By Heather Schlitz
CHICAGO, Dec 19 (Reuters) - Allyson Lopez had been hoping for business to bounce back at her dress shop in Chicago's Little Village neighborhood, which specializes in ballgowns for quinceaneras, a coming-of-age ritual in many Latino communities celebrating a girl's 15th birthday. Instead, this week brought the return of the federal immigration raids that have emptied the normally vibrant streets.
The first phase of the Department of Homeland Security deportation campaign, named
"Operation Midway Blitz," racked up over 4,200 arrests across the city in under three months. The operation rattled Chicago, but for Little Village, the working-class Mexican neighborhood that was repeatedly targeted, the effect has been catastrophic.
The return of roving U.S. Border Patrol commander Gregory Bovino on Tuesday in a large convoy of agents in camouflage, some with assault rifles peeking through car windows, was met by jeers and whistles from dozens of protesters who livestreamed the encounters 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 out of fear of immigration agents.
BUSINESS STRUGGLES TO MAKE RENT
"We’re going to suffer again as businesses," Lopez said. “We didn’t even make the rent this month, so it’s scary."
A DHS spokesperson 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, sweet bread and tamales and to shop for quinceanera dresses, pinatas and Mexican chiles disappeared. Dozens of neighborhood residents were 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 breeze,” said Roxana, a 42-year-old hair salon owner from Guatemala. She declined to share her last name or immigration status out of fear of retaliation from immigration agents.
In her empty hair salon, with half the chairs wrapped in plastic, Roxana pulled back her neatly styled bangs to reveal patches of thinning hair, which she said started falling 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've broken into the neighborhood again," she said. "It's definitely shocked and devastated us because it wasn't something that we were expecting."
A NEIGHBORHOOD'S COMMERCIAL HEART
Roxana's salon sits 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-most profitable 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 U.S. legally, stopped visiting for fear of immigration officers.
Before the immigration crackdown, the shops selling elaborate ballgowns, glittering tiaras and satin flower bouquets, were joyous places, where girls giggled and twirled in their dresses to the satisfaction of their mothers, shop owners said.
But anxiety over venturing outside – as well as fears that big parties could become targets for immigration enforcement – have hit Little Village’s quinceanera shops hard.
Two shop owners said they lost 90% of their revenue to the initial stages of Midway Blitz.
Evelyn Flores, the owner of the Alborada quinceanera store, said she laid off seven staff members. “I can't sleep at night right now, and during the day I'm always freaking out.”
Maria Ortiz, who owns a shop selling party supplies, said there are days when nobody walks into her store.
THE FAMILY LEFT BEHIND
For one family, the aftershocks of the fall raids have lingered for weeks. Kamila, 15, said she has been afraid to leave her apartment other than to go to school after her cousin was detained by immigration agents in November while on his way to a job as a rug installer. He had been living in the U.S. for 18 years without legal status.
“I’m scared. We can’t step 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’s no reason to be afraid of law enforcement, unless you are breaking the law."
The cousin’s small apartment sits mostly as he left it - the bed unmade and his fluffy cream-colored dog, Peluchin, scampering through the apartment. Every day since his owner was detained, Peluchin pushes the dusty window blinds aside with his small snout to stare for hours at the street, waiting for him to return, a neighbor who comes by to walk him said.
“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 U.S. from Mexico without legal status and is considering self-deporting. “There’s not a life here.”
RESISTANCE
On a recent afternoon, the Little Village Community Council hummed with overlapping voices as people coordinated school pick-ups, shared videos, and called family members of people who were detained.
The LVCC president, Baltazar Enriquez, has led local resistance to immigration enforcement, organizing patrols for federal agents and distributing plastic whistles now used across the city to warn of immigration agents in the area.
The tight-knit nature of “La Villita,” the Spanish name for Little Village, has given residents an organizing edge as they take to WhatsApp, Facebook and Signal groups to coordinate. Though Little Village has long struggled with bouts of 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 have been 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 just feels like you're in prison. We don't even know what they're gonna throw at us,” Martinez said.
(Reporting by Heather Schlitz; Additional reporting by Daniel Cole, Carlos Barria and Emily Schmall. Editing by Emily Schmall and Suzanne Goldenberg)
