This story was produced by El Tímpano, a civic media organization serving and covering the Bay Area’s Latino and Mayan immigrant communities. The original version of the story can be found here.

In the winter of 2019, Adelaida, an immigrant from Todos Santos, a rural region in the northern highlands of Guatemala, arrived in the Bay Area. The timing was not ideal. The then twelve-year-old resettled in California just a few months before the pandemic shut down the kinds of communal spaces that could help a teenager adjust to a new life on the other side of the world. Cooped up at home, Adelaida stumbled through her online classes. She struggled to make new friends. The lockdown made the already difficult acculturation process even slower. “I never had a chance to go out, explore what was out there,” she said in Spanish. “It was very hard to adjust.”

As the years passed, Adelaida’s sense of isolation persisted. She was navigating the routine stress of any teenager’s high school life—grades, homework, the social scene—all the while thousands of miles from the familiar comforts of home. Then, one afternoon last winter, while walking home from school, Adelaida caught a glimpse of a scene that filled her with longing. A group of girls, roughly her age, enjoying the simple pleasure of an outdoor soccer practice. “They were laughing, having fun, playing so freely,” she recalled. “And I thought: ‘I want that.’”

Soccer, or the beautiful game, as it’s affectionately called, is a singular global institution. It’s estimated that upwards of 240 million people worldwide play it —roughly two-thirds the population of the U.S.—with a fan base that tops three billion. For its legion of devotees, the sport is transcendent: at once magic, religion, a language unto itself. For immigrant youth, the sport’s global appeal has served as a cultural bridge to their new homes, helping them build friendships that can ease the resettlement process.

These days, the field is also a quiet oasis from the current anti-immigrant moment in the U.S. Since January 20, the Trump administration has launched what it calls “the largest deportation operation in American history,” issuing more than 250 sweeping changes targeting the nation’s immigration system, including policies aimed squarely at migrant youth—moves that have chilled immigrant communities and made everyday life more fraught.

These changes have significant implications for immigrant youth in Alameda County, which has the second-largest population of unaccompanied minors in California, with more than 560 resettling in the community between October 2023 and June 2024, according to the latest data. As the administration targets young migrants, community members are reporting heightened levels of fear and uncertainty, said Katie Annand, an attorney at Immigrant Legal Defense, which provides legal representation to immigrant youth living in Oakland. That sense of fear can fracture “the sense of belonging that they are working so hard to find,” she explained. Finding community through soccer, she added, helps repair those ruptures.

As an example, Annand recalled recently asking a young client what activities brought him joy. When he mentioned soccer, she invited him to describe how the game made him feel. “And there was no hesitation,” Annand said. “His first words were: ‘I feel free.’”

Without sanctuary protections, safe spaces shrink

Since January 20, the administration has introduced a string of policies targeting migrant children. Officials have revived family detention—a practice largely endedunder the Biden administration and widely criticized for its psychological impact on children. They’ve announced plans to deport and prosecute hundreds of thousands of unaccompanied minors, terminated federally funded legal aid for those children, leaving some as young as two to navigate immigration court alone, and created a new data-sharing agreement between Immigration and Customs Enforcement and the Office of Refugee Resettlement.

That arrangement grants immigration agents access to personal data of children released to sponsors, as well as information about the sponsors themselves, who are often part of or connected to immigrant communities. The move could dissuade guardians from taking in children who arrive in the U.S. alone and erode the firewall between the Office of Refugee Resettlement and the Department of Homeland Security that the federal government previously maintained, said Sergio Perez, Executive Director of the Center for Human Rights and Constitutional Law.

“The idea by the Trump administration is: ‘Here’s a treasure trove of information that we can use to better understand where all the immigrants are and where to send our agents,’” Perez said. “If you are going to take in an undocumented child, you probably have some connection to that child—familial or societal. And if you yourself are part of an immigrant community, you might be less likely to do that, if you know ICE is suddenly going to be breathing down your neck.”

At the same time, the administration has stripped sanctuary protections from institutions once considered off-limits: schools and churches. The result, advocates warn, is a new layer of fear in spaces that once offered safety. Many expect this wave of policies to add another layer of emotional distress to an already difficult resettlement process.

The best way to respond, Perez argued, is to mobilize community in the broadest sense possible. That includes “city and county laws that protect information and those spaces as best as they can,” Perez said, as well as “civic society stepping up and saying: ‘Not here.’” Children, he added, “should be able to enjoy the sun. It’s better than being in the shadows.”

A network of care and community

Adelaida eventually found her place on the team. After passing the practice that day, she approached the coach and asked if she could join the program, which is run by the nonprofit Soccer Without Borders, which uses free soccer programming to help immigrant and refugee youth build ties to their new communities. Adelaida was brought on board, joining a squad of newcomer girls. She has since found solace in the world’s most popular sport. “It has helped me feel more integrated in this country,” Adelaida explained. She made friends on the team, which helped her feel more settled in her new home. The twin shocks of relocation and lockdown have faded. Now, Adelaida said, “ I feel at home. I say that I am from Oakland.”

Researchers and advocates who work closely with recent immigrants say soccer is one of the most effective, and accessible, tools for helping young people rebuild their sense of self after migration. Kristina Lovato, director of UC Berkeley’s Center on Immigrant Child Welfare, interviewed dozens of young adults and unaccompanied minors across California for a forthcoming study, including immigrant youth who joined organized soccer leagues. She was struck by how the game helped ease their transition. “It’s such a friendly way that immigrants can connect to one another, and for an hour and a half on the field, let go of the mental stress that is burdening their day,” she said. 

This cognitive stress load is often exacerbated by the material demands of relocation, such as finding stable housing, securing employment, and repaying debts accrued during their journey. “Children arrive with a huge list of to-do’s and are stressed from the minute they get here,” Lovato said.

For many immigrant youth, the trauma of relocation captures just one emotional stage of migration. Ryan Matlow, a Stanford clinical psychologist who works with immigrant youth in the Bay Area, described numerous stages of psychological stress that accompany children across the arc of the migratory process: the trauma of leaving home, the trauma of the journey to the U.S., the trauma of crossing the border and the trauma of resettlement.

The rupture of leaving home can leave children unmoored and searching for a sense of belonging. For children who came from soccer-loving communities or households, the sport can help preserve their emotional ties to the countries and cultures they left behind, Matlow said. “Having opportunities to connect with practices and traditions that resonate with their cultural history is really valuable,” he explained. The social dynamics of team sports, Matlow added, can also provide emotional support during resettlement, helping children reestablish the sense of community they left behind.

Like Adelaida, Ana arrived in the U.S. just before the pandemic. In the early days, she was overcome by everyone she missed in Guatemala. She thought about her family and friends constantly as she tried to figure out her place in the East Bay. When school reopened, Ana decided to give soccer a try. Though she had never played before, she joined one of Soccer Without Borders’ girls’ leagues. The learning curve was steep but fulfilling. “I feel like I found my family here,” Ana said in Spanish. “Here, I feel safe.  I keep meeting new people. I like to be here in this community. I have found the perfect place for myself.”

Another player in the league said the field lets her briefly tune out from the stress of daily life. “I put everything aside and have fun,” she said in Spanish. “It’s a safe space for me.”

Coaches and advocates emphasized the importance of maintaining emotionally safe environments as the political climate becomes more unwelcoming to immigrants. That means being attentive to how, and if, national politics are discussed on the field, explained Ye-Htet Soe, the program manager of the Bay Area chapter of Soccer Without Borders. “Some teams want to talk about it more, and others just want to play,” he said. For some players, bringing the administration or politics into team spaces risks damaging the psychological safety they offer. “The most important thing is creating a sense of belonging. And the way you do that through sports isn’t necessarily to talk about the issue at hand,” Soe continued. “Sometimes you need to let sport do its thing and create that sense of community, with an emphasis on fun and joy.”

Finding a voice on the field

On a bright Saturday afternoon in mid-April, Ana and her teammates stood in a straight line in front of their opponents after the referee blew the game’s final whistle. It had been a close, nail-biter of a game; while the two teams were evenly matched, one squeaked by with a victory after a late goal in the second half of the game. Friends and family cheered and groaned from the sidelines. Players were flushed.

Maddy Boston, one of the team’s coaches and a program manager at Soccer Without Borders Bay Area, gathered both squads at midfield for a ritual known as the positivity circle. Each player shared their name, country of origin and a compliment for someone on the opposing team.

Boston kicked off the circle with a peppy post-game recap, then opened up the floor. Ana stepped forward, shyly, praising two players on the opposing team for their crisp passing and stamina. “I loved the way you play,” she said. 

Later, sitting on a bench, Adelaida reflected on what the team had given her. Being in the league had inspired a dream: she wanted to start a team of her own someday. “It all came from this team that helped me grow stronger as a person,” she said. Her ideal name for it?

United.