For over a century, Filipinos have immigrated to the United States in pursuit of work, education, safety, and a better future for their families. We are nurses, Dreamers, domestic workers, and veterans. We sing karaoke on weekends, send balikbayan boxes home, and serve in the U.S. Navy, yet even we aren’t safe from ICE.

Despite being one of the largest Asian immigrant groups in the country, Filipino immigrants remain an invisible demographic in America’s immigration debate. Deportation orders are quietly signed behind closed doors. Early morning raids leave children without parents, caregivers without homes, and communities without answers. Filipino families are being torn apart while the rest of the country looks away.

From Daly City to Queens, from our elders who marched with the farm workers to our youth now leading chants in the streets, Filipino Americans are organizing, protesting, and speaking out. We show up not just for ourselves, but for every immigrant told they don’t belong. So why does our struggle still go unnoticed?

It’s time to ask: What does it mean to pledge allegiance to a country that treats us as disposable? And how do we build a future in a place that continues to question our right to stay?

---

He wasn’t a criminal. He was a husband and father returning home. 

Maximo Londino, a 42‑year‑old Filipino permanent resident, was flying home to Washington with his wife and child in mid‑May when CBP agents stopped him at Seattle-Tacoma International Airport. He was taken into custody, held for four days, and then transferred to the Northwest ICE Processing Center in Tacoma, despite his clean record and decades-long residency.

Maximo is not an isolated case. As of May 18, 2025, ICE was holding 56,397 people in detention and astonishingly, 47 percent of them have no criminal record. That means thousands like Maximo: immigrants with families, legal status, and deep American lives—are being hunted by a system that no longer needs a reason to detain, only an excuse.

Even as we pledge allegiance, the ground beneath our feet asks for proof we belong.

---

Across the country, Filipino communities refuse to remain silent. In Daly City, California, home to one of the largest Filipino populations in the nation, groups like the National Alliance for Filipino Concerns (NAFCON) hold powerful rallies outside detention centers demanding the release of detainees and an end to the relentless ICE raids. In Los Angeles, the Filipino Migrant Center provides legal aid and mobilizes public support. In New York and Chicago, faith-based groups like the Interfaith Movement for Human Integrity organize vigils and build coalitions with Black and Brown immigrant communities. These protests are more than symbolic, they are urgent calls for justice. Filipino Americans know what it feels like to be treated as outsiders in their own home. But now, we are speaking out and standing together with immigrants everywhere to say: enough is enough.

At this point, solidarity alone is not enough. We, the parents, the nurses, the churchgoers, the professionals, can no longer afford to believe that staying quiet will keep us safe. Many of us came here believing that hard work and good conduct would protect us. But Maximo’s story proves otherwise. Now, we must unlearn the idea that silence keeps us safe. Vigilance is no longer optional; it is essential to protecting our communities. That means we  must question unjust policies, support those targeted, and resist accepting a system that too often divides rather than protects. If we don't rise now, we risk losing not just our place in this country, but our voice in shaping its future.

To be Filipino in America has always meant living between pride and precarity. We have offered this country our hands as nurses, seafarers, caregivers, and soldiers—serving with quiet strength and deep faith. We send remittances back home, celebrate milestones with lechon and lumpia, and teach our children to call elders “po” and “opo.” Yet even with all we’ve given, we are still asked to prove we belong. But our history teaches us resilience. From the farmworker strikes of Delano to today’s rallies outside detention centers, we have always found ways to rise. Now, we speak not with anger but with purpose. Our stories deserve to be heard. Not just for ourselves, but for every immigrant seeking dignity, family, and home. The time to stand together is now.

---