CHICAGO (AP) — The two-year-old boy was so frightened, he stuttered.
“Mommy, mommy, mommy,” he repeated, clinging to her.
His mother, Molly Kucich, had been grocery shopping when her husband called, panicking. She heard “immigration raid.” Then: “tear gas.”
She abandoned her grocery cart and drove as fast as she could to her toddler and his 14-month-old brother, who, on that warm October Friday, were among the hundreds of Chicago children caught suddenly in the turmoil of the Trump administration’s immigration crackdown.
Parents, teachers, and caregivers have been grappling ever since with how to explain to children what they’d seen: how much to tell them so they know enough to stay safe, but not too much to rob them of their childhood. A toddler shouldn’t know what a tear gas canister is, Kucich said.
“I don’t know how to explain this to my kids.”
Children were playing on the monkey bars outside Funston Elementary School just before noon when a SUV rolled down their street in Logan Square, a historically Hispanic neighborhood that’s been steadily gentrifying for years. Cars followed behind it, drivers laying on their horns to alert neighbors that these were federal agents. A scooter pulled in front of the SUV, trying to block it in.
Suddenly, tear gas canisters flew from the windows of the SUV.
The cloud of gas rose, first white, then green, and the street exploded into pandemonium. Some people ran. Others shouted at agents to leave. Sirens screamed toward them. Parents blew through stop signs and drove on curbs to reach their children.
Kucich’s son was a half-block away, having lunch at a nearby café, where he made his best friends. Owner Vanessa Aguirre-Ávalos ran outside to see what was happening as the children’s nannies hustled them to safety.
Even those whom the agents couldn’t touch felt panic-inscribed fear, as children wondered about their caretakers and families. “These kids are traumatized,” Aguirre-Ávalos reflected. “Even if ICE stops doing what they’re doing right now, people are going to be traumatized. The damage is already done.”
Teacher Liza Oliva-Perez witnessed the commotion from across the street, recalling her shock as agents threw canisters. “I couldn’t fathom that was happening,” she recalled. The Department of Homeland Security later stated that their agents were “impeded by protesters” during the raid.
The Chicago crackdown, dubbed “Operation Midway Blitz,” employs masked, armed agents in unmarked vehicles patrolling neighborhoods, stirring unrest and anxiety amongst local residents.
As the chaos lingered, teachers and staff worked to assure their students that everything was fine, though the atmosphere was heavy with uncertainty. Parents lined the sidewalks anxiously searching for their children.
Vanessa Aguirre-Ávalos, in the wake of the raid, remarked, “They don’t want us here. We’ll always be targeted.” She expressed her concerns for her own children amid a climate of fear, describing how the community suffers under the weight of such aggressive federal actions.
Children left school clutching each other, imbued with fear as they passed their neighborhood gift shop. Desperate parents rallied for their children, dragging them home or picking them up out of an abundance of fear.
As community solidarity showed in a dire moment, Oliva-Perez urged, “You don’t mess with the kids. You don’t go near the schools.” The effects of policies now ripple beyond adult perceptions, disturbing the very childhood innocence of the children caught in the fray.
This is not a life. This is not living,” reflected one nanny, articulating the struggles and fears now embedded in daily lives. Days after the raid, the community remains skittish, curtains drawn, hiding from the very protection designed to safeguard them.
