Minnesota residents, who had grown accustomed to a culture of civic engagement and community activism, have come together in unprecedented numbers to resist the federal government's mass deportation tactics.
For Cory, a south Minneapolis resident, documenting ICE agents became a necessity after two observers were killed while filming them. The danger was palpable, yet he felt compelled to continue his work, even when faced with pepper spray and the realization that agents knew where he lived.
Cory's actions are part of a broader movement that has engulfed the state. Tens of thousands of Minnesotans have joined forces to defend their neighbors from ICE. They patrol in their cars, document agents, provide rides to those who feel unsafe driving, stand outside schools at drop-offs and dismissals to protect children and parents, deliver groceries and supplies to families staying indoors due to fear of detention, and crowdfund legal aid or rent.
The resistance is rooted in a longstanding culture of civic engagement, workers' unions, and community-led groups advocating for the rights of Latino and Somali residents. Neighborhoods that banded together after George Floyd's death have reignited their networks, drawing on this experience to coordinate their efforts against ICE.
Local organizations, including the Minnesota AFL-CIO union and the multi-faith coalition Isaiah, have pulled off an economic blackout and large rally in subzero temperatures, attracting supporters from across the country. The rally was a call to action, with participants boycotting work, not shopping, and closing their businesses until the federal surge is over.
Community organizers, such as Kirstie Kimball, a food writer and fundraiser, have been at the forefront of this effort. Kimball has organized mutual aid networks, which have gone into overdrive to feed the community, with restaurants and small businesses becoming makeshift storage sites for donations.
Haven Watch, a group founded by Natalie Ehret, provides support to individuals released from detention. The group's work has helped dozens of people in its first two weeks, and Ehret estimates that she's heard stories that have changed her nearly every day.
The surge of agents across the region has not been limited to urban areas. Residents in rural communities, such as Nicole Helget in Nicollet county, have also taken action against ICE. Helget, who lives in a community with a high concentration of Somali and Latino residents, spoke directly to agents parked outside her area, asking them about their warrant and how she could help.
The bravery of those in communities of color has been cited as key to the movement's success. "They're doing organizing," said Helget. "They're doing the leadership. They're the ones working the hardest jobs."
For Cory, the fight against ICE is not just about resisting deportation tactics but also about ensuring that his Latino and Somali neighbors feel safe. He hopes that the engagement and attention will continue, and people locally and nationally will remain committed to their cause until their neighbors are free to live their lives again.
As one observer noted, "I don't think we can take our foot off the gas until we know our neighbors are safe." The future of this movement remains uncertain, but its impact on Minnesota's communities is already being felt.
For Cory, a south Minneapolis resident, documenting ICE agents became a necessity after two observers were killed while filming them. The danger was palpable, yet he felt compelled to continue his work, even when faced with pepper spray and the realization that agents knew where he lived.
Cory's actions are part of a broader movement that has engulfed the state. Tens of thousands of Minnesotans have joined forces to defend their neighbors from ICE. They patrol in their cars, document agents, provide rides to those who feel unsafe driving, stand outside schools at drop-offs and dismissals to protect children and parents, deliver groceries and supplies to families staying indoors due to fear of detention, and crowdfund legal aid or rent.
The resistance is rooted in a longstanding culture of civic engagement, workers' unions, and community-led groups advocating for the rights of Latino and Somali residents. Neighborhoods that banded together after George Floyd's death have reignited their networks, drawing on this experience to coordinate their efforts against ICE.
Local organizations, including the Minnesota AFL-CIO union and the multi-faith coalition Isaiah, have pulled off an economic blackout and large rally in subzero temperatures, attracting supporters from across the country. The rally was a call to action, with participants boycotting work, not shopping, and closing their businesses until the federal surge is over.
Community organizers, such as Kirstie Kimball, a food writer and fundraiser, have been at the forefront of this effort. Kimball has organized mutual aid networks, which have gone into overdrive to feed the community, with restaurants and small businesses becoming makeshift storage sites for donations.
Haven Watch, a group founded by Natalie Ehret, provides support to individuals released from detention. The group's work has helped dozens of people in its first two weeks, and Ehret estimates that she's heard stories that have changed her nearly every day.
The surge of agents across the region has not been limited to urban areas. Residents in rural communities, such as Nicole Helget in Nicollet county, have also taken action against ICE. Helget, who lives in a community with a high concentration of Somali and Latino residents, spoke directly to agents parked outside her area, asking them about their warrant and how she could help.
The bravery of those in communities of color has been cited as key to the movement's success. "They're doing organizing," said Helget. "They're doing the leadership. They're the ones working the hardest jobs."
For Cory, the fight against ICE is not just about resisting deportation tactics but also about ensuring that his Latino and Somali neighbors feel safe. He hopes that the engagement and attention will continue, and people locally and nationally will remain committed to their cause until their neighbors are free to live their lives again.
As one observer noted, "I don't think we can take our foot off the gas until we know our neighbors are safe." The future of this movement remains uncertain, but its impact on Minnesota's communities is already being felt.