CHARLOTTE, N.C. – Almost as quickly as they descended on Charlotte, sending terror coursing through the city's immigrant neighborhoods, the Border Patrol agents appeared mostly to be gone. After a weeklong enforcement surge in which the government said agents arrested hundreds of immigrants, nabbing many as they went about their daily lives, the Border Patrol set its sights on its next target, New Orleans.But as Charlotte's immigrant communities regroup from what felt like a whiplash operation last month, they're finding that its impacts on their lives and their city have endured, and could last a long time. "It's like a hurricane came through," said Stephanie Sneed, chair of the Board of Education overseeing Charlotte's public school system, "and then we have to deal with the aftermath, which is much longer than the event itself."During the week in mid-November that the Border Patrol was roaming Charlotte, about 20 percent of its public school children stayed home from classes. Attendance started bouncing back the week after the agents left, but Sneed said teachers had reported some Latino children arriving at school with notes pinned to their backpacks reading: "I am a citizen.""I would never think that's something I would see," Sneed said.Here are some other ways the Border Patrol's week aggressively enforcing the Trump administration's immigration agenda in Charlotte has reshaped parts of the city."This avenue was always packed"Central Avenue has always been a bustling pedestrian corridor. It runs through the heart of East Charlotte's immigrant neighborhoods."This avenue was always packed, all the time," said Manolo Betancur, a Colombian immigrant and U.S. citizen who owns a popular Latino bakery on the street. Saturdays and Sundays were especially crowded with families walking to grocery stores, restaurants, and the laundromat, he said.On the morning that Border Patrol arrived, Betancur was himself walking to work at his bakery – his passport in his pocket – when an SUV zoomed past and stopped half a block ahead of him. Several federal agents jumped out, he said, tackled three men, zip-tied their hands and hauled them away. Betancur turned around in a panic and alerted several families who were farther down the block walking in his direction."I told them, 'they're here! They're here! Go back to your houses!', and everybody started running back to their houses." Betancur and many others shuttered their businesses. He didn't want his customers risking their freedom to pick up a birthday cake. He's since reopened, but others have not. Weeks later, the sidewalks of Central Avenue are still uncharacteristically quiet.Hiding from immigration agents in the woodsR, an undocumented immigrant from Honduras who asked to be identified by her first initial, lives in an apartment complex in East Charlotte that is home to many immigrants. She said Border Patrol agents twice knocked on her door during their operation in the city. She cares for children while their parents are at work. Most of her clients stopped bringing their kids, but on a recent day she was still caring for two.A routine part of her job – walking them to school – suddenly posed a terrifying risk. She stopped using the sidewalk. Instead, she used a machete to clear brush and cut a path through the woods behind her apartment complex. "They won't find me in there," she said, "and if they do, I'll run."Another undocumented woman in hiding, E, said she doesn't believe the Border Patrol agents have actually left, especially since federal officials have insisted enforcement will continue."They're waiting for us to go outside," E said, "so they can hunt us like a cat hunts a mouse."Delivering groceries to people in hidingMany immigrants in hiding have relied on allies to help with basic services like delivering food and medicine. Volunteers have set up a support network. People deliver supplies, take reports of vehicles suspected of belonging to immigration agents and go check them out, and wear bright yellow vests while they watch over children walking to school.On a recent day, Lindsey Voelker and Mary Beth Stanford Picker, health workers with the Hope Community Clinic, were out delivering groceries to some of its patients."I've tried to make sure nobody is following me," Voelker said. "Because I don't want to lead agents right to their doorstep."Searching for the missingDaniela Andrade, an advocate for immigrants at the Carolina Migrant Network, said among the deepest but most invisible wounds of the Border Patrol's operation are those torn into the families of the roughly 400 immigrants whisked away. Many are being held in detention centers elsewhere in the South. Her organization is the only one in North Carolina to provide free legal representation for detained immigrants, she said, and its lawyers have scrambled to track these people down and if possible, seek their release.Advocates have also been telling immigrants to keep up their guard if they venture out to try to resume their routines.The tension won't soon fade, Andrade said, because an entire community's trust has been broken."It's hard to say, oh, they're gone, let's go back to normal life," she said. "In these moments of crisis and fear in our community, it's hard to tell folks to trust."The radio version of this story originally aired on Dec. 5, 2025. Transcript JUANA SUMMERS, HOST: The Trump administration's aggressive immigration crackdown has arrived in New Orleans and Minneapolis as federal agents continue expanding their dragnet for undocumented immigrants. This follows a recent strike in Charlotte, North Carolina. Hundreds of Border Patrol officers descended on the city November 15, arresting about 400 people in a week-long operation. The enforcement surge there appears to be over, but as NPR's Adrian Florido reports, Charlotte is still grappling with the fallout.(SOUNDBITE OF CARS PASSING)ADRIAN FLORIDO, BYLINE: It's the end of the school day, and a yellow school bus pulls up outside an apartment complex in East Charlotte that is home mostly to immigrants. About 10 elementary school-aged children hop out. There are no parents to greet them as there normally would be. The kids walk and run the rest of the way home alone. It's just one way that life looks different in Charlotte in the aftermath of the Border Patrol's operation here last month.STEPHANIE SNEED: It's like a hurricane came through.FLORIDO: Stephanie Sneed is chair of the Charlotte-Mecklenburg Board of Education.SNEED: We're still not quite sure if the storms are completely over, and then we have to deal with the aftermath, which is much longer than the event itself.FLORIDO: At the height of the operation last month, about 20% of the district's 141,000 students stayed home. Parents have started sending them back, but with precautions, Sneed says.SNEED: They had notes pinned on their backpack that says, I am a citizen. I would never think that that's something that I would see.FLORIDO: The economic impact is also still visible everywhere. It's visible in the shuttered Mexican food truck owned by a woman who asked that we ID her by her first initial, E, because she's undocumented. E and her family were preparing meals in the food truck when, on November 14, they saw on social media that a large Border Patrol convoy was driving towards Charlotte. They panicked.E: (Speaking Spanish).FLORIDO: "We closed the truck, and we said, no more," E says. They rushed home and locked themselves in. The next morning, she watched on TV as federal agents started nabbing people off the streets and raiding construction sites. Three weeks later, E still will not step outside her house. She doesn't believe the Border Patrol agents who swarmed the city are actually gone.E: (Speaking Spanish).FLORIDO: "They're waiting for us to go outside again," she says, "so they can hunt us like a cat hunts a mouse." Charlotte has been one of the nation's fastest-growing cities for more than two decades, in part because it became a banking center. Tom Hanchett is a Charlotte historian.TOM HANCHETT: In the '90s, Bank of America built the tallest building on our skyline, and the story is they hired a steel-setting crew from Texas. And there were a lot of Hispanic people and a lot of Mexican natives standing up there on that steel, looking down, going, well, that's a pretty nice place. It's got a booming economy, and maybe we could, you know, try to make it here.FLORIDO: And they did make it here. Today, about a fifth of Charlotte's population is foreign born. Many Latino immigrants here work in construction, hospitality and own small businesses. Manolo Betancur is one small business owner. He's from Colombia. He's owned a popular Latino bakery here for 28 years. I meet him on the now-empty sidewalks of Central Avenue, usually bustling with foot traffic.MANOLO BETANCUR: This avenue is always packed all the time, all the time - you know, go to the laundry, go to the grocery stores, come to the restaurants.FLORIDO: On the morning the Border Patrol arrived, he was walking to his bakery with his U.S. passport in his pocket when an SUV stopped half a block ahead of him. What he saw is seared in his mind. Agents jumped out, tackled three men who looked Latino, zip-tied their wrists and hauled them away.BETANCUR: And I just turn around and I saw a lot of people that were coming this way.FLORIDO: Like walking this way - families.BETANCUR: Yeah, walking this way - families. So I just turned down. I told them, they're here, they're here and just go back to your house, go back to your house, and everybody started running.FLORIDO: He called his employees and told them to lock the bakery doors. Later that day, he announced online that he was closing Manolo's Bakery.BETANCUR: I don't want for people to tell their kids, I'm going to go to a bakery to get your birthday cake, and then that kid never going to get her father back or her mother back.FLORIDO: Casey Crimmins runs Project 658, which provides services to immigrants in Charlotte, including medical care. When he saw Manolo Betancur on the news saying he was closing shop, his heart dropped.CASEY CRIMMINS: When it's in Chicago, when it's in LA, there's scrollable shorts. When it's Manolo, who I literally had just seen four days before, saying to a camera, I've never seen anything like this before, I have to shut down my shop, it just hits different.FLORIDO: He and others in the community sprung into action, alerting people about raids, helping kids get to school, delivering food to immigrant's homes. Crimmins says residents want to show that this is still a welcoming city, a reputation forged on hard-earned trust.CRIMMINS: This brought a sense that all of that that was built up over decades got flushed down the toilet.UNIDENTIFIED PERSON #1: Diabetes meds?UNIDENTIFIED PERSON #2: Yeah.FLORIDO: Two employees of a medical clinic his group overseas, Lindsey Voelker and Mary Beth Stanford Picker, are out delivering medicine and food to an undocumented patient.UNIDENTIFIED PERSON #3: (Speaking Spanish).FLORIDO: The patient is an older woman from Honduras. She requested that we use only her first initial, R. The week Border Patrol was in town, she says, agents roaming her apartment complex knocked on her door two different times.R: (Speaking Spanish).FLORIDO: She recognized their beige uniforms through the peep hole. She stayed quiet, and they left. But she is still struggling to sleep. R cares for children while their parents are at work. Her income plummeted when people stopped bringing their kids. Today, she's only caring for two kids. She walks them to school, but she stopped using the sidewalk and started walking through the woods.R: (Speaking Spanish).FLORIDO: She cut a path through the brush with a machete. "They won't find me in there," she says, with a nervous laughter. Daniela Andrade is with the Carolina Migrant Network, an advocacy group. She says Charlotte won't be back to normal until people feel safe again.DANIELA ANDRADE: Because it's very hard to say, oh, they're gone, and let's go back to normal life. It's really hard to, right now in these moments of crisis and fear in our community, to tell folks to trust.FLORIDO: Instead, she and other advocates have been telling people not to let their guards down.Adrian Florido, NPR News, Charlotte, North Carolina.