By Karina Perez
This week, I’m preparing for the start of a new school year. This typically includes checking supplies, reviewing lesson plans, and thinking about how to make the space welcoming for both new and returning faces. But unlike years before, I know something will be missing once school starts.
My student Nory was deported to Guatemala over the summer. She was a bright, kind, and consistent presence in the classroom. An honor student who had a great future ahead of her. On Thursday – when the bell rings, the hallways have cleared and everyone is seated – I will have at least one empty desk in my classroom.
That empty desk is a reminder of how cruel our immigration system has become. Our children should not carry the weight of a hateful and violent political climate in their backpacks.
A large percentage of LAUSD students are either first-generation or newly arrived in this country. Since Trump’s re-election, teachers like me have watched attendance drop whenever news of an ICE raid spreads. For my students, the fear of separation is constant. The question is not if someone they love will be taken, it’s when. This fear and anxiety is palpable in our classrooms. Unfortunately for Nory, that fear became her reality and our heartbreak.
As teachers, our job has always been to help students grow, to create a safe and supportive environment where they can learn and thrive. But in this political climate, it also means holding space for grief, helping students navigate trauma, and standing beside families in crisis.
I need our leaders to understand: the raids happening across Los Angeles are not normal. This is psychological warfare, and our children are the targets.
From unmarked vans pulling people off sidewalks in broad daylight to heavily armed officers showing up at apartment complexes, what we are seeing in Los Angeles is a test run. The aggressive militarization of law enforcement and the rise in coordinated deportations are not accidental. They are being watched by other cities to gauge how far authorities can go without consequence.
The students in our classrooms are not just numbers or names on a roster. They are brilliant, resilient, and full of potential. Our students are our motivation for today and our promise for a better future. Their families are deeply engaged in their education. But we have watched their joy give way to fear. The threat of deportation lives in every hallway, every group project, every moment of uncertainty.
Educators like me are doing what we can. We are creating safe spaces. We are integrating trauma-informed practices. We are checking in on students who have stopped showing up. But there is only so much we can do alone. Summer break meant that many students lost daily access to the school staff they trust and the mental health resources they need. It’s hard to gauge the support that will be needed come this semester.
Los Angeles claims to be a sanctuary city. But what does sanctuary mean if unmarked vehicles can roam our neighborhoods unchecked? If masked goons can anonymously seize people off the streets? If students are afraid to walk to school or go to medical appointments? If families vanish overnight, often unable to be located by loved ones for months?
While Mayor Karen Bass and local officials have stated their opposition to the raids, we need more. Words do not stop ICE agents and bounty hunters from ripping families apart. Curfews, press statements, and vague reassurances are not solutions. We need our district, city and state leaders to bravely join us and lock arms with us in our fight for our students.
I am proud of how Los Angeles residents have shown up for their neighbors through peaceful protests, vigils, workshops and more. But our city can and must do more. There is still time to lead with courage, but that will require rejecting fear-based politics and instead investing in the humanity and futures of Los Angelenos.
Our children are watching. Our actions today will echo loudly over our words for decades to come. We cannot let fear and hate be the blueprint. Not one more empty desk. Not one more deportation.
Karina Perez is a teacher at Miguel Contreras Learning Complex