Bearing witness: ICE’s siege of Chicago

By Katie Dunn

Sun contributor

“Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter.” Martin Luther King Jr.

It was 3:30 in the afternoon on Oct. 17 on Chicago’s west side. The final bell had rung at a public elementary school, and kids spilled out onto the sidewalk—backpacks bouncing, laughter rising—until the adults’ expressions signaled the gravity of life beyond the playground. With that, the kids fell into step, hushed and hurried. Their joy dampened by the seriousness of the moment.

A handful of moms clutched their kids close, ushering them home, while a few dads stood sentinel on city corners, eyes scanning for the unmarked cars that everyone now recognized.

One image of many from that afternoon was indelible: a dad leaving the school, balancing his two young boys atop a narrow, upright scooter—weaving through traffic with measured care. From him radiated apprehension, urgency, and quiet strength. A testament to ordinary courage under extraordinary, unrecognizable circumstances.

Recent reports of Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) sightings near the school had sent a chilling wave through these already marginalized Brown and Black communities.

Countless parents, gripped by the tangible fear of being detained or disappeared by ICE in the mere minutes it takes to get their kids home from school, had entrusted their children’s safe passage to older siblings or neighbors.

The whole landscape felt entirely dystopian: ICE’s menacing presence in the neighborhood had transformed a routine school dismissal into a fraught daily ritual.

Into that tension stepped the four of us: Valerie, Robert, Julie, (not their real names) and I. Ordinary citizens, armed with nothing more than neon yellow vests and plastic whistles, we had gravitated to the west side from different parts of the city—in my case, from the northern suburb of Winnetka—in response to the inhumanity of ICE’s tactics. For one tremulous hour each afternoon, we served as a self-organized, volunteer-driven security presence for students who had no one else to escort them home.

Julie and I shepherded small groups of unaccompanied kids down bustling city streets. Robert circled the perimeter on his bike, watchful, scanning for ICE. Valerie hovered at the school doors, a steady presence as more kids departed. Together with crossing guards, we created a fragile network of protection, a buffer against the omnipresent threat of ICE on the streets of Chicago.

Despite the heaviness of the scene, there was an unmistakable sense of purpose. Each step down the sidewalk—each careful crossing—carried a muted affirmation of human decency. Neighbors protecting neighbors, asserting that some values are nonnegotiable. It was an act of moral courage and defiance. A small but principled stand against state-sanctioned terror.

This was just two afternoons on Chicago’s west side, yet ICE’s pernicious pattern stretched across the city—from the Back of the Yards to West Lawn, Pilsen to Lakeview, Lincoln Square to Little Village. ICE raids have struck homes, front yards, shelters, courtrooms, and even sacred spaces: churches, schools, and hospitals. Chicago has become a city under siege.

The descent to Broadview

Eight days earlier, I had left Leelanau County—my quiet refuge—to return to my hometown of Chicago. From my cabin in the woods, I had followed the reports, images, and stories of families being torn apart. The distance had become unbearable.

I am a fourth-generation Chicagoan, fiercely loyal to the city that shaped me. While the neighborhoods of Chicago continued to be under direct federal assault, retreat felt indulgent. It was a moral imperative to return—to resist.

Cardinal Blase Cupich, Archbishop of Chicago, has consistently emphasized the inherent dignity and worth of immigrants, stating that every person—regardless of immigration status—deserves respect and protection. “Respecting the dignity of undocumented persons means respecting them for their work and their contribution,” he said. His words were my North Star, the guiding principle that compelled me to act.

Above all, the reason I returned to Chicago was to witness firsthand the escalating situation at the Broadview Processing Center. Since the onset of Operation Midway Blitz in late 2025, Broadview had shifted from a bureaucratic waypoint to a de facto detention site.

The morning of Oct. 10, I moved from intention to action. I ordered an Uber from Winnetka, the leafy suburb where I was raised, and slung my backpack over my shoulder. Weeks of reflection, unease, and determination had led to this moment. I wore a sweater emblazoned with the words: I won’t be silent. My personal mantra, my declaration of purpose.

Nick Uniejewski, my most trusted collaborator, joined me. His commitment to social justice is boundless, his conviction laudable. Nick came prepared with his own gas mask, having already been to Broadview twice. I had one, too, unassembled. As our Uber driver wound southwest through the city, Nick methodically began piecing mine together—tightening the straps, fitting the filters, testing the seals.

The moment felt deeply surreal. I turned to Nick, half laughing, half shaken, and said: “I can’t believe this is my life right now—in an Uber trying to put together, of all things, a gas mask. How did America get to this?” He smiled faintly, the kind of expression that holds both disbelief and understanding.

I had never heard of Broadview before—a tidy, modest suburb southwest of Chicago. Now, it had become an ominous symbol: a place where the machinery of ruthless federal policy meets the conscience of a city.

As we exited the Eisenhower Expressway, our Uber slowed. A line of squad cars with flashing lights came into view, the reflection strobing against our car windows. Softly, our Uber driver said: “You need to get out here,” pointing. We thanked him, stepped onto the shoulder with backpacks and gas masks in hand, and faced the formation of law enforcement ahead.

There was nothing overtly hostile about the scene, but it was undeniably intimidating. It was forceful, methodical, and most importantly, it was local law enforcement—not the Texas National Guard, which had been summoned to Chicago, but had not yet deployed.

The preference for local law enforcement is clear: they come from the communities they serve, working in close proximity to their neighbors. By contrast, a distant militarized force risks overreach by the federal government.

As Nick and I approached the crowd, others were leaving. Subtle smiles, waves, and brief eye contact passed between us—small gestures that said more than words could. Faith leaders in their sacred vestments stood among us, their presence steady and reassuring. Around us, people from every walk of life stood shoulder to shoulder: students, retirees, parents, organizers. An unlikely cross section bound by shared belief. The diversity itself was heartening, a vivid reminder that compassion still runs wide and deep.

A few voices on the fringes hurled angry epithets toward law enforcement, but I deliberately stepped back. It made me intensely uncomfortable. Anger for its own sake felt hollow, counterproductive, even dangerous. My purpose was not to provoke law enforcement—many of whom looked uneasy themselves—but to demonstrate resistance with integrity.

Nick and I encountered comforting, friendly faces: Kina Collins, a community organizer and candidate for Congress, and Rory Hoskins, the mayor of Forest Park. Both refused to tolerate the casual cruelty of ICE. Seeing them at Broadview was inspiring—a reminder that decency and public service often intersect.

Amid the grounding presence of allies like Kina and Rory, I noticed a familiar figure with a camera crew nearby, his baseball cap pulled low. It took me a moment to recognize him: Don Lemon formerly with CNN. For years, I had relied on his reporting to make sense of the world—and there he was, filming among us.

Starstruck and slightly disbelieving, I walked over to thank him for being there. He smiled, asked a few questions, and soon we were talking on camera—an impromptu interview that later went viral on Instagram and TikTok.

That moment added another unexpected layer to the day, where activism and media, private conviction and public attention, converged in real time.

As the crowd began to swell and the chants grew louder, Nick and I felt a tacit understanding between us—we had achieved what we came to do. It was not retreat; it was resolve. We had shown up, stood our ground, and now it was time to exhale.

We jumped into an Uber and headed to the north side of the city to a small neighborhood joint and ordered coffee. Trying to process everything we had just witnessed, our conversation kept circling back to the same question: How is this happening in our country, in our own city? And then, as if to answer us, Nick’s phone buzzed—a message from our local alderwoman. Someone in that very neighborhood had just been disappeared by ICE. A landscape worker. The alert hit like a stark, brutal punctuation, reinforcing exactly what Nick and I had been feeling.

No Kings rally in Grant Park

In the days leading up to No Kings—set for October 18—I found myself torn. Across the nation, thousands of marches were planned, millions of voices rising in unison, from Chicago to Traverse City.

Traverse has always felt like a kind of second city for me, and I had considered joining the march there. But Chicago had become the undeniable ground zero—the epicenter where the human stakes were highest, and where I felt I had to be.

The night before No Kings, I made a simple sign on a poster board: a hand-drawn crown crossed out with a red circle. I inscribed it with two words: Chicago Proud. Nothing elaborate, just a modest act of defiance—an emblem of my unwavering love for my city.

The next morning, in the Lakeview neighborhood on Chicago’s north side, the deliberate work of protest gave way to motion. Predictably, I was back with Nick, and a dozen or so allies. Together—armed with signs, backpacks, and fortitude, we congregated at the Diversey L platform, heading downtown to Grant Park.

The first three train cars were too full to board, each one crammed with people and purpose—holding signs, wearing shirts stamped with messages of dissent, every face set with intent.

When the fourth train finally arrived, we pressed ourselves in—shoulder to shoulder—no one complained. The mood was joyous, communal. Strangers made space for one another, sharing smiles and brief conversations. Energy pulsed through the car, an unspoken agreement that we were all part of something larger. When the doors opened downtown, a surge of people poured out, streaming toward Grant Park—a living wave of resistance. I was buoyed with pride for my city and my fellow Chicagoans.

Grant Park itself was a sea of movement and sound. Drums echoed—makeshift percussion from overturned buckets—and cheers rippled through the crowd. Though we could not see the stage or hear the speeches, the energy carried everything. People hugged, danced, snapped pictures, and lifted their signs. It felt patriotic in the most authentic sense—a celebration of collective care, not conquest.

Amid more than a 100,000 people, a young college student with whom I had worked at a coffee shop in Glen Arbor over the past few summers spotted me. We embraced, and the coincidence felt entirely fortuitous—a reminder of how small the world becomes when people show up for one another.

As the march moved north on Michigan Avenue, I felt that same current of hope and resolve. When it ended, Nick and I caught the L back north, tired but light, carried by the sense that something in the city—maybe in all of us—had begun to shift. A moral awakening of sorts.