Interfaith group rallies in memory of Los Angeles immigrants taken away by ICE

from George B. Sanchez-TelloCalMatters

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On a sunny Tuesday afternoon in the spring, about 30 people — mostly women — gathered in a circle at the base of the steps leading to the Los Angeles Federal Building, where immigration courts and services are held. They are called godfathers of the missing.

After prayer, Catherine Guerrero told the group this famous Tongwa Chicana activist Gloria Arelanes taught her the importance of standing together in a circle as a way to break away from the lines that divide. It was once a gathering place for the Tongwa, the indigenous people of the region. Guerrero was quick to note the history of state and racial violence that spanned the surrounding blocks: unmarked Tongva graves around the nearby church; a slavery auction site; she pointed across the highway to where 18 Chinese men and children were lynched in 1871. And now it’s the site of the Trump administration’s mass deportation campaign.

The Godfathers offer an important companion to the rapid response, protests and legal aid — all community-led efforts — against Occupy Los Angeles, the campaign that began a year ago with militant daytime raids in the region’s immigrant communities. The Weekly Vigil provides 60 minutes of silent recognition to remember the captured and begin healing once the raids and disappearances are over.

A multi-faith group, the LA Godfathers advocate for the release and return of detainees and those disappeared by immigration agents; an end to divisive federal tactics pitting people against each other; and an appeal to change minds among law enforcement, immigration agents and the military.

When the occupation began last June, the streets around the federal building were suffocated by demonstrators protesting against unconstitutional arrestsviolent raids and military presence. Guerrero was there as a volunteer medical assistant, caring for people shot with rubber bullets.

As action between sheriff’s deputies, police, federal agents and demonstrators escalated, Guerrero saw the work of the godfathers as a way to maintain activity and vigilance in a calm, intimate space that stood in stark contrast to the surrounding chaos.

“With Godfathers, there’s a disarmament that allows for conversation,” Guerrero explained. “We forget that we belong to each other and in these moments you get the chance to remember.”

Guerrero said she witnessed the impact of the group’s presence on the military and National Guard who were stationed here to cordon off federal property last summer. She described subtle signs such as anxious looks under helmets and visors and sudden attention to public prayer.

“We are called to be in solidarity, even if it means that the person is fit,” Guerrero said. “That’s the hard work.”

The godmothers were named in honor of Argentina The Mothers of the Plaza de Mayo — The Mothers of the Plaza de Mayo, or known in English as the Mothers of the Disappeared. They were mothers, aunts and grandmothers who met every day in the Plaza de Mayo in Buenos Aires during the military dictatorship of the late 1970s and demanded information about loved ones disappeared by the military and secret police.

Rev. Alexia Salvatierra explained that the Mothers of Plaza de Mayo not only prayed for their children, but also for the soldiers of Argentina’s military regime.

“They also gave flowers to the soldiers and they won,” Salvatierra said. “They changed the regime and managed to free their sons and daughters from prison.”

Groomsmen in LA can offer more than flowers. Together, they have raised approximately $22,000 to help more than 100 families whose members and income earners have been detained. This includes help paying for a bond. At least twice, the godfathers found crying mothers with children in front of the detention center, depressed and unsure how they would afford legal help.

Vigil offers a moving meditation. We walked in parallel lines, often led with songs, to two different entrances to the federal compound where detainees are held. First, to the driveway that leads to an underground charging dock.

There, Rosa Manriquez read aloud a short biography of Large rutiliumthe Salvadoran priest whose death encouraged Archbishop Oscar Romero to confront state repression. Both are killed by a death squad. Manriquez chanted the invocation and response “God have mercy” three times and began the litia, or the practice of naming saints and invoking their intervention. The names include revolutionaries, artists, and organizers—such as Emma Goldman, James Baldwin, and Octavia Butler—who imagined, defended, and fought for a more just and civil America.

As the litany ended, Susan Garcia offered testimony about a recent trip to the Adelanto ICE Processing Center, a private prison in the Mojave Desert where many of Southern California’s detainees are sent.

The group then moved to the rear loading dock adjacent to the Metropolitan Detention Center, singing the black spiritual “Down by the Riverside.” There, Richard Barragán prays in Spanish through a microphone connected to a small speaker cabinet on wheels so the detainees and their captors can hear.

The Reverend Heidi Worthen Gamble then led the group in one final song – “Woke Up This Morning (With My Mind Stayed on Freedom)”. One by one we approach the black chain link fence erected last summer. Each placed a white daisy around the entrance.

The flowers are visible to detainees, Manriquez said, but so are the offerings to federal agents and military members.

“They shouldn’t do that,” Manriquez said.

None of this should have happened. But now we are living the consequences. While the immediate focus remains on protecting immigrant communities and people of color wrongfully detained, the Godfathers invite us through vigil, prayer, and song to consider what comes next, envisioning a more just community and country, and then get to work—the hard work.

This article was originally published on CalMatters and is republished under Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-No Derivatives license.