It has been five years since May 25, 2020, when George Floyd gasped for air beneath the knee of a Minneapolis police officer at the corner of 38th Street and Chicago Avenue. Five years since 17-year-old Darnella Frazier stood outside Cup Foods, raised her phone, and bore witness to nine minutes and 29 seconds that would galvanize a global movement against racial injustice.
Frazier’s video didn’t just show what happened. It insisted the world stop and see.
Today, that legacy continues in the hands of a different community, facing different threats but wielding the same tools. Across the United States, Latino organizers are raising their phones, not to go viral but to go on record. They livestream Immigration and Customs Enforcement raids, film family separations and document protests outside detention centers. Their footage is not merely content. It is evidence, warning—and resistance.
Here in Los Angeles where I teach journalism, for example, several images have seared themselves into public memory. One viral video shows a shackled father stepping into a white, unmarked van as his daughter sobs behind the camera, pleading with him not to sign any official documents. He turns, gestures for her to calm down, and blows her a kiss. In another video, filmed across town, Los Angeles Police Department officers on horseback charge into crowds of peaceful protesters, swinging wooden batons with chilling precision.
In Spokane, Washington, residents form a spontaneous human chain around their neighbors mid-raid, their bodies and cameras erecting a barricade of defiance. In San Diego, a video shows white allies yelling “Shame!” as they chase a car full of National Guard troops from their neighborhood.
The impact of smartphone witnessing has been immediate and unmistakable—visceral at street level, seismic in statehouses. On the ground, the videos helped inspire a “No Kings” movement, which organized protests in all 50 states on June 14, 2025.
Lawmakers are intensifying their focus on immigration policy as well. As the Trump administration escalates enforcement, Democratic-led states are expanding laws that limit cooperation with federal agents. On June 12, the House Oversight Committee questioned Democratic governors about these measures, with Republican lawmakers citing public safety concerns. The hearing underscored deep divisions between federal and state approaches to immigration enforcement.
The legacy of Black witnessing
What’s unfolding now is not new—it is newly visible. As my research shows, Latino organizers are drawing from a playbook that was sharpened in 2020 and rooted in a much older lineage of Black media survival strategies that were forged under extreme oppression.
In my 2020 book Bearing Witness While Black: African Americans, Smartphones and the New Protest Journalism, I document how Black Americans have used media—slave narratives, pamphlets, newspapers, radio and now smartphones—to fight for justice. From Frederick Douglass to Ida B. Wells to Darnella Frazier, Black witnesses have long used journalism as a tool for survival and transformation.
Latino mobile journalists are building on that blueprint in 2025, filming state power in moments of overreach, archiving injustice in real time, and expanding the impact of this radical tradition.
Their work also echoes the spatial tactics of Black resistance. Just as enslaved Black people once mapped escape routes during slavery and Jim Crow, Latino communities today are engaging in digital cartography to chart ICE-free zones, mutual aid hubs and sanctuary spaces. The People Over Papers map channels the logic of the Black maroons—communities of self-liberated Africans who escaped plantations to track patrols, share intelligence and build networks of survival. Now, the hideouts are digital. The maps are crowdsourced. The danger remains.
Likewise, the Stop ICE Raids Alerts Network revives a civil rights-era tactic. In the 1960s, organizers used wide area telephone service lines and radio to circulate safety updates. Black DJs cloaked dispatches in traffic and weather reports—“congestion on the south side” signaled police blockades; “storm warnings” meant violence ahead. Today, the medium is WhatsApp. The signal is encrypted. But the message—protect each other—has not changed.
Layered across both systems is the DNA of the “Negro Motorist Green Book,” the guide that once helped Black travelers navigate Jim Crow America by identifying safe towns, gas stations, and lodging. People Over Papers and Stop ICE Raids are digital descendants of that legacy. Where the Green Book used printed pages, today’s tools use digital pins. But the mission remains: survival through shared knowledge, protection through mapped resistance.
Dangerous necessity
Five years after George Floyd’s death, the power of visual evidence remains undeniable. Black witnessing laid the groundwork. In 2025, that tradition continues through the lens of Latino mobile journalists, who draw clear parallels between their own community’s experiences and those of Black Americans. Their footage exposes powerful echoes: ICE raids and overpolicing, border cages and city jails, a door kicked in at dawn and a knee on a neck.
Like Black Americans before them, Latino communities are using smartphones to protect, to document and to respond. In cities such as Chicago, Los Angeles, and El Paso, whispers of “ICE is in the neighborhood” now flash across Telegram, WhatsApp, and Instagram. For undocumented families, pressing record can mean risking retaliation or arrest. But many keep filming—because what goes unrecorded can be erased.
What they capture are not isolated incidents. They are part of a broader, shared struggle against state violence. And as long as the cameras keep rolling, the stories keep surfacing—illuminated by the glow of smartphone screens that refuse to look away.
Allissa V. Richardson is an associate professor of journalism at USC Annenberg School for Communication and Journalism.
This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.
