By Heather Schlitz
CHICAGO, Dec 19 (Reuters) – Allyson Lopez was hoping business would return to her dress shop in Chicago’s Little Village neighborhood, which specializes in ballgowns for quinceaneras, a coming-of-age ritual in many Latino communities that celebrate a girl’s 15th birthday. Instead, this week brought back the federal immigration raids that emptied the normally vibrant streets.
The first phase of the Homeland Security Department’s deportation campaign, dubbed “Operation Midway Blitz,” netted more than 4,200 arrests across the city in less than three months. The operation envisioned Chicago, but for Little Village, the working-class Mexican neighborhood that was repeatedly targeted, the effect was catastrophic.
The return of US Border Patrol commander Gregory Bovino on Tuesday, in a large convoy of camouflaged agents, some with assault rifles peering out of car windows, was greeted by boos and whistles from dozens of protesters who broadcast the meetings on social media.
At Estela’s Bridal, a second-generation family business, Lopez specializes in custom designs, which sell for an average of $1,000. It can take 16 hours to make a dress, fitting the shimmering fabrics to size, and adding embroidered flowers, rhinestones and sequins. She said she lost 90% of her clients during the first wave of arrests as people decided to stay home for fear of immigration agents.
BUSINESS STRUGGLES TO MAKE HIRE
“We will suffer again as businesses,” Lopez said. “We didn’t even make the rent this month, so it’s scary.”
A DHS spokesman did not respond when asked about the impact of the raids on businesses.
Even before Bovino’s return, Little Village had been deflated by the raids.
The tourists who came to the “Mexican Capital of the Midwest” to eat tacos, sweetbreads and tamales and to buy quinceanera dresses, pinatas and Mexican chiles have disappeared. Dozens of neighborhood residents have been detained or deported, community leaders said. Others went into hiding.
“It’s like those old Western movies where all you see is tumbleweeds blowing in the wind,” said Roxana, a 42-year-old hair salon owner from Guatemala. She declined to share her last name or immigration status for fear of retaliation from immigration agents.
In her empty hair salon, with half the chairs wrapped in plastic, Roxana pulled back her neatly tucked bangs to reveal patches of thin hair, which she said had begun to fall out from the stress of an 80% drop in revenue since the start of the immigration enforcement campaign.
As the Border Patrol convoy descended on Little Village again this week, Roxana shuddered. The salon was open, but devoid of customers.
“They came back into the neighborhood,” she said. “It definitely shocked and devastated us because it wasn’t something we were expecting.”
COMMERCIAL HEART OF A NEIGHBORHOOD
Roxana’s salon is located near the stucco arch that marks the beginning of 26th Street, a two-mile long strip of shops, bakeries and restaurants that has become the second busiest shopping corridor in the city, according to the Little Village Chamber of Commerce. Many business owners said their savings dwindled after customers, including people who are in the United States legally, stopped visiting for fear of immigration officials.
Before the immigration crackdown, shops selling elaborate ballgowns, glittering tiaras and satin flower bouquets were happy places, where girls giggled and twirled in their dresses to the delight of their mothers, shop owners said.
But the anxiety about going abroad – as well as the fear that large parties could become targets for immigration enforcement – has hit Little Village’s quinceanera shops hard.
Two shop owners said they lost 90% of their income to the initial stages of Midway Blitz.
Evelyn Flores, the owner of the Alborada quinceanera shop, said she has laid off seven staff members. “I can’t sleep at night now, and during the day I’m always freaking out.”
Maria Ortiz, who owns a store that sells party supplies, said there are days when no one comes into her store.
THE FAMILY IS LEFT BEHIND
For one family, the warmshocks of the autumn raids lasted for weeks. 15-year-old Kamila said she was afraid to leave her apartment except to go to school after her cousin was detained by immigration agents on his way to work as a rug installer in November. He had been living in the United States for 18 years without legal status.
“I’m afraid. We can’t go outside because they might be waiting for us,” she said.
Asked for comment, Tricia McLaughlin, assistant secretary of the Department of Homeland Security, said: “There is no reason to fear law enforcement, unless you are breaking the law.”
The cousin’s small apartment is mostly as he left it – the unmade bed and his fluffy cream-colored dog, Peluchin, running through the apartment. Every day since his master was detained, Peluchin pushed the shutters of the dusty windows with his small sides to look for hours on the street, waiting for him to return, said a neighbor who comes to walk him.
“All his dreams, all his effort, all his work – it’s here, empty,” said Sofia, Kamila’s mother and a 47-year-old housekeeper.
“My daughter is 15 years old, she shouldn’t be living like this,” said Sofia, who came to the United States from Mexico without legal status and is considering deporting herself. “There is no life here.”
RESISTANCE
On a recent afternoon, the Liż-Zgir Village Community Council coordinated with overlapping voices as people coordinated school gatherings, shared videos, and called family members of the people who were detained.
LVCC president Baltazar Enriquez led local resistance to immigration enforcement, organizing patrols for federal agents and distributing plastic whistles that are now used around the city to warn of immigration agents in the area.
The united nature of “La Villita,” the Spanish name for Little Village, has given residents an organizational advantage as they take to WhatsApp, Facebook and Signal groups to coordinate. Although Little Village has long struggled with gun violence and has the highest number of gang-related crimes in the city, residents said they felt safe before federal agents came to town.
Other forms of resistance were quieter – like Vicky Martinez, a 55-year-old resident, who drops off groceries for friends and neighbors who are too scared to go to the store.
“It feels like we’re in prison. We don’t even know what they’re going to throw at us,” said Martinez.
(Reporting by Heather Schlitz; Additional reporting by Daniel Cole, Carlos Barria and Emily Schmall. Editing by Emily Schmall and Suzanne Goldenberg)