Update, January 30, 2026, 8:15 a.m.: A federal appeals court on January 29 upheld a lower court’s ruling that the Trump administration exceeded its authority by ending Temporary Protected Status, or TPS, for Venezuelans. The ruling does not immediately restore their protected status, however, and the federal government could now challenge the decision.
On the South Side, in a room lined with racks of canned food and hygiene supplies stacked nearly to the ceiling, attorney Maureen Graves works at her desk while volunteers comb through file cabinets and families trickle in.
A year and a half ago, Graves began a volunteer-run legal aid clinic for recent migrants, many from Venezuela and Colombia, fleeing violent political persecution and economic crisis in their home countries. Now, around 50,000 Venezuelans in Chicago are in limbo after the Trump administration rescinded their protected status, and some are still looking for legal assistance to complete asylum applications and obtain work permits.
“People are very scared,” Graves said. “A lot of them are barely going outside their houses.”
Work at the clinic has looked different since the deployment of Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) agents to Chicago in September, sparking heightened anxiety among newly undocumented immigrants. The clinic has tightened its security protocol out of concerns that clients could be arrested on site. For a while, volunteers patrolled the entrance. And Graves has seen “a lot more” people miss court dates out of fear after a summer surge in ICE arrests outside courtrooms after asylum hearings.
The Maroon has documented at least eight detainments in Hyde Park, and ICE has made over a thousand arrests in Illinois since October.
“So many of our clients are unable to work because they’re afraid of getting detained,” Bess Cohen, one of the clinic’s main organizers, said. “Not being able to go outside means you can’t pay your rent, you can’t get health care services, you can’t take your kids to school.”
The clinic is part of a larger aid effort and a 300-person organization, Neighbors United for Mutual Support. Volunteers have stepped up to fill different needs, delivering groceries and accompanying kids to school, Cohen said. Similar efforts across Chicago communities, like “magic school buses,” have tried to help undocumented immigrant families feel safer in public places or avoid them altogether.
The need for legal aid, too, is growing, as the Trump administration makes it increasingly difficult for asylum seekers to pursue legal status in the U.S. The government last year ended Temporary Protected Status for over 600,000 Venezuelans nationwide. A court challenge is pending, but protections have lapsed.
“It was this huge ‘de-documenting’ event where people who had protection suddenly didn’t have protection,” Graves said.
Ultimately, Graves said the goal of the grassroots effort has always been to “flatten the curve” by helping temporarily until immigrants can find immigration attorneys.
“We’ve gotten hundreds of people work permits,” Graves said. “We’ve averted lots of evictions, helped with sicknesses.” The clinic has had an 80 percent success rate of reopening deportation cases, she said.
Recently, the federal government has employed a slew of different tactics in its immigration crackdown, which has added obstacles to legal processes.
The clinic helps clients respond to “third country” deportation orders, which attempt to deport people to countries where they have no connections. More asylum cases have been disrupted and sometimes dismissed because of the firing of judges, according to Bruce Tyler, the clinic’s paralegal, who began his current role in December.
“Trump did effectively close the border,” he said. Tighter border security has led him to see fewer new asylum applications.
Also, many asylum seekers were unable to work in the U.S. legally after the federal government revoked work permits granted through the Biden-era CBP One app, designed to streamline the entry process at the border. People who had paid over $400 for a work permit found that it was no longer valid, Graves said.
In response, Cohen has directed more attention toward fundraising, chasing after philanthropic dollars to supplement the clinic’s existing donation program.
To raise money, volunteers have gone Christmas caroling and held square dancing functions. A detective fiction author held a talk at a local bookstore, which raised roughly $2,000 for the clinic, Graves said. The money can go toward loans for work permits and helping detainees contact their lawyers and families to file bond motions, she explained.
Cohen said now is “a big moment for people wanting to support immigration work.”
The clinic has raised enough money to pay for added help from a few people with experience, like Tyler, and roughly 275 people signed up to volunteer in the last year, according to Cohen.
About 50 volunteers are regularly active, and the leadership team consists of eight people, a more robust core than last year.
Still, Cohen wants to ensure that the outpouring of support doesn’t disappear “if and when the public attention on immigration shifts away from immigration in Chicago.”
The clinic is looking for volunteers, organizers say. “Even coming in and filing for a few hours is very helpful,” Graves said. “Coming in and doing an interview in Spanish is even more helpful.”
Volunteer Ava Zhang discovered the clinic through Seeds of Justice, a University of Chicago community service program for first-year students. A Spanish speaker, she has helped clients fill out their housing histories for asylum applications.
Zhang said the heightened ICE presence in Chicago “is scary, and that’s why I feel like we need a lot more people making sure that there are safe places for people to find support.”
“It’s taking a village, and we have hundreds of people who are stepping up,” Cohen said. “But unfortunately, there are thousands of people who need help.”
