By Cami Yee
Driving through the calm streets of the quiet town of Campbell, California, I took my usual route getting back from school during my off period. The streets were sparsely scattered with cars journeying to different destinations. I drove, unassuming of any disturbance, playing my favorite music through my car speakers. As I approached an intersection near my house, large white trucks parked haphazardly on the sidewalks and in driveways caught my eye, their lights flashing and their sirens wailing silently. Alert, I quickly turned down the stereo, looking to my right in an attempt to find an explanation for the trucks. Stopping and heeding the red light, I witnessed officers, their black vests showing vinyl letters that spelled I.C.E. The dozens of officers held two men with their hands restrained behind their backs, one of them crying uncontrollably, undoubtedly detained, sitting on the curb next to the Social Security Administration building. My heart sank as I began to comprehend the situation. The other man’s face stood unwavering, and his eyes looked weary, staring at the brick wall in front of him while the other heaved in heavy sobs, unable to stop the tears falling down his face. The light turned green. I continued to drive, the scene of those men– one weeping and one resigned– lingering in my mind. My thoughts turned to the families of these men—perhaps children, spouses, friends—whose lives were now irrevocably changed by this single moment. Was there anyone waiting for them at home? Was someone looking out the window, wondering why their loved ones hadn’t returned?
After that, I realized that the real story wasn’t about policy or politics—it was about people. Real, human lives that are affected by decisions made far away from their homes. It was about the quiet fear of being torn away from everything you’ve worked for, everything you’ve built, everything you’ve loved. I couldn’t turn away from what I had witnessed. It wasn’t just about the two men sitting on the curb. It was about all those like them who might never have their stories heard, whose faces will never grace the front page of a newspaper, but whose lives are just as valuable. The heaviness of it lingered long after the moment had passed, and I couldn’t shake the sense that we all share in the responsibility of not just witnessing but of speaking out. Silence only perpetuates suffering.
As I turned onto my street and pulled into my driveway, the image of those men stayed with me. I thought of my grandparents again—what they had been through and how their courage and resilience had given me the privilege of living in a country they had come to in search of hope. I couldn’t ignore the people who still came here, searching for a better life. And with that, I knew I had to find my voice—however small—to stand up for them, to speak for those who had no voice in the face of such injustice.