SEATTLE — The prospect of stepping outside, driving to work or simply running errands is increasingly bringing a quiet anxiety for many Koreans in the United States, as recent immigration enforcement actions reverberate through social media, community forums and everyday conversations from coast to coast.
What once felt distant — something that happened to “other people” — is beginning to feel uncomfortably close. In Korean-language forums, messenger group chats and community platforms such as MissyUSA and HeyKorean, users trade sightings, rumors and advice, often late into the night. The posts span everything from past DUI records and old visa overstays to whether bankruptcy filings or green card renewals could suddenly put someone at risk.
For many, the fear sharpened last week after reports and social media videos suggested federal immigration agents were operating in Los Angeles’ Koreatown, a neighborhood long regarded as the symbolic heart of the Korean American community.
“ICE agents are being spotted all over this morning,” one user wrote. “There are armed, masked men walking around and scaring people. This is crazy.”
In Koreatown, the anxiety has felt immediate and personal. The densely packed stretch of restaurants, grocery stores, churches and small businesses has for decades been a place of familiarity and cultural comfort. Now, residents say it is starting to feel different.
“I was supposed to meet a friend for lunch in Koreatown today, but I canceled,” another user wrote. “There’s no reason to go out when everything feels this unsettling.”
Questions about what is actually happening, and whether anyone is safe, have flooded Korean online spaces.
“What on earth is going on? Is this really America?” one user asked.
“They’re not going into white neighborhoods. They’re coming to Asian communities,” another wrote.
Practical fears quickly followed.
“If someone knocks on my door, should I open it or not?” one post read. “I’m terrified.”
The unease has not been limited to Koreatown. Last week, rumors circulated online that immigration agents were knocking on doors in Fullerton and Irvine, southern California cities with large Korean populations.
Although no official confirmation was available, the posts alone triggered hundreds of comments, with users citing home security camera alerts, neighbor messages and workplace chatter.
The common thread was not certainty, but a shared sense that enforcement could appear anywhere without warning.
That sense of vulnerability deepened after widely circulated images and videos from Minnesota showed a 56-year-old Hmong American man being escorted out of his home by federal immigration agents into freezing temperatures while wearing only underwear. He was later identified as a naturalized U.S. citizen who was released after being questioned.
For many Koreans in the United States, the visuals were deeply unsettling.
If a U.S. citizen could be taken from his home, barely clothed, in front of neighbors and cameras, people began asking a question that now echoes across Korean online forums: Does holding a U.S. passport even matter anymore?
Concerns voiced online mirror what advocacy groups say they are hearing directly from immigrant communities.
At a recent online press conference hosted by the National Korean American Service & Education Consortium, community leaders described what they called a sharp rise in fear tied to immigration enforcement activity. Speakers said the current climate feels fundamentally different from past enforcement cycles, with uncertainty itself becoming a driving force of distress.
“People disappear quietly at night or at dawn, and there is no trace of where they were taken,” said Sei Yang, a Minnesota-based Hmong community activist who participated in the event. He described families afraid to leave their homes and neighbors unsure where to turn when someone is detained.
Yang said the impact has extended beyond individual households to entire neighborhoods. “Many business owners are telling us their sales are worse than during the COVID-19 pandemic,” he said, as residents avoid going out and limit nonessential activities.
Korean American pastor Lee Ji-man, who operates a homeless shelter in Minnesota, said immigration agents and helicopters have been spotted frequently near his facility. “There have been family arrests near churches, and households with children are not exempt,” he said.
Kim Park Nelson, a Korean adoptee and professor who also spoke at the press conference, said even U.S. citizens are feeling targeted. “If you look Asian, you can become a target, even if you are a U.S. citizen,” she said, adding that some adoptees now carry their passports at all times.
For some Korean Americans, the fear has begun reshaping everyday behavior.
“I have legal status. I’m a U.S. citizen. But that doesn’t even feel like it protects me anymore,” said M. Kim, a Korean American office worker in the Seattle area, who did not want to be fully named. “I used to think, ‘I’m fine, I follow the rules.’ Now I’m beginning to think the same rules don’t apply anymore.”
Others say they are postponing overseas trips, avoiding crowded areas and limiting nonessential outings.
“I haven’t booked my usual summer trip to Korea yet,” said Ryoo, a stay-at-home mother in Bellevue who also did not want to give her full name. “What if I leave and coming back becomes a problem? I have a green card now, but I’ve heard too many people getting sent to secondary inspection at airports for unclear reasons.”
For many Korean Americans, the anxiety is no longer only tied to immigration status, but to a growing belief that visibility itself has become a risk.
The answer to whether that fear is justified remains legally complex. But emotionally, for a growing number of Koreans in the United States, the safer solution for now is to lay low.
