When governments say they are protecting society, it is worth asking: protected from what, and protected for whom?

I learned what fear looks like at the doorstep.

In the Philippines, during Tokhang, a police campaign under the government’s so-called war on drugs, drawn from the words “toktok” (knock) and “pakiusap” (plead)—the knock on the door was not just a warning; it was a death sentence. I remember giving a homily at the funeral of a youth killed in one of these operations—a life ended not in court, not through justice, but dismissed under the claim of “nanlaban” (“fought back”), a pretext often used to justify killings. In the course of Tokhang, an estimated 7,000 people were killed, often without warrants or due process. Those with power and wealth remained protected because the knock rarely reached them. For everyone else, especially the poor, the doorstep marked the line beyond which safety ended.

Now, living in the United States, I recognize the same fear, even though it wears a different uniform. ICE raids arrive at homes early in the morning, forcing their way into spaces meant for rest and protection. They may not always end in death, but they follow the same pattern of power. People of color are targeted most, and once again, due process is fragile. Individuals are detained first and asked questions later, even when they have no criminal case, even when they are in the process of legalizing their status. An estimated 65,000 to 70,000 people have been detained, many under conditions that deny safety and fairness.

Living here has taught me that immigration status does not guarantee safety. Just as Tokhang did not require proof, ICE raids do not require guilt. Workers, parents, and long-term residents are taken because they are visible and vulnerable. Warrants are unclear, explanations are rushed, and legal protections arrive too late. At the doorstep, the law does not feel like protection—it feels like a force that punishes, not safeguards.

ICE raids are inhumane because they rely on fear to control communities. Families are separated without warning. Children are left searching for parents who never come home. Communities learn to stay silent, to avoid attention, to disappear. I recognize this silence. It is the same silence Tokhang created—when people learned that trusting the system could cost them their lives.

Yet even in the midst of fear, hope survives. I have seen communities come together, lighting candles, holding vigils, and supporting families affected by violence or detention. Churches, neighborhood groups, and advocacy organizations become spaces of safety and care. These moments remind me that while the doorstep can be a place of threat, it can also be a threshold where solidarity and compassion enter—a place where fear is met with collective strength and resistance.

Having witnessed Tokhang and now heard stories of ICE harassment, I refuse to see these as separate realities. They are connected by the same neglect of due process and the same belief that some lives are more expendable than others. In both countries, safety belongs to those with power and wealth. People of color, the poor, and migrants carry this fear every day.

I believe the doorstep should never be where justice ends and fear begins. Homes should not be turned into checkpoints, and justice should not disappear the moment authority arrives. I have seen what happens when the state knocks without restraint—and I refuse to accept that fear is the price of safety. We must stand with communities at risk and demand accountability at every doorstep.