Last year, as we were preparing to present Destinos, the Chicago International Latino Theater Festival, some artists left the festival.
They had not stopped believing in their work, nor had they lost the desire to tell their stories. They withdrew because they were afraid.
The intensification of ICE raids and operations in Chicago had created an atmosphere of tension that was felt everywhere. Immigrant and Latin American artists living and working in the United States began to wonder if it was safe to go to a rehearsal, perform before an audience, or simply leave their homes. Some feared for their own safety. Others feared for their families, their collaborators, or the communities they served.
At CLATA, we saw the impact immediately.
We saw it when some actors decided not to participate for fear of being detained. We saw it when companies expressed their concern to us because they did not know if their audiences would come to support them due to that same fear. We saw it when other companies called us to say that one of their family members had plays in Spanish and began to record attendance drops of up to 30 percent and, in some cases, even more.
Theater depends on people being able to gather.
When a community is afraid to leave home, the stage feels that fear too.
This year, the Great Cities Institute at the University of Illinois Chicago gave an economic dimension to what our communities already knew from experience. Their report, Hunkering Down: The Hidden Economic Cost of Federal Immigration Enforcement in Cook County, Illinois, estimates that increased immigration enforcement caused losses of approximately $1.26 billion in business activity for restaurants and shops in Cook County, in addition to $107 million in uncollected local tax revenue.
But these numbers do not tell the whole story. They do not measure the postponed medical appointments, the lost work days, the children who did not attend school, or the people who stopped participating in the cultural life of our city. Nor do they measure what happens when someone feels that their last name, their accent, the color of their skin, or the language they speak can make them a suspect. They do not measure the artistic cost.
What we are experiencing in Chicago is not an isolated phenomenon. It is part of a political moment sweeping through the United States and various countries in Latin America.
In Chile, José Antonio Kast reached the presidency with an far-right platform. In Colombia, the election of Abelardo de la Espriella marked a similar turn. In Argentina, Javier Milei continues to promote a radical transformation of the State and question the value of many public institutions, including those that support culture.
Each country has its own history and its own wounds.
We cannot reduce all these experiences to a single explanation. However, there are recurring elements: the use of fear as a political tool, the criminalization of migrants, the questioning of rights we thought were won, and the promise to impose order at any cost.
In these contexts, culture and memory also become battlefields.
Artistic organizations in Latin America know this reality. They know what it means to create amidst budget cuts, censorship, political instability, and rhetoric that presents art as something secondary.
They know what happens when artists must defend not only their work, but also their right to dissent and tell stories that make those in power uncomfortable.
For those of us working in the Latin American cultural sector in the United States, these pressures are felt from both sides. We are affected by immigration policies and the political climate of this country, but we also carry the worry for what is happening in our countries of origin and with our families.
Our stories, our fears, and our struggles cross borders.
At CLATA, we have been raising our voices in our conversations with foundations, funders, and civic leaders in Chicago. What happens in our theaters is not separate from what happens in the restaurants, shops, schools, or churches of our communities. It is part of the same reality.
When attendance drops, companies lose revenue. When an artist leaves a production, the organization must absorb the cost of replacing them or modifying its programming. When families are afraid to go out, theaters that work with immigrant and Spanish-speaking communities see the audiences they seek to serve drift away.
For organizations with few resources, a decrease in attendance is not an abstract statistic. It can mean one less production, an artist who does not receive a contract, or a company that begins to wonder if it will be able to survive another year.
And all this happens while Latino theater continues to receive investment far below what it needs. We are asked to respond to a social, cultural, and economic crisis with resources that were already insufficient before it began.
The contradiction is hard to ignore. While our communities are treated as a threat, the evidence shows that we are an indispensable part of the present and the economic future of the United States.
The Latino Donor Collaborative estimates that the U.S. Latino economy reached $4.4 trillion in 2024. In Illinois, Latino workers generate more than $100 billion annually in gross domestic product and sustain fundamental sectors such as construction, manufacturing, logistics, healthcare, retail, and food services, according to the Raíces 2026: Building Stability to Strengthen Latino Civic Power report.
Nearly 30 percent of Chicago’s population is Latino. We are not a community on the margins of the city.
We are a fundamental part of Chicago, its suburbs, and Illinois.
Our cultural impact is also economic. In 2025, Destinos brought together more than 4,630 attendees, presented 120 public performances, generated 33 community activities, and employed approximately 270 artists and creative professionals from Chicago. That edition alone produced an estimated economic impact of $528,000. Since the festival’s inception in 2017, we estimate that Destinos has generated nearly $8 million in economic activity.
But our contribution cannot be measured solely in dollars.
Latino artists have also helped the United States understand itself. We have preserved stories that would otherwise be lost. We have created spaces where families can hear their language, recognize their experiences, and see themselves reflected with dignity on a stage. We have made theater a place of encounter between generations, nationalities, and communities.
That work also connects us with artists and cultural organizations in Latin America. Although we work in different contexts, we share the responsibility of preserving memory, defending the right to create, and building spaces where our communities can recognize themselves.
Our artists continue to create even when doing so means carrying the weight of uncertainty.
They continue to rehearse when their families are afraid.
They continue to tell stories in Spanish when they are made to feel that their language does not belong. They continue to open the doors of our theaters, even when they do not know who will feel safe enough to enter.
We do not know what this year holds for us. We do not know if there will be more operations, more fear, or more artists forced to make impossible decisions. Nor do we know how far the political changes occurring in Latin America will go.
But we do know the strength of our communities.
And that strength should not be used as an excuse to leave us alone.
Foundations, cultural institutions, business leaders, and governments must recognize that supporting Latino theater at this moment does not just mean funding artistic programming. It means protecting jobs, defending memory, and sustaining spaces where we can gather without giving up who we are.
This responsibility does not end in Chicago. It also falls to cultural networks, funders, and public and private institutions throughout Latin America. When an artistic organization disappears, we do not just lose programming. We lose a space for encounter, a source of work, and a part of our collective memory.
We will continue to create because that is what we do.
We will continue to tell our stories because silence has never protected us. We will continue to build stages where our communities can see, hear, and recognize themselves.
We do not know what the future will bring. But we know everything we have already contributed to the United States, to Latin America, and to the cities we have built between both worlds.
And we know that, even in the face of fear, we are still here.
*Executive Director of the Chicago Latino Theater Alliance (CLATA) and Destinos: Chicago International Latino Theater Festival