrant advocates are actively sharing updates and calls to action. Here are a few ways that you can help right now:
Choose to Care Anyway
I didn’t start paying attention to ICE because it’s trending. I started because the fear became personal, and my silence stopped feeling like an option. The names at the beginning of this article matter because they were real people, and because forgetting them makes it easier for this system to keep operating without accountability.
College voices matter now more than ever because we are the ones watching, questioning, and refusing to look away. Speaking up may not dismantle ICE overnight, but silence guarantees nothing will change.
Caring is a choice and right now, it’s one we can’t afford not to make.
