Editor’s note | The following is a firsthand account from independent journalist Jalyssa Dugrot, who was present at the June 2025 protests in Los Angeles against Immigration and Customs Enforcement. While MintPress News focuses mostly on investigative reporting, we are publishing this personal narrative to document the intensifying criminalization of protest and press freedoms in the United States. The views expressed are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect those of MintPress News.

On the morning of June 10, 2025, I made the decision to travel to Los Angeles to cover the underreported protests against Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE). By night, I was already en route to the airport.

For days, the world watched as California burned. Cars set ablaze, crowds being flash-banged, rubber bullets flying, smoke in the air as protesters and reporters run for cover, gasping for air and hurrying to put their masks on. The scenes on the ground gripped us all. Just as striking were the headlines: “RIOTERS BURN LA,” “VIOLENT PROTESTERS IN LA,” and it made me wonder, when did free speech become synonymous with violence? When did chanting start justifying tear gas and rubber bullets? I was intent on finding out.

I arrived in Los Angeles at 10 a.m. and headed straight to Little Tokyo, where I’d be staying. I dropped my things, grabbed the essentials—a mask, phone charger, battery pack, mics, wallet—and headed out the door.

Walking the streets of L.A. felt dystopian. Beautiful buildings stood beside walls covered in graffiti—not as mindless vandalism, but as markers of grief, defiance, and survival. Messages left behind by people trying to be heard. As I approached South Alameda Street, I saw LAPD cruisers blocking one side of the road. Officers stood in clusters, eyes fixed down the block. I kept walking. In the distance, voices echoed through megaphones, chants growing louder with every step.

I was there.

Photos from LA as I cover the protests against ICE pic.twitter.com/0mv52XGrdY

— Jalyssa Dugrot (@jalyssaspeaking) June 11, 2025

Roughly 80 to 100 protesters had gathered in front of the VA center. Behind them, lined along the building, stood the California National Guard and LAPD—silent. Further back, three Humvees were parked facing the crowd, a quiet reminder of the force in reserve. Music from a speaker played in the background as people from all walks of life shared their stories with me—many of them emphasizing how immigrants shape California’s culture, workforce, and economy.

One protester told me, “We rely on immigrants to grow our food and bring our favorite meals to our tables. Their music, their businesses—they’re in every part of L.A.”

I met a pastor from the Crescenta Valley United Methodist Church who said he was there answering Jesus’ call to care for the most vulnerable. I also spoke with a 10-year Air Force veteran, deployed shortly after 9/11. He told me he was speaking out for the veterans America has forgotten, and for the families torn apart by detention and deportation. As a gay man who served under “don’t ask, don’t tell,” he shared how, for years, he wasn’t allowed to speak his truth—and came to realize he was serving a country that demanded his silence.

It became clear that these people, at their core, were fighting for dignity and justice in the face of a system trying to silence or erase them—immigrants or not.

Soon after, LAPD mobilized on the other side of South Alameda Street. We were boxed in. Protesters grew louder but never turned violent. LAPD ordered them to disperse—something I found particularly interesting. Surrounded, including the media, where were we supposed to go? Over the next 30 minutes, police began moving. We were being kettled—what one protester described as a tactic where officers surround and trap demonstrators to control their movement.

Smart.

LAPD surged forward in intervals, advancing in short bursts, a few feet at a time. Before we knew it, protesters and media alike were being slowly pushed back. On both ends of South Alameda Street, officers closed in. Behind them, the California National Guard loomed. The protesters stayed calm, reminding each other not to throw anything, not to fight back, not to escalate.

I remember one protester yelling at the police: “You have guns! We don’t!”

Then LAPD opened fire. Pepper bombs flew, rubber bullets bounced off pavement and hit people. Panic set in. The crowd scattered. “They’re going to open fire!” someone shouted—seconds later, they did. As I ran, all I could think was: How did we get here? Why are they shooting?

With @MintPressNews

LA Sherrifs open fire on protestors. In the distance, a flash bang goes off. pic.twitter.com/Zb75VWeCXx

— Jalyssa Dugrot (@jalyssaspeaking) June 12, 2025

The protesters never turned violent. Nothing was thrown. No one fought back. They were exercising their First Amendment rights—freedom of speech and the right to peaceably assemble.

Is screaming violence?

Is chanting violence?

Is free speech violence?

When did free speech become synonymous with violence?

LAPD announced that we were being detained and arrested for not leaving the vicinity when ordered to do so.

We had been kettled—trapped—and everyone sat down, including the press. Officers told us we’d be cuffed and taken to jail, where a detective would determine whether we’d been at the protest “lawfully.”

“Stand up. Go face the wall,” an officer told me. I complied.

They cuffed me, asked for my name, phone number, and address. Then they took everything—my phone, my wallet, all of it—confiscated and sealed in a bag. Before my flight, I had disabled facial recognition and enabled a wipe-if-locked setting, just in case. I knew I’d be fine if they tried to access my phone. Others, I feared, wouldn’t be so lucky.

LAPD arrested all protesters, everyone in media, and all journalists—including myself. I was released a little bit ago. pic.twitter.com/ZYZCDaUYC6

— Jalyssa Dugrot (@jalyssaspeaking) June 10, 2025

Dozens of us stood cuffed against the wall of the VA center, facing forward, silent, being patted down. In my peripheral vision, I saw two buses pull up. We were going to jail.

I told one officer I was a journalist. I was pulled aside. A senior officer asked, “So you’re a journalist? Can you show me some of your work that proves it?”

A strange question. As if the right to document, to speak, to witness—had to be earned.

It made me wonder: What separates free press from free speech? What makes my work more verifiable than the activists beside me? If I had been behind the camera chanting, instead of reporting in front of it, would that have stripped me of protection? Would it have made my rights easier to ignore?

This blurring of lines between peaceful protest and criminal behavior is exactly what a police state feeds on—where the act of speaking out, of gathering, of being seen, is met with force.

The only conclusion I could draw from my first day in Los Angeles was this: It’s not about public safety. It’s about silencing dissent.

Feature photo | An LAPD officer escorts a protester during mass arrests at an anti-ICE demonstration in Los Angeles, June 10, 2025. Marcio Jose Sanchez | AP

Jalyssa Dugrot is an independent journalist based in Tampa, Florida, covering Middle East conflicts, U.S. domestic politics, and the impact of Western intervention and media distortion. Follow her on Instagram: @JalyssaDugrot and  X: @Jalyssaspeaking.

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