Minneapolis was not the war zone I expected to find. Depending on who you are and where you live, things can seem, for a few fleeting moments, almost normal, like a few blocks or neighborhoods over people aren’t being tear gassed or rounded up by ICE or, in two tragic cases, being gunned down by federal agents. Even now some people walk their dogs, run errands and buy groceries, meet friends for dinner and drinks. Daily life has become sinister in its banality, because Minneapolis remains a city under siege. ICE and CBP agents roam the streets, though their tactics have shifted as of late: No longer acting like an occupying army, the Department of Homeland Security now operates like secret police. They do their best to blend in, to look like the people they terrorize, and in this, they often fail. Everyone knows that they’re there, that they’re watching. But they aren’t everywhere — not at once. The fear is that they will arrive at any moment, that they will take someone, that they will arrest or attack or kill anyone who gets in their way.
These fears have been realized. Children and parents have been snatched off the street while walking to school. People have been taken from their jobs and grabbed mid-commute, their empty cars left on the streets, hazard lights still flashing. And so those who are most vulnerable — immigrants at risk of deportation, US citizens who have learned that DHS will, depending on the color of a person’s skin, detain first and ask questions later — have retreated into their homes.
Residents of the Twin Cities have taken to wearing whistles — many of them 3D-printed — around their necks so they can quickly alert their neighbors to ICE’s presence. Photo by Jack Califano / The Verge
DHS has met unprecedented pushback in Minnesota. Residents of the Twin Cities have done everything in their power to hinder the occupation. Locals follow ICE on the streets, jeer agents outside their hotel rooms, and kick them out of restaurants. A robust mutual aid network has emerged virtually overnight to provide the most basic resources to families that have been forced into hiding. This widespread resistance has fueled a triumphalist narrative, one in which the community has banded together to protect their immigrant neighbors and Minnesota Nice has triumphed over fascism and xenophobia.
This is true and yet it isn’t. ICE has been slowed but not thwarted. Most national reporters, myself included, have left, but the story isn’t over. The siege is ongoing, and it has created a noticeable void. ICE may have lost the battle for public opinion, and its operation in the Twin Cities may be hampered by local pushback, but it has succeeded in one respect: It has instilled terror in Minnesota’s immigrant communities, forcing them into the shadows. The question that remains is how long this can go on, and how the community can rebuild once it ends.
“‘Odd’ doesn’t seem like a good enough word, but it’s the one I have, and it’s a very Minnesotan one, but it’s odd to live here right now,” Kai Shelley, a senior policy aide for Minneapolis City Council member Aisha Chughtai, told me. Chughtai, the council majority leader, represents Whittier, the neighborhood where Renee Good and Alex Pretti were killed.
Renee Good’s memorial
“You walk down the street of Alex Pretti’s memorial and every business has a sign that says ‘ICE OUT’ or ‘Come in and get warm’ or is offering free water bottles and opening up their restrooms. There’s a lot of unity and resistance in that,” Shelley said. “So many people have stepped up to do rapid response and mutual aid. But the undercurrent of all of that, and the reason it’s happening, is because our immigrant neighbors can’t leave their homes, are afraid to send their kids to school, are afraid to do pickup and drop-off at schools, are afraid to go to work, can’t go to work, are afraid to be in the neighborhood. Immigrant-owned businesses are closing or are going to close. We won’t know the full toll for months.” Each person grabbed off the street and removed from the community causes a ripple effect. Every arrest is a warning: You could be next.
“There’s a real contradiction here right now. It’s eerie and it’s terrifying, and it’s inspiring and there’s resistance here. It’s always both.”
The occupation is inescapable. It’s all anyone can talk about. It’s visible on every street and every storefront, as is the community’s response. Signs on every door warn ICE not to enter without a warrant. Bundled-up people stand like sentinels, whistles hanging from their necks, watching over their blocks despite subzero temperatures. Groups of friends drive around their neighborhoods in search of ICE agents who troll around in unmarked cars. Each morning and afternoon, volunteers in neon vests station themselves outside the city’s schools to ensure students and parents make it home safely. No one person is doing everything, but nearly everyone who is out on the street is doing something.
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