[[link removed]]

INSIDE CHICAGO’S NEIGHBORHOOD ICE RESISTANCE  
[[link removed]]


 

Melissa Gira Grant
December 14, 2025
The New Republic
[[link removed]]


*
[[link removed]]
*
*
[[link removed]]

_ Residents have organized a formidable network to protect immigrant
communities from Trump’s brutal deportation program. Their efforts
are making a genuine difference. _

On October 14, federal agents blanketed a neighborhood on the South
Side of Chicago in tear gas., JAMIE KELTER DAVIS/THE NEW YORK TIMES

 

Lucy says she starts early because ICE starts early. It’s around
eight o’clock one Thursday morning in late October, at a coffee shop
in Back of the Yards
[[link removed]],
a neighborhood on Chicago’s Southwest Side. Taped inside the
shop’s glass door, a sign warns ICE not to enter without a judicial
warrant. (The agents very rarely bother to get one.) More signs
surround it: “Hands Off Chicago”; “Migra: Fuera de Chicago”;
the phone number to report ICE activity. (These are all over town.)
Free whistles sit at the register. Lucy buys a black coffee from the
barista and joins me at a table, checking her phone for messages about
potential sightings—not just of ICE, but also Customs and Border
Protection and other federal agencies, such as the FBI and ATF, tasked
with arresting immigrants in neighborhoods like this one. She has dark
hair and a few tattoos reaching past her shirtsleeves, and, even at
this early hour, her eyeliner is precise. As we wait, we stare out the
café window at a nearly empty street, toward a candy-colored mural of
clouds over a desert sunset. “There should be a street vendor right
there,” Lucy says. There should be more than one. “It shouldn’t
be this quiet.”

Volunteers like Lucy, doing ICE or _migra_ watch shifts across the
city, tend to work in their own neighborhoods. They are part of a
network of rapid-response groups that have sprung up over the last few
months to protect immigrant communities from the Trump
administration’s brutal, far-reaching “mass deportation”
program, led by Department of Homeland Security director Kristi Noem.
It would easily take dozens of pages to provide a full accounting of
the abductions, arrests, and protests that have taken place in Chicago
as of mid-November. The Illinois Coalition for Immigrant and Refugee
Rights [[link removed]], or ICIRR, posted verified sightings
of federal immigration agents nearly every day in September and
October. Shortly before I met Lucy, ICIRR identified
[[link removed]]
federal agents in at least nine Chicago neighborhoods and suburbs on a
single day: Melrose Park, Oak Park, Cicero, and more, as well as at
the Kane County Courthouse and the O’Hare International Airport. At
O’Hare, according to reports verified by
[[link removed]]
ICIRR, at least 20 agents shut down exits at rideshare lots, demanded
identification from drivers, and detained multiple people. All told,
according to the Department for Homeland Security, more than 4,000
[[link removed]]
people in the city have been taken off the streets by federal agents
and held in immigration detention facilities since September, in what
the Trump administration calls “Operation Midway Blitz
[[link removed]].”

The crackdown is vast, the stakes could hardly be higher, and the
response from Chicagoans has been profound and far-reaching. The mayor
signed an executive order designating
[[link removed]]
city-owned property as “ICE Free Zones.” A federal judge required
some of those overseeing the operation, such as Border Patrol
commander Gregory Bovino, to testify
[[link removed]]under
oath, and set schedules for them to update the court on the operation.
But neither political nor legal interventions have managed to
meaningfully interrupt what’s going on. ICE-free zones, residents
report
[[link removed]],
do not stop ICE. And the slow-moving legal system can’t prevent
agents from violating residents’ constitutional rights; indeed, the
system largely functions to offer redress after the fact. Even when
courts have ordered Immigration and Customs Enforcement or CBP to
cease some violent action, such as lobbing tear gas into residential
neighborhoods, agents ignored them. The scores of terrifying arrests
continued.

The one response that has been genuinely effective has come from
community members—ordinary residents who have come together, trained
one another, and connected across neighborhoods to form groups like
the Southwest Side Rapid Response Team
[[link removed]]. They have eyes on
the street, the trust of their neighbors, and the ability to intervene
practically instantaneously, sharing information with the ICE-activity
hotline that operates across the state. They can record evidence and
pass it along in seconds to rights groups, news media, and social
media. Blending protest and direct action, they are offering something
concrete to Chicagoans who want to express their opposition to Donald
Trump’s war on immigrants. This is true movement-building, a project
that may endure after this particular threat to immigrant communities,
even after this regime. ICE, CBP, and others have violently retaliated
against these groups in part because the agencies correctly understand
what many do not: Organized neighbors are mounting an effective
defense, and an organized movement is a formidable adversary.

On the far Southwest Side of Chicago, by Lucy’s estimate, hundreds
of people have been working together since early September to defend
their neighbors, joining thousands across the city. Just outside the
parking lot of a nearby Home Depot on Western, a broad street dividing
Brighton Park from Back of the Yards, one community group starts its
shift at six in the morning: a couple of people with a table, folding
chairs, and free coffee. Not far away, ICE uses the parking lot of a
strip mall as a temporary base. Enforcement officers gather here,
their faces covered in balaclavas, name badges stripped off their
uniforms. They idle in their unmarked vehicles, some with the license
plates removed. Then they caravan together to pick off people setting
up food carts, taking their kids to school, or just out walking alone.

That’s when the notifications will hit Lucy’s phone, as well as
hundreds, if not thousands, of other phones, passing messages within
neighborhoods. “OK, let’s go to one spot,” Lucy says, grabbing
her coffee and picking up a banana for later. She has a report of two
suspected ICE vehicles nearby. Now she’ll try to verify the report
before it gets shared more widely. If she can, she’ll trail them and
report where they’re going, sending word through the network so that
others close by can alert the neighborhood with their whistles, follow
in their cars, and generally try to make ICE’s work as difficult as
possible.

It’s no surprise, then, that these efforts have been cast by Noem
and other officials as violent and criminal. Almost all of the people
to whom I spoke for this story chose to use pseudonyms, to ensure that
they can keep doing community defense work in this environment of new
and escalating legal threats. Some are also immigrants or have
immigrant family members to protect. People are risking a great deal
to defend their neighbors, their students, their co-workers, and their
customers, while trying to withstand the chaos caused by armed, masked
federal officers operating on Chicago streets with apparent impunity.
“What they’re doing is an occupation,” Lucy says. “It’s
lawless.” And anybody questioning this reality, she tells me, “is
living in their own fantasy land.”

The administration’s attack on Chicago began in early 2025
[[link removed]],
soon after Trump returned to the White House. Trump dispatched
[[link removed]]
to the city his “border czar” Tom Homan, who belonged to ICE
leadership under Barack Obama and was the architect
[[link removed]]
of the family separation policy in Trump’s first term. With him,
Homan brought along
[[link removed]]
the television personality Dr. Phil McGraw, who was expected to
broadcast
[[link removed]]
the arrests as “exclusive” programming on his own streaming
channel (launched when his long-running CBS show was canceled,
reportedly for losing advertisers, after McGraw welcomed
[[link removed]]
guests pushing far-right politics and conspiracy theories to his
couch). The idea was to hit the streets with geared-up ICE agents and
produce _COPS_-like online content along with terror. But the very
public attack backfired: Although it generated news B-roll, it also
galvanized Chicago residents, who shared legal resources with their
neighbors and whose response may have helped drive down arrests.
That’s what Homan seemed to believe. When he was asked about the
operation on CNN, Homan complained
[[link removed]]
that Chicagoans pursued by immigration officers were “very
well-educated” on their legal rights. “They call it
know-your-rights,” Homan said
[[link removed]].
“I call it how-to-escape-arrest.” It appeared that the agency had
backed down on the operation. ICE instead focused on Los Angeles and
Washington, D.C., to hone its tactics, giving community organizers in
Chicago a few months to prepare.

While many of the rapid-response groups that formed during that period
were new, and many people new to community defense work joined, the
effort was “not our first rodeo,” as Lucy noted. Chicago is a big
city, but the Southwest Side still feels like “an incredibly small
town,” she explained, in which many of the community networks now
involved in ICE watch already existed. Long before this wave of
neighborhood organizing in Back of the Yards, immigrant workers at the
Union Stockyards
[[link removed]],
Chicago’s meatpacking district, organized their own communities.
Saul Alinsky’s famed neighborhood-based approach to community
organizing took shape
[[link removed]]
here. The European immigrant families are now mostly gone, but the
Mexican immigrants who have lived and organized in the neighborhood
since the 1920s remain, now joined by multiple new generations, most
recently
[[link removed]]
from Venezuela.

Many of the Venezuelan immigrants were forcibly bused
[[link removed]]
to Chicago from Texas by Governor Greg Abbott beginning in 2022. Their
arrival increased stress in some communities on the Southwest Side,
where work and resources were already strained. But it also tied some
communities closer together, with “lots of mutual aid work,” Lucy
said. These mutual aid efforts served as a safety net for new
immigrants in the city, often before the city offered them resources.
Over the years, many were able to establish themselves. “It was
honestly very cool,” Lucy remembered, to witness Mexican and
Venezuelan food vendors working right next to each other. “It was
something that we hadn’t seen.”

These are now some of the immigrants whose neighbors have come out to
defend them from ICE. Even those who are at high risk of being
detained have joined the rapid-response networks, whether to watch and
report possible ICE activity or to visit with neighbors and document
what happens after a family member is taken. By the time ICE launched
its operation in Chicago in early September, neighborhoods were ready.
Homan’s complaints were accurate: They were educated and they were
trained. Now, when ICE arrives, “sometimes it’s not even the
rapid-response team that starts with the whistles and the honking,”
Lucy explained. “It’s the neighbors on the block.”

[A photo from October 11, Illinois State Police detained someone after
declaring an “unlawful assembly” near the ICE detention facility
in Broadview]
On October 11, Illinois State Police detained someone after declaring
an “unlawful assembly” near the ICE detention facility in
Broadview.  ADAM GRAY/ASSOCIATED PRESS
ICE or _migra_ watch is a practice that grew out of the community
defense strategies developed by
[[link removed]] the Black
Panthers in the late 1960s, which inspired cop-watching across the
country. It is most visible on the streets, where pairs or teams
document law enforcement in their own neighborhoods. Participants used
to use handheld video cameras; now their cell phone cameras do the
job. But the work extends beyond the moments the officers are
recorded. Over time, through direct experience, cop-watch groups come
to understand patterns of policing. Some track and request public
records of law enforcement activities to learn more. They educate
their neighbors about their rights when police stop their cars or come
to their doors, and coordinate care and outreach to support neighbors
harmed by policing.

During the first Trump administration, immigrant rights groups in
Chicago, like Organized Communities Against Deportations
[[link removed]], were monitoring ICE and
developing deportation defense, said Rey Wences, then a volunteer with
OCAD and now the senior director of deportation defense at ICIRR. But
it was after working alongside Black-led racial justice groups in the
city, such as Black Youth Project 100 [[link removed]] and
Assata’s Daughters, that _migra _watch evolved. “We saw the
connections,” Wences said, between deportation defense and cop
watch, and OCAD asked if it could work with the other groups to build
something tailored to watching ICE. The _migra _watch training ICIRR
now leads drew inspiration from all those efforts. In September and
October alone, Wences said, ICIRR trained more than 6,700 people. It
feels like the organizing has reached “a critical mass,” they
said. Indeed, ICIRR was only one of many groups training people
up—“like a muscle we all flexed.” As with cop watch, ICE watch
is not only a form of protest; it builds and demonstrates a kind of
safety net that law enforcement cannot provide—that, in fact, law
enforcement actively undermines.

Contrary to the claims of Homan and many others in the Trump
administration, federal agents drafted into anti-immigration
enforcement operations do not protect residents from crime; they bring
violence into communities, targeting not only the people they seek to
arrest, but anyone whom they think stands in their way. They have shot
tear gas onto residential streets, pepper-sprayed children
[[link removed]]
and bystanders, pepper-balled clergy
[[link removed]], and fired
“less-lethal
[[link removed]]”
weapons directly at press and protesters alike. In November, U.S.
District Judge Sara Ellis issued a preliminary injunction limiting
immigration agents’ use of force in Chicago, saying
[[link removed]]
from the bench that their behavior “shocks the conscience.”

The injunction came as a result of a legal challenge filed by
demonstrators, religious practitioners, and journalists (including
[[link removed]]the Chicago
News Guild, which is part of the national NewsGuild-CWA, as is _The
New Republic_’s union, the NewsGuild of New York). The challenge
argued that federal agents’ use of force violated constitutionally
protected protest and religious and news gathering activities. In her
ruling, Judge Ellis singled out Border Patrol commander Bovino—who
is often the only unmasked and clearly identified federal officer on
the scene of ICE abductions and violence against community
members—stating
[[link removed]]
that Bovino repeatedly lied under oath about agents’ use of force.
Hours later, Bovino was out with a caravan on the Southwest Side, as
federal agents fired pepper balls at a moving vehicle in Gage Park and
pointed rifles at people in Little Village. The operation, he told
[[link removed]]
the _Chicago Tribune_, was “going very violent.”

At the Back of the Yards parking lot where ICE and other federal
agents had mobilized, community organizers
[[link removed]]
and students [[link removed]] at
the high school across the street have been pressuring the property
owners, Friedman Real Estate, to refuse ICE access to the lot. The
volunteers kept showing up, as early as they could, staying as late as
they could, to patrol the lot and send the message to ICE agents that
they, too, were being watched. They took photos of agents and took
down their plates. After their constant patrolling, Lucy said, they
saw ICE less frequently at that lot. The empty plaza I had passed that
morning was a sign of success.

“I like to say they’re running from us,” Lucy said. “If
we’re not already there, we’re coming in like two minutes.”

That morning in late October, driving slowly past family homes on
tidy, city-size lawns, we see very few people out. Lucy pauses to let
an older person pushing a cart of groceries cross the street. We pass
“No Trespassing/Private Property” signs, a warning to ICE, and
jack-o’-lanterns on porches. We drive by a patch of yellow marigolds
pushing through a chain-link fence, a few clusters of banana-leaf
plants. Every few minutes, the car’s sound system broadcasts
notifications from Lucy’s phone, a specific ringtone she set just
for rapid-response messages coming in. She gets updates on the cars
we’re looking for: a boxy, oversize Jeep Wagoneer and an extra-large
GMC Yukon truck. Over the weeks, the kinds of cars ICE uses have
become very familiar.

Inflatable Halloween decorations wave in some of the front yards we
pass. Outside of Gage Park High School, we pause to chat with a
crossing guard in a yellow vest. Lucy rolls down the window. “I’m
a neighbor in the area,” she explains. “We’re doing ICE watch,
so just looking out for ICE vehicles.” New message notifications
ding again. “We got reports of a Wagoneer, which, you don’t see
too many Wagoneers around here, they’re long and boxy…. I figured
I would let you know, just in case.” Before she is done, the
crossing guard is already repeating, “Just in case. All right. Thank
you,” like this happens all the time. It’s not her first rodeo
either.

“Operation Midway Blitz” is not merely an immigration enforcement
operation; it is a monthslong offensive meant to break down people’s
resistance, a deliberate campaign of political violence and social
disruption. Such brutal anti-immigration policing itself is not new,
even if it may be newly evident to people in Los Angeles, Washington,
and elsewhere, who have not experienced their family and neighbors
disappearing. But it is new that ICE and Border Patrol are rolling out
daily in caravans; it is new that Border Patrol is unleashing tear gas
and firing flash-bang grenades at bystanders. It’s also new that all
this is happening at once to a whole city.

ICE has also turned on those residents who dare document and track
them across the city. On October 20, reported
[[link removed]]
The TRiiBE, a local independent news site, an attorney named Scott
Sakiyama, who had been following immigration agents in his car, was
detained by them at gunpoint. Sakiyama had defended a man who had
faced federal charges for allegedly assaulting a Border Patrol agent
outside the immigrant “processing center” in Broadview, an inner
suburb of Chicago. The government had already dropped the prosecution.
But when Sakiyama spotted armed, masked immigration agents driving in
Oak Park and blew a whistle to alert neighbors, agents stopped him.
“Exit your vehicle, or we’re gonna break your window and we’ll
drag you out,” one said. This all took place
[[link removed]]
across the street from Abraham Lincoln Elementary School, where one of
Sakiyama’s kids is a student. He was loaded into the agents’
vehicle and driven to the Broadview detention facility, where he was
merely given a citation and returned to his car. “The federal
government is intent on abusing its power to kidnap and violate the
rights of our friends and neighbors,” Sakiyama wrote
[[link removed]]
in an Oak Park neighborhood Facebook group, “and now, they say it is
a crime to tell your neighbors this is happening.” He encouraged
people to attend a rapid-response training and start their own whistle
brigade. ICIRR now holds virtual trainings every week; the one I
dropped in on in late October was attended by more than a thousand
people from dozens of neighborhoods.

[A photo from November 14, at a protest outside the Broadview
detention center, Megan Siegel held hands with her daughter, Matilda.]

On November 14, at a protest outside the Broadview detention center,
Megan Siegel held hands with her daughter, Matilda.  CHRIS
SWEDA/CHICAGO TRIBUNE/TRIBUNE NEWS SERVICE/GETTY
As community-based defense projects have ramped up, some local elected
officials have supported them. Some, like Alderwoman Jessie Fuentes,
have been detained
[[link removed]]
while defending their constituents. Others have ignored their
constituents, or, in the case of Democratic Alderman Raymond Lopez,
who represents part of Back of the Yards, welcomed Tom Homan and
defended Operation Midway Blitz. On a night in late October when Lopez
was scheduled to have open office hours, the doors were locked and the
lights were off as community members announced a protest there. Jaime
Perez said his girlfriend, a tamale vendor, was taken by ICE near 47th
Street and Western, and his calls to Lopez for help were ignored.
“He wouldn’t come to the phone,” Perez said. As the sun set,
Leslie Cortez spoke about the raid she witnessed on 47th Street.
“Our community deserves someone who will fight for us,” she said,
“not against us.” Before they left, they taped a letter to
Lopez’s office door demanding that he resign.

But among even the more sympathetic government leadership,
Chicagoans’ political efforts to protect immigrant communities have
only gone so far. Chicago Mayor Brandon Johnson has referred to the
protection afforded by the city’s welcoming ordinance
[[link removed]],
which is meant to prohibit collaboration between immigration officers
and Chicago police, but when ICE and Border Patrol roll through city
neighborhoods, the police have been _right there._ Residents have been
told that Chicago police are prohibited from engaging in immigration
enforcement (unless ordered to do so by a court), when they can see
with their own eyes that Chicago cops are clearing roads for the
fleets of sports-utility vehicles and oversize trucks used by ICE and
Border Patrol to haul people to Broadview. Illinois Governor JB
Pritzker has gained a national reputation as a leader who stands up to
Trump and his mass deportation machine, but outside Broadview, where
activists, religious leaders, and media gather, the officers firing
tear gas and pepper balls at them are Illinois State Police, sent
there, according
[[link removed]]
to Pritzker, to “ensure people could safely express their rights.”

Some of the time on _migra_ watch, it can look like nothing is
happening. We drive in silence, weaving between Back of the Yards,
Gage Park, and Brighton Park, past bakeries and salons and auto body
shops, looking twice at any oversize car we see. Suddenly, Lucy asks
her phone for directions. “So they are here,” she says. “I’ll
keep my distance.” More notifications are going off. Lucy sees what
might be an ICE SUV, but as she puts on her blinker and turns to
follow, a Chicago Police Department car pulls across her car’s path.
Local cops are not supposed to be out here. We hear people honking,
leaning on their horns, not that far off.“Is the honking because
it’s—” I start to ask, and she says it is, as she grabs a few
things in case she needs to hop out and starts dictating a message:
“I’m pretty sure I saw that large white SUV, no plates in the
front, but as I tried to turn, CPD kind of blocked me.” She gives
the intersection where CPD still is. Regardless of the reason the
police were there, now she’s lost sight of the SUV. She plays back a
video from a few minutes ago on her phone, hoping it shows the
direction of the SUV, and the honking fills the car speakers. A few
other people saw the SUV as well; Lucy is following their directions
now. “It seems like there’s a lot of people out right now,” she
says, “which is nice.”

As we drive, we see them, more and more people out on the streets,
watching. On a corner at a gas station, a small group of people, some
in KN95 masks, stand on the grassy strip at the side of the road,
watching. At the Home Depot, Lucy parks and hops out to say “hi”
to the people at the table near the parking lot, expecting them to
shut down for the morning. A new shift of volunteers, however, has
come to stay longer. Another small group is out on a side street lined
with houses: four young people in hoodies and puffer coats. They
repeat the ICIRR hotline number on a megaphone as they walk. Lucy
tells them about what she saw, and they head right back out on foot.
“Small town, small town,” Lucy says to me, and we drive off.

We loop around a few more times, checking out a nearby park. We’ve
been out for 40 minutes; to me it feels like five. The adrenaline,
even at this distance from the action, warps time and
attention—every siren might be something. A helicopter looms
overhead. When we drive past the crossing guard again, she and Lucy
exchange friendly waves.

It can feel like ICE agents are everywhere. That, presumably, is how
they want it to feel. At the same time, more and more people who have
never engaged in anything like these actions before are purposefully
running toward the trouble. As much as their resistance can appear
organic and spontaneous—and some of it is—it’s supported by
deliberate effort, an infrastructure working to help them expand their
tolerance for taking risks.

There’s the know-your-rights trainings, which, like ICE watch
trainings, long predate this moment. In the past, however, those were
typically offered within a smaller community made up mostly of other
organizers. Since Midway Blitz, the groups ramped up because ICE
ramped up. They had to scale up know-your-rights trainings to work for
mass audiences. They needed to do more than just arm people with
information about their rights; now they had to teach “what do you
do when an agent is right there,” Lucy said, “right outside your
door or right in front of you.” Learning that, she said, enables
them to walk out the door and “blow their whistle the minute they
identify a car.” Once people know how to defend their own rights, in
other words, they don’t stop there—as the last months in Chicago
have shown, they turn to defending others.

Intentional or not, this way of spreading rapid-response work ensures
that there’s no one point of failure. Multiple groups are employing
multiple communication platforms, and generating new methods as they
go. New people join them, “just coming up with their own ideas on
how to defend Chicago,” as Lucy put it. It turns out that you
can’t just gas and detain everyone in the streets. There will be
more people tomorrow.

On her phone, Lucy sees that Customs and Border Protection are a few
neighborhoods away, in Little Village. A video from the scene plays
over the speakers as we drive, birdsong and car sounds and a man
calling, “Hey, how you doing!” and what might have been someone
else yelling “Fucker!” We can’t join; Lucy’s shift is done,
and she has to go to work. By the time I could get there, it will
likely have ended. She offers to drop me at the train station. On the
platform, I watch a Facebook Live video from the scene, streams of
hearts and sad crying emojis floating up over an intersection flooded
with Chicago police.

[A photo of signs that inform federal agents that they do not have
consent to enter without a valid judicial warrant.]

All over Chicago, signs inform federal agents that they do not have
consent to enter without a valid judicial warrant.  JACEK
BOCZARSKI/ANADOLU/GETTY
Baltazar Enriquez had been recording ICE for almost an hour by the
time I tune in. He was following the federal agents’ caravan at the
same time that, a few neighborhoods away, we were driving around Back
of the Yards. Witnesses hopped out of their cars, turning their phones
toward the agents and yelling, “Shame! Shame! Where’s your
warrant? Why are you terrorizing us? Why? Why?” They walked toward
the agents, phones up. One woman had a megaphone. The agents kept
their faces fully covered with black and camo balaclavas and
reflective sports sunglasses. They pointed their long guns at the
ground as they paced. “Leave! Leave!” A few agents got back into
their white SUV. There was Gregory Bovino, standing next to an agent
in a gas mask holding a weapon with a tear gas canister. “Don’t do
it! Don’t do it, Bovino.” Overhead, a helicopter buzzed. “ICE go
home. ICE go home.” Chicago police formed a line as the feds
retreated behind them. The people clustered at an intersection.
Someone wore an inflatable pink axolotl costume, Mexican and American
flags flew, whistles were distributed. I was still on the train when
Baltazar, streaming on Facebook, asked some people to walk with him to
another neighborhood to patrol—“Gage Park,” he said, where Lucy
and I had just been—and logged off. It was hard to reconcile the
violence on the live stream 15 minutes away and the quiet around us.
No one was taken from any street we passed. It could feel like nothing
happened, except for all the people we saw as we were watching,
watching, too.

_Melissa Gira Grant is a staff writer at The New Republic and the
author of Playing the Whore: The Work of Sex Work._ 

* chicago
[[link removed]]
* Operation Midway Blitz
[[link removed]]
* community organizing
[[link removed]]
* Resisting ICE
[[link removed]]

*
[[link removed]]
*
*
[[link removed]]

 

 

 

INTERPRET THE WORLD AND CHANGE IT

 

 

Submit via web
[[link removed]]

Submit via email
Frequently asked questions
[[link removed]]
Manage subscription
[[link removed]]
Visit xxxxxx.org
[[link removed]]

Bluesky [[link removed]]

Facebook [[link removed]]

 




[link removed]

To unsubscribe, click the following link:
[link removed]