MINNEAPOLIS, Minnesota, USA (AP) — Work begins at dawn for the federal agents taking part in the immigration enforcement campaign in and around the Twin Cities, as hundreds of tactical-equipped personnel surge out in a rush from a nondescript office building near the main airport.
Within minutes, unmarked SUVs and vans roll out to form the convoys that have quickly become a feared, commonplace sight on the streets of Minneapolis, St. Paul, and their suburbs.
Protesters also arrive early, braving the cold, standing across the street from the fenced federal complex that houses an immigration court and government offices. “Go home!” they shout as the convoys roar by. “No ICE!”—the initials for the U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement.
Things usually get uglier after dark, when the convoys return and protesters sometimes grow angrier, shaking fences and, on occasion, striking passing vehicles. In the end, federal agents advance toward them and fire tear gas and stun grenades before making at least some arrests.
“We’re not going anywhere!” shouted a woman on a recent morning. “We’re staying here until they leave.”
This is the daily rhythm of Operation Metro Surge, the latest campaign—and the largest—of the Trump administration to date, with more than 2,000 agents. The operation has pitted municipal and state authorities against the federal government, sparked daily clashes between activists and immigration agents in the two deeply progressive cities, and claimed the life of a mother of three.
The operation is barely perceptible in some areas, especially in whiter, wealthier neighborhoods and suburbs where the convoys and tear gas are less common. And even in neighborhoods where masked immigration agents are a familiar sight, they tend to move with ghostly speed, making arrests and slipping away before protesters can rally.
Still, the campaign is felt across broad swaths of the Twin Cities area, home to more than three million people.
“We don’t use the word ‘invasion’ lightly,” Minneapolis Mayor Jacob Frey, a Democrat, told reporters this week, noting that his police force totals barely 600 officers. “What we’re seeing are thousands—in plural—of federal agents arriving in our city.”
Those agents have a disproportionately large presence in a small city.
Crossing Los Angeles and Chicago, two previous targets of the Trump administration’s campaign, can take hours. In Minneapolis, it takes just 15 minutes.
So, as concerns spread across the region, children miss school or learn remotely, families avoid religious services, and many businesses—especially in immigrant neighborhoods—have temporarily closed.
If you walk along Lake Street, a longtime immigrant enclave dating back to the days when new arrivals to Minneapolis came from Norway and Sweden, the sidewalks now seem crowded only with activists on guard, ready to blow whistles at the first sign of a convoy.
At La Michoacana Purepecha, where patrons can order ice cream, chocolate-covered bananas, and chicharrones, the door is closed and only one person is admitted at a time. Nearby, at Taquería Los Ocampo, a sign in English and Spanish says the restaurant is temporarily closed due to “the current conditions.”
A dozen blocks away, at Karmel Mall, where the city’s large Somali community goes for everything—from food and coffee to tax preparation—the doors bear signs reading “ICE, do not enter without a warrant.”
It has been almost six years since George Floyd was killed by a Minneapolis police officer, but the wounds remain open.
Floyd died just a few blocks from where an ICE officer shot and killed Renee Good, a 37-year-old American citizen, during a confrontation on January 7, after she stopped to help neighbors during a raid. Federal authorities say the officer fired in self-defense after Good used her vehicle “as a weapon.” Municipal and state authorities reject that explanation, pointing to the multiple bystander videos of the incident.
For residents of the Twin Cities, the crackdown can feel overwhelming.
“Enough already,” said Johan Baumeister, who arrived at the site where Good died shortly after the shooting to lay flowers.
He said he did not want to see the violent protests that shook Minneapolis after Floyd’s death, which caused billions of dollars in damage. But the city has a long history of activism and protests, and he had no doubt there would be more.
“I think you’ll see Minneapolis again unleash its anger,” he predicted.
He was right.
In the days that followed, clashes between activists and immigration officials were recorded. Most stayed little more than insults and taunts, and the damage was limited to broken windows, graffiti, and some federal vehicles vandalized.
But now, violent clashes erupt regularly in the Twin Cities. Some protesters clearly seek to provoke federal agents, throwing snowballs or shouting obscenities with megaphones from a few meters away. The more decisive violence, however, comes from the agents, who have broken car windows, sprayed protesters with pepper spray, and warned onlookers not to follow them through the streets. Immigrants and residents have been pulled from vehicles and homes and detained, sometimes for days. And most confrontations end with tear gas.
Drivers in Minneapolis or St. Paul may now encounter intersections blocked by men in body armor and gas masks, with helicopters roaring overhead and the air thick with protesters’ whistles.
In a state that prides itself on civility, the protests carry a distinctly Minnesota flavor.
Shortly after Good was killed, Governor Tim Walz, a Democrat and a white man who often drew Trump’s ire in comments, repeatedly voiced his anger but also urged people to find ways to help their communities.
“It could be as simple as shoveling your neighbor’s sidewalk,” he said. “It could mean standing in a food bank line. It could mean stopping to talk with someone you haven’t spoken to before.”
He and other leaders have urged protesters to stay calm, warning that the White House was looking for an opportunity to take tougher action.
And when protests turn into clashes, residents often come out of their homes and hand out bottled water so those affected can rinse their eyes from the tear gas.
Residents monitor schools to warn immigrant parents if convoys approach while they pick up their children. They carry care packages to those too frightened to step outside, and they arrange transportation to work or to the doctor.
On Thursday, in the basement of a Lutheran church in St. Paul, the Open Market MN group prepared food packages for more than a hundred families who stay home. Colin Anderson, the group’s communications lead, said the requests they’re receiving have risen.
Sometimes people don’t even understand what has happened to them.
Like Christian Molina, from the Coon Rapids suburbs, who was recently driving through a Minneapolis neighborhood to take his car to the shop when immigration agents began tailing him. He wonders if it’s because he looks Hispanic.
They flipped on their siren, but Molina kept driving, unsure who they were.
In the end, the officers sped up, struck his rear bumper, and both cars came to a stop. Two people stepped out of the vehicle and demanded his paperwork. Molina refused and said he would wait for police. People began to gather, and soon a confrontation erupted that ended with tear gas.
So the agents left.
Behind them left a man angry and worried, suddenly with a sedan whose rear fender was wrecked.
Long after the officers had gone, he had one last question.
“Who is going to pay for my car?” Molina asked.
