In July 2025, President Trump signed the HALT Fentanyl Act, a bipartisan measure that permanently classifies fentanyl-related substances as Schedule I drugs and imposes a mandatory minimum sentence of 10 years for possession of 100 grams or more. It was hailed as a necessary step in fighting a deadly epidemic that has claimed over 100,000 lives annually. On the same day, Trump declared Mexican drug cartels to be foreign terrorist organizations.
But when the headlines fade and emotions cool, we’re left with a policy that feels eerily familiar: tough talk, harsh penalties, and no real investment in prevention. This isn’t a new direction—it’s the 1994 Crime Bill in a new suit.
That infamous crime bill, authored by then-Senator Joe Biden and signed into law by President Bill Clinton, promised to restore order during a wave of crime and drug addiction. Instead, it laid the foundation for mass incarceration, devastated Black and Brown communities, and widened the gap between punishment and justice. Today, some of the same voices that now claim to champion equity were instrumental in building the very system they now pretend to oppose.
Let’s look at the facts.
Fentanyl is a synthetic opioid that has killed tens of thousands. But who is using it the most? Data shows the highest overdose rates are among white Americans, particularly in rural and suburban communities. Yet, overdose deaths among Black men aged 35–54 have skyrocketed, especially in cities like Philadelphia, St. Louis, and Chicago.
And still, the HALT Fentanyl Act provides no new funding for addiction treatment, mental health care, or community-based recovery programs. It simply revives the old “lock them up” model that has failed us for 40 years.
What makes this even more dangerous is Trump’s simultaneous declaration labeling Mexican cartels as foreign terrorist organizations. That raises a critical question: Will the U.S.-based gangs that work with these cartels now be designated as domestic terrorists? Because the truth is, Mexican cartels don’t operate in isolation. Their supply chains run straight through American neighborhoods via long-standing partnerships with domestic gangs.
And yes, some of those gangs are Black.
Groups like the Gangster Disciples, Vice Lords, and Black P. Stones in cities like Chicago, and even subsets of the Bloods and Crips in California and New Jersey, have established drug distribution relationships with cartels like Sinaloa and CJNG. These aren’t ideological alliances—they are economic partnerships. The cartels supply bulk fentanyl, heroin, and cocaine; these gangs distribute them locally. These American crews are the street-level arm of a transnational criminal enterprise.
This bill will directly impact Black communities just like the 1994 Crime Bill did—only this time, the consequences may be worse. From a law enforcement perspective, once individuals or groups are officially labeled domestic terrorists, the rules of engagement change. We’re no longer talking about local policing or narcotics units. We’re talking about federal counterterrorism task forces—and potentially even military involvement. Surveillance laws, detention protocols, and prosecutorial powers all expand dramatically under terrorism classifications.
And here’s the million-dollar question:
Will many in Black communities welcome it?
We can’t pretend otherwise—because in neighborhoods across the country, these gangs have held a stranglehold on daily life for decades. They’ve driven up homicides, intimidated witnesses, recruited children, and erased any sense of safety. Despite the endless press conferences and community task forces, the influx of illegal guns into Black communities—most often used by these same criminal gangs—has not been stopped. Local police departments are overwhelmed or politically restrained, and elected officials have failed to deliver real solutions. In that vacuum, some residents have begun to think it may be time for federal agencies to use different tactics. For families who’ve buried their children, for seniors who live in fear, and for parents trying to raise kids between gunfire and grief, the idea of a heavier federal hand doesn’t feel like overreach—it feels like long-overdue relief.
But the question isn’t whether intervention is needed—it’s what kind of intervention will bring real change without repeating the failures of the past. Because when terrorism laws are turned inward, the danger is not just that we crush gangs—it’s that we crush communities alongside them. History has shown us what happens when the federal government goes to war in Black neighborhoods with a broad brush and no exit strategy.
The logic behind the HALT Act mirrors the same flawed thinking that drove the 1994 Crime Bill: punish the supplier, ignore the addicted, and criminalize the conditions that create demand in the first place. It is policy based on optics, not outcomes.
If we were serious about stopping the fentanyl crisis, we’d pair targeted law enforcement with massive investments in education, health care, economic opportunity, and addiction recovery. But seriousness isn’t the goal. Political performance is.
Real reform isn’t about appearing tough—it’s about being effective. And effectiveness requires nuance, investment, and accountability. The HALT Fentanyl Act offers none of that.
So let’s stop pretending this is progress. It’s a policy rerun. And just like before, it’s Black America who will be asked to pay the price for everyone else’s political theater.
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33-Year Law Enforcement Veteran | Advocate | Community Reformer
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