From Celebration to Fear: Under Executive Orders

From Celebration to Fear: Voters Reflect as Rights Erode and ICE Looms Under Executive Orders

It’s a haunting irony: the very voices that once shouted in joy for change now whisper their fears behind closed doors. When victory was declared, the streets rang with hope—flags waved, neighbours embraced, and the promise of a better tomorrow seemed almost tangible. But today, those same voices tremble, muffled by uncertainty and the looming threat of ICE vans cruising silently through neighbourhoods that once celebrated in the open.

The recent decisions—the ones handed down from the marbled chambers of the Supreme Court, the swift signatures penned into law by executive order—feel less like leadership and more like edicts from on high. Each one chips away at the Constitution’s promises, at the sense of security so many believed was theirs by right. The question lingers in every anxious glance and every quiet conversation: what have we done to America?

For some, these changes are abstract—lines in headlines, debates on talk shows. But for others, they are immediate and visceral. Families torn apart in the night, children afraid to go to school, the constant fear that celebration has turned to regret. Those who once believed their votes would build a bridge to a brighter future now find themselves hiding from the very system they helped empower.

Is this the America they dreamed of? One built on fear and exclusion, where the Constitution is rewritten not by the people, but by those who wield power unchecked? Or is there still a chance to reclaim the promise—one where democracy means protection, not persecution?

As the country grapples with these questions, one thing is clear: the story of America is not just written in courtrooms or by executive pen. It’s carried in the hearts of those who believed, those who hoped, and those who now wonder what, exactly, has been lost.

Sarge

A true Story....

Not so long ago, the neighbourhood pulsed with jubilation. The night he won, fireworks split the sky, and the stoop outside Mrs. Garcia’s bodega became the unofficial town square. People shouted, danced, and clapped each other on the back—hope and relief mingled in the chilly air. For once, it felt like someone up there was listening.

Now, months later, the same block is quieter. There are fewer parties, and the laughter is softer, cautious. Those who had waved flags and posted triumphant selfies have grown wary. ICE vans pass through in the early hours, their presence heavy and unspoken. Some friends stay inside more, others have moved away entirely. The ones who still gather at the bodega do so with one eye on the door.

When I ask Rosa—who cheered the loudest that night—how she feels now, she just shrugs, her hands twisting nervously. “We thought things would change,” she says, her voice low. “But now... now we just hope no one notices us.”

It’s a strange thing, how quickly celebration can turn to silence. How dreams of being seen can become a wish to be invisible.

Cuban Friends in Florida
Sarge