In the shadow of a burnt-out police precinct, a stark reminder of the 2020 Black Lives Matter uprising, Jamie Schwesnedl begins his afternoon shift. His task: to watch for US Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) officers patrolling his Minneapolis neighbourhood. Through a crackling car speaker, community dispatchers relay the movements of federal agents. Schwesnedl is part of a swelling grassroots movement in the Twin Cities, where residents are organising to disrupt what the Trump administration calls its "largest operation to date" targeting immigrants.
From Floyd to Federal Agents: A City on Watch
The Department of Homeland Security (DHS) deployed 2,000 federal agents to Minneapolis earlier this month, initiating sweeping operations marked by door-knocking, alleged racial profiling, and aggressive arrests. This show of force has ignited deep-seated anger in a city with a painful history of racialised police violence. For many, the current crisis feels like a direct continuation of the turmoil that followed the police killing of George Floyd.
"It's very clear that the Trump administration is looking to disguise what is a blatant campaign of cruelty, under this illusion of 'we're going after the bad guys,'" said Minneapolis city council member Robin Wonsley. "It couldn't be further from the truth."
Participation in neighbourhood watch groups has surged alongside the ICE presence, escalating further after the killing of Renee Good by an ICE agent on 7 January 2026. Her likeness now hangs on a memorial alongside images of George Floyd and other victims. Andrew Fahlstrom, an organiser with the rapid-response group Defend the 612, noted that the community infrastructure built during the 2020 uprising, when police were absent and residents felt abandoned, is now being activated anew. "This is not our first rodeo," Fahlstrom stated. In Schwesnedl's own words: "2020 never ended."
Mutual Aid and Community Defence in a Deep Freeze
The community response is multifaceted, blending vigilance with vital support. Parents stand guard outside schools in -10.6°C weather. Mothers gather gas masks. Volunteers with whistles mill on street corners to warn neighbours of ICE activity. Meanwhile, mutual aid networks, first established during the 2020 protests, are experiencing a dramatic resurgence.
Demand for food deliveries through the Community Aid Network (CANMN) doubled in December and again in January, according to co-founder Kelly Petersen. "People are terrified and not leaving their houses," said Jennifer Arnold of Inquilinxs Unidxs Por Justicia. "It is at a level of crisis almost all the time." In response, neighbours are offering rides, laundry services, food, and help with rent to those in hiding.
Becky, a mother who asked for her surname to be withheld, has been driving children with vulnerable parents to school since ICE arrived. "The situation is reminiscent of 2020 in that the government is shooting at us," she said. "But the scale of my involvement is greater."
Escalating Tensions and a Legacy of Resistance
The atmosphere is increasingly volatile. Organisers report a growing number of threats from agents towards observers. In one chilling account reported by the Minnesota Reformer, an ICE agent told an observer, "You guys gotta stop obstructing us – that’s why that lesbian bitch is dead," in a reference to Renee Good.
DHS assistant secretary Tricia McLaughlin defended the agency's stance, telling the Guardian that impeding operations could have "dangerous and, in this case deadly, consequences." Meanwhile, the federal response has intensified. Former President Trump has threatened to enact the Insurrection Act, and his administration has begun a criminal investigation into Minneapolis mayor Jacob Frey and Minnesota governor Tim Walz for allegedly conspiring to impede ICE.
Despite the fear, organisers say Good's death has mobilised, not deterred, the community. "Thousands more people were signing up to do exactly the work that Renee Good was doing, and to carry on her legacy," Fahlstrom said. At George Floyd Square, a permanent community space blocks from where Good was killed, organiser Marcia Howard reinforces the message of self-reliance: "It's just us, y'all. No one's here to save us."
As observers like Jamie Schwesnedl continue their patrols, often arriving too late to prevent a swift apprehension, they cling to a fragile hope. The work of ICE watch, Schwesnedl reflects, is defined by uncertainty: you never know how many people you might save. With the Trump administration's crackdown showing no signs of abating, Fahlstrom issues a stark warning: "People around the country need to be organising. Minneapolis is not gonna be the last place that falls under federal occupation."
