On the morning of July 8, 2025, Mariana Torres, a 13-year-old student at Morro Bay High School, missed her summer classes for what her teachers believed was a routine immigration appointment. But by the end of that day, Mariana and her family had been swept into a system whose rules and consequences have become the subject of national debate and legal scrutiny. Their story, like many others unfolding this year, sits at the intersection of shifting immigration policy, legal controversy, and the daily realities faced by families living in the shadow of enforcement.
Mariana, her two younger siblings, and their mother, Rosa Torres, had fled Mexico years earlier after cartel violence claimed the lives of Rosa’s brother and husband. According to The Tribune, the family’s journey to the United States began in 2015, when threats and tragedy forced them to move from Guerrero to Michoacán, and eventually to Tijuana. After waiting six months for an asylum appointment, they were finally allowed entry into the U.S. in January 2024. They settled in Los Osos, California, hoping for safety and a fresh start.
But their hopes were short-lived. In June 2025, after a brief hearing in Los Angeles, the Department of Homeland Security dismissed the family’s asylum case. Rosa, who did not have legal representation, was told by the judge, “If they detain you outside of the courtroom, I can’t do anything.” As The Tribune reports, ICE agents were waiting for the family as they left the courthouse. Though initially released with an ankle monitor and enrolled in the Intensive Supervision Appearance Program (ISAP), their next check-in in Santa Maria led to their detention and eventual transfer to a family facility in Texas. After nearly a month in custody and a failed “reasonable fear” interview, the family chose to self-deport back to Mexico at the end of July.
Rosa’s account of life in detention is harrowing. She described to The Tribune how her children developed allergies, her daughter Mariana refused to eat the facility’s food, and they struggled to communicate with relatives and supporters outside. Educators in California, learning of the family’s plight, called the detention center “four to five times a day,” desperate for updates and to offer help. A GoFundMe campaign, supported by local teachers and politicians, provided funds for basic needs and travel after their deportation.
“We came to the United States out of fear,” Rosa told The Tribune. Now, back in Mexico, she continues to live with “a lot of fear” and “a lot of trauma.” The family’s story is far from unique—nor is it confined to the U.S.-Mexico border.
Just days ago, on September 21, 2025, Delhi Police detained two illegal Bangladeshi immigrants, Shishir Hubert Rozario and Mohammad Touhidur Rahman, in India’s capital. According to ETV Bharat, the two men admitted to entering India over 11 years ago and failed to provide any valid documentation of Indian nationality. Their Bangladeshi identity cards were verified, and police initiated deportation procedures in coordination with the Foreigners Regional Registration Office (FRRO). Earlier that month, four more Bangladeshi immigrants—including three women—were detained in Delhi’s Kapashera area after entering India through West Bengal and Tripura in 2017, seeking housekeeping work in Mumbai and Delhi.
These parallel stories on opposite sides of the globe reveal a common thread: the tightening of borders, the increased scrutiny of migrants, and the growing reliance on detention and deportation as tools of immigration enforcement. Yet, beneath the headlines, the legal and ethical debates swirl with renewed urgency.
On September 16, 2025, the U.S. Supreme Court handed down a decision that could have far-reaching consequences for how immigration enforcement is conducted. In Noem v. Vasquez Perdomo, the Court voted 6-3 to lift a preliminary injunction against Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE), allowing the agency to use factors such as skin color, Spanish language use, occupation, and physical location in selecting individuals for immigration investigation. According to Davis Vanguard, some plaintiffs in the case were U.S. citizens who argued that the Fourth Amendment requires “individualized reasonable suspicion or probable cause of a person’s wrongdoing.”
Justice Brett Kavanaugh, the only member of the majority to provide an explanation, acknowledged that race should be only a “relevant factor” but not the sole basis for enforcement decisions. He relied on the controversial 1983 Los Angeles v. Lyons decision, which had upheld the use of police chokeholds despite their deadly consequences. UC Davis law professors Vikram David Amar and Alan E. Brownstein, writing in their analysis, criticized this reliance as “bad law on its own facts.” They argued that Kavanaugh’s comparison faltered because Los Angeles residents—especially those of Hispanic descent—could encounter ICE repeatedly under the policy.
Justice Sonia Sotomayor, dissenting, decried the increasing number of Supreme Court rulings issued without formal written opinions, especially on matters with such profound implications. Amar and Brownstein further noted the inconsistency in the Court’s approach: while banning the use of race in college admissions, the Court permitted ICE to consider race as a factor in immigration investigations. They pointed out that the Court has historically set a higher standard for the use of race in government action due to America’s long and troubled history with racial discrimination.
“Future plaintiffs may not be able to sue even if ICE exclusively uses race when investigating potential undocumented migrants,” Amar and Brownstein warned. Kavanaugh, while disapproving of the exclusive use of race, left the door open to its continued use as part of a broader set of factors—an approach the professors and many advocates find deeply troubling.
Across the world, in India, the debate is less about the legal theory and more about the practicalities of enforcement. The Delhi Police, acting on intelligence tips, have stepped up efforts to identify and detain undocumented immigrants—often relying on local networks, document checks, and coordination with foreign consulates. The process is bureaucratic but relentless, as those detained face the prospect of deportation after years of living in the country’s shadows.
For families like the Torreses, the legal nuances and shifting policies can feel abstract compared to the day-to-day struggle for safety, stability, and dignity. Back in Mexico, Rosa Torres’s children have returned to school, but Mariana—who thrived in California’s special education program—has stayed home due to the lack of similar support. “Now, it’s like heartbreaking to know that there isn’t a system, or there aren’t teachers that are prepared over there to help her build on those skills,” Mariana’s former teacher told The Tribune.
As countries grapple with migration, the balance between enforcement and compassion remains precarious. The Supreme Court’s latest ruling, the stepped-up detentions in Delhi, and the personal stories of families caught in the middle all serve as reminders that the legal and political battles over immigration have very real human costs—ones that don’t end at the border or the courtroom door.
In a world increasingly defined by movement and migration, the fates of families like the Torreses, or those detained in Delhi, reflect the ongoing struggle to reconcile national security, legal principles, and basic humanity.
