What I Saw November 13

This might be the most important photo I have ever taken.

 I started taking photos when I was 12 with the first device I ever got, my iPad.I wanted to immortalize my memories, so I would never forget.  I am still at the beginning of my photography journey, but something about this moment feels like the first time the world handed me a story that was bigger than me.

Street photography is part of my life. I am taking photojournalism as an elective this semester, and I promised myself this fall would be about doing something fun. My professor always tells us to practice outside of class, so I do. 

CT Transit is not the first choice of transport for most students, but I have grown to appreciate it. The people who pack into those buses every morning are full of stories to capture.

My dream is to work in the entertainment industry after graduating. Any field that fits me; In writing, in film, in photography. I like telling stories, no matter the medium. I think that’s what brought me to Connecticut and to this university.

I want to show people what I see. I want to show people how I feel. My dream is to tell stories of the people who surround us.

It was 11 a.m. Thursday, Nov. 13. I stood waiting for the 212 bus, as I always do. I was taking my usual photos of downtown; The courthouse, the crosswalk, the crowd. I did not expect anything out of the ordinary. Then I heard a loud gasp behind me. Someone said, “They are taking him from the courthouse.” I turned around just as the bus arrived, blocking my view. I took a photo, stepped inside, found a seat by the window and looked out. The group was already moving. I thought the moment was gone.

I checked my camera roll right away because I felt I'd missed everything. But there it was. One frame. Sharp. Clear. Real. The only photo I managed to take before everything shifted again.

The photo shows several men wearing vests with the words “Police” and “Police HSI,” referring to Homeland Security Investigations, a division of Immigration and Customs Enforcement. Some officers have their faces covered. The man being detained is wearing khaki pants and a collared shirt. He is facing away from the camera. His hands were behind his back and several men were surrounding him. One staring directly at me. 

The Department of Homeland Security and ICE did not respond to questions from local reporters about who the man is or why he was arrested, and this is not the first time a detention  happened at a courthouse entrance. Activists say it discourages immigrants from appearing in court even when they are victims or witnesses.

As I write this, I keep thinking about how fragile everything feels. 

I am an immigrant too. 

I came to the United States in 2022 to study and build the life I dream of. I am here on a student visa. I work hard. I follow the rules. I take photos. I go to class. I pray. I try. I am the daughter of a single mother who sacrificed everything so I could get an education. I am Latina. I am grateful. But I am scared sometimes too.

The United States always felt like a powerful place to me while growing up in Honduras. It was a place where you can succeed. People would say the streets here were made of gold. As a child, I believed it.  I still believe in this country’s opportunity. But watching agents in skinny jeans, hoodies and Converse shoes, some covering their faces, made me pause. It was hard to process. Something about the scene felt off to me. It made me realize how confusing and heavy moments like this can be when you see them in real time. 

And I kept thinking, if you are doing something you believe is right, why are you covering your face?

When the New Haven Independent published my photo with a short description of what I saw, I read the comments. Some people thanked ICE. Some said detaining immigrants keeps the country safe. Some believe every undocumented person is dangerous. Reading those comments made me feel invisible and guilty for taking the picture. They made me feel like stories like mine do not matter to some people, as ifI was doing a disservice to my community. 

But I know who I am and I know where I stand. Immigrants are necessary. They work. They care for their families. They support their communities. They are not criminals simply because they crossed a border or overstayed a visa. They are human beings with hopes, fears and dreams as real as mine.

I am grateful for this country. I am grateful for the opportunities I have received. I thank God for every step. I pray for those who do not get the same chances. I pray for the man in the photo. I pray for the people who read stories like this and still choose kindness.

People say “Make America Great Again,” but I think greatness is not a slogan. Greatness is a responsibility. Greatness is how we treat one another when no one is watching. Greatness is the moment we choose compassion over fear. Greatness is something we have to create every day.

So my hope is simple. Make America gentle again. Make America generous again. Make America see people again.

I write this because I want to tell the truth about what I saw. I want to tell the story the only way I know how. With a camera. With words. With faith. And with the hope that someday the greatness we keep talking about will match the greatness we are called to live.