Gabi’s eyes are a deep, warm brown, framed by neat braids. But her beauty masks a heartbreaking fragility – a genetic condition leaves her bones so delicate, they fracture easily, each break bringing agonizing pain. Her mother, forced to leave her cleaning job, now dedicates every moment to carefully carrying the two-year-old within their single-room apartment, shared with six family members.
Then came the fear. Federal immigration agents arrived in their city, first deporting Gabi’s father, then her aunt. Gabi, born in the United States, is a citizen. Her best hope for one day standing, or even walking, rests on complex leg and foot surgery scheduled for January. But hope began to crumble with the rising tide of uncertainty.
Terrified to even take out the trash, let alone navigate the city to the hospital, Gabi’s mother made the agonizing decision to cancel the procedure. The surgery, the physical therapy – all postponed indefinitely. “I want more than anything for my baby to start walking,” she whispered, cradling Gabi, a feeding tube connected to an IV drip extending from her tiny stomach. “But with what’s happening, I canceled everything. I’m afraid to go out.”
The Department of Homeland Security declared an end to “Operation Metro Surge,” a concentrated effort by immigration enforcement agencies. Yet, healthcare workers report a chilling reality: agents still linger in hospital parking lots. Drones patrol the agricultural areas outside Minneapolis, where Somali and Latino immigrant communities have built their lives over the past decade. The shadow of enforcement remains.
The operation in Minnesota revealed the extent of the surveillance and detention system being used to disrupt immigrant communities, and its devastating impact on healthcare access. Similar crises erupted wherever immigration officials concentrated their efforts. In Dallas, public health clinics administered half the number of vaccines compared to the previous year. In Chicago, doctors rerouted patients daily, depending on ICE activity.
Across the country, raids drastically reduced immigrant families’ willingness to seek medical care. In Minnesota, healthcare systems reported cancellation and no-show rates soaring as high as 60% since December. DHS officials blamed protestors, claiming they were obstructing access to care. But for many, the fear was far more immediate and personal.
While Minnesota residents protested in the streets, doctors and nurses quietly began building informal medical networks, providing in-home care to avoid detection. “I used to look someone in the eye and say, in good faith, ‘You’re safe at the hospital,’” said Emily Carroll, a nurse at a community clinic. “But now I can’t guarantee that.”
As federal agents began to withdraw from Minneapolis, State Senator Alice Mann, a physician herself, warned that other communities should prepare. “It sounds strange,” she admitted, “but healthcare providers need to start a clandestine network to bring medical care to homes. Because letting people die in their homes, or be on the brink of death out of fear of going to the hospital, in 2026, is unacceptable.”
Doctors are finding themselves forced to adapt, offering house calls as the only way to reach those living in fear. In Los Angeles, St. John’s Community Health has provided care to 2,000 immigrant families too afraid to venture out during the immigration crackdown, after appointment cancellations exceeded 30%.
Munira Maalimisaq, co-founder of Inspire Change Clinic, took a different approach. After a third of her patients stopped attending appointments, she and a doctor friend decided to bring the clinic to them. They now have a team of 150 doctors, a “rapid response” team that has completed over 135 home visits.
Their first call came for a woman in labor, her husband recently deported. She was 8 centimeters dilated and desperate to deliver at home, fearing a trip to the hospital. Though not an ideal situation, they managed to transport her safely in Maalimisaq’s Tesla, arriving just in time for a healthy delivery. “If we hadn’t been there, I can’t imagine what would have happened.”
Other visits revealed the hidden toll of fear: people rationing medication, parents watching their children suffer seizures, and a pervasive sense of stress. The Trump administration defended the operation, claiming it improved public safety, citing arrests of individuals with criminal records. However, data revealed that only 29% of ICE arrests in January involved individuals with criminal convictions, and even fewer were for violent crimes.
The rescinding of a 2011 policy prohibiting immigration enforcement in “sensitive locations” like hospitals and schools further fueled the crisis. Agents were seen staking out hospitals and churches, even escorting children to school to avoid parental contact with authorities. ICE officials denied targeting hospitals or schools, but the fear was palpable.
Drones became a nightly presence over mobile home parks, where immigrant families lived, prompting residents to cover their windows. “You can’t feel safe anywhere,” said Carroll. “Walking to school, walking to the clinic – you might encounter ICE. The fear and feeling of being trapped these families live with is unacceptable.”
This fear is causing patients to forgo essential care, leading to uncontrolled diabetes, missed cardiac checkups, and worsening chronic conditions. Clinics are now delivering medication, food, and even transporting students to school. Carroll recently diagnosed a baby with the flu, advising the parents to seek hospital care only if the baby’s condition worsened, knowing the risk they faced.
In Minneapolis, Fernanda Honebrink, a nurse practitioner, spends her days coordinating care for those living in the shadows. She prefers to call it “being kind to one another.” She recently visited Gabi and her mother, bringing a carload of donated supplies. Gabi’s surgery has been rescheduled for August, her mother hoping the situation will have improved by then.
“I used to take the kids to the park, but now we don’t go out at all,” Gabi’s mother said, her voice filled with anxiety. “They grab people and mistreat them. It’s scary to go out. I hope what’s happening ends soon!” Honebrink, a U.S. citizen who emigrated from Ecuador, continues to connect patients with resources, offering a lifeline of hope in a climate of fear.
