Last week, the president posted a call to federal immigration agents, urging them to “do all in their power” to carry out what he described as the “single largest Mass Deportation Program in History.” He directed officials to prioritize Democratic-run cities, in the wake of protests denouncing his administration’s immigration policies. But let’s be clear: the fear that follows these orders doesn’t stop at city limits.

The fear is here, too, in the fields outside of Mount Vernon, in the neighborhoods of Sedro-Woolley, and even on the quiet streets of La Conner.

For months, many of our friends and neighbors — immigrants and American citizens alike — have been on high alert. The stories traveled fast: masked ICE agents without identification grabbing people off sidewalks, citizens mistakenly detained, families torn apart without warning. I’m asked regularly: What’s happening to our farmworkers? Our laborers? Our neighbors?

According to local officials, ICE hasn’t yet made an arrest here, though its presence is felt. Some people are hiding, afraid of being ambushed on regular outings to the post office or doctor. Others are missing work when ICE is rumored to be nearby. Children are missing school. People are staying indoors all day, every day, avoiding any possibility of being seen, swept up, disappeared.

This fear isn’t just theirs.

It’s mine, too.

I’m not undocumented. I’m not even an immigrant. But I’m the daughter of an immigrant and the granddaughter to people who lived through an eerily similar “arrest first, ask questions later” situation during World War II (my mother’s family was imprisoned in American detention camps on Okinawa). My hair is dark. My skin is brown. I look like a person who might be stopped and asked for papers. And at this moment, that’s enough.

Last week, I spoke with my mom, who lives out of state. She told me she doesn’t leave her neighborhood anymore — not for groceries, not for a special evening out. My dad, who is white, runs all the errands now. She is afraid of being kidnapped. That conversation stayed with me. It made me wonder: Should I be more cautious, too?

I already carry my passport everywhere, just in case. But what if I’m in the wrong place at the wrong time? What if I never get the chance to explain?

And yet — I cannot do this job less publicly.

When I agreed to lead this newspaper in January, I made a conscious choice to be its face. I attend events. I meet people on the street. I believe in showing up. But showing up — for me — sometimes makes me a little uneasy now.

Just days ago, I was in a car accident. Thankfully, no one was hurt (though my car didn’t fare too well). After taking statements and gathering documents, the sheriff’s deputy told me I was not free to leave and walked back to his car. I waited obediently. The fire department came and left. A small crowd gathered and dissipated. The street grew quiet. I began to feel something unexpected.

I felt afraid.

Not because of the accident, but because of what could happen afterward. Intellectually, I knew that the Skagit County Sheriff doesn’t collaborate with ICE. Realistically, I knew I couldn’t take for granted that I’d be seen as someone who belongs here. 

I sent a text to the newsroom.

Our photographer, Nancy Crowell, came to sit with me.

That’s when I remembered: this is my community, and I’m not entirely alone.

The deputy apologized for making me wait so long. His printer wasn’t working and he had been trying to print some documents for me. He was just as polite and compassionate as I’ve come to expect out of law enforcement here.

I was relieved, but it was a sobering kind of relief. It didn’t change the fear of being detained or the sharp feeling of vulnerability that comes with being “other” in this country while federal agents are kidnapping people and deporting them. The fear hasn’t gone completely away, instead returning in waves throughout the day.

To others, like me, who’ve done nothing wrong but feel like walking targets because of how you look and your family history: you’re not alone. I see you. I’m scared, too. 

But I’m also still proud to be an American. Proud to be the daughter of a naturalized citizen. Proud to be a fourth-generation Skagitonian. Proud that our founding documents enshrined the right to due process for everyone. I have to believe we’ll restore that right again because I believe so deeply in the American experiment. After all, I chose a career protected by the Constitution — I run a newspaper. 

For many of us, each day is a quiet act of courage. In a time when visibility can feel dangerous, presence takes on a whole new meaning. And here in beautiful, lovely La Conner, I’m learning that in the face of fear, community is not just comfort. It’s strength.

Kari Mar is editor and publisher of La Conner Community News.