Federal agents used explosives near a sleeping toddler. Residents say this isn’t law enforcement—it’s a campaign of terror.
By Nick Valencia
HUNTINGTON PARK, CALIFORNIA — The hole in the wall was boarded up with plywood. A baby’s car seat sat quietly beside it. That was all that remained—the only visible proof that a federal raid had taken place on the 3500 block of Flower Street.
What struck me most wasn’t the debris. It was the silence.
Days earlier, federal agents had used explosives to breach the front of a home in this working-class Latino neighborhood. According to multiple reports, the target was someone accused of interfering with a previous federal operation. The blast shook the block—and nearly cost a toddler his life. The child, who reportedly sleeps just on the other side of the wall that was blown open, had been moved minutes before the explosion. The family, sensing something was wrong, acted on instinct. That decision may have saved the child’s life.
The incident shocked the neighborhood. But it did more than that. It drained the color from it and replaced it with a stillness that vibrates with fear.
As I walked the block with a photojournalist, what we found wasn’t outrage—it was retreat. Curtains twitched. Faces disappeared. On one property, a boy—no older than 13—peeked through a white metal gate. When he saw us approaching, he shut it. Through a sliver in the fence, I could see what looked like a birthday party. But there was no music. No laughter. No celebration.
Down the street, I met Chavo Romero, a member of Unión del Barrio, a local grassroots group that’s been organizing since the early 80s. More recently, they’ve been pivotal in standing up to ICE activity since the first waves in LA this year.
Under the Southern California sun, Romero stood on a street corner with a handful of organizers, each with handheld radios clipped to their waists—tools for neighborhood defense.
“People thank us for giving them a platform. They don’t know where else to go,” he said as cars passing by honked in support.
But it’s risky.
“The kidnappers have been trying to intimidate us,” he said, eyes scanning the street. “Circling around us, 50 at a time. They’re watching us right now. This is a terror campaign.”
The look in his eyes reminded me of something I’ve seen before in soldiers returning from deployment—alert, haunted, fractured. As if his body was present, but his mind was still back at a raid in Compton or Paramount or wherever the last trauma took hold. He didn’t speak in terms of law enforcement or policy. He spoke in terms of warfare.
And maybe that’s because to him—and to so many residents here—that’s what this feels like. A siege.
I’ve covered protests, raids, and social unrest across the country for more than a decade. I’ve seen the way power moves: not just through sirens and arrests, but through shadows and silence. What I saw on Sunday in Huntington Park wasn’t just a shaken community. It was a community frozen. Traumatized. Disappearing behind doors and fences and slats of wood.
Later, I spoke with a federal government source familiar with the ongoing federal operations. On background, he offered insight into the agency’s current state of mind.
“They feel like this is their reckoning,” he said of ICE agents. “Everything they’ve ever wanted to do—now they can. And they have the support of the administration.”
On paper, this was a targeted operation. In practice, it felt like something else entirely—a flex, a message, a warning.
And that message was received.
Loud and clear.
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