Everywhere in the United States, someone seems to be missing. A year after the tightening of immigration policies promoted by President Donald Trump, entire sectors are beginning to feel the impact of an abrupt reduction in foreign workers, students, and families who until recently sustained local communities and economies.

In Louisiana, construction companies can't find carpenters; In West Virginia, hospitals are running out of doctors and nurses who were planning to come from abroad; and in Memphis, a neighborhood soccer league is struggling to field teams because migrant children have stopped showing up. The country has tightened its borders: borders have been sealed, legal pathways to entry have been reduced, and thousands have been forced to leave. Visa fees have skyrocketed, refugee admissions have fallen to almost zero, and temporary permits granted under the previous administration have begun to be phased out. Oxford Economics estimates that, under current rules, net immigration is around 450,000 people annually, a far cry from the two to three million per year who entered the country during Joe Biden's administration. In 2024, the percentage of the population born abroad reached 14.8 percent, a record high since 1890. The White House, however, aspires to a scenario similar to that of the 1920s, when Congress closed the borders to much of the world and net immigration fell to zero. Stephen Miller, a key Trump advisor, has praised that period as the last era of an “undisputed superpower.” Communities that feel the void: The changes are already reflected in daily life. In immigrant neighborhoods, supermarkets and churches are quieter, while in cities like Los Angeles and New York, school enrollment is declining. In South Florida, a Venezuelan orchestra canceled its traditional Christmas concert due to many people's fear of leaving their homes. Even in Marshalltown, Iowa, a city of 28,000 inhabitants, the transformation is palpable. After receiving Mexicans, Burmese, Haitians and Congolese since the nineties,Today, 19 percent of its population is foreign-born, and around 50 dialects are spoken in its schools. “There’s more energy in the community. If you stagnate and no new people arrive, you start to age,” explained Mayor-elect Michael Ladehoff at the end of his testimony. But now, festivals have fewer attendees, and parents are withdrawing their children from school when they hear of new arrests. The insecurity extends to families like that of Sergii Fedko and his wife Tetiana, who arrived from Ukraine in 2023 under a temporary program. He found work as a designer, and she works in a daycare, but the change in regulations left their permits in limbo. “If he can’t stay with us, it’s going to be hard for me to find someone else,” said Sergii’s manager, Heidi Hogan, at the end of her statement. His permit extension was approved with a new fee of $1,000, while his wife's application remains unanswered. Proponents of the restrictions argue that reducing immigration will ease pressure on wages and housing, but history offers a troubling reflection. Following the 1924 immigration laws, wages rose only briefly, and sectors like coal mining contracted, while farms and factories turned to automation. Today, nearly half of the migrants who arrived between 2018 and 2022 had college degrees, and many founded companies that are key to the economy. In Florida nursing homes, half the staff is foreign-born, and 38 workers have already received termination notices. “It was like a funeral that would never end; they are my best employees,” lamented Rachel Blumberg, executive director of Sinai Residences, at the end of her account.But history offers a disturbing mirror. After the 1924 laws, wages rose only briefly, and sectors like coal mining contracted, while farms and factories turned to automation. Today, nearly half of the migrants who arrived between 2018 and 2022 had college degrees, and many founded companies that are key to the economy. In Florida nursing homes, half the staff is foreign-born, and 38 workers have already received termination notices. “It was like a funeral that would never end; they are my best employees,” lamented Rachel Blumberg, executive director of Sinai Residences, at the end of her account.But history offers a disturbing mirror. After the 1924 laws, wages rose only briefly, and sectors like coal mining contracted, while farms and factories turned to automation. Today, nearly half of the migrants who arrived between 2018 and 2022 had college degrees, and many founded companies that are key to the economy. In Florida nursing homes, half the staff is foreign-born, and 38 workers have already received termination notices. “It was like a funeral that would never end; they are my best employees,” lamented Rachel Blumberg, executive director of Sinai Residences, at the end of her account.

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