Gov. Ayotte’s new immigration enforcement law threatens to undo years of trust-building between local police and immigrant communities
By Shamecca Brown, Columnist
As someone who has spent years working directly with immigrant families, I want to speak plainly about Gov. Kelly Ayotte’s decision to sign two laws that require local police departments in New Hampshire to cooperate with federal immigration authorities.
This isn’t just about policy; it’s about pain.
These laws ban sanctuary policies and force local police to assist with federal immigration enforcement. Ayotte signed the two new bills — House Bill 511 and Senate Bill 62 — on May 22.
On paper, some might see this as enforcing law and order. But if you’ve lived the reality, if you’ve worked with people trying to survive under constant fear, you know exactly what this means — more silence, more isolation, and more danger for already vulnerable communities Gov. Ayotte defended the decision, telling the New Hampshire Bulletin: “There will be no sanctuary cities in New Hampshire. Period. End of story.”
She also said, “These laws will ensure that public safety comes first, and that New Hampshire does not become a haven for those who break federal immigration laws.”
But here’s the reality: The people being impacted by this are not criminals. They are caregivers, students, business owners and parents who want nothing more than to build safe lives for their families. This law doesn’t create safety. It breaks trust. And for many of us, especially people of color, there was too little trust to begin with.
New Hampshire has a proud tradition of community care. Nonprofits, churches and local organizers have worked for years to welcome new Americans and help them build strong, stable lives. I’ve been part of that work. I’ve seen what happens when people feel supported instead of surveilled. Support creates trust, and when they feel trust they ask for help, report crimes, enroll their children in school, and engage in their communities.
But surveillance does the opposite. It creates fear and isolation. People withdraw. They stop seeking services, skip school events, avoid hospitals and feel like they’re always one wrong move away from being torn from their families. This law undermines all of that. It tells immigrants: “No matter how hard you try, you are still seen as a threat.”
Every day in fear
When immigrants finally settle into their real lives, they’re supposed to feel safe, like they can breathe, work, raise their kids, and contribute to our society without fear.
I’ve seen this with my own eyes. This isn’t just politics — it’s personal. I’ve watched friends who came here to build better lives constantly look over their shoulders, scared that one wrong move could tear their families apart. They work hard, follow the rules, and still get treated like they don’t belong. That’s not freedom. That’s fear dressed up as law and order.
I know this deeply and close to home. My husband's mom and her three siblings all immigrated to the U.S. in their late teens on a lottery and worked hard to find their footing. They didn’t even get to stay together. They were split among different families, forced to change their last names, and grow up without their siblings. That’s the kind of struggle people don’t talk about. Being separated from the only family you know, in a country you don’t understand, with no guarantee you’ll even survive. That’s not just a sacrifice — it’s trauma. And yet, they still show up, still try to belong, even when the system keeps telling them they don’t.
Some people live every day in fear of being separated from their children, of losing everything over a traffic stop or a clerical error. And I’ll be honest: Even I still cringe when I see the police. That’s not just discomfort; that’s fear, built over years of witnessing injustice. The law was never built for people like us to feel safe. And that’s because of everything I’ve seen growing up. When you come from where I come from, you witness things that stick with you. Not all authority is bad; I know that. But I’ve seen enough in different places and situations that hit home to know that trust isn’t always guaranteed.
Some may say, “If they’re here legally, they have nothing to worry about.” But that’s not the full picture. Many immigrant families are mixed-status. One person’s paperwork, or lack of it, can put an entire household at risk. This law doesn’t just target the undocumented; it terrorizes entire communities.
Let’s not pretend this will make communities safer. It won’t. It will make them quieter, but only because fear will silence them. People will stop calling the police, even when they’re victims of abuse or witnesses to a crime. That’s not public safety. That’s state-sanctioned fear.
History has made one thing painfully clear: When law enforcement is used to control, not to serve, people suffer. Just ask the one in five undocumented immigrants in the U.S. who avoid calling the police, even when they’re victims of serious crimes, because they fear deportation more than they trust justice. That silence isn’t accidental. It’s by design.
To the immigrant families, to the new Americans, to the Black and brown folks who’ve never had the full protection of the law: I see you. I stand with you. And I’m not afraid to say what needs to be said — I’ve been there before. You're not alone.
Shamecca Brown is a New Hampshire-based columnist who is family-oriented and passionate about serving underserved communities. These articles are being shared by partners in the Granite State News Collaborative. For more information, visit collaborativenh.org.