In the heart of Central Oregon and across the state of Utah, a crisis is quietly unfolding—one that affects not only the safety and wellbeing of crime victims but also the future of organizations tasked with supporting them. Recent developments have put vital funding for victim assistance programs in jeopardy, sending shockwaves through communities that rely on these services for survival, protection, and hope.
On August 27, 2025, a wave of anxiety swept through Central Oregon’s network of victim service providers. According to The Bulletin, organizations that depend on grant funding from the Victims of Crime Act (VOCA)—a federal program fueled by criminal fines and designed to support survivors of crimes, stalking, and domestic abuse—were told that their funding, scheduled for renewal in September, might not arrive. The reason? The Trump administration had threatened to withhold VOCA funds unless Oregon agreed to assist with federal immigration enforcement efforts, a move that would violate the state’s longstanding sanctuary law. In response, Oregon Attorney General Dan Rayfield joined a multi-state lawsuit, standing alongside counterparts from California, Connecticut, Delaware, and Washington, among others, to challenge the federal government’s ultimatum.
The implications of losing VOCA funding are staggering. In Oregon alone, 146 victim service providers could face a collective loss of up to $15 million. For Central Oregon, the impact would be felt acutely by organizations such as the Anti-Trafficking Project, Saving Grace, KIDS Center, and the victim assistance programs in Deschutes, Jefferson, and Crook counties. These groups are more than just names on a list—they represent lifelines for individuals who have nowhere else to turn.
Bre Barrett, program director for the Anti-Trafficking Project (a part of J Bar J Youth Services), described the gravity of the situation. VOCA funding, she explained, sustains a regional anti-trafficking task force comprised of roughly 30 organizations working together to reach those most in need. As the threat of funding loss looms, Barrett and her colleagues are scrambling to identify alternative sources of support. "It’s especially difficult because there are other organizations chasing the same sources," she told The Bulletin. The stakes are even higher for non-citizen clients and labor trafficking victims, who, Barrett said, are "terrified" to come forward amid the uncertainty.
The human toll of these funding decisions is best illustrated by those who have relied on such services. One client, identified only as Martin for safety reasons, shared her story with The Bulletin. She credited the Anti-Trafficking Project, Saving Grace, and KIDS Center with providing her and her daughter essential support—everything from a safety plan and child care to food, gas money, and a sense of belonging. "So many people have been there (for us)," Martin said. "It was just them being there that gave me that chance to keep going….Without these programs, I would have been lonely, isolated, unsafe, invisible, probably dead." Her words echo the fears of countless others facing similar circumstances.
The numbers tell a sobering story. The Crook County victims assistance program received $191,620 for the 2023-25 cycle, funds that District Attorney Kari Hathorn described as "the backbone of our ability to provide essential services in our rural community to victims of child abuse, domestic violence, sexual assault and other crimes." Hathorn warned, "Without swift legislative action, we face devastating consequences to our Victim Assistance Program." Meanwhile, Deschutes County’s program was awarded $540,260 in VOCA grants for the same period, money that directly supports the work of victim advocate employees. As Jessica Chandler, assistant to Deschutes County District Attorney Steve Gunnels, explained, the program’s survival depends on both the VOCA grant and the criminal fines account.
Oregon’s predicament is not unique. In Utah, a separate but parallel crisis is unfolding. An analysis by Fox 13 in Salt Lake City, published on August 27, 2025, revealed that domestic violence is now the leading cause of homicide in the state. Between July 2023 and January 2025, 51 of Utah’s 137 homicides—more than a third—were the result of intimate partner or familial violence. While most perpetrators were men, the victims were nearly evenly split between males (26) and females (25), with some tragedies involving multiple family members.
For advocates like Kimmi Wolf, communications specialist for the Utah Domestic Violence Coalition (UDVC), these findings are both devastating and deeply familiar. "Their level of fear and violence, the danger, the apologies—the entire cycle and years of power and control—it’s clear that homicide for many of these clients is going to be in the near future," Wolf told Fox 13. The data was released under a 2023 law requiring police to administer a lethality assessment during domestic violence calls, a protocol that asks about jealousy, control, and threats involving weapons. While the intent is to identify those at greatest risk, the policy has led to a surge in referrals to Utah’s 16 direct service providers—already stretched to the limit.
Yet, just as demand for help is rising, the Trump administration’s cuts to federal victim support programs have been acutely felt. Utah legislators compounded the problem by excluding $1.6 million in new funding requested by the UDVC to help manage the influx of clients. Rural communities, which may have only a single service provider for hundreds of miles, have been hit especially hard. So too have organizations serving communities of color, whose work has been further complicated by the administration’s crackdown on diversity, equity, and inclusion (DEI) initiatives.
"At the end of the day, underfunded service agencies lost more money," Wolf said bluntly. "We were already at a crisis tipping point. Then for the federal monies to dry up, that was the crisis." The situation is compounded by what Wolf described as a disconnect in public discourse. While former President Donald Trump has focused on street crime and deployed the national guard in cities like Washington, D.C., Wolf pointed out that the greatest danger in Utah comes not from "faceless criminals" but from "someone who’s claimed to love you." She explained, "We’re always afraid of these faceless criminals that are gonna jump out at us and cause us harm. But you’re more likely to be harmed by someone you know. It’s the woman who is at risk in her own home that is in danger from her spouse. We don’t want to admit that."
As the debate over funding and public safety continues, those on the front lines—victims, advocates, and service providers—are left to navigate a landscape marked by uncertainty and fear. The fate of millions in critical support hangs in the balance, with real lives and futures at stake. For communities in Oregon, Utah, and beyond, the question remains: who will stand with those most in need when the systems designed to protect them are under threat?
