President Trump's aggressive immigration enforcement campaign has swept through cities and worksites across the country, but America's farms have so far remained largely untouched. In Idaho, one of the nation's leading dairy states, that exemption is being watched with a mixture of relief and deep anxiety.
Rick Naerebout, chief executive of the Idaho Dairymen's Association, works from an office in Twin Falls with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Snake River Canyon. The 500-foot-deep, quarter-mile-wide gorge is a local landmark, and remnants of Evel Knievel's failed 1974 attempt to jump it on a steam-powered rocket are still visible. But these days the region's identity is tied less to daredevil stunts than to the fertile river plain that has made it a national agricultural powerhouse, anchored by a dairy industry worth billions of dollars to the state.
That success rests heavily on a workforce that is largely undocumented, a reality that is widely acknowledged even in deeply Republican Idaho. Naerebout estimates that roughly 90 percent of the workers at the state's approximately 350 dairies may lack legal status, a figure that underscores how dependent the industry is on immigrant labor.
Naerebout rejects the argument that these jobs should be filled by American workers. "We're not taking jobs from Americans," he said. The work, he explains, is physically demanding and performed outdoors in harsh conditions, making it unattractive to domestic job seekers. His point reflects a long-standing complaint from agricultural employers across the country: that despite competitive wages, few U.S. citizens apply for positions that involve heavy lifting, extreme weather, and long hours in rural areas.
So far, farmers have escaped the worst of the administration's immigration push. But as Immigration and Customs Enforcement operations continue in communities nationwide, agricultural employers in Idaho and throughout the heartland are growing increasingly nervous. Many were already struggling to find enough workers even before the recent wave of detentions and deportations, leaving them with little margin if enforcement reaches their operations.
The stakes are especially high in dairy, where the timing of milking cannot be postponed. Unlike some crops that can be left in the field or harvested late, cows must be milked multiple times a day, every day. A sudden loss of labor would not merely reduce output; it could force farms to shut down or cull herds, with ripple effects across the food supply chain.
Naerebout warns that a deliberate enforcement campaign targeting agriculture would carry severe consequences. "If we had a concerted effort to have enforcement activities within agriculture, you could really harm our ability to produce food to feed ourselves," he said. His warning echoes concerns raised by farm groups nationally, who argue that food production is a national security matter and that disrupting it would raise prices for consumers already coping with inflation.
Idaho routinely ranks among the top five states in the nation for milk production, and its dairies feed processing plants that turn raw milk into cheese, butter, and other products shipped across the country. A cheese plant in Burley, in the state's southern agricultural belt, illustrates how deeply the industry is integrated into rural economies that have few other large employers.
The political paradox is striking. Idaho is a reliably Republican state, and its voters broadly support the president's push for stricter immigration enforcement. Yet many of those same voters depend on dairy and other agricultural jobs that undocumented workers fill. The tension between enforcement rhetoric and economic reality is felt acutely in towns like Twin Falls, where farms, processing plants, and related businesses form the backbone of local employment.
For now, farmers are operating in a kind of limbo. They are relieved that raids have not yet focused on agricultural operations, but they cannot plan for the long term without knowing whether that restraint will hold. Some are quietly exploring automation and other labor-saving technology, though industry experts say robotics for milking and feeding remain expensive and are not yet a substitute for the workforce farms rely on.
Immigration policy specialists note that agriculture has historically received informal carve-outs during enforcement surges, partly because of its economic sensitivity and partly because Congress has repeatedly failed to pass comprehensive immigration reform that would create a legal pathway for farmworkers. That legislative vacuum has left both employers and employees in an unstable arrangement that depends on discretion rather than law.
If enforcement were to intensify in rural Idaho, the consequences could extend beyond individual farms. Rural communities rely on the spending of immigrant workers at grocery stores, schools, and small businesses. Sudden deportations would shrink the local tax base and could destabilize schools and clinics that serve those families.
Naerebout and other industry leaders say they are not asking for amnesty or open borders. What they want is a workable guest-worker system that allows dairy and other farms to hire legally and reliably. Without it, they argue, the country risks trading a labor crisis for a food crisis.
For the dairymen of southern Idaho, the canyon view from Naerebout's office is a reminder of a time when the region's fame came from a stunt. Today, the industry that defines Twin Falls is waiting to see whether Washington's next move will leave it standing or send it over the edge.
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