In El Monte, the night breathes slowly. The heat of the day dissolves in the warm air that smells of dust, irrigation water, and freshly worked fields. In a stucco house on the edge of town, Maria ends her day as she began it: with her phone in her hand.

Her son's laughter fills the house with joy. That laughter—so pure, so alive—sweeps away the day's weariness. Maria feels a spark of happiness and, without thinking twice, shares the video online. Suddenly the house becomes lighter, as if her family, across the distance, can feel that moment: from Michoacan to Mendota. That little app, that blue square, is her window to the world. Her confessional and her connection. It reminds her that she still belongs to something bigger than fear: a community of cousins, neighbors, coworkers, and scattered friends held together with hearts and emojis instead of words. Two hundred miles south, in Santa Ana, Pedro leans back in his gray Honda. The smell of tacos and wet asphalt mixes with the murmur of the city. The murals of Cesar Chavez and the Virgin of Guadalupe accompany him like saints of the workers.

He swipes through TikTok: jokes, goals, laughter, and suddenly a woman sings a lullaby in Spanish—the same one his mother sang to him when he was a child. The melody stirs his soul. He feels that invisible bond between people who don't know each other, but share the same sky and the same uncertainty.

He records a video about his father, who crossed the desert thirty years ago. He hesitates for a few seconds—perhaps it's too personal, he thinks—but lets himself be carried away by the feeling and presses "share." He seeks relief in the echo of memory.

Without knowing it, a few miles away, in a windowless building, someone could be looking at that same story... not as a memory, but as data.

In that building, where the screens never sleep, there are those who only watch what others share without understanding it. They see the celebrations, the prayers, the laughter, but they don't feel the sacrifice behind each post. They don't hear the voices. They only hear signs, patterns, and data.

ICE—Immigration and Customs Enforcement—erects an invisible tower, woven with code and algorithms that track our digital footprints, our lives, and our memories. They call it security.

But behind that name lies surveillance in disguise. Because when protection is mistaken for suspicion, freedom becomes a rumor.

California tries to draw a line of hope: a reminder that our data, our lives, and our stories belong to us. Our privacy laws—the Consumer Privacy Act (CCPA) and the CPRA—were written to protect that right. But all of these laws tremble before ICE's federal gaze. Once our photos or messages reach their systems, the promises of protection fade like dawn mist in the Central Valley.

But there is still power in those who choose to use their voice. Change isn't just born from laws: it's born from every person who dares to face the future and say, firmly, "My freedom is non-negotiable."

And who are we to defend ourselves if we aren't even heard? The government claims to speak for us, but often doesn't even listen to the voices that need it most. That's why the best solidarity we have is unity: helping one another, reaching out to our neighbors, our coworkers, and even the strangers who carry the same weight of silence.

We all arrived here with a goal, a dream, a purpose. And we all deserve a chance to live without fear.

Because this story isn't just the story of Maria or Pedro. It's the story of thousands of immigrants who live every day between hope and fear. And it is also the story of California itself: a land full of opportunities, dreams, sacrifices, and people who didn't know what they could accomplish until they arrived here.

So if ICE builds a watchtower, let California build something stronger: a tower of conscience, a wall of compassion.

Let a child's laugh in Bakersfield or a whispered song in Santa Ana be nothing more than evidence of life.

So if ICE builds a watchtower, we must build a tower of conscience.

The power is no longer in Washington; it's in your hand, in your phone.

Protect yourself: use strong passwords, activate two-step verification, don't share your location or your documents on social networks.

Inform your family. Teach your children that not everything is shared, that their story is worth more than a “like.”

Support organizations that defend the digital privacy of immigrants — and demand that your representatives protect our voices online.

Don't let fear silence you.

Every video, every word, every laugh you share can be surveillance or freedom — your choice.

When they see “data,” we still see life.

(*) Dean Raymond Florez is a former American politician who served as a California State Senator for Senate District 16.