On a crisp November weekend in 2025, communities across the United States came alive with vibrant colors, music, and the scent of marigolds as Latinos gathered to honor Día de Muertos, or Day of the Dead. But this year’s commemorations, marked by both joy and grief, unfolded under the looming shadow of heightened immigration enforcement and a string of tragic migrant deaths along the U.S.-Mexico border.
In Minneapolis, more than 100 people followed Aztec dancers through an archway of paper flowers into El Colegio High School. There, students had constructed altars—known as ofrendas—adorned with flickering candles, candy skulls, and photographs of departed loved ones. For many, it was more than a tradition; it was an act of spiritual resilience. Daniela Rosales, a senior at the bilingual school, explained to the Associated Press, “It’s ... a way of greeting our ancestors into our homes, back into our lives, even if they’re not here physically, but spiritually. It’s a way of just having the community come all together and knowing that in some way they might feel safe.”
That feeling of unity was especially poignant in 2025, as the Trump administration ramped up immigration raids in Minnesota and beyond. Organizers across the country worried that fear of deportation would dampen public celebrations. Yet, the opposite happened—crowds turned out in droves, determined not to let fear overshadow their heritage. “We decided we can’t cave,” said Justin Ek, who helped launch the Day of the Dead festival in Mankato, Minnesota. “Our cultural celebrations are what we need to fill our souls for what’s to come.”
Ek’s family, like many others, has roots in Mexico but lost touch with relatives over the years. The Day of the Dead, he said, became a way to grieve those losses and rekindle connections. “It’s our way to honor what we lost,” Ek told the Associated Press. The festival he co-founded has grown from a modest parking lot gathering in 2018 to a sprawling daylong event with about 12,000 participants in 2025, featuring live music, dozens of papier-mâché Catrinas (elaborately dressed skeletons), and fantasy creatures called alebrijes. Most of the festivities were community-funded, a testament to the event’s deep local support.
Unlike the party atmosphere of Halloween or the solemnity of Christian holy days like All Saints and All Souls’ Day, Day of the Dead strikes a unique balance. As University of Texas professor Cary Cordova explained, the holiday evolved over centuries from Indigenous practices, later blending with Catholic traditions. The heart of the celebration is the ofrenda—an altar offering food, drinks, music, and beloved pastimes to the dead, who are believed to return for a visit, guided by candles and marigold flowers.
Whether in the bustling cities or rural heartland, the message was the same: remembrance should be joyful. “It’s remembering people who passed on positively because they would want us to remember them happy … and making ourselves feel they’re with us,” said Luis Alberto Orozco, this year’s emcee in Mankato. Orozco acknowledged that rumors of immigration raids had caused anxiety among organizers. “We decided we were not going to be afraid. It was important for us to keep our faith,” he said. “Once I got to the event and saw all the people smile, all the fears went away.”
In Chicago, similar apprehensions circulated as the city faced a crackdown on illegal immigration. Lisa Noce, whose Mexican ancestors settled in the city’s Pilsen neighborhood, feared people might avoid the Day of the Dead installation she helped create at the National Museum of Mexican Art. But the turnout was strong. “I’m very thankful that it turned out that way,” Noce said, adding that she also sets up a smaller ofrenda at home, complete with candy, Barbie dolls, and photos of deceased relatives.
The Day of the Dead has long been a platform for both personal and political expression. For over a century, its artistic representations have moved from family shrines to public spaces, sometimes serving as protest art. Luis Fitch, a Minneapolis artist whose Day of the Dead images have appeared in Target stores and on U.S. Postal Service stamps, noted that the tradition has also been used to honor marginalized victims. This year, altars in Minneapolis commemorated not only local losses—such as children killed in a school shooting just three miles from El Colegio—but also migrants who died crossing the border, victims of 9/11, the war in Gaza, and violence against Indigenous women.
In Los Angeles, where immigration enforcement has been particularly aggressive, activists organized a prayer vigil blending Buddhist, Jewish, and Protestant rituals. The event, planned for November 2, was dedicated to migrants who died in detention, according to the Rev. Jennifer Gutierrez. “There’s pretty high anxiety,” Gutierrez told the Associated Press. “But also an atmosphere of coming together to help each other.”
Nowhere was the intersection of remembrance and activism more visible than in El Paso, Texas. On November 2, a migrant remembrance vigil was scheduled at Armijo Park, co-hosted by the Border Network for Human Rights. The group’s spokesman, Alan Lizarraga, used the occasion to highlight a grim reality: at least 1,233 migrants died in the Americas in 2024, according to the UN’s International Organization for Migration. Of those, 560 bodies were recovered along the U.S.-Mexico border, making it one of the deadliest years on record. The vigil aimed not only to honor the dead but also to call for humane immigration policies. “We want to offer our community a space of remembrance but also make an urgent call to action to our government that it is time to build a humane policy, it is time to really care about the safety of individuals and work together to find a way forward that guarantees people aren’t losing their lives,” Lizarraga said to Border Report.
The tragedies keep mounting. On October 12, 2025, a Mexican man and a Guatemalan citizen were killed in a car crash in El Paso as their smuggler tried to evade Border Patrol. Days earlier, first responders found the body of a migrant who had spent six hours in a storm drain after being abandoned by smugglers. Lizarraga argued that U.S. deterrence policies are fueling such deaths, forcing desperate people into the hands of smugglers. “There are no legal pathways to come to the United States for people that are escaping violence. Asylum is limited under this administration and that is forcing people to take alternative routes,” he said. “These are preventable deaths and our policies should reflect the values of our country.”
Policy shifts have added to the confusion. In June 2024, President Biden paused asylum requests between ports of entry, directing would-be asylum-seekers to use the CBP One app. In January 2025, President Trump suspended asylum appointments altogether, rebranding the app as CBP Home—a portal for migrants already in the U.S. to self-report their departure. Meanwhile, the administration has posted online warnings about the dangers of illegal entry and the risks of relying on smugglers.
Back in Minneapolis, the sense of spiritual fortitude remained strong. “We try to keep our sources of spiritual strength always nourished,” said Susana De Leon, an Aztec dancer who helped open the ceremony at El Colegio. “When the community sees us dancing, they feel strengthened. They feel the love.”
Through grief and uncertainty, communities across the country have shown that remembrance and resilience can walk hand in hand, even in the face of fear and loss.
