ICE Was a No-Show at the Seattle Federal Building, but Activists Still Showed Up to Support Immigrants

On July 9, outside the Henry M. Jackson Federal Building in downtown Seattle, a few dozen activists and community supporters held signs, squeezed tiny pig squeakers, and kept watch on who entered and left the building's parking garage.

A social media alert the previous day claimed that, "according to verified info," U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) planned to arrest people attending immigration proceedings. But Seattle police officers told the activists that ICE agents weren't in the building. No arrests were witnessed.

Even so, the activists remained for reasons that were deeply personal, rooted in family histories of persecution, disillusionment with the justice system, and a shared belief in resistance.

John Garibaldi stood in the crosswalk, his eyes making contact with drivers, his sign explaining how the immigration system was being twisted from the inside. "My wife's an immigration attorney," he said. Through her, he said he's watched how the practice of due process is skirted to fast-track deportations.

Immigrants, he said, may have solid legal documents, but prosecutors may decide to dismiss the case. "And once it's dismissed, [immigrants are] no longer in proceedings," he said. "They have no legal protection. And then they arrest them."

Garibaldi described a bureaucratic process designed to fail. Still, he showed up. "I'm just here in solidarity for the people that are trying to come into the country and playing by the rules," he said. Holding his sign up at the crosswalk was about getting drivers "to read it and think about it," if only for a moment.

Nearby stood K.C., 25, who voiced frustration with how debates often require justifying immigrant presence on economic grounds. K.C., who only used initials, said he wanted to express his frustration with the negligence and racism he saw in the federal government.

But being surrounded by others helped keep him going. "There's a lot of people that feel alone right now, but if you [find] the courage to actually come out, you'll definitely be pleasantly surprised by how strong in numbers we really are."

On Marion Street, between First and Second avenues, someone who identified themself as Dagger sat watching vehicles leave the building. "It's hard to feel like my life could have any meaning if I'm watching so much suffering every single day, knowing that my presence on this land is a part of that machine," Dagger said. "To not act would be to accept the actions of this administration."

Did being there outside the building change anything? Dagger shrugged."For me, just like coming and showing up, even if I can't help anyone today, I'm showing myself that my humanity means something," they said. "If I don't do that, then I will be really fucking depressed."

Small acts of resistance were important, they said, from putting up wheatpaste posters to calling out racism at family gatherings. "There are ways," they said. "Everyone can do something, and no one has to do everything."

On Second Avenue, someone identified themself as "Pirates," a name tied to the defiant anti-Nazi youth group in Germany during World War II, the Edelweiss Pirates. For Pirates, this moment was not just political, but painfully personal. "I'm a Jew. I don't support fascism whatsoever," they said. "My family had to flee Poland in order to be safe, and they knew what was coming in 1901. So I don't support this at all."

When asked what they hoped to accomplish by standing there, Pirates admitted they weren't sure. "I just want to be here, even despite the uncertainty of what's going on, because silence is compliance, and I'm not down with that."