Minnesota CEOs Demand Order as Riots Rage, Politicians Hesitate

Paul Riverbank, 1/26/2026Minnesota CEOs unite, urging leaders to de-escalate unrest and collaborate for community stability.

Their timing felt almost like a response more than a plan. The city, by then, was already rumbling—federal immigration raids, noisy demonstrations, broken glass echoing down once-busy streets. There had been loss, too—a heaviness hanging over the community, difficult to sift through on paper. With trust in short supply and patience running thin, some wondered why executives—leaders usually tangled up in supply chains and quarterly returns—were stepping into the breach.

As statements go, theirs was cautious. No blame, no direct finger-pointing, just a plea for the disparate arms of government to do better, to work in concert rather than against one another. “With yesterday’s tragic news,” it began, “we are calling for an immediate de-escalation of tensions and for state, local and federal officials to work together to find real solutions.” If it sounded a bit like a corporate memo in places, well, that’s perhaps no surprise. But the message itself was raw in a way that business writing seldom is.

Out on the street, though, skepticism was easy to find. It’s no secret: for some local activists, CEOs represent another tier of the establishment—not adversaries, exactly, but not natural allies either. Would vandals, for instance, crumple up the letter with a shrug and keep moving? Probably. Does that make the gesture pointless? Maybe not. As one sharp-eyed observer noted, “These are business people—publicly saying this isn’t business as usual. That alone is a departure.”

The letter, straightforward in its prose, hinted at deeper worries. “In this difficult moment,” it read, “we call for peace and focused cooperation among local, state and federal leaders to achieve a swift and durable solution that enables families, businesses, our employees and communities across Minnesota to resume our work to build a bright and prosperous future.” Those words, carefully chosen, dodged the temptation to single out a villain. They spoke instead to the weight all Minnesotans were carrying.

A few voices in the aftermath raised a fair point: Is it the job of corporate leaders to broker peace? Shouldn’t the elected officials—paid to do this work—be out front, steering the response? True enough. But, as the signatories would likely contend, when civil society frays, the cost ripples out in every direction. Shops close. Hospital lobbies empty. The Vikings lose their home-field crowd. It isn’t just about revenue. It’s about the delicate glue holding a community together.

Of course, no one pretends a signature can pacify a restless city overnight. Even the signers conceded that. But, sometimes, these open letters serve purposes that aren’t immediately measurable. They broadcast a kind of expectation—a challenge, perhaps—to public officials to show up, listen, and try again. And if nothing else, they provide a moment’s pause, not for grandstanding, but for reconsidering what comes next.

What’s certain is that this sort of public unity, especially from groups more used to competition than collaboration, represents something of a shift. Minnesota’s future, those CEOs seemed to be saying, is a shared project. No single leader or protest group or police department can claim a monopoly on it.

Whether the city’s mood changes is another matter—one that remains unresolved, as these things often are. But this episode, brief as it is, reminds us that leadership occasionally steps out of its comfort zone to toss a life ring, knowing full well it might not reach the intended audience. For now, at least, the conversation lingers—sometimes, that’s enough to shift the narrative, if only for a little while.

On a breezy afternoon in Minneapolis, something unusual flickered across the city’s newsfeeds—a long list of familiar names, not from politics or protest groups, but from the world of business. There was Target and Best Buy. General Mills and 3M. Even the Mayo Clinic lent its emblem. Major sports teams, too, elbowed their way onto the page. All together, more than sixty of Minnesota’s top brass released a public letter, sidestepping the usual boardroom language in favor of something more immediate: a call for calm.Their timing felt almost like a response more than a plan. The city, by then, was already rumbling—federal immigration raids, noisy demonstrations, broken glass echoing down once-busy streets. There had been loss, too—a heaviness hanging over the community, difficult to sift through on paper. With trust in short supply and patience running thin, some wondered why executives—leaders usually tangled up in supply chains and quarterly returns—were stepping into the breach.As statements go, theirs was cautious. No blame, no direct finger-pointing, just a plea for the disparate arms of government to do better, to work in concert rather than against one another. “With yesterday’s tragic news,” it began, “we are calling for an immediate de-escalation of tensions and for state, local and federal officials to work together to find real solutions.” If it sounded a bit like a corporate memo in places, well, that’s perhaps no surprise. But the message itself was raw in a way that business writing seldom is.Out on the street, though, skepticism was easy to find. It’s no secret: for some local activists, CEOs represent another tier of the establishment—not adversaries, exactly, but not natural allies either. Would vandals, for instance, crumple up the letter with a shrug and keep moving? Probably. Does that make the gesture pointless? Maybe not. As one sharp-eyed observer noted, “These are business people—publicly saying this isn’t business as usual. That alone is a departure.”The letter, straightforward in its prose, hinted at deeper worries. “In this difficult moment,” it read, “we call for peace and focused cooperation among local, state and federal leaders to achieve a swift and durable solution that enables families, businesses, our employees and communities across Minnesota to resume our work to build a bright and prosperous future.” Those words, carefully chosen, dodged the temptation to single out a villain. They spoke instead to the weight all Minnesotans were carrying.A few voices in the aftermath raised a fair point: Is it the job of corporate leaders to broker peace? Shouldn’t the elected officials—paid to do this work—be out front, steering the response? True enough. But, as the signatories would likely contend, when civil society frays, the cost ripples out in every direction. Shops close. Hospital lobbies empty. The Vikings lose their home-field crowd. It isn’t just about revenue. It’s about the delicate glue holding a community together.Of course, no one pretends a signature can pacify a restless city overnight. Even the signers conceded that. But, sometimes, these open letters serve purposes that aren’t immediately measurable. They broadcast a kind of expectation—a challenge, perhaps—to public officials to show up, listen, and try again. And if nothing else, they provide a moment’s pause, not for grandstanding, but for reconsidering what comes next.What’s certain is that this sort of public unity, especially from groups more used to competition than collaboration, represents something of a shift. Minnesota’s future, those CEOs seemed to be saying, is a shared project. No single leader or protest group or police department can claim a monopoly on it.Whether the city’s mood changes is another matter—one that remains unresolved, as these things often are. But this episode, brief as it is, reminds us that leadership occasionally steps out of its comfort zone to toss a life ring, knowing full well it might not reach the intended audience. For now, at least, the conversation lingers—sometimes, that’s enough to shift the narrative, if only for a little while.