In recent months, as you've certainly heard, we've seen a troubling and unconstitutional escalation of federal actions against immigrant communities in Los Angeles — including raids, detentions, and the deployment of the National Guard. These moves, presented as “law and order” are tactics meant to gain control through intimidation and fear. As someone deeply rooted in both LA and Detroit, I want to share what I’ve experienced here to help prepare my hometown for what may come.

After immigrant families were detained without due process, thousands of us — clergy, union leaders, activists, everyday citizens — gathered in protest. We prayed, sang and spoke from the heart. The response? More troops stationed outside Federal Buildings, dressed in layers of combat gear, facing peaceful demonstrators who carried nothing more threatening than candles and signs.

Police in military-style armor pointed enormous guns at unarmed clergy. At one rally I attended that first week, vans carrying detained immigrants barreled through the crowd. Protesters, understandably enraged, raised umbrellas and fists in protest. A few of us clergy stepped in front of the vans — not to defend them, but to keep people safe and prevent escalation.

What terrified me most that day was not the protesters, but the militarized police. I have experienced, for the first time, the fear that so many Black, Brown, Indigenous, Latino and other marginalized Americans have known for generations: the people meant to protect us often are and can become the ones we fear. These experiences have awakened me to just how deeply many privileges have sheltered me.

I knew as I put my body between protestors and police, that any violent response would only provide cover for more violence and repression from this increasingly authoritarian administration. Retaining the moral high ground was — and is — our strongest defense. In the heat of the moment, not of the all protesters agreed, and I understood why. Still, we did our best to de-escalate and channel that energy into nonviolent action.

In the weeks that followed, I joined clergy and community leaders in trainings on nonviolent resistance inspired by Rev. James Lawson, the civil rights leader who taught Dr. King and others the tenets of Gandhi’s philosophy. We built rapid-response networks to witness ICE operations and accompany families to immigration court. I joined an all-Jewish action for immigrant rights on Tisha B’Av and stood with the Godmothers of the Disappeared as they marched weekly to detention centers, laying flowers and singing prayers.

At every step, we saw the same dynamic: ordinary people practicing peace in the face of heavily armed forces. Thousands of us stood together in solidarity, while the violence came not from the protesters, but from federal authorities.

One moment especially stays with me. During a tense standoff outside the Federal Building, I looked into the eyes of a police officer. Their helmet looked oversized, their gun less like a weapon than a burden. I asked how they were doing. I couldn’t hear their words through the noise and gear, but their eyes told the story: confusion, frustration, and, to my mind, regret and guilt.

That fleeting connection reminded me that even those ordered to stand against us are human beings. And it gave me hope that no amount of money or political posturing can sustain morale when people are deployed to turn against their neighbors.

So why am I sharing this with Detroit? Because my hometown, with its proud Black majority and resilient immigrant communities, is vulnerable to the same tactics of intimidation. Detroit may not be first on the list for federal militarization, but recent events suggest it will be targeted eventually.

What we’ve learned in Los Angeles is simple, though not easy:

1. Nonviolence works. It denies aggressors the excuse to escalate and keeps the focus on their actions.

2. Community sustains us. Whether in prayer circles, training sessions, or courthouse vigils, we find strength together.

3. Hope is a discipline. Even in moments of fear, we chose to believe in the possibility of justice through action guided by compassion and love.

These practices don’t make the risks disappear. People have been hurt; families remain torn apart. But they do make a difference. Federal troops have already scaled back in LA, leaving the Federal Building altogether. That happened not because of violence, but because of persistent, peaceful, public witness.

Just last week, I joined thousands at the LA Memorial Coliseum for the launch of FairGames28, a campaign demanding that the 2028 Olympics benefit not just corporate sponsors but working families, most of whom are immigrants. The fight continues on many fronts: for wages, for housing, for immigrant dignity.

I ​share this to prepare Detroit and to remind us all that love, courage and solidarity can and do make a difference. The headlines may dwell on the spectacle of troops and raids. But beneath that, there’s another story: of communities standing together, nonviolently, persistently, and with hope.

In Detroit, as in LA, the future will depend less on those who wield power through fear, and more on those willing to face them together in courage and love.

Joshua Berg is a native Detroiter and a culturally Jewish Unitarian Universalist minister. Since becoming the lead minister at a congregation in the South Bay of Los Angeles, he has been working with Clergy and Laity United for Economic Justice (CLUE), a coalition focused on immigrants’ and workers’ rights.