For as long as I can remember, the Fourth of July was always my favorite holiday. There was something pure about it: no pressure to buy gifts, just the promise of smoky barbecue, fresh veggies, laughter echoing over lawn games, music drifting through the humid air, and fireworks shimmering in the night sky. It felt simple, almost sacred. We said we were celebrating freedom, and maybe, for a fleeting moment, it even felt true.
There was a time when we were told (by teachers, parents, grandparents, church leaders and coaches) that America was always moving forward, always trying to be better. The stories they shared weren’t just about victory or sacrifice, but about the hard-won hope, but the belief that justice and equality could be more than a word.
We grew up on the echoes of their lessons: that everyone deserved a seat at the table, that progress meant opening doors, not closing them. The world they handed us was imperfect, but was tinged with the promise that each generation could make it kinder, more inclusive, more true to the ideals they’d fought for.
And for a while (kind of in the 90’s and early 2000’s), it felt like we were living in the afterglow of that promise, like maybe, it was possible to keep the dream alive.
As someone who would have lived and died by the label of a conservative up to 2016, there was a sharp ache that settled in my chest during the following years, when the headlines felt like a relentless drumbeat, each one heavier than the last, as the President of the United States condoned the actions and character of the racists, sexists and insurrectionists.
Charlottesville’s torches flickered on my screen, and I saw faces twisted with hate; the kind I’d been told belonged to another era. Then came the footage of George Floyd, and the world seemed to hold its breath, grief and fury spilling into the streets. Every day, it felt like another wound: families torn apart at the border, children in cages, women marching for rights we thought were settled.
The ideals we’d inherited suddenly felt brittle, like they could shatter under the weight of so much anger and fear. I remember scrolling through news feeds wondering if the dream we’d been handed was slipping through our fingers.
And so I held my breath as the 2020 election results came in. I wanted the answer to who we as an American people actually are, and an idea of where we might be going. Then, just as the election cycle suggested the tide may shift, the rhetoric continued to hold a steady place in the news feed day-after-day.
Even back in the haze of my childhood, there were lines politicians simply couldn’t cross, not without consequence. In the 80s, 90s, and early 2000s, a scandal could end a career overnight. A single lie, a whiff of corruption, the mispelling of a word, or a moment of public disgrace was enough to send someone packing, their legacy reduced to a footnote. There was a sense (maybe naïve, maybe just wishful) that certain standards mattered, that public trust was a fragile thing you could lose for good.
But watching the news from 2020 to 2024, I felt unmoored. The rules I thought were carved in stone seemed to dissolve. Politicians weathered storms that would have sunk anyone a generation ago (scandals, indictments, open contempt for the truth) and somehow emerged more powerful, their supporters more fervent. The headlines blurred together: impeachments, investigations, viral moments that should have spelled the end, but didn’t. It was as if outrage had lost its power, replaced by a numb, exhausted acceptance.
In more ways than one, it became, as if, we were ready to put aside the ideals of yesterday for a system that valued obedience over liberty and silence over truth.
Let’s change gears for a second.
A few days ago, I heard a segment on NPR with Andrew Roth, who shared a haunting memory from his family’s arrival at Auschwitz. In a moment of overwhelming fear and confusion, he mistakenly followed his uncle instead of his mother. That split-second decision meant he was sent to forced labor in the camp, while his mother and sibling were tragically taken to the gas chamber that very night.
He survived, but as the Soviet army closed in on Auschwitz, the Nazis forced him and other prisoners on a harrowing transfer to Buchenwald, another concentration camp. Later, as Roth tried to rebuild his life and reenter German society, he found that when he shared his story, many people responded with apologies and disbelief, insisting they hadn’t known such horrors had happened to people like him.
I’ve been pretty floored by that this week. People said they didn’t know.
I don’t know if I just haven’t really understood the impact of propaganda or if I’m just hyper aware of what happened to the Jewish, LBGTQ, disabled and intellectual people because we were taught by the generation that defeated those evils. My viewpoint until last week was that everyone knew about the horrors of the Nazi party, especially as they happened in the regions they happened.
It’s tempting to believe that the horrors of the past belong to another world, one where evil was obvious and the lines between right and wrong were clear. But history rarely announces itself without a warning label. The Holocaust didn’t begin with gas chambers; it began with the slow, almost imperceptible erosion of norms, with leaders who tested the boundaries of what was acceptable, and with ordinary people who looked away or convinced themselves that things weren’t as bad as they seemed.
The stories survivors tell, like Andrew Roth’s, are not just about unimaginable loss, but about the everyday choices and silences that made such loss possible. When Roth returned to German society and heard people insist they “didn’t know,” it wasn’t always a lie. Sometimes it was the product of willful ignorance, of propaganda that blurred reality, or of a gradual numbing to cruelty as it became routine.
Today, as we watch political norms fray, when lies go unchallenged, when cruelty is excused, when outrage is met with a shrug, it’s easy to tell ourselves that things aren’t really changing, or that the worst could never happen here.
The structural parallels between the Trump administration’s second term and the Nazi regime’s initial consolidation of power are not just points of historical curiosity; they serve as a lens through which we must scrutinize the present.
While the methods, scale, and democratic context differ, the underlying strategies (targeting civil services, marginalized populations, and legal frameworks) raise questions about the resilience of American democracy and its promise.
In other words, the lessons of the past are not confined to history books or even in the ideals of the storytelling of the past. We are witnessing the slow, methodical chipping away of norms and protections that once seemed unbreakable, all while the rhetoric of division and scapegoating grows louder.
I assume we all know about Gestapo, the official secret police of Nazi Germany. Before the Nazis consolidated power, Germany’s police system was decentralized, with political policing tied to local governments and subject to local power struggles. The Gestapo was separated from the general police administration and given special authority and independence.
The Gestapo’s primary mission was to combat all “political movements dangerous to the state.” This included rooting out and suppressing opposition to the emerging Nazi regime, such as communists, social democrats, and other political adversaries. Their mandate quickly expanded to include anyone deemed an “enemy of the people,” including Jews, intellectuals, trade unionists, and other groups targeted by Nazi ideology.
The organization could arrest, detain, and interrogate individuals without judicial review, operating outside the normal legal system.
Sound familiar?
Under the Trump administration, ICE (Immigration and Customs Enforcement) has been granted expanded authority, including increased surveillance, intelligence gathering, and the use of masked, non-uniformed agents to detain individuals, many times without clear explanation or due process.
The Trump administration has set a daily arrest quotas for ICE, aiming for at least 3,000 arrests per day.
ICE has focused on undocumented immigrants, even targeting individuals based on ethnicity or perceived political opposition. United States citizens have been detained and deported based on their political dissent or even made up accusations by the Trump administration.
There have been documented cases of U.S. citizens being detained by ICE. For example, Julio Noriega, a native Chicagoan with a learning disability, was arrested by ICE while looking for work. Despite having his Social Security card and driver’s license, he was held for hours without being questioned about his citizenship and released only after officials checked his wallet. ICE later denied any record of his detention.
Several cases involved U.S. citizen children being detained or deported alongside their non-citizen parents. In one instance, a four-year-old U.S. citizen undergoing cancer treatment was deported without access to his medication, despite ICE being aware of his medical condition.
The Trump administration used ICE and other federal agencies to target individuals based on perceived political opposition.
For example, Mahmoud Khalil, a lawful permanent resident and former Columbia University student, was arrested and ordered deported for organizing a peaceful protest in support of Gaza. The government cited his political beliefs as a threat to U.S. foreign policy, despite acknowledging his actions were otherwise lawful.
Trump has announced a denaturalization process within the Department of Justice, which has been set to pursue citizenship revocations. During the spring semester, there were reports of students and activists having their visas revoked or being expelled for expressing dissenting views.
A few days ago, while in Florida, Trump even suggested that US citizens could be deported.
Like the Gestapo, ICE”s power is amplified by the climate of fear it creates. The Trump administration established an ICE Tip Line and online form, encouraging Americans to report suspected undocumented immigrants or other violations. This system allows for anonymous tips, and people have used it to report neighbors, coworkers, and even family members for a variety of reasons, sometimes out of personal grievances rather than genuine concern for public safety.
Many immigrants, regardless of their legal status, have become afraid to leave their homes due to the risk of encountering ICE. In some communities, people have stopped going to work, church, or even the grocery store. For example, in Long Beach, California, attendance at schools dropped by over 10% in a single week as ICE raids began, and local businesses saw fewer customers and vendors.
Many parents now send their children to school with emergency paperwork, such as legal documents designating temporary guardians, in case the parents are detained during the day. Schools have responded by updating emergency contact protocols and preparing to support children whose parents may be detained.
ICE’s stated mission is immigration enforcement, though its methods and scope have expanded under Trump, leading to concerns about overreach and civil liberties.
The Trump administration implemented a fast-track deportation policy that allowed ICE to arrest and deport individuals without a court hearing if they could not prove they had been in the U.S. for more than two years.
Many immigrants in the United States, including asylum seekers and those with pending cases, are required to regularly check in with Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) as part of their compliance with immigration procedures. These check-ins have historically been a way for authorities to monitor individuals who are not considered a threat and are awaiting the outcome of their legal cases. But recently, there has been a significant increase in reports of immigrants being detained during these routine check-ins, even when they have consistently followed all requirements.
Following the passage of President Trump’s “One Big Beautiful Bill Act,” the United States Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) is poised to become the largest federal law enforcement agency in American history.
The bill allocates an unprecedented $170 billion toward immigration enforcement and detention over the next four years. ICE’s new budget would surpass the Department of Justice, NASA, the EPA, the Department of Labor, the Department of Commerce, and the Department of the Interior. The ICE budget is bigger than the FBI, USA Bureau of Prisons and DEA combined.
The $170 billion immigration enforcement allocation exceeds the military budgets of all countries except the United States and China, and is nearly $30 billion more than Russia’s entire defense budget.
ICE currently operates with an annual budget of approximately $8.5 billion.
This massive expansion will enable ICE to hire 10,000 additional officers over five years, nearly doubling its current workforce. The agency will receive $29.9 billion specifically for enforcement operations, including hiring, training, and retention bonuses for officers.
The bill allocates $45 billion for immigration detention facilities, representing a more than 300% increase from ICE’s fiscal year 2024 detention budget. This funding will enable the agency to expand its detention capacity from the current 41,500 beds to potentially over 100,000 beds, allowing ICE to hold more people than were interned during World War II.
The expansion includes funding for both single adult detention centers and family residential facilities, with detention standards left to the discretion of the Secretary of Homeland Security. Private prison companies CoreCivic and GEO Group are expected to be primary beneficiaries of this expansion, with contracts already being awarded without competitive bidding.
The funding will transform ICE’s operational capabilities beyond detention. The agency will receive billions for: transportation and removal operations, technology and equipment, federal partnerships.
Beyond ICE expansion, the bill provides $46.5 billion for border wall construction and improvements, representing more than triple what the first Trump administration spent on border barriers. An additional $4.1 billion will fund hiring of Customs and Border Protection personnel, with $2 billion designated for retention bonuses.
The legislation includes $10 billion for state border security reinforcement and $3.5 billion for reimbursements to state and local governments for immigration-related enforcement costs.
The Trump administration has already begun implementing expanded enforcement operations, with ICE currently holding a record 59,000 detainees. Approximately 47% of these detainees have no criminal record with fewer than an additional 30% having no criminal conviction (accused, but not convicted). Only 8% of immigrants detained in the current system have a criminal record.
While most immigrants facing deportation are entitled to a hearing, expedited removal procedures have been expanded. These allow ICE to deport individuals without a full court hearing, especially those apprehended in the interior or at check-ins. Some immigrants are being sent to parts of the world, such as El Salvador or South Sudan. Ironically, he Nazi regime established concentration camps and extermination camps in various locations outside of Germany during World War II.
But just this week, the President of the United States and his administration, alongside the Gov. of Florida, celebrated the opening of the $45 million concentration camp called “Alligator Alcatraz.” A concentration camp is: a place where large numbers of people, especially political prisoners or members of persecuted minorities, are deliberately imprisoned in a relatively small area with inadequate facilities, sometimes to provide forced labor or to await mass execution.
Located on a 39-square-mile airfield, the detention camp is expected to hold 5,000 immigrants as they await deportation. Photos of the facility show bunk bed surrounded by gates held within tents. Men, women, elderly and children can be expected to be detained at this facility.
The area of Florida where the immigrants will be located has an average temperature of 89°F highs and 80°F lows in July. Humidity levels are consistently over 90% and daily thunderstorms and heavy rainfall are expected. The opening of the detention center, which echoes how people were put into concentration camps, comes during hurricane season.
Trump said, “Well, I think would like to see them in many states. Really, many states. And, you know, at some point, they might morph into a system.”
It’s also important to remember that the 13th Amendment to the United States constitution continues to allow slavery “except as punishment for a crime whereof the party shall have been duly convicted.”
Just this week Trump suggested that there might be a way for immigrants to stay in the United States. While talking about a “program” where immigrants who are working for farmers could stay, Trump said, “”We’re going to take care of our farmers and hotel workers, but we’re working on it right now. And Ron [DeSantis is] going to be involved…
“We have a lot of cases where ICE would go into the farm, and these are guys that are working there for 10 to 15 years, no problem.
“The farmers know them. It’s called ‘farmer responsibility’ or ‘owner responsibility,’ but they’re going to be largely responsible for these people, and they know these people. They’ve worked on the farms for 15 years. … We have a great feeling for the farmer and for others in the same position.
“They can be here legally. They can pay taxes and everything. They’re not getting citizenship, but they get other things. And the farmers need them to do the work,” Trump said. “Without those people, you’re not going to be able to run your farm.”
But for the people located at Alligator Alcatraz, Trump said, “We’re going to teach them how to run away from an alligator if they escape prison,” talking about immigrants who might escape the encampment that is surrounded by the Everglades. “Don’t run in a straight line. Run like this,” Trump said, as he moved his hand in a zigzag motion.
“And you know what? Your chances go up about 1%.”
This administration’s open disdain for immigrants, who have long been the lifeblood and foundation of America, serves as yet another example of how divisive rhetoric is being weaponized to advance a political agenda, echoing the tactics of authoritarian leaders who have used scapegoating to consolidate power.
The reality is America’s prosperity, diversity, and resilience are inseparable from the contributions of immigrants, especially Black and Brown communities. They have built, sustained, and enriched the nation, often while facing exclusion, discrimination, and barriers to full participation.
Even those without legal status are deeply invested in America’s future, paying into systems ($96.7 billion in federal, state, and local taxes in 2022 alone) they may never benefit from (Social Security, much of Medicaid and Medicare), and performing the essential work that keeps the country running.
Immigrants, including undocumented immigrants, are less likely to commit crimes than native-born U.S. citizens. And Hispanic and Latino entrepreneurs started approximately 36% of all new businesses in the United States in 2023.
It feels as though we’re living in an era where every sunrise brings a new cascade of jaw-dropping distortions and audacious and unconstitutional moves. And so the question today, on the Fourth of July, is—who are we? Who are we going to be?
Are we going to forget those lessons we learned as children, in school and church? Are we a nation that shrinks from its own ideals, or one that remembers the lessons of history and chooses vigilance over complacency? Will we allow fear and division to define us, or will we find the courage to stand up for the values we were taught to cherish: justice, inclusion, and the belief that freedom belongs to everyone?
Today, are we celebrating freedom? Or do we need to continue to fight for it?
Are we still the land of the free and the home of the brave? Will we rise to the challenge?
