As ICE enforcement intensifies, one man works to keep undocumented families fed in Bensalem

On an icy, 13-degree Saturday morning in January, José Hernández sat in his pick-up truck outside a Bensalem church, waiting for his phone to ring.

It didn’t take long.

Calls, texts, and emails have become constant, as Hernández, a machinist by trade, has become a crucial connection for many township residents who are living in the U.S. without official permission.

What started as a simple good deed, delivering groceries to a few people worried about attracting ICE attention, has for Hernández, 61, become a full-time, unpaid job. Worry has hardened into fear amid the Trump administration’s dramatic escalation in immigration enforcement, leaving some people afraid to leave their homes.

Hernández’ weekend rounds ― picking up people’s grocery orders at stores, bringing the food to their homes, always with a glance over his shoulder ― ensures sustenance for families for whom discovery would mean arrest, separation, and likely deportation.

About 14% of the Bucks County township’s 63,000 residents are Latino. Among immigrants, everyone has a friend or family member who has been arrested by ICE and not seen again. And many fear that they’ll be next.

“They come out to pick up their order and you can see the fear in their faces,” Hernández said. “Many people come out saying, ‘Please hurry up, los del Hielo can be here any second.’”

That’s what some community members call ICE agents, los del Hielo, meaning, “the iced ones.” There are other names too, like el Escalofrío, or “the chills,” and los Helados, which translates to, “the frozen ones.”

The nicknames come not from anger but from anxiety — fear that even speaking aloud the words “Immigration and Customs Enforcement” could summon danger.

“We try to only go out when the darkness of the night protects us,” said an Ecuadorian mother, 32, who declined to provide her name for fear of arrest. “It’s a false sense of safety, but we must hold on to it.”

Hernández recently delivered two bags of groceries and a birthday cake to her home, as her son was turning 12.

“When I am in school,” the boy said, “the only thing I think about is if dad will make it home today. I wait all day, and then he comes, and I am happy he is still here. I am learning that being an American means that I have to be worried for the people I love.”

A third of his immediate family ― an uncle and two cousins ― was arrested in November and December.

Today an estimated 14 million people live in the United States without government permission, including about 76,000 in Philadelphia.

Intensified ICE enforcement in the region and the nation has altered their lives ― exactly as the Trump administration intended when it promised to carry out the largest deportation program in U.S. history.

For undocumented residents, freedom is no longer guaranteed by living quietly, obeying the law, and staying off the government radar. Now, discovery of having entered the country without approval, a civil violation, often means the end of an American life built across years.

As a result, people are staying indoors.

Many have stopped going to the doctor. And to church. They keep their children home from school when news of ICE activity surges. Businesses have had to temporarily close when workers stay away.

ICE officials did not reply to requests for comment.

In 2025, the agency detained 307,713 people in the U.S. ― detentions closely mirror arrests ― compared to 93,342 in 2024.

That’s a 230% increase.

Today more and more of those arrested face no criminal charges, even as the Trump administration pledges to deport “the worst of the worst.”

Hernández didn’t plan to be doing this work, spending his weekends traversing Bensalem.

A decade ago he founded a group called Movimiento Guadalupano, a committee to organize Catholic activities. That grew into a broader support group for Latinos, and now he’s one of four volunteers who have become a central source of assistance and information on ICE activity.

“Don’t go out today,” the Movimiento website warned on a recent weekend. “Volunteers will deliver your groceries from Hispanic stores to your home free of charge.”

Hernández’ is a U.S. citizen, born in this country. He carries no fear of ICE, but plenty of worry that people in the Latino community will struggle without reliable food deliveries.

In the truck, Hernández’s phone rang.

Soon he was parked and walking through the doors of a Bensalem store stocked with traditional Mexican foods. He looked around, to be sure he wasn’t followed, but also so he could update Movimiento’s Facebook page if he saw ICE agents.

A married couple shopping at the store recognized him and said hello ― Hernández had brought groceries to their home, bags of chorizo, tortillas, milk, cereal, and coffee.

“Having the groceries delivered has been a huge relief,” said the man, Ivan, 44, who declined to provide his surname for fear of being identified to ICE. “We don’t have to choose between risking ourselves and feeding our children.”

Bensalem has been their home for 24 years, the couple explained, but their efforts to obtain legal status have failed. Meanwhile personal disaster has crept close.

In December, at a construction site where he worked, Ivan said, two coworkers left for lunch and never returned. He later learned they had been arrested by ICE.

“It’s just very difficult to be in a country that we know isn’t ours,” said Ivan’s wife, Connie, “but we love it as if it were.”

A clerk interrupted: Hernández’ food order was ready. He grabbed the bag and headed out, Ivan watching him as he left.

“He could be at home with his family, instead, he is helping,” Ivan said. “He brings a little bit of peace in this environment, like we still are a community.”

Ten minutes later, Hernández slowed his truck near a row of houses, looking for anyone who might seem like they were waiting.

A woman at a doorway froze when their eyes met.

“Did you order a delivery?” Hernández called to her from the truck, watching relief come over her face.

“You scared me,” she said, explaining that his car looked like one driven by a man who phones ICE to report people.

The woman, who asked to be identified only by her first name, Maira, because she worried about immigration enforcement, said her husband hasn’t left the house since late November, when he barely escaped an ICE raid at a Norristown construction site. She still goes to work each morning, once she and her sister, who is a U.S. citizen, check the Movimiento site for a safe route.

“I feel like crying all the time,” said Maira, 48. “I feel like a fugitive without having done anything, but I still have to keep working and paying taxes.”

After 25 years, she said, she thought she was part of Bensalem. That changed when a neighbor complained there were “too many cars” on Maira’s driveway when her sister visited. After that, she said, she stopped hosting family gatherings, concerned that the neighbor would call ICE.

Hernández handed her the groceries and turned to leave.

Maira tried to give him a $5 bill.

“No, no, no,” he said. “How can I be of help if I charge you?”

Hernández likes to think he brings more than groceries, that with him comes a kind word, a smile, and maybe even some hope. Don José, as folks call him, says his worry is not the weight of the bags or the length of the check-out lines in stores.

“I am scared,” he said, “that we will get used to this [ICE enforcement], that it will be so normalized that people stop helping one another.”

As the day wound down, Hernández’s wife phoned to see how he was doing. He drove to a nearby Walgreens pharmacy to check out a report that ICE agents were in the parking lot. They weren’t.

His phone rang.

“Hi, is this Don José?” a young man asked, apologizing for calling. “I really need your help with a delivery.”

“Don’t worry, place your order,” Hernández replied. “I will be right there.”