Remembrance is resistance
(7/17/2026) – This month, in less than a week, Immigration and Customs Enforcement killed two immigrants. On July 7th in Houston, Texas, agents in unmarked vehicles pursued, shot and killed Lorenzo Salgado Araujo, a man originally from Mexico, on his way to work. His brother was sitting on the passenger seat when he was shot. Salgado was 59, and left behind his wife and three children.
This Monday in Maine, masked ICE agents shot and killed Joan Sebastián Durán Guerrero, who was originally from Colombia. He and his wife were on their way to drop their three-year-old daughter, in her Bluey pajamas, off at daycare. Both his wife and daughter were in the car when ICE attacked them, and witnessed Durán’s death. Durán was 26.
When you first look up Salgado, the same picture always pops up. A man sporting a light pink polo shirt and a grin at his home, leaning on a table. In front of him is a cake adorned with strawberries, a cherry and two candles signifying his 52nd birthday. At my home, there’s a picture that shows a similar scene. This time, it’s my brother cutting a chocolate cake, which a 13-year old me hungrily stares down. Towering over us is our dad — a gentle giant donning a brown polo shirt — looking down at us, grinning. The pictures depict two different birthdays, with different colors and different cakes. But the warm, assuring smile is the same.
In Salgado, I see my father, who I lost on August 1st, 2019 to heart disease.
When we read the headlines, all we see on the surface are the details of the tragedy. What had happened. When it happened. Where it happened. Perhaps we click on the article and read further, learn who it happened to. But any single death is not a singular event. It’s the absence of a door creaking open, the clangering sound of keys when your loved one comes back home from work. It’s the loss of their warm embrace, their sage wisdom, their booming laugh. For Durán’s young daughter, it will be an empty seat at every birthday, every graduation, every major milestone.
Putting yourself in someone else’s shoes is painful. Speaking up is scary. And nowadays, with a constant barrage of dire headlines hitting your notifications, outrage becomes tiresome. That’s certainly how I feel some days. The medley of emotions — sadness, anger, fear — feels futile when there seems to be no way to actually enact change.
That feeling reminded me of another incident that happened a few weeks back, in early June. I was on my way back home, after meeting a friend who was visiting D.C. for the week. Across the local metro station, a group of uniformed men surrounded someone. The man wore simple clothes — a black t-shirt, a cap and red shorts. Next to him was what I assumed was his bike, which had a DoorDash bag fastened to its back. I decided to sit down at a nearby bench and watch the scene unfold.
What has stuck with me was the sheer plainness of it all. Over the course of about half an hour, about two or three passersby shouted at the uniformed men, while the men barked at them to go away. Some stood by for a minute or so to stand witness. The rest simply walked by. By the end of the half-hour, the officers placed the apprehended man in a car and drove away. A few moments later, a tow truck came and took away his bike. As I began walking away from the scene, the city continued to carry on as usual. It was as if nothing had happened. A man was simply smudged out of existence.
When I returned home, the numbness turned into guilt. Why didn’t I speak up? Why didn’t I record the whole thing? Why didn’t I try to do more? At a certain point, I tried to stop thinking about it, and went to bed. Beating myself over it won’t do much. The day after will hold its own challenges, and I needed to save my energy to face them.
Another friend had asked me, a college student studying politics, how I cope with all the depressing news. To be frank, I am still trying to figure it out. Some days I tend to block out my feelings. But other days, when I feel stronger, I let myself feel angry, sad and scared. In a sense, to me, to feel is my civic duty. Injustice prevails when the unaware remain willfully ignorant and the aware become knowingly apathetic.
In these somber days, I expect us to act. But action doesn’t necessarily have to be some bombastic display of defiance. We can act in small ways. We can start by learning about the lives lived beyond the headlines. When ICE tries to erase the existence of its victims, remembrance itself is resistance. Compassion is defiance. Belief in humanity brings hope for better times.
Rest in peace, Mr. Salgado and Mr. Duran. I hope you all keep them, their families and every victim of ICE in your thoughts.
The American Humanist Association
The American Humanist Association (AHA) works to protect the rights of Humanists, atheists, and other nontheistic Americans. The AHA advances the ethical and life-affirming worldview of Humanism, which—without beliefs in gods or other supernatural forces—encourages individuals to live informed and meaningful lives that aspire to the greater good of humanity.
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