By Allie Trieschmann 
It was eight degrees on the night that Nicole Mozzoni met the little girl with tears frozen to her face.  
“Anna” and her three children were huddled together on the floor of a small trailer in Springdale, Arkansas. She has chosen to remain anonymous to not draw unnecessary attention to her immigrant family. 
Mozzoni rapidly sent a message in a group chat. 
Within twenty-four hours, Anna and her family had a couch, a mattress and a new place to live.  
Moments like this have become routine for Mozzoni.   
In the last six months, Mozzoni has raised almost $40,000 for families in need and helped secure passports for over 50 immigrant children, including Anna’s. Mozzoni helps parents gather important documents, pay application fees, complete forms and coordinate transportation to passport offices.  
For families living in fear of deportation, obtaining passports for their children is essential and urgent. Without the required documentation, native born children are unable to accompany their parents if they are deported. 
Since President Donald Trump’s return to office in 2025, Immigration and Customs Enforcement presence across the country has increased drastically, in accordance with Trump’s promise to crack down on immigration during his second term. The Department of Homeland Security has reported the deportation of more than 675,000, and approximately 2.2 million self-deportations since Trump’s reinstatement.  
In a town like Springdale, where Hispanic and Latino individuals make up 42.1% of the population, making them the largest demographic group, the fear of deportation and family separation is extremely real. 
When Mozzoni arrived in Rogers, she said she was completely uninvolved politically.  
“I didn’t know the difference between a Republican and a Democrat when I got here,” Mozzoni said. 
It wasn’t until her youngest child returned from school one day with a “Vote for Kerry” sign taped to her scooter that Mozzoni became politically involved.  
“She said, ‘I learned in school about the difference between John Kerry and George Bush, yeah, and he can’t be President and you aren’t even voting. You’re not even registered to vote, so I have to get someone to take that vote in your place, because voting is patriotic, and we learned that in school,’” Mozzoni said. 
The next day, Mozzoni and her husband registered to vote and fulfilled their daughter’s wish of securing votes for candidate John Kerry. She said that was the beginning of her realization that she owed it to her children to become more politically aware.  
But registering to vote was only the beginning.  
As Mozzoni circled the Jones Elementary cafeteria in 2016, one of her many daily duties as assistant librarian, she was waved over by one of her students. It was shortly after Trump was first elected as president. 
“Mrs. Mozzoni, do you have any extra suitcases that my mom can have?” one of Mozzoni’s young students inquired as he ate his lunch. 
Mozzoni assumed that the student’s mother was in search of suitcases for a do-it-yourself project and excitedly asked the student what she planned to create with them. 
“I need them because Trump is going to deport all of us to Mexico,” he told her. 
At that moment, Mozzoni realized how scared families in her predominantly Hispanic community were. She knew that there was more she could do to help.  
Jones Elementary, where Mozzoni worked for 16 years, has a Hispanic/Latino population of 58.4%, which is 10% higher than the Hispanic/Latino population of Springdale Public School System as a whole. 
Throughout her time as an education professional, Mozzoni was viewed as a safe place for many of her students. She refused instructions to not speak Spanish to her students, something that the school system claimed would prevent them from learning English. 
“They’re just sitting there and they’re hearing garble,” Mozzoni said. “They don’t know English. This might be their second day in America, or the first day that the family realized they could get schooling for free. And so, just a simple recognition of, ‘Hola, ¿cómo estás?’, they smile, and all of that worry goes away.” 
But it wasn’t until Mozzoni completed her tenure at Jones Elementary that she understood the impact of her kindness. In August 2025, Mozzoni received call after call from the parents of previous students who feared that Immigration and Customs Enforcement would enter school buildings. It was then that Mozzoni knew she needed to find a way to connect these families with the resources and information they needed.  
Since then, Mozzoni’s phone has seldom remained silent.  
Informed by a vast network of online friends and advocates, Mozzoni spends much of her days sorting through the seemingly endless notifications of requests for assistance from people in her community: an unpaid water bill, a teenager’s birthday cake, a pair of shoes, a ride to the grocery store, the list goes on.  As quickly as her fingers can type, Mozzoni then relays the requests to a smaller, more private group of thoroughly vetted women who are willing and able to fulfill these needs, either through the use of Mozzoni’s community fund, or their own resources. 
On an unusually sunny day in February, I arrived at the gravel driveway of Mozzoni’s farmhouse. At first, I was unsure of whether I had the correct address, but when I spotted her GOBIRDZ license plate, I was immediately reassured. One of the first things I learned about Mozzoni is that her love for the Philadelphia Eagles is almost as expansive as her love for the surrounding community. 
I meet Mozzoni in the driveway and before I can formally introduce myself, she tells me to hop in her car. We drive to a small house nearby. Outside, we meet Eron, one of Mozzoni’s trusted contacts, and Tania, who volunteered to act as a translator during our meeting with Anna. The last names of Eron and Tania are not included due to safety concerns. Although Mozzoni’s Spanish far supersedes my own, she wants there to be no mistakes in how Anna’s story is relayed to me.  
A “Home Sweet Home” doormat precedes the front door. The house is old but charming. Anna sits brushing her daughter’s hair. The large bay windows are adorned with beautifully embroidered green and white curtains. Small lime green crocs and even smaller pink ones are scattered on the floor. A TV is balanced across two plastic storage bins, a broken A/C sits in the kitchen window and a makeshift t-shirt mop stands propped in the corner.  
Now, as we enter the home of the single, immigrant mother that Mozzoni has formed a trusted relationship with over the last month, that same little girl that had tears frozen to her face just weeks ago, jumps into Mozzoni’s arms, and she swings her around the room before greeting Anna with a hug.  
Anna asks if we’d like water or juice, but regrettably informs us that she has not been purchasing Coca-Cola, as it is a guilty pleasure she hopes to quit. 
Eron and Mozzoni spoke through Tania and reassured Anna that they would help her in any way they could. Anna, like many, feared that she could be deported at any time. In January 2026, Mozzoni was able to help finance passports for Anna and her oldest son, but her two youngest still need passports.  
Mozzoni knows that she can’t stop deportation. She knows that the fate of these families does not lie in her hands, but she also knows that if she can help families prepare for what may come, they are much more likely to remain unseparated. 
With mass deportation efforts being carried out across the country, many immigrant parents are fearful that if they are deported, their native-born children will be left without options. The children of deported parents are often placed in the foster care system or sent to live with relatives nearby, but for many, family members share a similar immigration status and face the same risks. 
Even if the family is deported together, Anna’s contact with her children is not guaranteed. In El Salvador, local law requires that minors obtain written consent from both parents to travel. Unfortunately, the children’s father was deported in 2023, and has recently cut off all contact with Anna, refusing to participate in her efforts to secure passports for her children.  
Anna told us about a friend who was pulled over and deported back to El Salvador, and how she fears that the same thing could happen to her before she has a plan in place for her children.  
Anna said that she wonders if it would be safer to self-deport. But she told us that she is scared of the unknown and what would come next for her family. She said that she worries about the children’s stability, feeling that each time they move, the children—particularly the older ones—struggle. Mozzoni told Tania to reassure Anna that the choice is entirely her own. 
“I want her to know that it’s her decision,” Mozzoni said. “There is no pressure to stay because we got this house for her. This house has been here for at least fifty years, and it will be here for a hundred more. She needs to know this is her decision.” 
As Eron and Mozzoni coordinate plans for Anna to visit the passport office next week, Anna’s three-year-old daughter sits in the adjoining room, wearing a pink T-shirt featuring several Disney princesses, flipping through a Minnie Mouse picture book.  
Eron told Anna that she would be back on Monday to take her to the passport office. It’s safer that way, since passengers are not required to provide identification if the driver is pulled over.  
Eron became connected with Mozzoni through a Facebook group, but very quickly became one of Mozzoni’s most trusted allies. Eron and her husband moved from Seattle to Northwest Arkansas a month before the pandemic in 2020, and after years of hoping to take in foster children, Eron received a call from a colleague who works as an immigration lawyer. He told Eron about two teenage boys whose mother had recently been deported and would soon need housing. 
Living on her husband’s salary as an employee at the University of Arkansas and her own inconsistent income as a non-profit employee, Eron knew she needed additional support to provide for the boys. She began making T-shirts that read, “No Human is Illegal” and invited people on her personal Facebook page to purchase them for whatever amount they wished to contribute. 
In early December, Eron learned that a friend of her oldest boy was preparing to sleep in his car following a deteriorating housing situation. She immediately insisted that he move in with her family. 
Eron said that since witnessing the hardships that can come to families affected by deportation, she has felt a need to become more involved as an advocate, and that her work with Mozzoni has helped her feel empowered as a foster mom. 
“We are not rich people by any means,” Eron said. “But if we can be that for them, if we can be soft for them, if we can show them any amount of love and kindness, and just show them that’s not how it’s supposed to be. Like, genuinely, what you have experienced is not right. It’s not okay. And I think that’s also why I have been trying so much to participate in what I can. Because I look at them [the boys] every morning when I wake up and I’m like, ‘How can I look in their faces and [at] what they’re experiencing and not be doing anything I can to make this better?” 
Before we left Anna to get ready for work, Mozzoni asked if she had a designated power of attorney should something happen suddenly, as these things often do. Anna told her she has no one to designate, and Mozzoni asked if she would consider her, assuring her that her children would be well taken care of. 
Anna agreed, and the conversation shifted to a more light-hearted debate about who has the best pupusas (the national dish of El Salvador) nearby. They exchanged recommendations but the winner was clear in Anna’s eyes: her mother’s pupusas are incontestable. 
Just before we departed, Mozzoni recalled that Anna’s oldest son would turn sixteen soon, and she asked if there was anything in particular he wanted. Anna told her that his only request that year was that she cook dinner and that his birthday cake features a photo of their family on the front of it. 
Mozzoni understands that her work walks a very thin line between being perceived as a “White savior” or a friend of the community. She recalled years ago, when a friend was unable to pay a traffic ticket. Mozzoni knew she couldn’t pay the ticket because as soon as she did, she would no longer be a friend, but a benefactor. Mozzoni began to spread the word that her friend made great tamales, and within the week, enough tamales were sold to pay off her ticket. 
“[These things] are not mine and they’re not my money, so I can go in and just be more of a conduit, and a friend and an honest person that shows up once in a while.” Mozzoni said. “I’ll put money in if a need is close, but I feel like the fund has kind of grown in itself.” 
Mozzoni’s fund is filtered entirely through her personal Venmo, which remains untouched until she is connected to a need. The women who make-up Mozzoni’s trusted congregation of online warriors look to her to understand how they can best serve those in need as discreetly and swiftly as possible. 
One of those women agreed to speak with me on the condition that she remains anonymous, fearing that revealing her identity could affect her husband’s career and their family’s privacy. For the purpose of this interview, I’ll call her Sarah.  
Sarah, a stay-at-home mom to twins, moved to NWA at the beginning of the new year and almost immediately became involved with Mozzoni’s initiatives. She was involved with a similar online group a few months prior. 
As soon as I began speaking with Sarah, she began to cry. She told me that months earlier, after working to assist her children’s Spanish teacher to help out immigrant families in her community, she was added to a group chat intended to provide local families with basic food supplies. They called it the PB and J club. 
That night, after being added to the group chat, while bathing her children, Sarah said that the notifications began to roll in rapidly. She froze in that moment, overwhelmed by the number of people with needs in her community. Suddenly, Sarah snapped back to reality as her daughter told her that the bathwater was much too hot. Sarah couldn’t feel it. In fact, she couldn’t feel her left hand at all. 
She attributed the numbness in her hand to a delayed side-effect of a stroke that she had experienced, but to be sure, Sarah decided to make an appointment with her doctor for the next day. The doctor informed her that the numbness, that had now spread to the entire left side of her body, was not a symptom of her stroke but a response to intense stress.  
At that moment, Sarah realized that seeing how many people were in need of food in her community was entirely too overwhelming, and her body couldn’t handle it. It wasn’t until after her family’s move to NWA that Sarah came across the “ICEWatch” page on Facebook, where she saw a post from Mozzoni about securing aid for a local family and decided she would try again. 
Sarah told Mozzoni her story and expressed her hesitancy about joining another group chat, but Mozzoni assured her that this time would be different. Rather than hundreds of individuals sharing needs directly in the chat, people come to Mozzoni with their needs, and she shares them with the group. 
“I’m so thankful that I found her,” Sarah said. “It gives me a sense of purpose. It helps me make a difference, like a real, tangible difference. So, to me, she’s Saint Nicole.” 
Mozzoni’s work functions almost entirely online, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t carry real risks. Just a week before we met. Mozzoni told me that she, along with nine other moderators of the “ICEWatch” Facebook Page, was doxxed. Even after learning that the group’s founder, Mia Magdalena’s home address had been posted online, Mozzoni said she didn’t feel any hesitation about her online presence. Aside from an invasion of privacy, Mozzoni and her fellow moderators have not been directly targeted because of the leak. 
Mozzoni carries a responsibility to protect the community that she has built. Each person who enters her sacred group chat is thoroughly vetted and informed that the work they are doing is not for themselves. Mozzoni makes it known that any supplies or funds should be dropped off, and that there should be no contact between the group members and those receiving aid. 
“I feel like no contact keeps everyone’s dignity, and that, to me, is what it’s all about,” Mozzoni said. “Someone says, ‘I can show you the receipt, and I can show you that I didn’t work.’ No, no, if you were asking me, and you tell me what you need, you’re getting it, and I don’t need to know.” 
Mozzoni said it’s not her job to determine who deserves aid. It’s only her job to provide it. 
As I spent more time in South Springdale, it became clear that Mozzoni has a true bond with the people of the community. To her, these aren’t random individuals: they’re the families of the countless students whose lives she touched over the years. 
Mozzoni received a call from a close friend who said that her nephew was detained by ICE in Little Rock. That was the first time I had seen Mozzoni rattled. Once someone is detained, she knows there’s nothing she can do. 
Mozzoni scrolled through her contact list for anyone she knew who might give her more information on where he was being held or whether he had been transferred. 
That was the second call Mozzoni had received that day. Just that morning, a former student of hers was taken into ICE custody after appearing for an immigration hearing in Little Rock and was already being transferred to an Alabama detention center. 
As I sat with Mozzoni in the realization that she is powerless, she wasn’t downtrodden; she was angry.  
“Can you imagine you’re just in Rogers, and you get a call that you have to be in Little Rock.” Mozzoni asked, “You go to Little Rock, and now everything you’ve known- every video game you’ve owned, every pair of Nike Airs is at your house, and now you didn’t even get to say goodbye to your cousins or your neighborhood?” 
Mozzoni sighed deeply. She can no longer protect the students who once sought refuge in her library. 
Then, her phone lit up again. Another family. Another need. 
Mozzoni sat up straight and began typing.