The reason for the Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals (DACA) program is simple: it’s about fairness. DACA recipients were raised in America, as Americans. They have had American childhoods, have American friends and family, live in American neighborhoods, abide by American laws, pay American taxes, and dream their own version of the American dream.

They are Americans.

The Constitution of the United States opens with a pledge to “establish Justice”. Justice means many things, but it does not mean that someone who did no wrong should be punished on a technicality. It does not mean that some people should have their country taken from them, because of the color of their skin or because of their parents’ actions.

They did not choose to cross a border; they did not fail to show up at any hearing in their name; they were children.

Imagine this scenario: You are in your hometown—the town you grew up in. You walk down the street to your favorite local restaurant, to meet a childhood friend. You have known each other since kindergarten, since you were 5 years old. You meet your old friend, and you speak of old times.

When politics comes up, you both recall learning about the Bill of Rights in 3rd grade social studies class. You recall baseball games and church-hosted pancake breakfasts and the first time you saw the ocean together. Those formative experiences still resonate and still shape both of you.

When you were 12 years old, your 7th grade class went to the Statue of Liberty. You remember the ferry taking you across New York Harbor and how you felt that uncanny, powerful, timeless feeling millions of Americans have felt—proud to be part of such a fabric of human liberation, part of this country, and yet feeling in your gut what it must have been like to arrive from across the ocean in the year 1899 and finally “breathe free”.

You don’t discuss this, but it is there, always, in the background. You share these many experiences and this sense of home.

The 8th Amendment to the Constitution says you are protected from “cruel and unusual punishments”. The 5th Amendment says you cannot be deprived of liberty without due process of law. The 4th Amendment says you cannot even be searched or questioned without reasonable suspicion of your having committed a specific, known crime, on authorization of a judge.

The 1st Amendment says you are free to think, speak, gather with others, pray, and seek legal remedy for injustices. The 9th Amendment says rights that are not written into the Constitution still enjoy protection, as irreducible human rights.

You are a free person in a free country, for all of this. You walked this same street when you were 8, and 13, and 18. This is your home. You know every shop-owner by name, and they know you, too. They ask about your family. You agree it will be fun to see each other again at the town’s 4th of July festivities in the park down the street

You pay your bill and hug your friend, and as you emerge into the bright light of early afternoon, four men surround you. They have tactical vests and firearms, and wear ski masks that completely obscure their faces. They start to close in on you, without identifying themselves, saying only, “You’re coming with us.” You and your friend both ask, with increasing panic, “Who are you? What is this about?”

The men refuse to provide any information. They do not name any agency that employs them. They carry no badges. Two of them pull out their firearms and point them at you. The other two grab your arms and try to shackle you. One of them pushes you to the ground, shouting slurs at you. They cite no alleged charges; they show no warrant; they do not even know your name.

When they have you handcuffed, they pull you to your feet and start to forcibly drag you to an unmarked van. It has tinted windows. You remember a movie you saw about an intelligence operative being subjected to training, to prepare for possible abduction in a foreign country with an authoritarian government. You are not an intelligence operative; the brief interlude quickly fades, and you hear these words:

“You’re going into a hole, and you’re never going to see your friends again.”

The men abducting you are using overwhelming force. They are behaving with brazen cruelty. They are refusing to acknowledge any of the sacred rights you learned about in 3rd grade, which the U.S. Constitution recognizes are inherent for all human beings.

It crosses your mind that this situation should be functionally impossible in the United States. No agent of law enforcement should ever imagine they would be defending or upholding the foundational laws we all cherish, by doing this kind of thing.

You think of your friend. She was born in the U.S., as were her parents and all of her grandparents and great-grandparents. Does that matter? Why would they treat her differently, if they don’t recognize your rights? You feel sick because you take comfort in the idea that she is safe, because one of the men taking you said “This one doesn’t look foreign,” whatever that means.

You were personally granted legal status by a previous President of the United States. By rights and by law, by the core Justice principle of the Constitution, you are lawfully a member of this society—the only one you have ever known.

Four hours later, you arrive at a detention center. You don’t know where it is, even what state you are in. No one has said anything to you about any kind of legal process. All you know is “You’re going into a hole, and you’re never going to see your friends again.” No one knows where you are. The people detaining you don’t seem to have your name or any way of reaching people who care about you, or any intention of doing so.

You feel your country is being taken from you. Or it already has been, even before these men surrounded you. For a moment, you have a terrifying, empty feeling that the America you dreamed of never existed; like any American, you reject that fear and remind yourself of all of the legal and cultural virtues of the country you know and love.

Now, rewind: You are having lunch with your childhood best friend, in your hometown. You feel more safety and innocence and joy in this place than anywhere. By the time you sit down for lunch, you have already unconsciously told yourself this is the best day of the year so far.

In an office a few miles away, four men are told to “scan the vicinity”. Two are former police officers. Two are new to law enforcement. All have joined Immigration and Customs Enforcement in hopes of protecting their country and their communities, while having steady work. The order is vague. One of the former police officers asks their superior: What do we mean by “scan”?

The superior is also a former police officer, and grew up in the community. She says something like: “Look for suspicious activity, and see if you can identify any of the vehicles on this list; they are all listed in warrants related to drug crimes or an investigation into a sex-trafficking ring. If you see them, please do not take immediate action, as the occupants might be armed and dangerous.”

The former policeman who asked for clarification is told he is to be the team leader and to remember that even undocumented immigrants enjoy legal protection of their fundamental rights. “We are only interested in dangerous criminals. They have due process rights as well, but we can expedite their deportation proceedings based on their criminal activity.”

The four men proudly head out, in an unmarked vehicle, useful for scanning the vicinity for known criminal actors and their documented vehicles. They carry masks, in case they come face to face with known organized crime operatives, but they do not wear them, because their policing role is enhanced by their being recognized as agents of the laws that protect us all. They are not at war; they are citizens on patrol, focused on keeping well-meaning people from being abused by gangs.

Which country would you rather live in? 

The Constitution protects you by protecting everyone. Every single person’s fundamental human rights are irreducible and inalienable. When federal agents can “raid” communities and grab people off the streets—even people who have been authorized to stay in the country, even people who have known no other country since before they could walk—your rights are no longer safe.

DACA is about fairness. Every human being has rights. The Constitution’s core mission to establish Justice, for the protection of human freedom, requires that we recognize each other’s rights.