Invisible Walls
ICE Surveillance Is Reshaping Life in Immigrant New York
Two months after fleeing death threats in Colombia, Juan landed a construction job in New York. But on his first day, the bulky GPS monitor strapped to his ankle caught the manager’s attention. It wouldn’t fit inside standard work boots. The boss shook his head. “Come back when you’ve resolved your status,” he said.
Since arriving in the United States with his teenage daughter, Juan has lived in a state of constant psychological torment. “It feels like I committed a crime, like they’re going to arrest me at any moment.” To hide the monitor, he started wearing oversized pants - a style he finds uncomfortable. “I’m paranoid all the time,” he said. “I think they’re going to take me.”
Juan, 42, shows the ankle bracelet on March 24, 2025. Under ICE’s Alternative to Detention (ATD) program. Juan has been in the program since arriving in the U.S. in November 2024. © Claudia Rosel 2025
Juan is one of more than 12,000 immigrants in New York currently enrolled in the Alternatives to Detention (ATD) program, a U.S. Department of Homeland Security initiative operated by BI Incorporated, a Colorado-based private contractor responsible for ICE’s surveillance technology. The program monitors migrants through GPS ankle bracelets and biometric apps like SmartLINK, which log facial features and location data multiple times per hour, along with voice check-ins and video calls. ICE promotes it as a “humane and cost-effective” alternative to detention, at a cost of $4.20 per person per day. Between 2006 and 2021, ICE’s budget for electronic monitoring surged from $28 million to $470 million.
But advocates and lawyers argue that this portrayal obscures the true nature of the program. Boston University law professor Sarah Sherman-Stokes describes ATD as part of a regime of "digital cages", where the violence of immigration enforcement extends beyond detention centers and embeds in everyday life. The quiet normalization of these tools, she warns in a paper published last year, has created a geography of invisible power, a surveillance that trails migrants into their homes, workplaces, and communities.
Today, more than 183,000 people are enrolled in ATD nationwide. In cities like New York where over 12,000 migrants were enrolled as of March, enrollment surged in 2022, as ICE began placing entire families like Juan’s under digital surveillance. A February report by the American Bar Association notes that many of those being monitored come from Central American countries.
An NYPD surveillance camera overlooks Corona Plaza in Queens, New York, on March 19, 2025. In this predominantly Latino immigrant neighborhood, some residents say the growing presence of surveillance has sparked fear since President Trump’s return to office. © Claudia Rosel 2025
Electronic monitoring in immigration cases was first introduced in 2004. Unlike its use in the criminal justice system, participants in ICE’s program have not been convicted of a crime or served time in prison. Yet they live under constant scrutiny and restriction, which deeply affects their mental health.
Genesis, a 25 year old from Panama living in a shelter in Queens with his two year old son, has worn an ankle monitor for over 18 months. “It’s uncomfortable. People stare. When I go to the park with my son, other parents don’t want their kids to play with him,” she said. The stigma, she added, makes her feel like a bad mother. Genesis fled Honduras after the Tren de Aragua gang threatened her life. “When I worked at McDonald's, people made comments. I’m not a criminal.”
New York residents under ATD are subject to deportation orders and must report regularly to the US Intensive Supervision Appearance Program (ISAP office, which is located near ICE headquarters at Federal Plaza in Manhattan. On weekday mornings, people can be seen entering and exiting the building’s basement, while loved ones wait nervously outside.
“It’s very difficult to have a normal life,” said one man whose wife has been under monitoring for three years. “We can’t even leave the city,” he said. According to multiple users, movement is restricted, sometimes without clear explanation.
The toll of surveillance extends far beyond the ankle monitor. According to psychologist Liliana Torres, who provides weekly mental health support in Spanish to recently arrived immigrants, “everyday elements of the city become triggers,” she said that cameras, patrol cars, even police sirens are sparking panic amongst her clients.
Immigrants attend a legal clinic in Corona, Queens, on March 22, 2025, to learn about defense mechanisms against deportation amid rising fears. © Claudia Rosel 2025
Stefani, a 24-year-old Venezuelan asylum applicant, attends a Venezuelan Immigrant Aid event in Corona, Queens, on March 22, 2025, to learn about defense mechanisms against deportation. Eight months pregnant, she fears being separated from her U.S.-born child. © Claudia Rosel 2025
Genesis, a young mother from Panama living in a shelter in Queens, has worn an ankle monitor for over 18 months. “It’s uncomfortable. People stare. When I go to the park with my son, other parents don’t want their kids to play with him,” she said. The stigma, she added, makes her feel like a bad mother. Genesis fled Honduras after the Tren de Aragua gang threatened her life. “When I worked at McDonald's, people made comments. I’m not a criminal.”
Migrants under ATD are subject to deportation orders and must report regularly to ISAP offices near ICE headquarters at Federal Plaza in Manhattan. On weekday mornings, they can be seen entering and exiting the building’s basement, while loved ones wait outside, unsure of what news they’ll receive.
“It’s very difficult to have a normal life,” said one man whose wife has been under monitoring for three years. “We can’t even leave the city,” he said. According to multiple users, movement is restricted, sometimes without clear explanation.
The toll of surveillance extends far beyond the ankle monitor. According to psychologist Liliana Torres, who provides weekly mental health support in Spanish, “everyday elements of the city become triggers,” she said that cameras, patrol cars, even police sirens can spark panic.
In Corona Plaza, a Queens area home to one of the city’s largest Latin American immigrant communities, fear has become part of daily life. Following President Trump’s return to office in January, business owners reported a visible drop in customers. “People think they’re going to take all of us,” said a nail salon worker who asked to remain anonymous due to concerns around her legal status. “But we can’t afford to stay home. We have to work.”
Even as the streets have returned to normal, fear is amplified by social media posts. “We see people on TikTok saying ICE is coming when it isn’t, or worse, spreading confusion about immigration law,” said Niurka Meléndez, founder of Venezuelan Immigrant Aid (VIA), a volunteer-run group that connects asylum seekers to legal and social services. VIA hosts a weekly event called Miracle Mondays at a church in Manhattan. Once considered sanctuaries, such spaces are no longer off-limits to ICE under the Trump administration. Out of caution, VIA now shares event locations only through WhatsApp.
Grassroots groups have adapted to this new climate by educating communities about their rights. ICE Watch, a volunteer network, tracks immigration enforcement and sends real-time alerts via encrypted Signal chats across the five boroughs. Its members also conduct “Know Your Rights” training, teaching people how to recognize ICE agents, document encounters, and support those being targeted. Social workers, English teachers, and small business owners are often among those who attend.
“The system thrives on isolation,” said one organizer, who requested anonymity due to safety concerns. “People need to know we’re here to help.”
Training also focuses on defending private property. If ICE agents enter the private space of a business without a warrant and someone records it, that video can become legal evidence. At a recent session, one attendee recalled hearing a Trump official on TV admit they were struggling to meet deportation quotas in sanctuary cities because “too many people know their rights.”
For Juan, who came to the U.S. seeking safety after gang members shot his father in the head, the pressure is constant. His young daughter picks up on everything. “She sees how I live and blames herself,” he said. At times, they’ve discussed returning to Colombia, but he quickly adds, “I fear something worse than death could happen if I go back.”
For Juan, who came to the U.S. seeking safety after gang members shot his father in the head, the pressure is constant. His young daughter picks up on everything. “She sees how I live and blames herself,” he said. At times, they’ve discussed returning to Colombia, but he quickly adds, “I fear something worse than death could happen if I go back.”