PINOLE, Calif. — When it comes to fighting the Trump administration’s immigration policies, California has two “resistances.” There’s the official one, conducted by politicians, that includes the state’s landmark “sanctuary” law.

Then there’s the unofficial resistance, which includes people like Ann and Kent Moriarty.

In July, the couple got a call from an immigrant advocacy group about an asylum seeker who had spent seven months at an Irvine detention facility. The woman had just been granted a $15,000 bond and needed a place to stay. The Moriartys took in Veronica Aguilar, from El Salvador, and showed her around their Bay Area neighborhood.

They taught her how to navigate public transportation, where to get healthcare and how to sign up for English classes.

Ann Moriarty said her religious faith compels her to welcome strangers. But she said President Trump’s policies made it easier to do what she considered the right thing.

“We are responding to this elevation of hatred and meanness that feels like it is allowed now in this administration,” she said. “It is unacceptable.”

Since June, nearly 800 people around the country have pledged to offer housing through California-based Freedom for Immigrants. The organization has raised more than $100,000 this year to bond 50 immigrants, including Aguilar, out of detention. Immigrants eligible for release from detention must provide the address of a sponsor to immigration authorities.

Other organizations, including those associated with the sanctuary church movement, are also opening their doors to detained migrants in need of transitional housing.

“When the crisis of family separation hit the media and there was an outpouring of people who wanted to help — that’s when we realized that we had an opportunity to really ask people to pledge more than monetary support,” said cofounder Christina Mansfield. “The goal for us is to show that, if given the power, communities are willing and capable of being part of the solution of ending immigration detention and providing more-humane alternatives.”

The Moriartys are registered with U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement as Aguilar’s legal sponsors. Kent, who speaks fluent Spanish, works as a mechanical engineer, and Ann writes science curriculum at UC Berkeley. In the past, the couple has housed young unaccompanied minors as they aged out of foster care.

Aguilar’s journey to California started when she fled her home just north of San Salvador.

At age 20, she said, six months into her relationship with a man from her community, he shot and killed someone. She said she hadn’t known he was a gang member or that she was pregnant with his child.

While the man remained in prison, Aguilar said, members of his gang pressured her to maintain the relationship. She refused and assumed that was the end of it. Then two years ago, some of those gang members were released from prison and threatened to kill her.

Aguilar fled to her mother’s house two hours northeast, but the gang members found her a year later. In October, she bought a bus ticket to the Guatemalan border with Mexico, leaving behind an 18-year-old daughter and her now 15-year-old son. From there, she joined a caravan of 300 migrants who sought U.S. asylum a month later at the border in San Ysidro.

In early May, an immigration judge denied Aguilar’s application for asylum and ordered her deported, according to court documents. Judge Nathan Aina said she had failed to provide sufficient proof that she would likely be persecuted or tortured if returned to El Salvador.

While she awaits her appeal, Aguilar said, she knows she can count on the American family that embraced her.

“To me, they are family,” Aguilar said. “This feels like my home.”

In nearby Concord, Joe Schellenberg and Mieke VanHout got a call in early August from the lawyer of a detained Guinean man they had been preparing to host, saying that he couldn’t be released. Within three days, the couple had 70 letters and signatures from members of their Unitarian church in support of the young man, who is seeking asylum.

The man, who asked that most details about his situation be kept confidential out of fear for his safety, was released on a $5,000 bond a couple of weeks later.

Schellenberg and VanHout — retired and empty-nesters — have volunteered for years serving detainees and farmworkers. After Trump took office, they decided to get more involved with Freedom for Immigrants.

For VanHout, a former nurse, the idea of allowing a stranger to live with her stems from her youth.

“I really thought I could change the world,” she said.

Her husband sees it more simply: “I miss my kids,” he said. The Guinean man, a native French speaker, calls them “mom” and “dad” — a sign of respect common in his culture.