NEW ORLEANS — Dinnertime had just ended when there was a loud knock at the door. Jhony grabbed his ID card and the documents showing he had protection from deportation. His wife, Aracely, rushed the children upstairs.
Six years ago, Jhony had arrived in New Orleans and found work helping renovate the Superdome, which became a symbol of the city’s fortitude after Hurricane Katrina. Now he stood inside his home with an ear to the door as his mind raced through what he would do if someone broke through. Aracely peeked through their window curtains.
Two immigration officers stood outside.
The men wore masks, protective vests and caps, the couple later recounted. One of them pounded on the door four times. It was raining, and they stood waiting on Jhony and Aracely’s stoop for several minutes. Then they left. Jhony relaxed, but not completely. His papers, earned after filing a complaint with the U.S. Department of Labor for wage theft, did not give him a legal status, and he knew they did not entirely shield him or protect his family.
“We came because at our home, there was no peace,” said Jhony as agents drove slowly through his neighborhood in a convoy of Chevy Suburbans again the next afternoon. “I feel like I am reliving my life in Honduras, but here.”
Hondurans have been arriving in New Orleans in search of work since the city emerged as a key port in the banana trade over a century ago. They have continued to settle here in successive waves ever since, fleeing political turmoil and poverty in their homeland and helping rebuild after Hurricane Katrina in 2005. A bronze and marble statue depicting a Latino worker with a hammer stands in the city in honor of their contributions.
For many Hondurans, the Department of Homeland Security’s launch of Catahoula Crunch in early December has felt like whiplash. The operation’s name is a reference to the Catahoula leopard dogs trained by early Louisiana settlers to hunt wild boar. DHS contends the operation is needed to remove criminals released under “sanctuary” policies that limit local law enforcement from cooperating with federal immigration officers. So far, federal officers have arrested over 250 people, including at least two dozen they say have criminal records, some of whom are Honduran.
“They honored us for rebuilding the city, doing work no one else would,” said Mario Mendoza, another undocumented Honduran construction worker. “They called us essential workers during the pandemic. Now, we are criminals?”
Latino-owned businesses have locked their doors, and some immigrants are sleeping at their workplaces because they fear being stopped by federal officers on their way home. Construction sites are emptying. Mothers of newborns are sending breast milk via courier to their hospitalized infants or skipping follow-up appointments. Food banks are begging undocumented families not to come in person but to send someone else.
For Jhony and his family, the DHS sting has required painful decisions. The couple spoke to The Post on the condition that they be identified by only their first names because they fear being targeted by immigration officers. He and his wife want their five children to advance in school, but they are also terrified they could get detained while walking them there. All but one, the youngest, are undocumented.
Some days, they feel brave and go. Others, they don’t.
After the knock at the door, no one left the house for four days.
‘Invisible’
Jhony arrived in New Orleans in 2019 after he said his sister, a schoolteacher, was hacked to death by gang members with machetes after a dispute with a local leader. After the killing, Jhony said, the men began to stalk him. A vehicle no one recognized parked outside his family’s home every night. Fearful for their lives, Jhony and his wife said, they decided to head north. They closed the restaurant they ran and set out with their four children.
They crossed illegally on foot, each parent clutching two of their children. Aracely held the youngest, a 1-year-old girl.
They headed to New Orleans because they knew other Hondurans had found work there. Generations of their compatriots had made the city and its adjacent parishes home before them. Hondurans began settling here in the early 1900s as the city became a major hub for the United and Standard Fruit companies. Both enterprises had lucrative banana plantations in Honduras, and many Hondurans found work in docks and offices in New Orleans.
Another wave of migrants arrived a half-century later as Honduras was struck by political and economic instability, some of it fueled by U.S. support for the nation’s military during the Cold War, and again after Hurricane Mitch left much of the country in ruins in 1998.
The Honduran arrivals built businesses and integrated into the city’s multiethnic culture while introducing their own, one baleada — a traditional taco-like Honduran staple — at a time. And although many arrived as undocumented immigrants, in 1999, the Clinton administration granted Hondurans temporary protected status, reasoning that the widespread destruction caused by Mitch made it unsafe for many to return home. Temporary protected status was not a pathway to citizenship, but it did spare tens of thousands from deportation.
Then came Katrina. In the months and years after Hurricane Katrina, thousands of Hondurans arrived in New Orleans to work when the city needed help rebuilding entire neighborhoods destroyed by the storm. Tens of thousands of workers descended on the city, and studies estimate nearly half were immigrants and at least a quarter of all workers were undocumented Latinos. Nearly a third of the undocumented were Honduran, and large numbers stayed in the region.
“Hondurans are integral to the history of this place,” said Sarah Fouts, who is writing a book on the history of immigrant labor in New Orleans post-Katrina. “They’ve created homes and they’ve made their spaces and earned their spaces visibly in churches, through restaurants and local soccer leagues. But there are also ways in which they are invisible within the rebuilt infrastructure.”
Hondurans kept arriving even after most of the initial rebuilding was complete. Established networks of friends and family made finding jobs easier, and while some aspects of life improved in Honduras, political corruption and insecurity continued to push people out. Jhony found work within weeks of arriving. He said he worked on road and bridge repairs, home demolitions, and reconstruction. Some of it was long-delayed work from Katrina and, later, part of the recovery from Hurricane Ida in 2021.
A year later, Jhony was hired as part of a subcontracting crew to help with concrete demolition and interior renovations at the Superdome ahead of the 2025 Super Bowl.
“It felt like God had brought us here because we settled quickly,” he said.
But the commemorative statue to honor Latino immigrant workers and words of solidarity and gratitude that followed Katrina’s aftermath had begun, in recent years, to feel like relics of a time and sentiment that no longer existed. An estimated 23,000 immigrants arrived in Louisiana the last two years of the Biden administration — one of the largest influxes the state had seen in decades.
New Orleans itself had adopted policies to limit cooperation between local police and federal immigration officers, but the surrounding suburbs where many Honduran immigrants had built their homes took a different approach.
After President Donald Trump was sworn into office again in January, police departments in Kenner and Gretna signed up to partner with Immigration and Customs Enforcement through a program known as 287(g). The initiative trains local officers to carry out some of the functions of a federal immigration agent. Traffic stops ended in immigration arrests. Officers handed jail inmates over to ICE. They chased and arrested day laborers outside hardware stores.
Republican Gov. Jeff Landry and state lawmakers simultaneously pushed measures to mandate state police cooperation with federal agents in an effort to buoy the Trump administration’s mass deportation campaign. Landry argued that the Biden administration had failed to thoroughly vet the people it had allowed in, and that new immigrants were both a danger and a burden to states now responsible for providing services like education for their children.
“Entering this country illegally doesn’t make you immune from the law,” he said as Catahoula Crunch got underway. “If you commit crimes here, you face consequences — just like any citizen who breaks the law.”
Homero López, legal director of the New Orleans-based Immigration Services and Legal Advocacy organization, said it is not an exaggeration to say that nearly everyone in New Orleans has had work done on their homes or businesses by unauthorized immigrants or has hired undocumented labor. It’s not a hidden fact, he said, but it’s an inconvenient one for state and federal lawmakers who have not provided a long-term solution.
“We’re still working off of something that was built in 1965,” López said, referring to the Immigration and Nationality Act, which established the framework for immigration to the United States still used today. “The world has significantly changed in 60 years, but we haven’t really changed our immigration system very much in those same 60 years.”
Jhony and his wife contacted an immigration attorney when they arrived in New Orleans, but, despite his sister’s slaying, he said he was counseled not to file an application for asylum. To qualify, migrants must prove they face persecution based on their race, religion, nationality, political opinion or belonging to a particular social group — and the lawyer told them they probably would not meet those requirements. So they opted to wait.
His work at the Superdome paid well — when his bosses did pay, he said. But Jhony and his co-workers were routinely not paid for overtime work, and he said they lost thousands of dollars. He filed a complaint with the U.S. Department of Labor with the help of a national day laborer advocacy organization. The agency investigated the claims, finding employers violated federal overtime work laws and underpaid laborers by misclassifying them and keeping incomplete records. The workers negotiated thousands of dollars in back wages, and the victory made Jhony eligible for a Biden-era program that offered protections to workers who blow the whistle on labor violations.
Jhony got a Social Security card, work authorization and a promise from the federal government that he would not be removed to Honduras. But those protections did not offer a path to a legal status or any guarantee he wouldn’t be deported to another country. He knew he would be vulnerable when immigration agents came to town.
Fear
Drones buzzing in their suburban New Orleans neighborhood were the first unnerving signs that federal immigration officers were about to arrive. Two hovered in the backyard of their duplex apartment. Vehicles with out-of-state plates and darkly tinted windows then began circling the streets and watching as people walked their children to school. Some agents took photos of cars, neighbors, homes.
Aracely quit her part-time job at a restaurant. They scaled back meals to basics like tortillas and beans to save money. They began relying on friends and grocery delivery services to avoid trips outside the home. And they joined a neighborhood messaging group that shared tips on ICE and Border Patrol’s whereabouts.
It is a half-mile walk to the local elementary school. To get there, Aracely and two of her children, ages 7 and 9, walk past rows of townhouses and neighbors out with their dogs. The couple has tried to keep their children’s lives as normal as possible. On the days when immigration officers are not spotted nearby, Aracely feeds them breakfast, braids her daughter’s hair and escorts them to the school’s entrance.
Forecasters had warned of rain one such morning. The children threw on jackets and walked outside. Then Aracely noticed a white unmarked vehicle following them.
She turned toward the vehicle and locked eyes with a man wearing a vest, mask and cap inside.
“ICE is behind me,” she texted her husband.
The car’s engine accelerated. The driver got closer. But then, he turned.
There were sightings and scares like this all around the Jefferson Parish communities where Hondurans had made their homes. Jefferson Parish is a Republican stronghold, but among council member at-large Jennifer Van Vrancken’s constituents, the arrests sparked concern. Border Patrol officers clad in black neck gaiters pulled up over their mouths descended on a Home Depot in Kenner and a Lowe’s in Elysian Fields. They used a fire department ladder in Slidell to arrest three workers from the roof of a condominium under construction. One hotel reported that it had no housekeeping staff.
“My constituents voted for President Trump and absolutely are supportive of any effort to close the border and to get dangerous illegals out of the country,” Van Vrancken said. “But they did not envision what we have now. They are very disturbed by what seems to be a ‘pick everybody up and ask questions later’ approach.”
She said that Kenner, a city within the parish, is home to the largest Honduran community outside that country and that large numbers of them are legal residents who are too afraid to go to work amid the seemingly indiscriminate roundups. Van Vrancken said she is meeting with local law enforcement, ICE and Hispanic business leaders to learn whether there is a way to “fine-tune the process.”
“I don’t understand why the unmarked cars and masking is necessary. It just seems aimed at fear,” said Van Vrancken, who describes herself as an outspoken Republican in favor of detaining people with no legal right to be in the country. “If our everyday brave men and women can show up in a uniform and marked car, why is it any different in this scenario?”
Home builders say Catahoula Crunch is exacerbating an already steep labor crisis. Even workers who have a legal immigration status are afraid of being stopped, said Dan Mills, chief executive of the Home Builders Association of Greater New Orleans. The result is an increase in labor costs because the supply of workers is shrinking while demand remains high. He pointed to work being done by several local contractors to improve homes through a federal grant program. Projects that were estimated to cost $8,000 per home have now risen to $10,000.
“If we don’t have workers, we can’t move projects forward,” Mills said.
No Christmas lights
The day Aracely was followed had spooked them all. Jhony began checking his phone every 15 minutes for neighborhood updates. Their two older children ran home from their bus stop through the rain because they were afraid of being grabbed.
Aracely was making tortillas later that week to eat with a stew her brother-in-law had brought over. Her hands made a slight slapping sound as she molded the flour disks. Then she looked at her phone and paused.
“He’s here,” she said, walking over to her husband. “They’re here on our street.”
Border Patrol Commander Gregory Bovino was inside a giant SUV surrounded by a caravan of immigration officers and state police driving slowly on a street alongside their building.
“Don’t open your doors for anyone!” neighbors texted. “Chicos, La Migra está aquí.”
Jhony looked at his wife, whose breath began to quicken. They logged on to a live stream from local journalists following the agents with cameras. The honks from neighbors shrieked louder and louder as the caravan got close.
“Any minute now, my little one will come running down the steps,” Jhony said, and as if on cue, his 7-year-old daughter sprinted into his arms.
The immigration officers lingered and left after what felt like hours but was around 30 minutes. Two days later, Jhony went back to work. A colleague with a green card began picking him up. Each morning, he’d give Jhony a heads-up on whether La Migra was near. If they weren’t, he’d run out of his house and into the truck.
“I’m putting myself at risk every day,” he said. “Before I leave for work, I give each of my children a kiss because I don’t know if I’ll return home or not.”
The worst part, Jhony said, is watching how his children have changed. They can’t go to the park every Wednesday and Saturday as they had before to run and kick around a soccer ball. His usually rambunctious girls have grown quiet. They stopped going to church and won’t step outside into their fenced-in backyard. They don’t want to go to school.
The family spends more time together, but it’s clouded by all that’s happening and all they can’t do. Jhony and his wife don’t know how they will buy Christmas presents.
In early December, the family nonetheless started decorating their home for the holiday. They hung green Christmas garland on the wall and covered the kitchen table with a decorative cloth with images of wreaths, snowflakes and candy canes.
They put up a tree, too. But the eldest girls made a demand.
They did not want to string holiday lights.
They were too afraid it would signal to immigration officers that the family was inside.
The post For one migrant family, no Christmas lights in New Orleans appeared first on Washington Post.
