ICE deported my husband. Our everything is gone, and we are unraveling.
This is not just an immigration issue. This is an issue of basic humanity. It is the brutal unraveling of a family.
Daniel
Flores-Martinez and Kenia Guerrero, a US citizen, have three children,
including a 12-year-old daughter with multiple disabilities.Kenia Guerrero
Kenia Guerrero is co-owner of a painting business in Chelsea.
On
Mother’s Day, May 11, my life fell apart. What should have been a day
to celebrate family unity culminated in family separation at the hands
of Immigration and Customs Enforcement in Chelsea.
That
morning, my husband, Daniel Flores-Martinez, noticed suspicious cars
parked down the street from our home, but we continued our daily
activities. We prepared ourselves to head to church. My husband helped
our three children get into the car, including our 12-year-old daughter,
who lives with multiple disabilities. A few minutes after driving away,
we saw flashing lights behind us. I pulled over.
Suddenly,
the suspicious cars my husband had seen surrounded us. Masked, armed
officers swarmed our vehicle from both sides. One of them asked for my
identification, but he was clearly interested in my husband, not me. He
insisted on knowing who my husband was.
I
know my rights as a US citizen, and as the driver, I asked why they
wanted to know about a passenger. I asked who they were and why our car
had been stopped. But I received no answers. Within moments, one of the
officers raised what looked like a weapon and used it to tap the glass
of the passenger window, suddenly threatening to break it. I begged them
not to use violence because my children were in the back seat.
Without any regard for our safety, they smashed the passenger-side window.
Glass
shards flew into the car, even into the back seat, where our children
were sitting. They screamed. We were all terrified. Within seconds, ICE
officers physically reached inside the vehicle through the shattered
window and unlocked the front passenger door. Then the officers opened
the door and unbuckled Daniel’s seat belt. They forcefully yanked him
out of the car. They slammed him face down onto the sidewalk, their
knees pressed into his back, even though he never resisted. A bystander
captured it all on video.
I
ran out to see what was happening, but an officer restrained me. I
pleaded with her, saying, “Aren’t you a mother?” But the officers did
not stop. My children sobbed as the officers arrested Daniel, taking him
away. No one ever told us who they were. No one showed a warrant. And
just like that, Daniel was gone.
Now he has been deported. And we are left behind.
Daniel, an undocumented immigrant, was deported to Matamoros, Mexico — even though he has no ties there.
Daniel
is a loving father and a devoted husband, and he helps run our small
family painting business. He is the backbone of our home, community, and
church. His sudden and violent removal has left our family in crisis —
medically, emotionally, and economically.
Our
daughter is disabled. She lives with epilepsy, hydrocephalus, and
cerebral palsy. These conditions require constant medical care and
hands-on support. She cannot dress or bathe without assistance. Daniel
provided all this care unassumingly, with love and diligence, every
single day.
Since
he was taken, our daughter’s condition has worsened. Her mental health
has deteriorated. She lacks motivation to attend school and has a hard
time focusing in class. How can anyone blame her? Her father is gone.
I
am doing my best, but I am now the sole caregiver to our children — our
daughter and two sons, ages 14 and 3— and I am struggling.
Daniel’s deportation has devastated us. Lawyers for Civil Rights is providing us with free legal support, and La Colaborativa is helping us with vital community support during this crisis.
Our
youngest son refuses to ride in the car, haunted by the memory of what
happened. Our teenager has withdrawn from school and friends. We’ve lost
our only source of income: The painting business Daniel and I built
together. I cannot sleep. I cannot afford to keep up with our daughter’s
care. I am holding everything together by a thread. Why would the
government separate our family?
Because
Daniel was undocumented, he was detained at the Wyatt Detention
Facility in Central Falls, R.I. We begged ICE to let us have one year to
transition our daughter’s complex medical care from Boston Medical
Center to cerebral palsy specialists in Mexico. Daniel committed to
self-deportation at the end of that period. He asked only to stay long
enough to ensure that our daughter’s care would not be interrupted in
ways that could trigger further harm to her health, including seizures.
At
every turn, we were ignored. No one listened to our plea, despite
extensive medical evidence. No one considered the trauma to our
children. No one thought about the danger to a disabled child who now
must be medically relocated to Mexico as our family plans to reunite
with Daniel.
Daniel
posed no threat. He was not a flight risk. He had lived peacefully in
our community for years. He was our provider. Our caregiver. Our
everything.
Now he is gone. And we are unraveling.
This
is not just an immigration issue. This is an issue of basic humanity.
It is the brutal unraveling of a family. It is the abandonment of a
disabled child. It is the erasure of the care, love, and labor that
immigrant fathers like Daniel give every day — unseen, unrecognized,
and, now, violently taken.
We are still here. We are still trying to survive.
Please remember Daniel Flores-Martinez’s name. And please remember what the federal government has done to our family.
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