"ICE and the Thaw of Community" By Delilah Irby

As the days grow darker and the temperature gets colder, our town prepares for the familiar arrival of winter. Frost crawls across windows, snow softens the streets, and ice forms in thin, sharp layers that can catch us by surprise. Winter reminds us that some cold fronts are natural—inevitable, even.

But another kind of cold is sweeping across the country, and it has nothing to do with weather.

This winter arrives through ICE raids: sudden, unannounced, and devastating. Families who have lived in the same neighborhoods for years—working essential jobs, going to school, adding to their communities—start each morning with a quiet fear. While our winter storms freeze sidewalks, ICE raids freeze lives.

Ice on the pavement is dangerous partly because it’s invisible until you’re already slipping. ICE raids operate the same way: early-morning knocks, unmarked vans, confusing demands, and families separated before anyone can react. But there’s an even darker cold at work—one that strikes long before a raid even begins.

That cold is racial profiling.

Instead of investigating wrongdoing, ICE often begins by targeting people based on how they look, the language they speak, or the neighborhood they live in. When race or ethnicity becomes the trigger for suspicion, the process is no longer about safety—it’s about discrimination. And discrimination, when armored with badges and federal authority, becomes something far more dangerous: the weaponization of identity.

It’s an evil rooted in the idea that some bodies are worth protecting and others aren’t.

Winter weather also reminds us that the cold doesn’t hit everyone equally. Some of us have warm coats and heated homes. Others face the season with drafty windows and thin blankets. ICE raids mirror that imbalance. They target the most vulnerable—immigrant families with limited legal help, students living in mixed-status households, and people who already face racial profiling in everyday life.

High schoolers see the effects more than adults realize. We notice when a classmate goes quiet because their uncle was detained. We notice when a friend stops coming to school altogether. We hear the whispered fears: “What if they come for my family next?”

Snowstorms may be harsh, but they don’t single out families based on skin color or last names. ICE raids—fueled by racial profiling—do exactly that.

Winter teaches us that cold can be dangerous. But the cold created by unjust policies is different. It’s intentional. It’s targeted. And it’s wrong.

As the real winter settles in, we can choose not to mirror its coldness. Where ICE brings fear, we can bring warmth. Where profiling creates division, we can stand together. Where raids tear apart families, we can demand fairness and dignity.

We can’t stop winter from coming.

But we can refuse to let injustice take root like ice in our community’s foundation.

And we can insist—loudly, clearly—that no one deserves to live under a season of fear created by their own government.