Unidos Immokalee: Grassroots Resilience in Florida’s Immigrant Communities

Detentions Spur Warnings and Outcry

Immokalee, FL (August 2025) – In this rural farm town, a grassroots group called Unidos Immokalee is sounding the alarm over immigration crackdowns and detention conditions. Recently, community organizers shared reports of “inhumane conditions” at the Krome detention center in Miami – accounts relayed by locals who had been detained there . “Inhumane conditions at KROME detention center, this information was just reported to us by locals who were detained last week,” the group wrote on social media. “This is not new news… but it shouldn’t continue to be ignored.” Reports from inside Krome describe overcrowding and mistreatment so extreme that some detainees beg to be deported rather than endure more time there . Former detainees and their families have described conditions including:

• Minimal food and water: Migrants held at Krome say they face extreme shortages of food and liquids, sometimes receiving only a bag of chips per day .

• Limited contact: Detainees report severely restricted phone access, with calls as short as one minute, leaving families in agonizing uncertainty.

• Unsanitary confinement: With overcrowded cells and insufficient bathrooms, people have been forced to go without proper toilets or showers for days . Some accounts even describe being chained on buses for hours without restroom access, resulting in humiliating situations.

• Threats and fear: Guards allegedly threatened detainees with years-long detention. Many held at Krome say it “felt like hell on earth”, where they are “treated like dogs” and sleep on floors or under bright lights 24/7 .

These firsthand stories echo broader findings by human rights investigators. In fact, Florida’s largest ICE detention facility at Krome has a notorious record. Just this year, multiple migrants have died after being held at Krome , and a recent Human Rights Watch report documented how detainees were denied proper food, hygiene, and medical care . Lawyers recount women packed into intake rooms with no beds or privacy, even instructed to relieve themselves on buses during transfers . Such conditions flagrantly violate ICE’s own detention standards and basic human rights, advocates say . Unidos Immokalee has joined the growing chorus demanding oversight and humane treatment. The group’s members stood in solidarity with detainees during recent protests outside Krome, where dozens of people gathered to decry the “cruelty as a deterrent” approach .

At the same time, Unidos Immokalee is busy alerting neighbors closer to home. Over the past weeks, rumors of ICE agents in Immokalee and nearby LaBelle have spread panic on social media. One blurry photo circulating in a local Facebook group appeared to show white SUVs and armed officers at an Immokalee apartment complex – fueling fears that immigration raids were underway . In response, community organizations including Unidos Immokalee issued urgent warnings about possible ICE sightings and shared “Know Your Rights” information in both English and Spanish . “Be careful and share with your friends and family,” one post warned, urging people to remain at home if unsure of law enforcement activity in the area. Even local schools have taken notice: a nearby Immokalee charter school sent texts to parents that ICE agents were reportedly spotted in several Southwest Florida communities, advising families to “remember [they] have the right to remain silent” . While immigration officials would not confirm any specific operations, the scare has left many afraid to even go to the grocery store. “I’d rather stay at home… Hang on a few more days with dirty clothes,” one Immokalee resident wrote on Facebook during the scare . Unidos Immokalee’s rapid alerts helped disseminate critical information and a sense of solidarity, even as local TV reporters found no official confirmation of raids in Immokalee that day .

Families Torn Apart — and Supported by Community

Behind these alerts and advocacy are real families experiencing devastating upheavals. Last week, ICE took the father of an Immokalee family, a farmworking dad who was the household’s main provider. “He was the main provider, as mom faces medical challenges. Now the children are left to find ways to survive,” Unidos Immokalee wrote, sharing the family’s plight in an appeal to the community. The detained father is beloved as a hard-working, well-respected man who “always put us first no matter what,” his children say. Now his wife – who recently underwent major surgery and can barely walk – and their young kids are scrambling to pay rent, afford groceries, and keep hope alive.

One of the older children, a teenager, has stepped up to work extra hours to keep the family afloat, even as he tries to stay in school. “Our mother… is not able to work because of her legs,” the family explained in a public letter, noting she faces at least one more surgery and mounting medical bills【21†】. “Now I (the eldest son) and my brother will have to work more to be able to support our family… We will do our best to get through this situation.” In Immokalee, stories like this are becoming all too common – breadwinners suddenly detained, leaving wives, children or elderly parents in crisis. But the community is not standing by idly. Unidos Immokalee and its network have mobilized to support these families with everything from fundraising for medical and legal expenses to organizing rides and food deliveries. Volunteers regularly drive relatives to visit detained loved ones or attend court hearings, and they show up with groceries or rent assistance for those who’ve lost income overnight. “Many families are hurting right now. Showing a bit of compassion goes a long way,” one community leader posted, urging neighbors to donate if they can .

In the case of the Immokalee father taken last week, Unidos Immokalee helped amplify the family’s fundraiser and connected them with resources. “We are extremely grateful for any and every donation,” the family wrote, conscious that they are not alone in this ordeal. “We are aware that others have also been affected by this same situation, and we pray and hope that we will all get through this together. We love and miss you, Dad.” Amid the heartbreak, such words reflect a spirit of unity. For Unidos Immokalee, that is exactly the point of their work – to ensure no family has to suffer in isolation. The group has even expanded its support into neighboring Hendry County, coordinating with immigrant families in LaBelle, FL, another agricultural town facing similar challenges. Social media posts show Unidos Immokalee offering transportation for LaBelle families in need of rides and sharing bilingual updates for both communities, effectively bridging a rural region often overlooked in policy debates.

Roots of Organizing in Immokalee

Unidos Immokalee’s activism did not emerge in a vacuum – it draws on decades of organizing tradition in Immokalee. This unincorporated town of about 25,000 has long been the heart of Southwest Florida’s tomato and citrus fields, relying on migrant labor from Mexico, Guatemala, Haiti, and beyond . Harsh conditions and low wages in the fields gave rise to earlier movements like the Coalition of Immokalee Workers in the 1990s, which famously fought for farmworker labor rights. But even before that, Immokalee’s residents were pushing back against exploitation. In a 1977 incident known locally as the “Devil’s Garden” arrests, a group of farmworkers from Immokalee and nearby Hendry County were thrown in jail simply for protesting abusive work conditions on a ranch. “Around forty-five of us were arrested at Devil’s Garden… when we protested the horrible working conditions and demanded our lost wages,” recalls Cristina Vazquez, a longtime Immokalee advocate . Faced with deputies pointing rifles at them, the farmworkers reached out to a local community center for help. It was a pivotal moment – veteran labor organizers intervened and, with legal aid, got the workers released . Many of those involved, like the Vazquez family, remained active in community advocacy for decades, teaching their children the importance of standing up for dignity and justice.

Fast-forward to the present, and Immokalee once again found itself at the center of Florida’s immigration battles. In 2023, Governor Ron DeSantis signed Senate Bill 1718, a sweeping law targeting undocumented immigrants in the state . The law – considered among the nation’s harshest – tightened employment verification, criminalized transporting undocumented people, and even required hospitals to ask about patients’ immigration status . The passage of SB 1718 sent a shockwave through communities like Immokalee. Fears of workplace raids and family separations spiked, and some immigrant workers fled the state. But in Immokalee, it also ignited resistance. Unidos Immokalee was at the forefront of the response, helping organize one of Florida’s largest-ever protests against anti-immigrant legislation. In June 2023, as SB 1718’s implementation loomed, the group coordinated a “Day Without Immigrants” march that drew an estimated 7,000 people into the streets of Immokalee . Local farmworkers, families, and allies from across Florida joined in chanting and carrying signs that read “Justice for Immigrants” and “We Are Humans” . They marched roughly two miles through town under the summer sun, bringing everyday business to a halt . It was a show of unity and defiance – signaling that immigrant families would not be driven into the shadows without a fight.

Beyond large protests, Unidos Immokalee and partner groups took creative action. They held candlelight vigils for immigrant rights and launched a “Know Your Rights” flyer campaign, blanketing churches, stores, and neighborhoods with information on what to do if approached by ICE . These efforts were about empowering neighbors with knowledge and a sense of agency. “We wanted to do things the right way… but it all basically felt like a trap,” one local man, Josué Aguilar, told Human Rights Watch after he was detained despite trying to adjust his status legally . Stories like his – of long-time residents suddenly treated like criminals – reinforced why community education and legal resources are so critical. Unidos Immokalee volunteers began organizing “Know Your Rights” workshops and legal clinics, sometimes in partnership with churches and civil rights attorneys. They helped families prepare emergency plans (like designating guardians for children in case parents were detained) and distributed hotline numbers to report ICE activity. “Social justice movements have always been present in Immokalee, advocating for the rights and dignity of its people,” notes Ariana Ávila, an anthropologist who documented the town’s recent activism . “These movements are crucial in highlighting the community’s struggles and pushing for meaningful change.”

That spirit of organizing has only grown stronger in the face of new threats. When a series of immigration raids hit Immokalee in August 2025, Unidos Immokalee members were among those who leapt into action. As law enforcement officers – from Florida Highway Patrol to Border Patrol – swarmed the local State Farmers’ Market in a coordinated operation, community members spread the word and even confronted agents. “Immokalee is filled with law enforcement right now pulling people over,” one activist warned through a megaphone as protesters gathered at the market fence . According to eyewitnesses, officers were targeting farmworkers picking saw palmetto berries, pulling over their vans under the pretext of checking harvesting permits, then asking everyone for ID . Those who could not produce valid papers were arrested on the spot . “Get out of my community,” one protester shouted at the agents across the fence, captured on video . The Collier County Sheriff’s Office later confirmed that state and federal teams had conducted an operation that evening and that deputies were called in only once residents began protesting . For many in Immokalee, it was a chilling demonstration of the new law’s reach – a scene of neighbors being rounded up at gunpoint from a workplace, reminiscent of the darkest days in local memory. Yet it was also a galvanizing moment: by the next day, more people were driving around town honking horns and warning others to stay indoors if they spotted unmarked vehicles . The message was clear – the community would protect its own however possible.

Resisting Profiling and Defending Human Rights

Florida authorities insist their crackdown is aimed only at “criminal aliens,” but on the ground advocates see a different reality. “This is not going around sweeping up people from their homes and schools,” Collier County officials claim – pointing to the 287(g) program that trained local deputies to turn over felons to ICE, resulting in 7,500+ deportations since 2007 . “We’re not talking about good, hard-working people… [but] people involved in everything from domestic violence to child molestation,” Sheriff Kevin Rambosk said in February while outlining plans to expand local immigration enforcement . Nonetheless, immigrant rights groups argue that in practice, the dragnet catches many without serious records. Recent incidents in Immokalee and LaBelle show that even routine traffic stops or minor infractions can lead to detention. In one case, a group of six Hispanic landscaping workers were pulled over in LaBelle while driving to a job site; four were promptly handed to ICE when deputies discovered they lacked legal status . Their employer, who lost his entire crew that morning, said only one had a prior deportation; the rest were simply longtime employees trying to earn a living . In another instance, a young Immokalee mother pseudonymously called “Rosa” was stopped for allegedly speeding on her way to work. Officers asked for her immigration papers – a request far outside the scope of a normal traffic stop – and when she couldn’t produce them, they arrested her for not having a driver’s license and turned her over to ICE . “I feel depressed, I feel anxious… They’re taking away the most humble, hard-working people,” one Immokalee resident lamented in Spanish after witnessing recent arrests . Advocates say this amounts to racial profiling – that law enforcement are effectively using the color of someone’s skin, or the Spanish they speak, as reason to demand “papers” during trivial encounters. “Even when our truck was broken into… we didn’t report it,” Rosa’s partner told researchers, explaining their fear of any contact with police under these policies . “We couldn’t risk it. We’re just trying to stay invisible.”

Unidos Immokalee formed precisely to challenge this climate of fear. The group, whose name means “United for Immokalee,” describes itself as “a collective of people coming together to elevate voices and demand change.” They have become a fixture at community meetings and county hearings, pushing back on policies that encourage cooperation with ICE. When Collier County’s sheriff proposed turning the old Immokalee jail into an ICE detention facility earlier this year, activists from Immokalee and LaBelle showed up at the county commission meeting to voice concern . They argued that such moves further intimidate immigrant residents and could lead to indiscriminate round-ups under the guise of targeting criminals. (Notably, civil rights groups like the ACLU have warned that Florida’s SB 1718 and related measures encourage vigilante-style enforcement and racial profiling against anyone who “looks undocumented.”) Unidos Immokalee members often highlight that immigrant labor is central to Florida’s economy – from fields to construction to hospitality – and that treating these community members as disposable is both morally wrong and economically short-sighted. As evidence, they point to the visible workforce shortages and crop losses that followed the enactment of SB 1718, when many undocumented workers fled the state in fear. In Immokalee’s produce fields, crews have dwindled this season, and some crops went unharvested  , local farmers say, due to lack of labor. “We invite everybody here the right way… If you’re coming to commit crimes, we don’t want you,” Sheriff Rambosk insists . But community advocates respond that the vast majority of Immokalee’s immigrants are in fact “good, hard-working people” seeking a better life, now thrust into chaos by heavy-handed policies.

Beyond challenging enforcement tactics, Unidos Immokalee frames its work as part of a larger human rights struggle. By documenting abuses in detention centers like Krome and Glades, by protesting family separations, and by aiding those in need, the group emphasizes the humanity of immigrants often lost in political debates. They have partnered with faith leaders and civil liberties attorneys across Southwest Florida, and they amplify voices of those directly affected – from detainees speaking out about poor treatment to children writing letters to their detained parents. This grassroots advocacy aligns with the warnings of major human rights organizations. A July 2025 Human Rights Watch report concluded that conditions at Florida’s immigration detention centers “flagrantly violate” U.S. standards and international human rights obligations, including the ICCPR and the Convention Against Torture . Unidos Immokalee’s volunteers, though small in number, aim to hold authorities accountable to those standards. They frequently call for independent inspections of facilities and have supported campaigns to shut down the most egregious private detention centers. Their social media pages mix local alerts with calls to action: petitions to stop deportations, rallies at the state capitol, and phone zaps to legislators to demand reform.

“United” for a Dignified Future

As the sun sets behind the flat farmlands of Immokalee and LaBelle, the work of Unidos Immokalee continues in church halls, parking lots, and family kitchens. Organizers load trucks with donated supplies for families in hiding. They meet with attorneys to coordinate legal aid. They console children who cry each night for a parent in detention. It is grassroots, often heart-wrenching labor, but it is fueled by hope and solidarity. “Power in community,” one Unidos Immokalee post reads, showing volunteers gathered in a circle. “In the midst of ICE raids, fear, and family separations, taking time to rest and recharge in community is powerful.” The challenges are immense. Florida’s political climate remains hostile – Governor DeSantis has doubled down on the idea that mass detention and deportation are the path to law and order, even as rights groups decry the human cost. Yet, the people of Immokalee and LaBelle are not backing down.

If anything, the crackdowns have forged stronger bonds among these working-class immigrant families. From staging vigils to ferrying neighbors to immigration check-ins, the community is learning to protect and empower itself. Unidos Immokalee, true to its name, is helping disparate threads – Latino, Indigenous Maya, Haitian, Anglo allies, and others – weave into a united fabric. Each arrest or raid is met with a rapid response network; each injustice is met with louder calls for justice. Local observers note that this movement is as much about preserving basic human dignity as it is about immigration policy. When mothers and fathers can live without fear of being ripped from their children, when workers can labor without exploitation, and when no one is treated as “less than human” in a jail cell, the entire community thrives.

For now, Unidos Immokalee’s fight presses on one family at a time. The group’s members are in touch with the wife and kids of the detained Immokalee father, making sure they have food, arranging medical help for the mother, and helping the older son find a stable job. They celebrate small victories – a successful bond hearing here, a postponed deportation there – even as they brace for the next emergency call. Through it all, they keep raising the same message the Immokalee protesters chanted in Spanish and English back in 2023: “Somos humanos.” We are human. It is both a plea and a declaration of resolve: to be seen, heard, and treated with the dignity that every family deserves, regardless of immigration status. And in this corner of Florida, thanks to groups like Unidos Immokalee, that truth is impossible to ignore.

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