COLUMN: A 10-Year-Old Girl Torn from Her Life by ICE: Trump’s America on Trial

Impunity as a Method

Elizabeth’s story is not an isolated case. Since the beginning of 2026, at least six children have been arrested by ICE in the Minneapolis area alone, including a 5-year-old boy, Liam Conejo Ramos, who was also transported to Texas before being released under pressure from the media and judges. “ICE does not target children,” the agency defends itself in a terse statement. Yet the facts speak for themselves: children are indeed being arrested. They are indeed being deported. They are indeed being traumatized. “They’re using children as bait,” denounces a human rights lawyer, referring to Liam’s case, in which agents pulled him out of the car to force his father to open the door. “It’s a deliberate tactic,” he adds. “They know it hurts. They know it’s shocking. But they don’t care. Because they have impunity.” An impunity that comes from the top. “Trump has given ICE carte blanche,” a Democratic lawmaker points out. “He has made cruelty a matter of state policy. And now, children are paying the price.”

I think about this impunity. About this carte blanche. About this cruelty elevated to a method. And I tell myself: this is what a system becomes when it no longer has any limits. When it is no longer accountable. When it no longer has a conscience. Because ICE isn’t an agency. It’s a machine. A machine that crushes lives. A machine that tears families apart. A machine that traumatizes children. And the worst part is that it acts in the name of the law. In the name of order. In the name of security. As if injustice could be justified by legality. As if barbarism could be legalized. As if children could be turned into enemies. And I wonder: where is the limit? Where is the red line? When do we finally say, “Enough”? Because Elizabeth—she’s not an exception. She’s the rule. She’s the logical outcome of a system that has chosen fear. That has chosen repression. That has chosen to turn children into collateral damage. And that is the worst kind of decline: when a country goes so far as to sacrifice its own values on the altar of security. When it goes so far as to forget that justice isn’t just a law. It’s also a moral compass. Humanity. Dignity.

When Teachers Become the Last Line of Defense

In response to these arrests, schools in Minneapolis are taking action. “We can no longer remain silent,” says the principal of Elizabeth’s school, who tried in vain to reach her after she failed to show up. “These children are our students. They are part of our community. We have a duty to protect them.” Teachers are organizing vigils. Parents are protesting outside ICE offices. “They’ve stolen our children,” chants a mother, tears in her eyes. “They’ve stolen our trust. They’ve stolen our sense of security.” Yet, despite the outrage, the arrests continue. “ICE acts with complete impunity,” a teacher denounces. “They know we can’t do anything. They know the law is on their side. So they keep going. And every time, a little more of our humanity dies.”

I think of these teachers. These school principals. These parents. These ordinary people who, suddenly, find themselves on the front lines. Who find themselves having to protect children from their own government. And I tell myself: this is what a society becomes when the state fails. When institutions betray us. When laws become weapons. Because they didn’t choose this fight. They didn’t sign up for this. They just wanted to educate children. To watch them grow. To watch them thrive. And now, they have to defend them. They have to hide them. They have to protect them. Because ICE—it protects no one. It defends no one. It serves no one. It only breaks. Destroys. Traumatizes. And I wonder: How far will this go? How far will this scorched-earth policy go? How far will this hunt for children go? Because Elizabeth isn’t a threat. She’s a victim. A victim of a system that has lost its soul. A victim of a country that has forgotten what it means to protect its own. And that is the worst defeat of all: when those who should be educating must fight. When those who should be learning must live in fear. When those who should be growing up must simply survive.

A Month Too Long

After a month in detention, Elizabeth and her mother are finally released. “It’s a victory,” their lawyer says, relieved. “But it’s a bittersweet victory. Because a month, for a 10-year-old, is an eternity.” Elizabeth returns home. She’s reunited with her father. Her school. Her toys. But she’s not the same anymore. “I don’t feel safe anymore,” she admits, her eyes downcast. “I’m afraid they’ll come back.” Her father, meanwhile, is angry. “They stole a month of her life from us,” he thunders. “A month during which she thought we’d abandoned her. A month during which she lived in fear. A month we’ll never get back.” Yet, despite her release, the fight continues. “There are still children out there,” a activist reminds us. “Children who are crying. Children who are afraid. Children who are waiting. And we cannot forget them.”

I think about this rescue. About this relief. About this reunion. And I tell myself: it’s too late. Too late to erase the fear. Too late to give back that stolen month. Too late to heal the wounds. Because Elizabeth will never be the same again. She’ll never look at police officers the same way again. She’ll never trust anyone the same way again. She’ll never live without that shadow again. Without that fear. Without that memory. And I wonder: how can we call this a victory? How can we celebrate this? Because a release isn’t justice. It’s an admission of failure. An admission that the system failed. An admission that we allowed the unacceptable to happen. An admission that we’ve allowed children to become victims of our laws. And that is unacceptable. Because Elizabeth deserves better. She deserves a childhood free from fear. Free from trauma. Free from nightmares. She deserves an America that protects her. Not an America that drives her away. Not an America that treats her like a criminal. Not an America that lets her down.

A Divided Congress Faces the Horror

In Congress, Elizabeth’s case has sparked an outcry. “It’s a disgrace,” thunders a Democratic senator. “We can no longer turn a blind eye to what ICE is doing.” Bills are being introduced to limit the agency’s powers, to ban the arrest of children, and to regulate detention conditions. But Republicans are blocking everything. “These people are here illegally,” retorts a pro-Trump lawmaker. “They must face the consequences.” A response that makes your blood run cold. “We’re talking about children,” protests a female lawmaker. “We’re talking about shattered lives. We’re talking about trauma that will last a lifetime. And you—you’re talking about consequences?” Yet, despite the outrage, nothing changes. “Trump has locked down the system,” notes an analyst. “As long as he’s in power, ICE will continue. And children will continue to suffer.”

I watch these debates. These speeches. These deadlocks. And I think to myself: this is what politics becomes when it forgets its humanity. When it becomes a game. A calculation. A strategy. Because Elizabeth—she’s not a pawn. She’s not an argument. She’s a child. A child who has suffered. A child who has been afraid. A child who has been betrayed. And I wonder: where is the dignity? Where is the decency? When will we finally say: enough is enough? Because laws can be changed. Policies can be reversed. Systems can be reformed. But trauma—that remains. It leaves its mark. It destroys. And Elizabeth will carry that with her for the rest of her life. That fear. That shame. That injustice. And that is the worst kind of responsibility: the responsibility of those who know. Who see. Who understand. And who do nothing. Who say nothing. Who let it happen. Because Elizabeth deserves better. She deserves an America that stands up. That speaks out. That resists. That says: No. Not in our name. Not with our laws. Not with our money. Not with our silence.

When Childhood Becomes a Battlefield

For Elizabeth, the ordeal doesn’t end with her release. “She has nightmares,” her father confides. “She jumps at the slightest noise. She’s afraid of uniforms. She’s afraid someone will come to take her away. ” Psychologists refer to this as post-traumatic stress disorder. “These children will carry this with them for the rest of their lives,” warns an expert. “They’ll grow up with this fear. With this mistrust. With this feeling that they aren’t safe.” Yet, despite the aftereffects, Elizabeth is trying to get back to a normal life. “I want to go back to school,” she whispers. “I want to see my friends again.” But her father knows that nothing will ever be the same. “They stole her innocence,” he says, his voice breaking. “And no one will ever be able to give that back to her.”

I think about these lasting effects. About these nightmares. About this fear that won’t go away. And I tell myself: this is the true cost of these policies. Not in dollars. Not in votes. But in broken lives. In stolen childhoods. In traumas that will never heal. Because Elizabeth—she won’t forget. She won’t forget those men in uniform. Those handcuffs. Those walls. Those indifferent stares. She won’t forget that one day, people came and told her she had no right to exist. That she had no right to be a child. That she had no right to be safe. And I ask myself: how can anyone call this policy? How can you call that security? Because security isn’t about children who are afraid. It isn’t about families torn apart. It isn’t about lives shattered. Security is about children growing up without fear. Families living together. Lives flourishing. And that is what we’ve lost. What we’ve sacrificed. What we’ve betrayed. Because Elizabeth deserves better. She deserves an America that protects her. That respects her. That lets her grow up. That tells her: You have the right to exist. You have the right to be a child. You have the right to be safe. And that is the only America worth defending.

When Anger Turns into Action

In the face of horror, voices are speaking out. Lawyers are mobilizing. Teachers are resisting. Parents are protesting. “We won’t let this happen,” declares a coalition of organizations, which is preparing class-action lawsuits against ICE. “We’re going to document every case. Every arrest. Every trauma. And we’re going to take them to court.” Cities like Minneapolis are declaring their schools “sanctuary zones,” off-limits to ICE agents. “We’ll protect our children,” the mayor promises. “Even if it means taking on the government.” Yet the fight will be a long one. “Trump has created a machine,” a activist points out. “And machines don’t just stop overnight. But we won’t give up. Because Elizabeth isn’t alone. Because Liam isn’t alone either. Because all these children have the right to grow up without fear. And we have a duty to protect them.”

I end this article thinking about these acts of resistance. About these voices that are speaking out. About these hands reaching out. And I tell myself: this is what hope is. Not in speeches. Not in promises. But in action. In refusal. In anger that turns into a fight. Because Elizabeth isn’t a victim. She’s a reason to fight. A reason to say no. A reason to resist. Because Liam, too, is not a statistic. He is a face. A name. A life. And these lives are worth standing up for. Worth shouting about. Worth fighting for. Worth refusing to turn a blind eye to. Because America is not Trump. It is not ICE. It’s not fear. America is those who refuse to be silenced. Those who refuse to give in. Those who, despite the threats, despite the laws, despite the walls, continue to believe in justice. In dignity. In humanity. So today, I choose to fight. Not with weapons. Not with laws. But with words. With voices. With hearts. Because that’s how we win. Not by crushing. But by lifting up. Not by dividing. But by uniting. Not by hating. But by loving. By loving these children enough to never let them down. By loving this America enough to never let it become what it is not.

When a Child Becomes the Symbol of a Nation That Has Lost Its Way

The story of Elizabeth Zuna Caisaguano is the story of an America that has lost its way. An America that has chosen fear. That has chosen repression. That has chosen to sacrifice its children on the altar of its laws. “We didn’t deserve this,” she said. And she’s right. No one deserves this. No one deserves to be torn from their family. No one deserves to live in fear. No one deserves to grow up with nightmares. Yet today, thousands of children like her are living this reality. Today, thousands of families like hers are enduring this violence. Today, America must choose: either it continues down this path, or it wakes up, or it remembers what it’s supposed to be. A nation of laws, yes. But also a nation of justice. A nation of compassion. A nation that protects its children—that lets them grow up—that tells them: you are safe. You belong here. You are legitimate. Because Elizabeth deserves that. She deserves an America that stands up for her. That respects her. That loves her. And that is the only fight worth fighting.

I don’t know what the future holds for Elizabeth. I don’t know if ICE will ever be reformed. I don’t know if Trump will ever be arrested. But I know one thing: today, Elizabeth made a difference. She forced America to look its demons in the face. She forced people to stand up. To speak out. To resist. And that is a victory. Not a political victory. Not a legal victory. But a human victory. A victory that says: we won’t let you get away with this. We won’t let our children become your victims. We won’t let our country become a nightmare. Because Elizabeth isn’t a criminal. She’s a child. A child who has the right to grow up. A child who has the right to be happy. A child who has the right to be safe. And that is the only America worth living in—the one that fights for its children. The one that protects them. The one that tells them: You belong here. You belong here. You are loved. So today, I choose to believe in this America. Not Trump’s America. Not ICE’s America. Not the America of fear. But Elizabeth’s America. The America of those who refuse to remain silent. The America of those who, despite everything, continue to believe in justice. In dignity. In humanity.

Signed, Jacques Provost