By Haydeé López
For those looking from the outside, Puerto Rico is often associated with beaches, music, and tourism.
But since January 2025, following the start of a new presidential term under Donald Trump, another reality has rapidly taken hold: an increase in immigration raids and detentions by U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE).
Amid this context, even the island’s most visible voices have begun to speak out. Puerto Rican artist Bad Bunny said it on a global stage, before millions: “Fuera ICE.”
The phrase, brief and forceful, did not remain symbolic. In neighborhoods like Río Piedras and Santurce, where migrant communities are concentrated, that message is now felt in daily life: in emptier streets, in businesses with fewer customers, and in decisions shaped by fear.
A case that raised alarms
One of the first cases that illustrated this shift was that of Fermín Díaz, a 57-year-old Dominican man arrested in Barrio Obrero. He had stepped out of his home for a few minutes to go to the store. He did not return after being detained by ICE agents.
“It was a shock,” journalist Luisa Benítez told Enlace Latino NC. “It was the first time we were seeing this type of mobilization on the island, and it didn’t necessarily align with what had been said by the federal government: that detentions would target people with criminal records or arrest warrants. They simply detained him. It’s unclear whether it was because of his appearance, where he lives, or his accent.”
A year later, another case reflected the same trend in a different context.
Mathews Gomes Da Silva, a 29-year-old athlete with Brazilian and Mexican citizenship, attended an immigration appointment at the U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services (USCIS) offices in Santurce, unaware he would not leave free.
He arrived with his Puerto Rican wife, Anamarí Cabán Torres. After completing the process, he was told to wait while his documents were processed.
“We hugged, we celebrated … we were waiting for the document. And suddenly, federal ICE agents come in and say: ‘No, he’s not leaving with you. He’s leaving under arrest,” Cabán Torres told Benítez.
These cases are not isolated incidents. They are part of a growing pattern of raids and detentions now reshaping daily life in Puerto Rico’s migrant communities.
Raids in Puerto Rico: Between memory and forgetting
During a recent training for communicators and activists across the country, organized by Migrant Roots and Kilómetro Cero, Puerto Rican journalist Luis Trelles placed the current moment within a broader historical memory:
“A scale of raids like this hadn’t been seen since the 1990s. But the problem isn’t just that they’ve returned. The problem is that many Puerto Ricans forgot this existed. Why is there forgetting? Why did we allow this to happen again?”
That past is not abstract. In the 1990s, during Bill Clinton’s presidency, Puerto Rico experienced immigration raids in communities and workplaces amid a tightening of federal immigration policy. Those episodes left behind a legacy of distrust that now appears to be resurfacing.
The numbers confirm the shift. In 2024, federal authorities recorded 95 immigration-related arrests in Puerto Rico. By March 2026, that number had climbed to 1,712 detentions, according to the Centro de Periodismo Investigativo.
ICE presence extends to airports
The reach of these measures is not limited to communities or workplaces. It is also becoming visible at the island’s main points of entry and exit.
At Luis Muñoz Marín International Airport in Carolina, ICE presence has increased tensions.
Travelers say agents are not performing security functions but instead observing from a distance, creating a sense of surveillance many find intimidating, Benítez said.
In this context, it is worth remembering that migration in Puerto Rico is not a foreign phenomenon but an essential part of its history.
Over time, migrants have contributed to the island’s economic, cultural and social life, building communities and sustaining key sectors.
Today, nearly 90,000 foreign-born people live in Puerto Rico, according to U.S. Census estimates. Most come from the Caribbean and Latin America, many arriving in search of economic opportunities, community networks or, in some cases, a possible gateway to the U.S. mainland.
Rebecca González-Ramos, ICE’s lead investigator, told NPR that around 20,000 people live without regular immigration status, a figure likely higher due to undercounting and fear of participating in official counts.
The economic cost of immigration policy
The impact of increased ICE raids is not limited to the human level; it is also being strongly felt in the local economy.
Sectors such as construction, key to reconstruction efforts on the island, rely heavily on migrant labor, meaning any disruption to this workforce has immediate effects.
Business owners in areas with high migrant populations also report a decline in daily activity.
The drop in customer flow, combined with workers’ fear of moving around, directly affects sales and operating hours.
In the long term, this contraction may also translate into lower tax revenue, particularly in consumption taxes such as the IVU, affecting funding that supports public services on the island.
This happens because migrant communities are an active part of the economic fabric: they pay rent, drive consumption of goods and services, contribute to the IVU and pay into the Social Security system.
When these communities are displaced or live under constant fear, that economic flow does not just shrink — it fractures, affecting both small businesses and entire sectors that depend on their participation.
“From the beginning, this economic impact was anticipated, especially in areas with a high concentration of restaurants and in sectors where many people work in cleaning and domestic labor,” Benítez said.
Beyond the numbers, the effect is clear: when a community stops moving out of fear, the economy stops moving with it.
Effects on the Puerto Rican diaspora in North Carolina
The raids and climate of fear now present in Puerto Rico do not necessarily remain on the island.
For many Puerto Rican families who migrated to the United States after years of economic crisis, ties to the island remain strong.
In North Carolina, home to more than 130,000 Puerto Ricans — one of the fastest-growing Puerto Rican communities in the United States — Carmen Santiago, a resident of Fayetteville, watches the situation with frustration.
“We had to leave Puerto Rico because of the lack of support from the federal government after [Hurricane] María,” Santiago told Enlace Latino NC.
“My dream is to return to my island. But it’s hard to think about going back with the current economy, and even harder when the federal government, instead of helping, worsens the situation by terrorizing migrant people who sustain Puerto Rico’s economy,” she said.
For many in the diaspora, images of raids and the fear now faced by other migrant communities on the island are not unfamiliar.
They evoke personal memories and reinforce a deep identification with those now living under that same fear.
“Puerto Ricans know what it’s like to live without recognition and face mistreatment,” Santiago said.
“We have also had to fight for our rights. In 1904, the case of Isabel González, who was nearly deported upon arriving at Ellis Island, led the Supreme Court to determine that Puerto Ricans were not foreigners under immigration laws. However, it wasn’t until 1917 that we were granted U.S. citizenship, even while living under U.S. rule,” she added.
Active solidarity
Today, for many in the diaspora, that history is not distant but cyclical — moments when citizenship, rights and dignity are once again questioned, not only for Puerto Ricans but also for other migrant communities.
“And after Hurricane María, our rights were denied again, when the federal response came little by little and far too late,” Santiago said.
That shared memory has become, for many, the starting point for active solidarity: a recognition that migrant struggles are not separate, but deeply connected.
The invisible cost in Río Piedras
The climate of fear is especially palpable in San Juan neighborhoods like Río Piedras, historic areas where students, business owners and migrant communities coexist.
Enlace Latino NC visited Río Piedras with Rahissa DeLucca, vice president of the Casco Urbano Community Board, who described an atmosphere that is not always visible, but deeply felt.
“When a community lives in fear, everything changes,” she said. “People stop going to the doctor, stop participating in activities, stop spending money in businesses. The neighborhood’s economy freezes.”
Today, walking through some streets in Río Piedras reveals an unusual silence. Where there was once a constant flow of people, empty sidewalks now dominate. Many migrants prefer to stay home. Others avoid public spaces or their usual routes.
“This used to be full of people,” said a business owner who requested anonymity, pointing to the nearly empty sidewalk.
“Now look … hardly anyone walks here, and that has affected businesses in this area,” he added.
At the Río Piedras campus of the Universidad de Puerto Rico, concern is also evident among students.
Some have reported seeing individuals they identify as possible federal agents around the campus.
During our visit, when asked about a possible ICE presence, one security officer declined to respond.
Then, noticing we were not part of the university community, he issued an unexpected warning:
“Get out of here, go to the beach, to Condado. This area is hot for foreigners,” said a university officer who asked to remain anonymous.
While uncertainty over raids continues to affect daily life and commerce in Río Piedras, the area’s future is also being reshaped by new development plans.
On the historic Paseo de Diego, at least 10 buildings have been acquired by entities linked to Laguna Capital LLC, a private investment fund in which Noah Assad, Bad Bunny’s manager, is involved.
Rahissa DeLucca summarized it cautiously: “We want the best for Río Piedras. But any revitalization process must include everyone who lives here, and that includes migrant communities.”
“Migrating is a right”
The same climate of fear felt in places like Río Piedras has not gone unnoticed. In response to raids and growing surveillance, community organizing has also emerged.
The message began appearing on posters, doors and windows: “Migrar es un derecho.” Not as an empty slogan, but as a direct response to the increase in immigration operations in Puerto Rico.
Led by Kilómetro Cero, ACLU Puerto Rico, Comuna Caribe and Amnesty International, the campaign Saca la Cara PR – Migrar es un derecho aims to inform migrant communities and document what organizers describe as an increase in abuses during law enforcement actions.
The strategy has been local and direct. In churches, community centers and door-to-door efforts, activists organize workshops and distribute basic information: what to do if immigration agents knock on the door, how to respond to a detention and who to contact in an emergency.
“The call was to build solidarity and mutual support in times of apathy, violence and blatant racism. To promote protection, dignity and solidarity as Caribbean people. That’s what this campaign is about,” said Mari Mari Narváez, executive director of Kilómetro Cero.
One of the first gestures was simple but powerful: a poster reading, “En esta casa apoyamos a la comunidad migrante.” The response was immediate.
“We had to print thousands,” Narváez said. “We called for people to come pick them up, and they came in large numbers. ‘Give me another, give me another.’ Now you see them in businesses, schools, windows. That’s when we understood there was outrage, but also a need to act.”
That collective momentum, however, coexists with growing concern. Organizations and community leaders warn that fear is already having tangible consequences.
“There are immigrants dying in Puerto Rico because they are afraid to seek medical care,” Narváez said.
The warning is not abstract. One of the most striking cases occurred last December. Félix Cabrera, a 66-year-old Dominican worker, died at his home in Villa Carolina after several days of chest pain. According to El Nuevo Día, he avoided going to the hospital out of fear of encountering immigration authorities.
Although agencies say they do not make arrests inside hospitals, activists describe a different reality. “They have detained people outside, at clinics. They know where migrants receive care and they monitor those spaces,” Narváez said.
Information that could be used for detentions
Fear also extends beyond access to health care. In 2025, Homeland Security Investigations (HSI) confirmed it had access to data from more than 6,000 undocumented migrants who had obtained driver’s permits in Puerto Rico.
The Puerto Rican government shared names, addresses and other personal data with the agency, raising alarms among civil rights organizations.
Today, advocates warn that these records could become tools to identify potential targets for detention.
Even so, the campaign continues to focus on building community. Through its website and social media, “Saca la Cara PR” invites people to get involved, stay informed and participate in collective action.
“As Puerto Ricans who have grown up under colonialism, our solidarity must be with our immigrant brothers and sisters,” said Valerie Martínez Rivera of Amnesty International.
“We know what it means to live under power structures we do not control,” she told Enlace Latino NC.
Amid fear and uncertainty, that network of solidarity has become, for many, both protection and resistance.
“We are facing a monster that seeks to strip us of our rights and dehumanize us,” Martínez Rivera said.
“But we are also sustained by a history of resistance. As Puerto Ricans, we know what it means to fight against power structures we do not control,” she said.
“Fuera ICE”: From global echo to daily life
As activists organize workshops and community leaders work to protect their neighbors, the conversation has taken shape in everyday life across Puerto Rico.
“Fuera ICE” is no longer just a slogan. It is an echo repeated in quiet conversations among business owners, in WhatsApp messages warning of raids and in small decisions — not going out, not going to the doctor, not opening the door.
More than a media moment, the phrase has taken root in a concrete reality now lived in neighborhoods like Río Piedras and Santurce, where the presence of immigration agents has transformed routines, economies and community relationships.
That connection between culture and politics has also been examined in the book P FKN R: Bad Bunny y la Música Como Acto de Resistencia, where scholars Vanessa Díaz and Petra R. Rivera-Rideau argue that the artist has turned his public voice into a platform connecting Puerto Rico’s struggles with global debates on inequality and displacement.
But beyond academic analysis and the stage, the phrase “Fuera ICE” has taken on a different weight. Because in Puerto Rico, talking about ICE is not abstract. It is about fear — but increasingly, also about a collective decision: not to remain silent.
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