From fear to eviction risk: how ICE operations created a housing emergency — and a fragile lifeline

By Eloge Willy Kaneza and Ernest Ndayisaba

In late January, fear moved faster than snowstorms across immigrant neighborhoods in Maine. It crept into apartment buildings, churches, workplaces, and school drop-off lines. It shut doors, emptied streets, and silenced livelihoods. For hundreds of immigrant families, a sudden surge in Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) operations did not just threaten arrest — it triggered a housing emergency.

ProsperityME, a community-based organization that supports immigrants and refugees across the state, was among the first to witness the scale of the crisis. According to Executive Director Claude Rwaganje, the impact of the ICE surge went far beyond those who were actually detained.

“What we observed was fear — deep fear,” Rwaganje told Amjambo Africa in an exclusive interview. “People were afraid to go to work, afraid to take their children to school, afraid to go to church or even to the grocery store.”

Fear as an economic weapon

Although ICE operations were publicly described as targeting “criminals,” what unfolded on the ground painted a different picture. Workers with legal status — including green card holders and asylum seekers with pending cases — stayed home out of fear, unsure who would be targeted next. The result was immediate and devastating: income stopped, but rent did not.

Rwaganje recalls the case of a single mother who did not leave her apartment for more than a week after hearing ICE agents were nearby. “There was snow, and the property manager asked people to move their cars. She didn’t move hers. Her car was towed. When I went to pick it up for her, it cost $500,” he said. “She had no income, no work — and suddenly a new expense.”

Such stories multiplied quickly. As February began, ProsperityME received urgent calls from pastors, community leaders, and families asking for help. One partner organization alone reported 150 individuals in immediate need. Within days, the requests grew into the hundreds.

A workforce forced into hiding

The ICE surge rippled far beyond individual households. Immigrants make up a significant portion of Maine’s essential workforce — cleaners, caregivers, hospital staff, drivers, and food service workers.

“When immigrants stayed home, the economy felt it immediately,” Rwaganje explained. “Hospitals couldn’t find workers. Businesses couldn’t operate normally. Children missed school because parents were arrested or too afraid to move.”

He noted that some raids occurred while parents were dropping off or picking up children, compounding trauma and disrupting education.

Why rent became the emergency

While legal fees for detained individuals posed one challenge, rent quickly emerged as the most urgent crisis.

Many families lost their primary income earners overnight. Others stayed home for weeks without pay, unable to work remotely and without access to paid time off. Most low-income families, Rwaganje said, have no emergency savings. “If you lose income for even one day, you’re already behind,” he said. “Behind on rent, behind on bills, and soon your credit is affected.”

Recognizing the looming threat of evictions — which typically begin after 30 days of unpaid rent — ProsperityME moved to act before March and April, when eviction notices would likely surge.

The relief fund: a fragile but critical lifeline

In response, ProsperityME launched an emergency housing relief fund aimed at preventing families from falling irreversibly behind.

Currently, the organization can provide up to $300 per household through its housing stability fund — a modest amount, but often enough to cover part of rent or prevent immediate crisis. However, Rwaganje is clear: this is not enough.

“Our goal is to raise at least $250,000,” he said. “Even a million dollars could be spent in a month given the level of need.”

The relief fund operates on a case-by-case basis, prioritizing families whose income was lost due to arrest; households that can demonstrate reduced or suspended wages during the ICE surge; and

the most vulnerable households, including single-parent households.

To ensure fairness and prevent misuse, ProsperityME requires basic income verification, comparing pay stubs from before and during the ICE operations.

“This is not an ongoing subsidy,” Rwaganje stressed. “It’s a one-time intervention to help families catch up and return to stability.”

Prevention over displacement

While evictions linked directly to the ICE surge have not yet peaked, Rwaganje warns that the danger is imminent. “We’re trying to be preventive,” he said. “Once eviction starts, where do we put these families?”

ProsperityME has reached out to state authorities and housing agencies but has yet to receive a formal response. In the meantime, the organization collaborates with partners such as Project Home, which has raised $330,000 for rental relief, and continues to refer families where possible.

Lessons from the crisis

For ProsperityME, the ICE surge reinforced painful but important lessons. Every crisis, Rwaganje said, exposes gaps and demands adaptation.

“During COVID, we weren’t a healthcare organization, but we stepped in. We put people in hotels when they had nowhere to go,” he said. “This crisis forced us to pivot again.”

The organization also learned the importance of accurate information, warning against rumors that fuel panic and paralyze communities.

Perhaps most importantly, the crisis highlighted the deep contradiction at the heart of immigration enforcement in Maine. “This is an aging state,” Rwaganje said. “Immigrants are business owners, taxpayers, workers. They are not criminals. They are essential.”

He called on the wider public, including the Chamber of Commerce, to recognize that immigration enforcement is not a “side issue,” but a force that directly shapes the state’s economy, housing stability, and social cohesion.

“We can’t survive without immigrants,” he said. “We need to face crises together — not as islands, but as one community.”

As the relief fund struggles to keep pace with demand, for many families, the line between fear and eviction has never been thinner — and the lifeline holding them back remains fragile.