The Village: When the State Lies, the People Remember

Across the country, unrest is growing as communities respond to violent immigration enforcement actions and the deaths that have followed. What has deepened the anger and grief is not only the loss of life, but what families, witnesses, and journalists say came next: official statements that were later contradicted by video evidence, eyewitness accounts, and community testimony.

In the immediate aftermath of several fatal encounters involving federal immigration officers, early narratives released by the administration were disputed by those who were present. Family members and bystanders have said the initial explanations did not reflect what they saw or experienced. That contradiction matters, because when the state controls the story before the facts are fully known, truth becomes another casualty.

Among those killed was Keith Porter Jr., a Black father who, according to family members and community advocates, was shot by an off-duty ICE officer. His death has become a focal point in protests and calls for transparency, not only because of the fatal use of force, but because of how quickly official silence and deflection followed. His family has publicly demanded answers and accountability.

These deaths are not isolated incidents. Civil rights organizations, immigration advocates, and affected families have documented an escalation in aggressive enforcement tactics that leave communities terrified. Undocumented immigrants report being taken from workplaces, homes, and public spaces in raids that feel, to those experiencing them, less like lawful process and more like abduction. Parents disappear without warning. Loved ones are left scrambling for information.

Children, advocates report, continue to be detained in immigration facilities. Some are separated from parents. Others are held for extended periods in conditions that mental health professionals warn can cause lasting trauma. These are not allegations whispered in secret. They are documented concerns raised by lawyers, doctors, journalists, and humanitarian organizations for years.

For Black communities, this moment feels painfully familiar.

We know what it means to be criminalized by policy. We know what it means to have our deaths explained away, minimized, or justified after the fact. We know what it means to watch children suffer while officials argue over terminology. From slave patrols to Jim Crow policing, from surveillance programs to mass incarceration, our history teaches us how state power often disguises violence as order.

And still, we endure.

We endure because we remember that silence has never protected us. We remember that truth telling is survival. We remember that solidarity across communities is how pressure is built and change is forced.

What is happening now is not only an immigration issue. It is a human rights issue. It is a Black issue. It is a moral issue. When government narratives are challenged by evidence and testimony, when undocumented people live in fear of disappearance, when children are detained to make a political point, we are witnessing a failure of care and accountability.

Fear is understandable. Many people are scared to speak, scared to post, scared of backlash or scrutiny. But history shows us this: progress has never come from comfort. It has come from collective courage.

We stand with the families demanding answers.
We stand with undocumented immigrants who deserve safety, dignity, and due process.
We stand with children who should never be traumatized by policy decisions.
We stand with the truth, even when it is inconvenient to power.

The village has always carried us when institutions failed. It is still here. And so are we.