A Los Angeles Protester Tells His Story

A personal account of the peaceful protests against immigrant deportations in Los Angeles.

Image: Harrison Levitan.

By Harrison Levitan

FRIDAY

If the book weren’t sitting next to me, maybe I would have found a reason to stay home. A friend had recommended I read ‘Scum of the Earth’, a memoir by a Hungarian immigrant living in France as the country descended into fascism on the eve of German invasion. Here I was on a sunny Friday reading about legal migrants taken in for questioning, being stripped of their status, thrown in a sparse basement without ample food and water, where they were left for days. Except this was not a story from the past, the book was shut. I was reading this in breaking news: this was happening right now, 10 minutes south of me in downtown Los Angeles.

The clock read 12:30 PM. I rushed to the Federal Building with only a sign in hand, reading “Remind me, do the good guys deprive people of food & water?” I do not know what I expected to find when I arrived, but I was not prepared to be alone.

Turning the corner onto Alameda, I came face to face with a dozen heavily armed men in DHS uniforms escorting blacked-out white vans as they arrived at the staff parking entrance. There were no protestors in sight, but across the street, local news crews were setting up. This was the place, but where was everyone else? The news cameras gave me the courage I needed to stay. I positioned myself in front of a gang of masked men and unfolded my piece of cardboard. The honks of solidarity began almost immediately.

As migrants were being hauled in, federal employees were being sent home. I don’t know which one of these civil servants had heroically leaked what was going on inside, but ICE was taking no chances. Anyone who was not associated with their inhumane, unlawful mission was sent home. In the midst of this exodus, delivery drivers were still pulling up to make drop-offs, ignorant of the danger they were putting themselves in. DHS would coarsely greet the vehicles and tell them to get lost if they knew what was good for them. Understandably confused, many drivers pressed for answers, and I jumped in with an explanation.

“You aren’t safe here,” I shouted. The boys of Homeland Security did not appreciate my input. The only unmasked man in the bunch stepped forward with questions: “Who are you? What are you doing here? Who are you with?”.

“My name is Harrison,” I mumbled. “I’m um- I am here as a citizen. What is going on in this building?”

No answer was provided. The unmasked man told me not to block the driveways and retreated with the other agents to the entrance of the parking garage.

Across the street, a reporter from local ABC news had witnessed the interaction and crossed to chat.

Anabel Munoz asked me what had brought me down here. I explained, and Ms. Munoz informed me why they believed I was alone for now: unbeknownst to me, ICE had launched their most aggressive raids today. Even a major union leader had been taken into custody. With indiscriminate force, they were grabbing people at workplaces, at big box stores, even at high school graduations. In the face of immediate attacks, my fellow Angeleno activists were valiantly monitoring the raids.

About 4 PM, a second protester arrived. He was a special education teacher who had seen me during his drive home.

“I could not leave you out here alone,” he told me. We are never alone, even when fear tells us so.

By 5 PM, there were at least a hundred of us, and things changed very quickly. Facing the street, I turned to see a sight which still haunts me: two members of ICE had moved quietly out of the garage and taken one of us. Before anyone could react, we were watching this man get dragged inside. On the other side of the crowd, another person was pulled into the street entrance. The crowd swarmed around the door and demanded the return of these protesters, demanding an explanation for the conditions inside. “Non-lethal” weapons, tear gas, and rubber bullets, were brandished. I did not hang around to find out what those guns could do, but I would soon know.

Friday night’s aftermath was frustrating. I scoured social media for information on the plan of action on Saturday. David Huerta, head of Los Angeles’ Service Employees International Union (SEIU), had been taken earlier that day while peacefully observing a raid on a garment factory. Chatter was hopeful that the unions would be organizing. I could not find a thing online, so I posted myself: I would be back at the Federal Building the next morning if anyone wanted to join. Until the early morning, I reached out to anyone and everyone I knew in LA. Plenty of other people did the same thing. We did not wait for a politician; the people of LA led themselves.

SATURDAY

The day prior had started with just one person, and that morning we began with twelve. Even I had not come alone: my cousin had graciously agreed to join me. Exponential growth achieved!

Looking around Alameda, the events of the night before were both visible and unseen. Graffiti dotted the exterior of the building, and undetectable tear gas remained hanging in the air. For the first few minutes we were there, I believed I was having an allergy attack. Nausea began, and I started coughing. Another protester gifted me a mask and explained the source of my sickness.

ICE was not slowing down. They continued their attack on our community, with each van and SUV a reminder of the precious people we were at risk of losing. Unlike the day before, DHS stayed within the garage, behind a closed gate. If a vehicle exited or entered, they would reemerge, and with weapons in hand, they pushed us all the way to the sidewalk, where we were legally allowed to stand. The few of us there were committed to non-violence, and by 11 AM, we could not have totaled more than 50 people. ICE still felt the need to intimidate us every ten minutes or so, pointing their guns in our faces and trying to incite a riot that would justify extraordinary force.

We were not only political protestors; this was personal. There were people there who needed help, needed legal resources for the sake of their friends and families incarcerated inside. These people also wanted answers. ICE refused to engage, refused to make eye contact when inquiries were made.

Organizations like the ACLU were present to provide legal aid, but their ability to help depended on access to facilities and documents that the federal government is illegally withholding. Hearing their stories, my nerves began to fray. I met a man who felt real guilt over his green card; his loved one was arrested because she did not have one. I solemnly reminded him that they were taking people with green cards, and even my citizenship was no guarantee of safety. In a way, that made him feel better. We were in solidarity. After marinating in the slow burn of residual tear gas and the cruelty and indifference, something broke. It’s still broken as I write this. Rage accumulated, my sign was no longer sufficient. I am a loud person, and I put that volume to work.

“Hurry home! Leave LA! Your wives are in the arms of better men,” is a sanitized version of one of what I shouted at ICE. “Now that you guys are so close, I understand why you wear masks. I would, too if I had a face that ugly,” was another ditty. There were not many of us, and I felt the need to ferociously puff myself up. More than that, these lines were getting laughs from our crowd. If this served our morale, that was good enough for me.

By 2:30 PM, our ranks had grown to over 100, and I was firmly on ICE’s radar. Exhaustion was catching up with me, and I decided it was a good time to take a breather.

I arrived home to terrifying news: the National Guard was coming. My partner was not thrilled, but she understood when I told her I had to go back down there. I would stand next to my fellow Angelenos, hell or high water. I returned, but with the promise that I would not stand in front. I would not needlessly make myself a target. I am not proud to say, I broke my promise almost immediately.

Emboldened by the president’s improper commandeering of the California National Guard, ICE exited the garage in numbers not previously seen. Totaling what felt like one hundred agents, they emerged in two lines and moved right up against the crowd. Their approach was so aggressive that a handful of people retreated to the back, and I found myself at the front yet again. I was standing behind an electrical box, and the cover gave me permission to let loose like never before. When an agent smirked at the protester next to me, a kind man practicing de-escalation tactics, I let it rip.

I could feel myself letting go; I was being pulled under by the rage. A moment of recognition allowed for a fingerhold. I began to take myself back down. I was still full-throated, but the words changed. By the end of the episode, I reached lines like, “Take that disgusting uniform off, and I will drive you home. I will buy you a beer.”

As it had all day, the crowd remained resolutely peaceful. DHS failed at inciting us, and they retreated. In that moment, the soft-spoken man beside me pulled me aside.

“I have been where you are, and I have shouted the same kind of things I’ve heard you say today. No judgment, but I would not recommend going there. Don’t let them turn you into that, keep your humanity for your own sake.”

When you stand shoulder to shoulder with someone amidst unspoken danger, a personal bond forms. I was able to hear this man. I was able to remember my promise to my partner and the reason I was there. I had not rushed down here on Friday to scream at these tyrants. My fear and pain had fermented into rage. I had to do better.

I dropped to the back, and my training as an organizer kicked in. I looked for newcomers and welcomed them to our ranks. I explained the situation with the tear gas, pointed them to the supply of first-aid, food, and water. I briefed them on the attempts to incite us and the very real danger of being incarcerated.

Darkness descended, and protestors began to move closer to the parking garage entrance. There were a few people mulling about the edges, kicking at in-ground lights and banging on an electrical box. Requests to stop had mixed results. There was an individual who smashed the plastic siding of an empty guard post. That was the height of the supposed anarchy, and even that did not trigger a response.

By 8 PM, there had been a stretch of prolonged non-confrontation. It never lasts. Without any warning from ICE, the garage gate opened, and flashbangs were deployed with malice. A line of agents dropped non-violent protestors with a volley of rubber bullets. Tear gas was upon us before I could react. I had a face mask and goggles, but the gas was faster than me. The biological agent clawed at my lungs and thrashed at my eyes before I got my protective gear on. I was far luckier than most. Once protected, I handed off my extra masks and water and helped get others clear of the cloud.

My partner picked me up at Union Station. On our way out of the train station, we took a wrong turn and found ourselves face to face with dozens of men in all black and a fleet of unmarked SUVs: ICE was preparing for night raids.

SUNDAY

Today would be different, I told myself. There was a post making the rounds that called for a rally at City Hall, a short walk from the Federal Building, that afternoon. No organizers were listed. It was well known at this point, the FBI is pursuing the organizers.

I copied the graphic and added: “Don’t give the bastards what they want, keep it peaceful”. I printed out as many flyers as I could carry and went about spreading the word. I walked up and down Sunset Blvd in Silverlake, inviting my neighbors. Many people had already heard about the rally, and I began to believe today really would be different. A friend of mine, we’ll call him Cal, someone who had never been to anything like this, agreed to come with me. The brutes had not dissuaded him from resistance, quite the opposite.

Cal and I arrived at City Hall to find not hundreds, but thousands of Angelenos. The atmosphere was serious but joyful. Our city had survived the fires, had leaned on one another then, and here we were doing it again. In these numbers, there was real hope that we could accomplish something.

Down Temple Street we marched. A pillar of people, we sang, chanted, and danced around the corner to Alameda. The moment the front of the mass reached sight of the parking entrance, LAPD greeted us with smoke grenades and rubber bullets. People were thrown back in terror, some trampling those behind them.

If this were Friday, I think I would have retreated, but I was not the same person I had been then. I stood my ground as a flood of people went the other way. To my surprise and delight, Cal held his ground too. Enough of us kept cool, so an all-out retreat was halted at the intersection of Alameda and Temple.

The line reformed and was once again fired upon. For every person who fell out, two took their place. Plastic bottles and cans were being tossed from behind, harmlessly bouncing off the police’s full tactical gear. The act of futility captured how uneven the situation was. After 15 minutes of jockeying for ground, the police halted their fire. The promise of a larger danger loomed. National Guard helicopters, alongside LAPD choppers, buzzed menacingly above.

I took a beat, saw the rage, the desperation I had practiced the day before. Protestors lashed out as the very people who were supposed to protect us stood guard on behalf of an extrajudicial gang. Members of our community, people we saw every day, were helping these people kidnap our friends, our family, our neighbors. How many times were the police going to disappoint us? The betrayal ran deep.

A motorcycle revved from behind me, and I turned in time to see the bike rip through our lines and into the police. An officer was knocked down, and the rider was carted off. We stood silent, paralyzed by the fear that this would be the moment LAPD showed their sharper teeth. Before that could happen, a second bike came charging forward and hit the officers right in front of me. They recovered and arrested this rider, too. Then I noticed the gasoline.

From under the second motorcycle, a pool of gasoline, perhaps engine fluid, began to spread beneath an officer facing the crowd. Without thinking, I pushed to the front and pointed it out to him. He didn’t flinch, believing I was putting him on. Other protesters joined in chorus. This man was in danger if he did not move, if someone did not turn the running bike off.

An officer broke ranks and pulled the officer away from the puddle. That’s when I started talking.

“We don’t want to see any of you officers hurt today. We are not here for you; we are here for the people locked in that building. They are being kept without basic human rights: food, water, and lawyers. Today, you are not my enemy, you are my neighbor.”

People in the crowd who were shouting at the officers now turned on me.

“These pigs are not our friends, they just shot us,” a voice cried out.

I turned to the crowd, and I reminded them: “We can save that for another day, today we are here to help those taken from us. Starting a fight with the police is not going to help them.”

It seemed to have some effect. An older gentleman gave me a thumbs up and motioned me to continue, so I did. I turned back to the officers, and I spoke calmly but loud enough for everyone to hear.

“What those motorcycles did is not what we are about. What they did was not okay, but what is happening behind you is just as not okay either. When we’re in trouble, the people of this city call 9-1-1 for a reason. We’re in trouble now. Help us!”

There were moments when the peace nearly broke. When I stopped talking, the situation began to revert, and rage slipped in. I piped back up and addressed that feeling I had come to know. Couldn’t these officers see, this anger was born of fear? ICE had come into our community and acted without any regard for basic human rights. With no recourse, how else were people supposed to react?

At one point, a full water bottle went airborne and came down on the helmet of an officer. The crowd pushed the agitator back, disarming all further projectiles before they could fly. The police showed self-control, and many even took their fingers off their triggers.

For about two hours, we had peace, but it would not last. LAPD ensured that. Without prompting, from the right flank, the mounted division galloped in. I watched the kindly man who had encouraged me in my moment of doubt disappear under the hooves of LAPD horses. Bullhorns called out for us to vacate the area. We complied. That compliance meant nothing. They fired on people with their backs turned in retreat, people with their hands up. Members of the press were not spared from being targeted with rubber bullets.

At the intersection of Temple and Los Angeles, a shaky line was formed around three sides of the intersection. A firework was set off on the footbridge above, adding to the confusion. Now, on the left side of the line, I only had a moment to take stock of the situation. Officers continued to fire into us, and a woman in front of me was bleeding heavily from a shot she took. People shielded her to assess if she could be moved, and I again attempted de-escalation with the officers. This time, I was severely punished.

“You are our neighbors,” I began. An officer stepped forward and shot me point-blank in the ribs with a rubber bullet. The shock was greater than the pain. Cal jumped forward to help me out of there.

“That was great work you did back there.” Cal and I turned to see the smiling face of the man from earlier. He had survived the trampling mostly unscathed. We all embraced and finally introduced ourselves. He was a retired lawyer who had come to provide legal aid, a saint if I’ve ever met one.

I, too, had been lucky: my windbreaker had deflected the rubber bullet and prevented serious injury. By then, the peace was fully broken. The sky was blackening with the smoke of self-driving cars, and a separate group made it down to the 101 Freeway. Cal and I found a safe place to film the LAPD as they brutally mopped up protestors. People who were cowering in fear were shot, horses were used as weapons, and absolutely no one was receiving medical aid. My heart broke watching the abject terror of my fellow protestors and the glee of these supposed defenders of law and order.

That night, the Glendale Police Department, which had a contract to assist ICE with its illegal detentions, publicly terminated its agreement without explanation. The people of LA had spoken. The hotel that housed ICE operations out of Pasadena had also decided to kick them to the curb. Their harassment of the hotel’s staff also played a role in that decision. Our victories were small, but they were real and accumulating.

BOSTON

I did not have time to process the things I witnessed in those first three days. Getting old is no fun, and a medical issue necessitated an early Monday morning flight to my home state of Massachusetts. I had needed to see a specialist for over a month, and this could not wait.

In spite of the urgent need, I left Los Angeles with extreme reluctance. This was not over, far from it, and it pained me to leave my partner, my friends, and my neighbors to continue their stand without me. Our city was under occupation, the Marines were coming, and I was leaving.

I almost did not get on that plane. Friends and family were urging me to take care of myself, and I was not hearing them. I had just put myself on the line for three days and was prepared to keep going. Bodily risk was becoming comfortable, and further stalling medical treatment felt reasonable.

I landed in Boston, but I did not stop. After a medical appointment on Tuesday morning, I rushed off to Burlington, MA. There, an ICE Field Office meant for administrative work had been converted to the same kind of cruel processing center that LA’s Federal Building had become.

I stood in the rain for hours alone with a sign that read: “No ICE, No KKK, No Fascist USA”. Hardened by my experience in LA, I was unfazed when DHS pushed me back from the building and told me to stay quiet. As my sign melted in the downpour, I had time to reflect and breathe.

I spent the next day away from the fight, with friends and family. I allowed myself to hear them and to accept their love and support. Taking care of other people, fighting for the least fortunate, also means taking care of yourself, and it took me a little while to remember that.

The day after, I returned to that ICE facility in Burlington, and this time I was not alone.

NO KINGS DAY

On the eve of No Kings Day, I returned to Los Angeles, a city under occupation. The sky was hazy when we landed. The weeklong assault on our city had visible effects, good and bad, and they were apparent on the drive back from LAX.

Only 10 minutes from Baggage Claim, my partner and I passed a street corner filled with a dozen protestors, and we joined a choir of supportive honking. It was 8:30 PM on a Friday, a full week into protesting, and these people were still energized.

Businesses in LA were suffering. Familiar sights, like taqueros and fruit vendors, were scarce. There were fewer people on the street in general. We stopped at a Korean-Mexican taco truck still open for business, a perfect illustration of what makes LA not just unique, but extraordinary. Generosity is a way to fight back, and we tipped heavily.

The news from Minnesota, the assassination of Democratic leaders there, cast a shadow over the day. The good and the bad weighed on me as I sat down to draw my protest sign. After my heinous experience, after the experiences of countless others shared in the news and on social media, I was tempted to make my message about the unlawful brutality of supposed law enforcement: “ICE & LAPD: Partners in Cruelty”. My better angels prevailed. The message for the day would be to embrace the best of the past week:

All my heroes are in the streets of LA.

And they were. Tens of thousands of heroic people turned out in spite of the countless military units and police agencies that had descended upon us. From Grand Park in front of City Hall, we marched to Pershing Square and back without incident. It was a day of love, solidarity, and a chance to take back our city center from the pain of invasion. Nothing was normal, but walking together with our fellow Angelenos and with millions of Americans around the country made me feel less alone. Americans are not soft people; they are adaptable, and looking around, I saw us becoming bolder in the face of obvious injustice.

I arrived home in the late afternoon, still glowing. The day was not over, and lives had been lost, but this felt like a win. I was recording a voice note for a friend, recounting my optimism about the day’s accomplishments, when a phone call cut the note off.

The fear in her voice was apparent. Ruby, a fellow activist whom I had met on Saturday and marched with earlier that day, was choking down tear gas as she recounted her assault by police. Like a switch being flipped, the LAPD and Los Angeles Sheriffs had abruptly decided the peace was over. The curfew was still hours away, the sun was in the sky, and it was not even 5 PM on a Saturday. Before anyone could comply, Ruby and countless others were hit by the same combination I had seen the prior Sunday: tear gas, rubber bullets, trampling horses, and old-fashioned beatings.

Ruby, an unarmed middle-aged woman, had been chased by a police officer when she tripped and sprained her ankle. With the help of a friend, she managed to get back to her car and escape to safety.

I will not concede the day to those who claim to stand for law and order. They can continue to beat us, shoot us, and gas us, but after a week, I have seen proof: they cannot defeat us. This fight started with only a few people. Today, I witnessed an army of civilians come to our aid. I got to stand with my heroes today, shoulder to shoulder across this country; more than I could have ever dreamt.

Tomorrow we will be right back out there.

Harrison Levitan is a writer and political organizer who has contributed to local, congressional, and presidential campaigns. The emphasis of his work is voter outreach in traditionally conservative areas. Originally from Boston, Harrison currently resides in Southern California.