Demonizing ICE: How Left-Wing Politicians Fuel Threats Against Agents

Paul Riverbank, 1/25/2026Political rhetoric fuels violence against officials—echoing from American homes to overseas protests and conflict.

Agents described Novoa as resigned when confronted. “Alright, you got me. That was me,” he said, sounding more irritated than remorseful, and quipped about Elon Musk’s role in the investigation. In the small details of his life—like the absence of any adult criminal history—there was little to hint at the kind of anger that might spark such threats.

Not long after, in rural West Virginia, police arrested Cody Smith, a 20-year-old accused of making his own violent threats—this time through video, not text. Smith is charged with threatening not just federal agents, but Donald Trump and, curiously, military personnel as well. Police mention his rhetoric was scattershot: ICE, Trump backers, even U.S. service members, all caught in the crosshairs of his online ire.

These arrests land at a time when the public conversation about law enforcement is, to put it mildly, heated. While some politicians compare ICE to an occupying force—Minnesota Mayor Jacob Frey comes to mind—others have debated just how far resistance might be justified. Arizona’s Attorney General floated the idea that, under certain circumstances, shooting masked ICE agents could be viewed as reasonable. Meanwhile, inside the Department of Homeland Security, Assistant Secretary Tricia McLaughlin squarely blamed what she called “sanctuary politicians” and some corners of media for stoking hostility towards police. “The unprecedented increase in violence against law enforcement,” she argued, “is a direct result of demonization.” At time of writing, DHS hadn’t commented further.

The connection between words and actions is rarely straightforward, but it’s impossible to ignore the pattern that emerges. Statistically rare as they may be, threats and acts of violence against officials have become a point of daily discussion, a kind of grim drumbeat that underlines our polarized era.

Beyond U.S. borders, anxiety festers elsewhere. In Gaza, attempts at demilitarization through efforts like the National Committee for the Administration of Gaza (NCAG) have barely registered amidst the daily grind of violence. The Israel Defense Forces claim to have foiled a series of attacks, the kind that barely makes a blip outside regional news—yet for families living in the crossfire, it’s anything but routine. Efforts to restore order or shift power to local agencies often get mired in new cycles of retaliation.

One hears echoes of this pain far from the fighting. In Dublin, at a rally that drew hundreds, Palestinian journalist Eman Mohammed addressed the crowd. She told of friends and colleagues, lost one by one, and a daughter wounded years ago, a memory still fresh. Activists in Ireland, including Fatin Al Tamimi of the Ireland-Palestine Solidarity Campaign, demanded sanctions on Israel and the passage of the Occupied Territories Bill. Their grievances weren’t limited to the Middle East: U.S. military flights through Shannon Airport drew their share of criticism too.

“There’s a numbness,” Eman said quietly after her remarks, almost as if speaking to herself. “You can’t process the numbers anymore.” Journalists and loved ones gone. Families in makeshift shelters. The word ‘ceasefire’ sounded hollow to many, she observed, when deaths did not abate.

If you look across these stories—from Ohio to Gaza, from a keyboard in West Virginia to a banner in Ireland—a thread emerges: Anger, once stirred, can manifest in unpredictable ways. Policy debates transform into personal crusades; individual grief is amplified by megaphones on the street or on screens. Officials blame the climate of rhetoric for an uptick in violence. Protesters insist the time for words has long passed.

And so the cycle hums along: arrests, warnings, funeral processions, cries for justice. For the people caught in the middle, answers are elusive, and pain often travels faster than policy. In this landscape, action, rhetoric, and mourning swirl together—rarely waiting for the dust to settle before the next headline arrives.

When federal agents entered an Ohio home recently, they found more than just guns and ammunition. Among the rifles and shotguns, an unfurled Palestinian flag brushed against a stack of folded clothing. Nearby, a phone blinked with unseen notifications. The 21-year-old occupant, Justin Mesael Novoa, had already admitted—almost offhand, they noted—that he'd authored the online threats aimed at Immigration and Customs Enforcement agents. According to the Justice Department, Novoa posted urging his followers to “blast every ice agent they find.” The tone escalated with another missive in November, this time filled with coarse language and a call to violence against both ICE agents and conservative supporters.Agents described Novoa as resigned when confronted. “Alright, you got me. That was me,” he said, sounding more irritated than remorseful, and quipped about Elon Musk’s role in the investigation. In the small details of his life—like the absence of any adult criminal history—there was little to hint at the kind of anger that might spark such threats.Not long after, in rural West Virginia, police arrested Cody Smith, a 20-year-old accused of making his own violent threats—this time through video, not text. Smith is charged with threatening not just federal agents, but Donald Trump and, curiously, military personnel as well. Police mention his rhetoric was scattershot: ICE, Trump backers, even U.S. service members, all caught in the crosshairs of his online ire.These arrests land at a time when the public conversation about law enforcement is, to put it mildly, heated. While some politicians compare ICE to an occupying force—Minnesota Mayor Jacob Frey comes to mind—others have debated just how far resistance might be justified. Arizona’s Attorney General floated the idea that, under certain circumstances, shooting masked ICE agents could be viewed as reasonable. Meanwhile, inside the Department of Homeland Security, Assistant Secretary Tricia McLaughlin squarely blamed what she called “sanctuary politicians” and some corners of media for stoking hostility towards police. “The unprecedented increase in violence against law enforcement,” she argued, “is a direct result of demonization.” At time of writing, DHS hadn’t commented further.The connection between words and actions is rarely straightforward, but it’s impossible to ignore the pattern that emerges. Statistically rare as they may be, threats and acts of violence against officials have become a point of daily discussion, a kind of grim drumbeat that underlines our polarized era.Beyond U.S. borders, anxiety festers elsewhere. In Gaza, attempts at demilitarization through efforts like the National Committee for the Administration of Gaza (NCAG) have barely registered amidst the daily grind of violence. The Israel Defense Forces claim to have foiled a series of attacks, the kind that barely makes a blip outside regional news—yet for families living in the crossfire, it’s anything but routine. Efforts to restore order or shift power to local agencies often get mired in new cycles of retaliation.One hears echoes of this pain far from the fighting. In Dublin, at a rally that drew hundreds, Palestinian journalist Eman Mohammed addressed the crowd. She told of friends and colleagues, lost one by one, and a daughter wounded years ago, a memory still fresh. Activists in Ireland, including Fatin Al Tamimi of the Ireland-Palestine Solidarity Campaign, demanded sanctions on Israel and the passage of the Occupied Territories Bill. Their grievances weren’t limited to the Middle East: U.S. military flights through Shannon Airport drew their share of criticism too.“There’s a numbness,” Eman said quietly after her remarks, almost as if speaking to herself. “You can’t process the numbers anymore.” Journalists and loved ones gone. Families in makeshift shelters. The word ‘ceasefire’ sounded hollow to many, she observed, when deaths did not abate.If you look across these stories—from Ohio to Gaza, from a keyboard in West Virginia to a banner in Ireland—a thread emerges: Anger, once stirred, can manifest in unpredictable ways. Policy debates transform into personal crusades; individual grief is amplified by megaphones on the street or on screens. Officials blame the climate of rhetoric for an uptick in violence. Protesters insist the time for words has long passed.And so the cycle hums along: arrests, warnings, funeral processions, cries for justice. For the people caught in the middle, answers are elusive, and pain often travels faster than policy. In this landscape, action, rhetoric, and mourning swirl together—rarely waiting for the dust to settle before the next headline arrives.