Manhattan, 2025. Federal agents detain a man in the hallway of the Jacob K. Javits Federal Building at 26 Federal Plaza immediately after his hearing. Arrests like this occur even when respondents comply with court proceedings, a practice immigrant rights groups call “courthouse arrests.” While some families walk out together, others vanish into detention, often transferred to Hudson County Correctional Facility in New Jersey or Orange County Jail in New York. In FY 2025, ICE reported holding over 59,000 people in detention on a given day, nearly half with no criminal record. In New York City, more than 30% of ICE arrests between May and June 2025 occurred inside courthouses.

Manhattan, 2025. At the Jacob K. Javits Federal Building, at 26 Federal Plaza in Manhattan, a U.S. citizen breaks down in grief as her husband, a Peruvian national, is taken into ICE custody moments after his hearing. Arrests like this divide thousands of mixed-status families each year. While some walk free after their cases, others are transferred to detention facilities across the nation. By August 2025, the immigration court backlog reached 3.4 million cases, with nearly 2.3 million asylum applications pending. Studies show that about 5.9 million U.S. citizen children live with at least one undocumented parent, leaving families like this one vulnerable to sudden separation in courthouse hallways.

Manhattan, 2025. Sixto, a 47 y/o Ecuadorian man is detained by ICE officers outside an immigration courtroom in Manhattan. His lawyer persuaded a supervisor to exercise discretion and secured his release — a rare outcome in a system where such relief is seldom granted. He had no criminal record and fled gang persecution in Ecuador. After months of uncertainty, he was granted asylum in September. By mid-2025, U.S. immigration courts had issued nearly 59,000 asylum denials and fewer than 22,000 grants, while the backlog had grown to surpass 3.4 million cases. Even those eventually protected must first endure detention and years of fear.

Manhattan, 2025. At the Jacob K. Javits Federal Building, at 26 Federal Plaza, a man is dragged into an elevator by federal agents after his immigration hearing. No criminal charges were disclosed. For many migrants, the elevator ride marks the moment of disappearance—taken from the public hallways of the courthouse into the opaque detention system. In 2025, civil rights groups warn that courthouse arrests erode due process by collapsing the distinction between legal hearings and enforcement. Once inside the system, detainees are often transferred without notice to distant ICE detention centers across the U.S., leaving families and lawyers scrambling to locate them.

Manhattan, 2025. At the Jacob K. Javits Federal Building, at 26 Federal Plaza, federal agents wait at the elevator bank — the only passage respondents must use to leave the building after their hearings. Courthouse hallways have become ambush sites, where compliance with the legal process can still end in detention.

Manhattan, 2025. At the Jacob K. Javits Federal Building, at 26 Federal Plaza, federal agents enforcing ICE operations wait outside the immigration court’s waiting room. As respondents step out after their hearings, arrests often follow, regardless of whether they complied with the process. Those detained are usually sent to county jails under ICE contracts, such as Hudson County Correctional Facility in New Jersey or Orange County Jail in New York, but depending on availability, it could be in any other detention center in the country. By mid-2025, ICE held nearly 60,000 people in detention on a given day — the highest level in U.S. history. Almost half had no criminal record, underscoring how courthouse arrests target not only those with convictions but also asylum seekers and long-time residents.

Manhattan, 2025. After his hearing in the Jacob K. Javits Federal Building, at 26 Federal Plaza, a respondent is led away in handcuffs by federal officers. Many individuals detained in courthouse hallways have no criminal record and appear to be there only to pursue their cases. Most are transferred to county jails under ICE contracts, such as Hudson County Correctional Facility in New Jersey or Orange County Jail in New York. By mid-2025, ICE detention reached nearly 60,000 people on any given day, the highest level ever recorded. Almost half were held without any conviction, underscoring how routine hearings can end in sudden arrest and confinement.

Manhattan, 2025. A family leaves a courtroom in the Jacob K. Javits Federal Building, at 26 Federal Plaza, after their hearing, relieved to walk free for the day. In the same hallways, others are taken into custody and transferred to county jails under ICE contracts. By August 2025, the immigration court backlog had surpassed 3.4 million cases, including nearly 2.3 million asylum applications. The outcome of a hearing can divide families — for some, freedom; for others, disappearance into detention.

Queens, 2025. Jessica Maribel Supliguicha Espinoza, 40, sits in her apartment in Queens, covering her face with her hands in the final days of her pregnancy. Weeks earlier, her husband Jorge — an Ecuadorian asylum seeker — was detained after a court hearing and deported, leaving Jessica to face childbirth and the care of her three children alone. Now a U.S. citizen, she is raising Dylan (9) and Ana Belén (18), both citizens, and soon a newborn whose first months, or years, of life will pass without her father. Dylan, who has level 1 autism, receives regular monitoring and support in New York — care Jessica knows would be far more limited in Ecuador. Returning there might reunite the family, but would expose them to uncertainty and risk. Staying means safety for her children but separation from their father. ICE data show that in 2025, nearly 45% of people detained had no criminal record — among them families like Jessica’s.

Manhattan, 2025. At the Ted Weiss Federal Building, at 290 Broadway in Manhattan, a man is dragged through a hallway by federal agents after his immigration hearing. It remains unknown whether he faced any criminal charges. In 2025, ICE and Border Patrol agents conduct operations inside both of New York City’s immigration courts — at 26 Federal Plaza and 290 Broadway — detaining respondents regardless of case outcomes. Civil rights groups argue that this convergence of legal proceedings and enforcement undermines due process, turning spaces meant for hearings into corridors of fear where families, lawyers, and respondents pass through the same hallways guarded by masked officers.

Manhattan, 2025. Father Fabian Arias (right) accompanies migrants to their hearings at the Federal Plaza courthouse each week, often standing beside families in their most vulnerable moments. On July 22, 2025, Johnny P., an Ecuadorian migrant, was taken into custody after his hearing but released minutes later under unclear circumstances. Outside, his wife and son, who had been waiting in fear, wept when they saw him return. That evening, the family traveled back to New Jersey before beginning their nightshift jobs in an upstate New York department store. By mid-2025, ICE was detaining nearly 60,000 people daily, almost half without criminal convictions, making Johnny’s release the exception rather than the rule in courthouse arrests.

Manhattan, 2025. At the Jacob K. Javitz Federal Building at 26 Federal Plaza, DHS Commander Welsh listens as a doctor explains that visual journalist L. Vural Elibol of Anadolu Agency, lying on the floor, has to be taken to the hospital after striking his head. Elibol was injured when federal agents shoved journalists off an elevator to prevent them from documenting an arrest. Afterward, federal officers warned reporters that any interference would result in arrest, creating an atmosphere of fear among the press. In 2025, the Trump administration barred the Associated Press from White House events, signed an order to strip NPR and PBS of federal funding, and escalated rhetoric against journalists. The crackdown at 26 Federal Plaza reflected how enforcement extended beyond migrants, suppressing those who sought to hold power to account.

Manhattan, 2025. Demonstrators march through Manhattan against Trump’s immigration policies and ICE deportations, demanding an end to family separations and full rights for immigrants. Their banners—“Stop Deporting Our Families Now”—connect the struggle of migrants to broader questions of democracy and equality in the United States.

Brooklyn, 2025. Scarleth, 10, practices the butterfly technique during a remote therapy session, while her mother, Ana Lucía Guaman Buri, listens beside her in their Brooklyn apartment. The method, widely used in trauma therapy, asks the child to cross her arms over her chest and gently tap her shoulders in alternating rhythm, like the wings of a butterfly. Each tap helps ground her body, ease anxiety, and create distance from overwhelming memories. Scarleth, whose biological father was assassinated in Ecuador, witnessed the detention of her father-in-law by ICE after their hearing. The only provider for the family, Rodrigo, father of Scarleth’s 4-year-old sister, Ashley, was later deported to Ecuador. Since his detention in the hallways of the Jacob K. Javits Federal Building at 26 Federal Plaza, Ana has carried the household alone. Weekly therapy helps the family process what they witnessed and navigate the separation. In the absence of state protection, community organizations and church networks provide support, offering therapy, legal aid, and accompaniment. Their role has become essential in New York, where thousands of families rely on small nonprofits to face hearings and cope with the aftermath of detention. In 2025, as ICE arrests surged again, demand for these services far outstripped capacity, leaving many without representation and deepening the divide between families supported by civil society and those left entirely alone.

Manhattan, 2025. Franyelis Milagro Parra Olivares, 28, from Venezuela, speaks on the phone outside the Jacob Javits Federal Building at 26 Federal Plaza after her husband, Yonqueneide José Yajure Parra, 27, was detained following his immigration hearing. Beside her stands Yoneifer, their 8-year-old son. She is also the mother of Emmanuel, 4, and is pregnant with her third child. Her husband had been the family’s primary provider and caregiver. Now, with his sudden detention, she must navigate both motherhood and survival alone. Father Fabian and allied organizations have helped her access health insurance, psychological support, and legal aid to file a motion in his defense. In 2025, Venezuelans remain the second-largest nationality seeking asylum in the United States, with more than 400,000 cases pending nationwide. Pregnant women and mothers with young children are not spared from these consequences: even when not detained themselves, they are left to shoulder economic, emotional, and caregiving burdens, embodying the collateral damage of immigration enforcement.

Brooklyn, 2025. Ana Lucía Guaman Buri cries as she cooks in her Brooklyn kitchen, holding a video call with Scarleth’s therapist. Since Rodrigo’s detention after their hearing at 26 Federal Plaza, she has carried the household alone. Weekly therapy helps both Scarleth and her process what they witnessed, and navigate the separation. In the absence of state protection, it is community organizations and church networks that provide support, offering therapy, legal aid, and accompaniment. Their role has become essential in New York, where thousands of families rely on small nonprofits to face hearings and cope with the aftermath of detention. In 2025, as ICE arrests surged again, demand for these services far outstripped capacity, leaving many without representation and deepening the divide between families supported by civil society and those left entirely alone.

Long Island, 2025. Uriel and Tiago reach toward the photographs on the wall, pointing at the images of their mother, Nuvia, as they play on her bed. These pictures have become anchors in the months since she was detained by ICE, reminders of a presence the children can no longer feel in the room. At five and eight years old, they understand that their mother is gone, but not why — only that the grown-ups speak softly when her name comes up, and that the phone calls are brief and never enough. For the grandparents suddenly raising five children, explaining immigration detention without causing further harm is a daily balancing act. They repeat the only version they believe the children can bear: your mother did not leave you; she was taken because we are immigrants. The boys listen, absorb, and return to the photographs, tracing their mother’s outline with their hands . Their private world sits inside a national landscape where ICE detains nearly 60,000 people per day, most without criminal convictions, and where over 3.5 million pending cases mean long separations with no clear timeline for return. For families like Nuvia’s, the impact is immediate and cumulative: routines disrupted, roles rearranged, and childhood shaped by an absence imposed from outside the home. On the wall, the photographs hold a version of the family intact before being interrupted.

Long Island, 2025. Maria, the daughter of Nuvia, a detained Salvadoran woman, stands in the garden of their home in New York, leaning against the fence in silence. For children caught in family separation, waiting becomes part of daily life — a pause that stretches into months, marked by the unspoken fear that reunion may never come. The oldest of five brothers, Maria lives in the family home with the grandparents. Her grandma left her job to raise the children in the absence of their mother.

Long Island, 2025. Maria lowers her head onto her arms at the kitchen table, overwhelmed by the weight of months spent caring for five grandchildren while her daughter, Nuvia, remains detained by ICE. Since the arrest, the household has relied on her to make up for the absence of her daughter: meals, school schedules, and consoling children after difficult days. Yet the strain accumulates, surfacing in rare moments like this when the house grows still. At fifty-seven, Maria has stepped back from outside work to care for the children full-time, a responsibility made heavier by the uncertainty surrounding her daughter’s case. The kitchen, crowded with food and essentials, has become the center of the family’s efforts to hold itself together. It is where phone calls with lawyers are taken, and updates from detention facilities are parsed. Nuvia has been held for more than six months without criminal charges, one of nearly 60,000 people detained daily in a system where court backlogs and transfers often sever communication between families and those detained. For Maria, the emotional toll is layered: fear for her daughter’s safety, exhaustion from caregiving, and the daily task of reassuring children who ask when their mother will return. The immigration system’s delays, part of more than 3.5 million pending cases nationwide, leave families in profound instability inside their own homes.