‘En el nombre de dios,’ street vendors continue to work in fear amid ongoing ICE raids
ADELPHI, Md. — It’s a Monday morning in July, and a 36-year-old street vendor just outside the nation’s capital is preparing for a day of work. While she stews steak on her stove, her daughter plays in the distance with Perla, the family dog. Her husband, just a few steps away, has already begun shaving ice for her famous raspadillas.
“En el nombre de dios,” she prays before walking out the door. “In the name of God.”
The food vendor has been selling fresh fruits, shaved ice and home-cooked traditional meals from Guatemala for the past 4 years — a necessity after her husband lost his job during the peak of the coronavirus pandemic. In a week, she earns anywhere between $300 and — if she’s lucky, $800 — which is just enough for her to feed her children and make ends meet.
But this mother of five, said her job is more than just a way to make a living. It’s also a passion. She enjoys cooking and sharing her meals with her customers.
But with U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement crackdowns around the country, and in Prince George’s County where she lives, her business has seen a decline in sales, as a large part of her customer base consists of day laborers.
“Ahorita nos tratan como unos animales,” she said about the administration as she set up her stand on a sidewalk in front of a liquor store. “Right now, they treat us like animals, not people. The truth is, it does scare me.”
As she prepared a tostada for a customer, the vendor explained that her regulars often encourage her to try to obtain a work permit to legally find employment in the U.S., given that she has been in the country for 17 years. But she and her husband are scared of formalizing their status and engaging with the government during an unprecedented immigration crackdown by the Trump administration — especially now that the possibility of detention is so high.
“We are exposed to getting taken away. What will become of our children?” she said. Two of her children remain in Guatemala, where they were born. But the other three, born here, live with her and her husband. “We have seen that [the president] has no compassion. He doesn’t think about the children.”
She and her husband have discussed what would happen if either — or both — of them were to be detained by immigration enforcement officers. It’s a worst-case scenario, but one, she said, they have to plan for.
They would take their children with them to Guatemala, she said, despite dreams that her children get an American education and pursue careers in this country.
The vendor fled Guatemala 15 days after giving birth to her second child to immigrate to the United States. She made the two-month journey on La Bestia, the train, which runs from the border of Guatemala to the U.S. It is known among migrants as “the train of death,” as many who board its rusted metal roof have lost their lives and limbs on their journey to the U.S.
“I left because of the crime in our country,” she said. “We were being extorted, so my mom urged me to leave. She said ‘vete’, so I left alone.”
She was only 19 when she left.
Aboard La Bestia, she said, sleep could be a death sentence. Drifting from consciousness increases the likelihood that you could fall from the top of the train. She was lucky, she said, to find someone who tied her down to the train with a rope so she could get some rest.
After a little over a decade in the United States, the vendor now said she feels that familiar feeling of fear and uncertainty that she felt when she first left Guatemala. As a street vendor who works without an official license, she not only keeps watch for the health department, which can shut her food stand down at any moment, but she also looks over her shoulder for ICE agents.
As a precaution, she doesn’t sell alone. She works alongside a 56-year-old street vendor who also immigrated from Guatemala four years ago with her granddaughter. They set up their stand seven days a week.
Even though the future feels up in the air, the vendor said she holds on to hope and her prayers.
“No ha sido fácil venir a este país, pero tampoco ha sido difícil, siempre me he aferrado a dios y salir adelante.” she said. “Porque con dios todo es posible.”
Ashley C. Neyra is a student at Philip Merrill College of Journalism at the University of Maryland, where she is pursuing a career in photojournalism. She is also a Digital Futures Institute Fellow at Montgomery Community Media, where she is working on a documentary. Reach her at ashleyneyra21 [at] gmail [dot] com or on Instagram @ashleyneyra.media
