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According to Laurie Berezin, one of the organizers, the demonstrations began sixteen weeks ago with just a handful of participants. Since then, the weekly turnout has grown steadily — just a dozen or so at first, now regularly numbering in the hundreds. Berezin says that the number of people has doubled in two weeks alone. She counted over 450 people in late July. It’s a quiet but visible show of dissent, one that defies common assumptions about what anti-ICE protests might look like.

This isn’t Los Angeles — there are no smashed windows or hastily built barricades. No one is throwing rocks at ICE vehicles or aiming fireworks toward a line of riot gear and fatigues. This isn’t that kind of protest.

Instead, on the lawn across from the building, a circle of small flags marks the gathering point. At its center sits a Bluetooth speaker, where organizers take turns addressing the crowd. Some read aloud from the U.S. Constitution while others, sometimes immigration lawyers, sometimes doctors, speak about their clients and patients inside. The message, repeated week after week, is consistent and intentional — this is a peaceful protest. And every person here is expected to treat it that way.

The crowd is largely made up of middle-aged and older adults — people with the time and commitment to show up week after week. A small group of college-aged attendees has started to join, and organizers are hopeful that their numbers will continue to grow.

Organizers led a planned march from the facility, heading down District Avenue and onto Burlington Mall Road — a busy stretch chosen for visibility. As the group lined the sidewalk, passing drivers honked their support.

A black pickup truck approached from District Avenue and made a right turn onto the main road. The driver, assumed to be an ICE agent, rolled down the window and let out a dramatic “boo,” flashing a thumbs-down gesture as he rolled by. It wasn’t overtly or even overly hostile. It was more of a cheeky taunt, a playful jab, like one you might toss at a rival sports fan. It lacked the seriousness that would typically reflect the deep and painful divide between those opposing views.

Aside from that single brief encounter, the march back to the field office was quiet. The crowd retraced their steps down District Avenue and returned to the lawn adjacent to the field office.

Still, the presence of unmarked ICE vehicles cruising the avenue was hard to ignore. Agents inside snapped photos with their smartphones — why so wasn’t clear. Perhaps to document the protest, perhaps to identify organizers. Whatever the reason, the message was unmistakable — there’s an “us” and a “them,” a much more typical encounter.

On the side of the building, a section of the parking lot is cordoned off with black privacy sheeting. That’s where detainees are brought — transferred from ICE vehicles and led into the facility for processing.

On July 16, three black minivans, each driven by masked agents, snaked slowly through the lot. At the entrance to the gate, one driver held up a keycard. A low beep followed, the gate slid open, and then the vans passed through. Seconds later, it closed behind them, sealing off the scene from public view.

But not completely.

From the lawn, there was just enough of a gap beneath the sheeting to see the movement of feet — people shuffling inside. At one point, someone, presumably a member of Homeland Security, briefly peered through a gap and looked out, seemingly unaware he could be seen.

It was a rare peek of anything inside, and what happens beyond that point is left to the imagination — unless you’ve been inside.

Marcelo Gomes da Silva has.

Gomes, a Milford high school student, was arrested by ICE in May on his way to a volleyball game. He was brought to the Burlington Field Office and detained there for six days. He later described being held in a room with 35 other men, sleeping on the floor with only a Mylar blanket for warmth.

“At the end of the day, this place — it’s not a good spot to be. Nobody should be in here,” he said on the day of his release.

A federal immigration spokesperson dismissed his account as “blatant lies,” but his story drew attention. U.S. House Representatives Seth Moulton and Jake Auchincloss toured the Burlington facility soon afterwards. They confirmed that its design was intended for short-term processing — 6 to 12 hours at most, not days, and certainly not six. The field office was never intended to house people overnight. In response, the Town of Burlington Select Board formally requested to inspect the facility, citing that it was never zoned for overnight detention. As of this writing, they’re still waiting for a reply.

For the people who come here, this protest isn’t about spectacle. It’s about showing up. Bearing witness. Refusing to let this building, tucked behind the mall and disguised in plain sight, go unnoticed.

Each week, they return — not because they expect immediate change, but because they believe silence is complicity. Because even when the doors close, even when the black vans vanish behind the gate, someone should still be watching. And, every Wednesday, even if it’s just for a couple of hours, someone is.