By Heather Schlitz
CHICAGO, Dec 19 (Reuters) – Alison Lopez was hoping for a bounce in business at her dress shop in a small Chicago neighborhood that specializes in ballgowns for quinceaneras, a coming-of-age rite of passage in many Latino communities that celebrate a girl’s 15th birthday. Instead, this week brought back federal immigration raids that have emptied normally bustling streets.
The first phase of the Department of Homeland Security’s deportation campaign, dubbed “Operation Midway Blitz,” made more than 4,200 arrests across the city within three months. The operation rocked Chicago, but for the small village, a working-class Mexican neighborhood that was repeatedly targeted, the impact has been devastating.
On Tuesday, U.S. Border Patrol Commander Gregory Bovino was turned away by a large convoy of agents in camouflage, some with assault rifles peering through car windows, to cheers and whistles from dozens of protesters who live-streamed the encounter 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. The garment can take up to 16 hours to make, fitting the glittery fabric to size and adding embroidered flowers, rhinestones and sequins. She said she lost 90% of her clients in the first wave of arrests because people decided to stay home for fear of immigration agents.
Struggles to make business rent
“We’re going to suffer again as a business,” Lopez said. “We didn’t even pay rent this month, so it’s scary.”
A DHS spokesperson did not respond when asked about the impact of the raids on businesses.
Before Bovino’s return, the small village was raided.
The tourists who came to the “Mexican Capital of the Midwest” to eat tacos, sweetbreads and tamales and shop for quinceañera dresses, piñatas and Mexican chilies have disappeared. Dozens of neighborhood residents were detained or deported, community leaders said. Others hid.
“It’s like those old Western movies where you see tumbleweeds blowing in the wind,” said Roxana, a 42-year-old hair salon owner from Guatemala. He declined to share his last name or immigration status for fear of retaliation from immigration agents.
In her bare hair salon, half the chairs wrapped in plastic, Roxana pulls back her neatly styled bangs to reveal patches of thinning hair, which she says is emerging from the stress of an 80% drop in revenue since the immigration enforcement campaign began.
When a Border Patrol convoy descended on the small village again this week, Roxana shuddered. The salon was open, but devoid of customers.
“They’ve infiltrated the neighborhood again,” she said. “It definitely shocked us and devastated us because it wasn’t what we expected.”
The commercial heart of the neighborhood
Roxana’s Saloon sits next to the stucco arch that marks the beginning of 26th Street, a two-mile-long strip of shops, bakeries and restaurants that has become the city’s second most profitable shopping corridor, according to the Little Village Chamber of Commerce. Many business owners said their savings have dwindled after their customers, including people who are in the U.S. legally, stopped visiting for fear of immigration officials.
Before the immigration crackdown, shops selling elaborate ballgowns, glittering tiaras and satin flower bouquets were fun places, where girls smiled and twirled in their dresses to the satisfaction of their mothers, shop owners said.
But worries about getting out — as well as fears that large parties could become targets for immigration enforcement — have hit small-town quinceanera shoppers hard.
Two store owners said they lost 90% of their revenue in the early stages of the midway blitz.
Evelyn Flores, owner of the Alborada quinceanera store, said she fired seven staff members. “I can’t sleep at night now, and I’m always scared during the day.”
Maria Ortiz, who owns a store that sells party supplies, said there are days when no one walks into her store.
The family was left behind
For one family, the aftershocks of the fall raids have been lingering for weeks. Kamila, 15, said she was afraid to leave her apartment except to go to school after her cousin was arrested by immigration agents on his way to work as a rug installer in November. He had been living in the US without legal status for 18 years.
“I’m scared. We can’t go out because they might be waiting for us,” she said.
Asked for comment, Tricia McLaughlin, assistant secretary of the Department of Homeland Security, said: “Unless you’re breaking the law, there’s no reason to fear law enforcement.”
The uncle’s small apartment is often as he leaves it – the bed unmade and his fluffy cream-colored dog, Peluchin, sneaking around the apartment. Every day since his owner was detained, Peluchin pushes aside the dusty window blinds with his tiny snout and stares out into the street for hours, waiting for him to return, a neighbor who comes to walk him said.
“All his dreams, all his efforts, all his work – it’s here, empty,” said Sophia, Kamila’s mother and a 47-year-old housewife.
“My daughter is 15 years old, she shouldn’t live like this,” said Sofia, who came to America from Mexico without legal status. “There is no life here.”
Resistance
On a recent afternoon, the small village community council hummed with overlapping voices as people coordinated school pickups, shared videos, and called family members of people in detention.
LVCC President, Baltazar Enriquez, has led local resistance to immigration enforcement, organizing patrols for federal agents and now distributing plastic whistles throughout the city to warn immigration agents in the area.
The tight-knit nature of “La Villita,” the Spanish name for the small village, has given residents an organized edge, taking to WhatsApp, Facebook, and Signal groups to coordinate. Although the small village has long struggled with bouts of gun violence and has the highest number of gang-related crimes in the city, residents felt safe before federal agents came to town.
Other forms of resistance have quieted down — like Vicky Martinez, a 55-year-old resident who drops off groceries for friends and neighbors who are afraid to go to the store.
“It feels like you’re in jail. We don’t know what they’re going to throw at us,” Martinez said.
(Reporting by Heather Schlitz; Additional reporting by Daniel Cole, Carlos Barria and Emily Small. Editing by Emily Small and Suzanne Goldenberg)
