fox files

In a republic founded on law, justice is enforced by people, fallible, flesh-and-blood people who do their duty not in the abstract, but on our streets, at our borders, and increasingly under siege. The American immigration officer, particularly those who work for Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE), now finds himself caught between two threats: a political class willing to expose his identity for ideological gain and a criminal underworld eager to retaliate.

Let us begin with a basic principle of civil society: if you deputize men and women to enforce laws against violent actors, you owe them the protections required to do so safely. In ordinary contexts, that may mean a badge, a vest, and a bodycam. But in the extraordinary context of immigration enforcement in 2025 America, it means something more controversial: anonymity.

Critics claim that anonymity breeds unaccountability. But this is a confusion, one that ignores both the internal oversight mechanisms of federal agencies and the external threats ICE agents face. Agents are not invisible. They wear IDs, have supervisors, are recorded, and are held to internal standards. What they seek is not invisibility but insulation: from activists who treat them as political prey, and from criminal syndicates who treat them as marks on a kill list.

In cities like Portland and Nashville, Democrat politicians have threatened to publicize the names and home addresses of ICE agents. In 2025, Nashville Mayor Freddie O’Connell faced backlash after the Metro Nashville government website published the names of federal immigration officers as part of an update to Executive Order 30, which mandates reporting on local interactions with immigration enforcement. The disclosure led to claims of doxxing, online harassment, and threats against the officers, prompting the mayor’s office to remove the names. In one separate and alarming episode, Congressman Salud Carbajal read aloud an ICE officer’s name to a hostile crowd, which then assaulted the officer and sent him to the hospital. This is not oversight. This is doxxing, weaponized for politics.

Consider what doxxing means in the age of online databases and facial recognition. To know an officer’s name is to find his home, identify his spouse, uncover his children’s school. In Portland, agents have reported finding threatening graffiti on their front doors and trash bags left on their lawns with notes naming their kids. Death threats, once vague or anonymous, are now personalized.

The Department of Homeland Security now reports that assaults on immigration officers have surged more than 800 percent compared to the same period last year, underscoring what federal officials describe as a coordinated national campaign. Online activists publish their faces and names, but the audience is not just Antifa. It is also MS-13. It is the Sinaloa cartel. It is Tren de Aragua, the Venezuelan gang now operating with terrifying speed across the US Southern border. Criminal syndicates treat this information like tactical intelligence, “a kill list,” as one DHS official put it.

Across the country, anti-ICE groups have formed sophisticated cells that plan and execute calculated attacks using reconnaissance, secure messaging apps, and interference operations to obstruct federal enforcement.

The Prairieland attack near Fort Worth stands out for its precision and scale. On the night of July 4, a group of 10–12 assailants in black tactical gear used fireworks to draw officers out of the facility. Two shooters hidden in a nearby tree line opened fire, wounding a local police officer. Court documents describe the attackers’ use of body armor, two-way radios, Faraday bags, and flyers reading “FIGHT ICE WITH CLASS TERROR.” Officials say the level of coordination and planning was unlike anything previously seen in immigration-related violence. Planning was conducted via encrypted Signal groups, where attackers shared surveillance photos, coordinated logistics, and later discussed destroying evidence and evading arrest. Eleven people have been charged, including ten with attempted murder of federal officers. The lead suspect, Benjamin Hanil Song, a former US Marine reservist, allegedly purchased several rifles used in the assault.

After the attack, Song was hidden by group members and moved between safe houses before being captured in Dallas following an 11-day manhunt. During the search, authorities uncovered extensive evidence of planning, including body armor, tactical vests, loaded weapons, and digital communications coordinating Song’s escape.

Two others, John Phillip Thomas and Lynette Read Sharp, were charged with helping Song flee. Thomas, a close associate and member of the same Signal chats, admitted to meeting with other suspects to coordinate Song’s getaway and was found with clothing purchased in Song’s size and a loaded AR-15 magazine in his vehicle. Just days after the Prairieland attack, a 27-year-old gunman opened fire on a Border Patrol facility in McAllen, Texas, wounding multiple officers before being killed by return fire. That same day, federal agents were assaulted at an ICE facility in Portland, Oregon, where rioters deployed an incendiary device. While not directly connected, these incidents signal a broader, escalating pattern of political violence against immigration authorities.

Beyond direct violence, organized resistance to immigration enforcement has become increasingly structured and strategic. In cities like Los Angeles, activist networks operate surveillance teams, monitor ICE activity at day-labor sites, and use encrypted apps like Signal and Telegram to coordinate real-time responses, legal observers, and blockades. These networks distribute materials, record raids, and in some cases, physically obstruct federal operations.

Federal authorities have responded by expanding prosecutions to include those providing logistical or material support, even in non-violent roles, such as distributing protective gear, attempting to identify masked ICE agents, or aiding individuals fleeing arrest. Some elected officials have also faced legal consequences for allegedly obstructing ICE.

Some of the more disturbing precedents come from Mexico, where cartels have used kidnapped officers to extract rosters of their colleagues, then hunted them down at home and executed them in front of their families. The Mexican government responded by issuing balaclavas and concealing identities during operations. In 2024, lawmakers debated allowing masked judges in cartel trials, after multiple assassinations of prosecutors and judges. It is a grim but necessary adaptation. Mexico has learned what the US is refusing to admit: when you face transnational organized crime, anonymity can mean survival.

A similar logic operates in Russia and Eastern Europe, where anti-mafia and counter-terror units routinely operate in full masks, with no identifying names. Even in France and Italy, nations with strong traditions of civil liberties, officers wear masks during anti-terror raids, not to evade accountability, but to avoid a bullet to the head later.

Yet in the US, some lawmakers suggest that an ICE agent who conceals his name is a secret policeman. Let us be clear: it is not a violation of democratic transparency to withhold names from mobs and cartels. The purpose of anonymity in enforcement is not to hide wrongdoing, but to protect the innocent from wrongdoers. Accountability is maintained through internal systems. Public naming, by contrast, is not oversight. It is an invitation to violence.

DHS officials blame “crazed rhetoric from gutter politicians” for inciting violence against immigration authorities. Meanwhile, Democratic leaders have condemned ICE tactics as heavy-handed, with Minnesota Governor Tim Walz calling the agency a “modern-day Gestapo” and Senator Alex Padilla accusing the Trump administration of making ICE “more aggressive, more cruel, more extreme.”

Critics point to alleged racial profiling and wrongful detentions of US citizens, prompting Rep. Pramila Jayapal to introduce legislation barring ICE from detaining or deporting citizens. However, no US citizens have been deported, and the few detentions that did occur were brief, typically resolved once citizenship was confirmed, or involved individuals arrested for interfering with enforcement actions. As for claims of racial profiling, the majority of illegal immigrants in the US are Latino, so arrests and deportations will naturally reflect that demographic. That is not racial profiling, it is statistical probability.

Opponents of anonymity often invoke the specter of rogue agents. But rogue agents are not stopped by a name tag. They are stopped by body cameras, audits, complaints procedures, and prosecution. These already exist. No democratic safeguard requires that agents expose their families to retaliation in order to enforce the law.

The politics of masking, like so many debates in our moment, has been inverted. During the 2020 riots, masked federal officers were denounced by progressive activists as jackboots. Yet the same activists defended Antifa’s right to wear masks in public protests to avoid identification. One is reminded of Orwell’s dictum: in times of universal deceit, telling the truth is a revolutionary act. Today, insisting on protecting our immigration officers from targeted assassination is treated as radical.

But the public has begun to see through the hypocrisy. ICE agents are not political operatives. They are not stormtroopers. They are Americans with families, charged with enforcing laws passed by elected officials. They do not write the law. They carry it out. That a sitting member of Congress would attempt to incite violence against one of them should end the debate. But the debate persists, because this is not really about transparency. It is about delegitimizing the enforcement of immigration law.

We are told the border crisis is complex. That immigration enforcement raises moral dilemmas. That ICE officers must be held to higher standards. Very well. But who, precisely, believes that the moral high ground is achieved by putting an agent’s wife and children in danger? Even war has rules. The Geneva Conventions forbid targeting the families of enemy combatants. Yet here, within our own borders, the political left seems content to put ICE families in the crosshairs of every cartel and radical.

Anonymity in law enforcement is not new. Undercover officers have long used it to infiltrate gangs, prevent drug trafficking, and thwart terrorist plots. We understand that when an agent’s work puts him in contact with violent individuals, concealing his identity is a prerequisite for effectiveness. The same principle applies to ICE. If agents are to pursue smugglers, traffickers, and cartel associates, they must be insulated from the retribution such criminals routinely carry out.

Critics will object that the United States is not Mexico, and that our institutions are stronger. That may have been true a decade ago. But the border crisis has introduced new actors and new dynamics. MS-13, Tren de Aragua, and other syndicates now operate in over a dozen states. Fentanyl deaths are at an all-time high. Cartels have military-grade drones, cyber capabilities, and billions in cash. They are not disorganized gangs. They are strategic. They are watching. And when ICE officers are named, they do not forget.

The case for masking ICE officers is not a plea for secrecy, but for sanity. It is a call to recognize that justice requires protectors, and protectors must themselves be protected. When the enemies of law operate in the shadows, the agents of law must have the option to do the same.

If we want enforcement to work, we must not sabotage the enforcers. If we want laws to be meaningful, we cannot allow those who carry them out to be publicly sacrificed. And if we want to remain a nation of laws, not mobs, we must recognize the quiet heroism of the man who puts on a badge, covers his face, and does his duty despite the price.