“We yelled. We shamed them. It didn’t matter.”
It's February 11th, 2026 and although ICE activity is supposedly being dialed back, abduction levels rival those of late January. Today we're sharing an educator's experience watching an ICE raid, and a patroller's exhaustion.
"We yelled. We shamed them. ... It didn't matter."
I had been struggling with my involvement in the ICE raids. Not knowing if I was doing enough. I spent parts of my day talking with colleagues about how to be more integrated, how to connect with the community. I was leaving work feeling more determined and empowered.
I walked outside my building to hear the sounds of whistles and car honks. Across the street is Knollwood Center in St. Louis Park. Everyone nearby knows this location, frequently a cause of headaches around 5 p.m. (usually). Today was different, like the days have been of late for us Minnesotans.
I went as fast as I could to my car to drive across the street. I followed the sounds and was led straight to them. Just like the videos and photos I’ve seen everywhere online: masked men, mismatched with camo, tactical gear, and the bold-faced lie of POLICE written across their chests.
Dozens of Minnesotans around me were shouting, whistling, and recording. Six thugs walked into a small restaurant, Dancing Ganesha. Through the chaos we tried to ascertain their reasoning. We asked for warrants or paperwork. We were met only with a “Shut the f* up,” as they walked four men outside the restaurant.
Naturally, they were brown-skinned, and that was likely the only reason they were being targeted. They were compliant, held their heads down, and didn’t answer our calls of “What’s your name?” or “Who can we call?”
The agents held their tear gas and pepper spray tight, barking at whoever dared to step too close. We yelled. We shamed them. We even told them they were better than this. It didn’t matter. They shuffled the men into their unmarked cars and, within fifteen minutes, were completely gone.
I called my partner to let her know I was safe. We reassessed our dinner ideas with my delay. I sat in my car, ordered food, and went home like any other Thursday. And it was — except my home state of Minnesota is under siege from its own government.
I am proud of the people who bravely stood next to me during this event, one that is happening all over our cities daily. In that moment I felt the community. I felt the pride that we have as Minnesotans. We will continue to fight together until the last one of them is gone. This is our state. They are not welcome here.
-Alexander, an educator
"The only things left are patrol, business, and occasionally sleep."
There's a feeling of never being off. You're always on to some extent. Hypervigilant. Always tense. It's hard to sleep. It sucks the air out of anything that isn't... y'know. Critical. Like relaxing. Exercise. The only things left are patrol, business, and occasionally sleep.
Even when you're relaxing, you don't. Signal's always, always buzzing. You put it on mute and you take it off and realize that four people got abducted. And you're like 'I could have [done something]'. You're trying to draw boundaries... so you [can] continue to contribute. But it [doesn't] really work all that well.
- MacAlister, a neighborhood patroller
These testimonials were shared with author consent as part of a larger project to share real stories from people affected by the largest DHS operation in history. You can read more about this initiative and the charity it supports at storyforge.com/metrosurge.