DACA uncertainty and ICE crackdowns leave CU Boulder’s undocumented students in limbo

As fear and uncertainty spread through the immigrant community, more than 300 undocumented students at the University of Colorado Boulder are feeling more vulnerable than ever.

A longstanding federal policy restricting U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) activity in sensitive spaces — schools, churches and hospitals — was rescinded by an executive order from President Trump. And with Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals (DACA) potentially coming to an end this year, students are left grappling with deep anxiety about their futures.

“I’d call it full-blown panic at this point,” said Violeta Chapin, an immigration law professor and the associate dean for community and culture at CU Boulder.

Unlike K-12 campuses, which have secured entrances and require visitors to be let in by staff, the CU Boulder campus is generally open to the public. Students are protected by the Family Educational Rights and Privacy Act, which keeps their records private and allows university staff to reject ICE requests for personal information, like a student’s class schedule. Still, the anxiety is palpable.

“We are afraid for our lives,” said Brenda, a doctoral student at CU Boulder who has been protected under DACA and asked that her surname not be included. She’s left wondering, “What were these past 20-plus years were for if they lead to deportation?”

“At this moment we feel like there is nothing we can do except educate ourselves,” she added. “Some people do have the strength to organize, and some are trying to figure out how to make it another day. It’s psychological torture.”

The University of Colorado issued a statement saying it is working to determine the impact of Trump’s executive orders on its four campuses. The CU Boulder website has a page for undocumented applicants and states that it welcomes all to apply. A spokesperson said, “The university is committed to supporting our students, faculty and staff. Students and employees with DACA, ASSET or another undocumented status can find more information on the Resources for Undocumented Employees and Students website.”

Brenda said open support for the undocumented community on campus has been minimal.

“There are no official statements or any signage that even acknowledges what is happening to undocumented students,” she said. “I think public statements, and even things like posters or a slide on a TV screen in the buildings, would at the very least send a message to the students that they are wanted here, and they are supported.”

Chapin runs an immigration law clinic at the university and has become the point person for undocumented students on campus. She has been at the school since 2009, following a tenure in Washington, D.C., as a trial attorney for the public defender’s office. She and her students take on DACA cases, asylum cases, assist undocumented crime victims and do some work with the local public defender.

They recently attended a special workshop to prepare for the anticipated increase in ICE detentions, joining other lawyers who do not specialize in immigration law. The training was led by the Rocky Mountain Immigrant Advocacy Network (RMAIN), which also provides legal training and support to detainees at the Aurora field office, which can hold 1,500 people. RMAIN was later issued a stop-work order and had to cease its legal support programs.

Chapin’s students, who provide free legal support, are among the few advocates available to detainees — some of whom may be legal residents without realizing it, while others could be trafficking victims in urgent need of help. This shortage of legal aid has led to a massive case backlog, which reached 3.6 million nationwide by the end of 2024.

One way out of a life of anxiety for the undocumented is through marriage. Chapin said she regularly asks her DACA clients if they’re in a serious relationship, and the urgency is increasing.

“Usually getting married to a US citizen is the way out. So now we’re seeing a huge jump in wedding proposals, in part to defend themselves, because they’re afraid.”

Brenda, who met Chapin as an undergrad and said she doesn’t know where she’d be without that resource, decided to marry her partner soon after getting engaged.

“Myself and a friend of mine both got engaged recently, and very quickly after our engagements, got legally married so that we could start our documentation process,” she said. “We got married because we love our partners, not simply for a green card. But even that takes time, and you don’t get an answer right away. It can take from six months to three years to hear back.”

She applied for her green card in August 2024 and has not heard back.

Beyond legal help, undocumented students can find additional campus support through the Center for Inclusion and Social Change, which offers grants to cover DACA renewal fees, which cost over $500. CICS also runs UndocuAlly, a program that trains faculty, staff, and graduate students on background and resources for undocumented students. Upcoming two-hour training sessions are scheduled for March 24 and April 17.

Betrayed by community

Brenda, who studies equity, bilingualism and biliteracy within the School of Education, came to the U.S. with her family in 2000 from Baja, Mexico. She and Chapin both participated in panels during “UndocuWeek” in November, shortly after Trump’s election. Brenda spoke on a panel about entrepreneurship, self-care, and building community support.

She was on campus in 2016, when Trump supporters built a cardboard wall after Clinton supporters hung a Trump piñata and has since seen student support for his policies grow.

During Trump’s first presidency, she said, she felt afraid but still confident that she and her family would be okay as long as they kept a low profile. This time, she feels different — not only because of ICE but because she feels that many community members have turned on her.

“I think many of us feel we were betrayed by our communities. And while we are not completely surprised since immigrants are constantly a scapegoat, there is still a deep hurt,” Brenda said. “People who laughed and shared moments with us are defending the violent actions that are being taken by this administration. And even when we are telling them that this is hurting us, they continue to make excuses.”

Still, she said, a recent “Know Your Rights” talk on campus was packed with both students and faculty, which gave her hope that people are interested in supporting the undocumented community.

The repercussions for students like her extend beyond themselves. While Brenda remains protected, her parents never have been. She said her father would not be going to work on the day Boulder Reporting Lab spoke with her after hearing of a planned ICE raid at his job in the food industry. Many of his coworkers had already been staying home, with more doing so every day.

“The dirty unstated secret is that our economy depends on undocumented labor. Every restaurant in Boulder has undocumented workers in the kitchen,” Chapin said.

Talk of parents keeping their kids home from school raises fears of a widening achievement gap, which in Boulder Valley School District is a long-established divide. According to Chapin, when ICE shows up at K-12 schools, it’s mainly to target parents who are dropping off their kids rather than the kids directly, but the fallout is the same: a life held back by fear of deportation.