Photos and story By Ryan Rawls / Full360 Multimedia Reporter
It was below freezing most of Jan. 30, 2026; that didn’t stop more than 1,000 people from showing up to the “I.C.E. OUT” march in Center City. They arrived in droves to protest Immigration and Customs Enforcement (I.C.E.) operations in Philadelphia. Philadelphians, standing shoulder to shoulder in some spots, were there to stand up for immigrants they will likely never know. The City of Brotherly love indeed. It was my first time capturing an event of this magnitude. Sure, I had snapped a few photos and filmed a couple of shorts in the past, but this was different. This was an honest-to-God protest where there was a chance of bodily harm, and not just to me. I was nervous, but also proud that I had followed through. It was time to make a difference. I arrived early to set up my cameras to capture the scene.
Photo by Ryan Rawls
When I arrived, no was one there. For a few minutes, I considered giving up and heading home. Instead, I ducked into a random bar to enjoy some warmth and a whiskey soda. I couldn’t have been in there for more than 20 minutes. By the time I stepped back out, hundreds stood in the street hoisting their signs and banners. The protest hadn’t officially started yet, but you could already feel the electricity in the air.
Photo by Ryan Rawls
Then the chants started. They thrummed quietly at first to gather momentum, but in just a few moments the entire crowd was shouting “Si se Puede” (If Possible). The protest had officially started. The orators started to work the crowd. Passion was clearly not a problem for most, but I quickly remembered that I didn’t buy hand warmers and my mittens were incredibly cheap. My electronics weren’t faring much better. I was woefully unprepared for this arctic chill.
Photo by Ryan Rawls
The heated passion that was keeping everyone else fired up had neglected to keep me warm. Despite desperately wanting to feed into this energy, I could barely keep my hands straight for photographs and video. That, and my actual batteries were draining rapidly. I needed the marching to actually start.
Right as I was about to give up and head home to take a boiling shower, I got my wish. The crowds moved to the streets and began to march. It did not take long for someone to cause problems. Almost immediately after the march started, one of the protesters was struck in the face by a masked man. The masked assaulter darted into the crowds and attempted to blend in. However, he did not make it very far before being quickly found. Rather than respond with violence back, protesters simply pushed him out of the march. Someone called the police, and I lost sight of him in the chaos.
Then I made eye contact with another protester in the crowd who noticed me taking pictures. He stepped out of the march and accused me of following the masked man in order to take pictures of the violence. I decided right there that I should leave. In a way he was right. I wasn’t helping the protest; I was only there to capture their movement, and I was pretty miserable while doing it. Quietly I backed away from the crowd and watched them march on through. A good chunk of my moralistic side had wanted to join them but it was just too cold for this Texas-born student. The fact is that on that day, my opinions took a back seat to my role as a photojournalist. That day I was an observer there to capture.
But not for long.
That, and my camera had died and my phone was running on fumes. I was running the risk of getting stuck in Center City overnight. After four hours it was time to go home.
It took another hour and a half to catch a cab ride home. The march had made traffic worse than usual. I was on the verge of tears after three cars had canceled on me. Finally, I was able to get an Uber who cranked the heat for me (thanks Antony!) As I sat in the back of the car, I couldn’t help but feel morose. I stewed in disappointment. There so was much more to this story that I wasn’t able to cover. I wondered if my presence had mattered.
It took days for me to recover. I was physically and mentally taxed by my escapades in Center City. A series of hot showers thawed out my bones, but I was still plagued by impostor syndrome. I wasn’t able to bring myself to review what I had captured. But the civil disobedience hadn’t ended on January 30. The photos will reflect a part of the march that is a part of a movement. There are more marches and protests on the horizon.
There’s still time to make a difference.
The story isn’t over just yet.
