WHAT I SAW: CALIFORNIA

By: Elián Zidán

Arriving in California, it’s impossible not to be struck by the richness of its history and the diversity of its people. This land—home to Native American nations, Spanish colonizers, and immigrants from all corners of the globe—is a reflection of the ever-evolving demographic makeup that defines the United States. But beneath the surface of its apparent prosperity lie hard truths that can’t be ignored.

Starting our cross-country reporting journey in this state was no coincidence. Here, in the agricultural heart of the nation, migrant labor faces a silent but devastating threat: fear. Fear fueled by official rhetoric that, instead of uniting, divides and stigmatizes.

Our first stop was Fresno—California’s agricultural soul. But instead of vibrant, bustling fields, we found a haunting stillness.

Many workers, gripped by fear of arrest or deportation, have stopped showing up to harvests. Their absence doesn’t just impact the local economy—it ripples far beyond. The produce they gather ends up on tables across the world, and the money they send home sustains entire communities in their countries of origin.

I met Noel, a foreman at an almond farm. He told me his workers earn around $600 a week for 40 hours of grueling labor. After rent and remittances, they’re often left with less than $100 to live on for the entire month.

But the weight of fear isn’t limited to the fields. About an hour and a half from Fresno, up in snow-covered mountains, we met Noé, originally from Guerrero, Mexico.

For 18 years, he worked in national parks—until this past Valentine’s Day, when he was abruptly fired. The reason? He no longer met the “necessary qualifications” for the job he had dedicated nearly two decades to. He was later rehired, but the damage had been done. “It’s not fair,” he told us. “Someone who doesn’t know me or my work made a decision that changed my life—and my family’s.”

In Los Angeles, the pain is different—but no less real. We visited Altadena, a community still reeling from the Eton Fire that devastated it earlier this year. Ninety days later, grief hangs thick in the air. Amid the ashes and rubble, families are trying to rebuild—often with little help and few resources.

And yet, even in tragedy, there’s light. We met César, a Mexican day laborer who wakes at 4 a.m. every day to help clean up fire damage—asking for nothing in return. His quiet solidarity is a reminder that even in the darkest moments, humanity can still shine brightly.

Fear doesn’t only haunt the undocumented. In sanctuary cities like Los Angeles, small businesses are feeling the chill of a frozen economy. Vendors in the famed “callejones” (alleys) told us sales have plummeted 50 to 70 percent since President Donald Trump returned to office. People are afraid to leave home—and that fear shows up in fully stocked shelves and silent cash registers.

California is a state of contradictions. A land of opportunity and innovation—but also one of inequality and struggle.

What I saw on this journey was a community trying to stay afloat in a storm of policy and rhetoric that threatens to drown it. But in every corner, I also saw strength, dignity, and the will to endure.