Trump Demands Law and Order: ICE Raids Somali Stronghold, City Fights Back

Paul Riverbank, 12/10/2025Minneapolis Somali community faces ICE raids, sparking local resistance, fear, and citywide sanctuary actions.

Council Member Jamal Osman, a familiar presence in Cedar-Riverside, was watching as it all unfolded. He later admitted relief; he’d warned neighbors for weeks to keep their passports handy, a precaution that suddenly no longer felt paranoid. “Everyone just happened to have their documents—I’m glad I told them,” Osman remembered, uneasily.

Cedar-Riverside isn’t a random target. Minnesota hosts the largest Somali community in America. Census numbers show nearly 84,000 people with Somali roots, the majority now U.S.-born, many others naturalized citizens with deep ties to American life. When President Trump announced an end to Temporary Protected Status for Somali nationals—just days before on social media—the reverberations were quick. Tension ratcheted up across neighborhoods where, for most, immigration status isn’t in question, yet the climate suddenly felt more precarious.

Local details remain elusive. ICE would only confirm via email that there were no arrests that day in Cedar-Riverside, sidestepping more pointed questions about detentions or the broader scope of their operation. People in the area weren’t comforted. Eyewitnesses, including Osman, said agents hit East African-owned restaurants, barricading doors and demanding to see identification from everyone inside. Those demands turned up nothing out of the ordinary—only U.S. citizens, no arrests, but the impact lingered.

It didn’t end at restaurants. On the sidewalks, young people—some born within city limits, others who’d traveled further—were suddenly asked to prove belonging. One Somali American teenager found himself hustled into a government vehicle. He was driven to an immigration holding facility, questioned, eventually released after producing a U.S. passport. No apology, no ride home. He slogged six snowy miles back to Cedar-Riverside alone.

Just outside a senior housing complex owned by the city, the mood shifted in minutes. Osman called the local youth who stepped up “heroes”—they stalled agents by blocking cars, some blew whistles to draw attention, the crowd swelling with confusion. Agents lobbed pepper spray, a blanket of burning mist that sent at least a dozen scurrying, hands pressed to teary eyes. The chaos opened a route, if not any understanding. Osman later questioned the point: “I don’t know what they accomplished except panic and pain.”

Meanwhile, the president’s rhetoric grew sharper; social media saw a post calling Somalis “garbage,” and a claim that they had no place in America. Within 48 hours, the federal dragnet tightened. Homeland Security’s new website spotlighted local arrests with a blunt phrase—“worst of worst”—linking six Minnesota Somalis to criminal charges ranging from assault to child sex abuse. Their names appeared alongside dozens of others swept up in “Operation Metro Surge.”

But in Minneapolis, city officials signaled a different stance entirely. Mayor Jacob Frey broadcast his opposition, pledging “unwavering” backing for immigrant residents. He moved swiftly, signing an executive order barring city-owned properties from facilitating federal immigration enforcement. City hall distributed warnings to businesses and landlords about keeping agents off private property.

School leaders—historic defenders of Minneapolis families during tense times—added their voices. Elementary and high schools assured nervous parents that their doors would stay shut to outside agents. Counseling hotlines and resource packets circulated in backpacks and inboxes.

Not everyone was convinced that local authorities were doing enough. Activist groups pushed back at any sign of city police cooperation with federal agents—a point of controversy since previous crackdowns, recalling fiery city council meetings and talk of ordering arrests of officials who covered badge numbers.

Still, neither side shows any sign of standing down. Statements from Homeland Security on social media make it clear: “You will not stop us. This administration will not be intimidated.” The undertone is unmistakable—federal resolve pitched against cities that shield their most vulnerable.

Chicago, Los Angeles, New Orleans; dozens of cities have joined Minneapolis in codifying sanctuary protections, threading the line between law and community trust. The gap between federal objectives and city priorities now stretches wider with every confrontation. At the heart of the standoff: Families caught between the cold machinery of the state and a patchwork of local resistance, hoping daily life won’t be interrupted by new chaos.

That ongoing collision—between law, rights, and street-level existence—remains unresolved, and in Minneapolis at least, nobody’s sure how or when it eases.

Federal agents turned up in the middle of a winter morning this week in Minneapolis, not quietly. Inside the Cedar-Riverside neighborhood—where Somali families have built a life over decades—people noticed immediately. Anybody standing outside in the cold could see the agents approach, pepper spray at the ready, determined faces beneath government-issue jackets.Council Member Jamal Osman, a familiar presence in Cedar-Riverside, was watching as it all unfolded. He later admitted relief; he’d warned neighbors for weeks to keep their passports handy, a precaution that suddenly no longer felt paranoid. “Everyone just happened to have their documents—I’m glad I told them,” Osman remembered, uneasily.Cedar-Riverside isn’t a random target. Minnesota hosts the largest Somali community in America. Census numbers show nearly 84,000 people with Somali roots, the majority now U.S.-born, many others naturalized citizens with deep ties to American life. When President Trump announced an end to Temporary Protected Status for Somali nationals—just days before on social media—the reverberations were quick. Tension ratcheted up across neighborhoods where, for most, immigration status isn’t in question, yet the climate suddenly felt more precarious.Local details remain elusive. ICE would only confirm via email that there were no arrests that day in Cedar-Riverside, sidestepping more pointed questions about detentions or the broader scope of their operation. People in the area weren’t comforted. Eyewitnesses, including Osman, said agents hit East African-owned restaurants, barricading doors and demanding to see identification from everyone inside. Those demands turned up nothing out of the ordinary—only U.S. citizens, no arrests, but the impact lingered.It didn’t end at restaurants. On the sidewalks, young people—some born within city limits, others who’d traveled further—were suddenly asked to prove belonging. One Somali American teenager found himself hustled into a government vehicle. He was driven to an immigration holding facility, questioned, eventually released after producing a U.S. passport. No apology, no ride home. He slogged six snowy miles back to Cedar-Riverside alone.Just outside a senior housing complex owned by the city, the mood shifted in minutes. Osman called the local youth who stepped up “heroes”—they stalled agents by blocking cars, some blew whistles to draw attention, the crowd swelling with confusion. Agents lobbed pepper spray, a blanket of burning mist that sent at least a dozen scurrying, hands pressed to teary eyes. The chaos opened a route, if not any understanding. Osman later questioned the point: “I don’t know what they accomplished except panic and pain.”Meanwhile, the president’s rhetoric grew sharper; social media saw a post calling Somalis “garbage,” and a claim that they had no place in America. Within 48 hours, the federal dragnet tightened. Homeland Security’s new website spotlighted local arrests with a blunt phrase—“worst of worst”—linking six Minnesota Somalis to criminal charges ranging from assault to child sex abuse. Their names appeared alongside dozens of others swept up in “Operation Metro Surge.”But in Minneapolis, city officials signaled a different stance entirely. Mayor Jacob Frey broadcast his opposition, pledging “unwavering” backing for immigrant residents. He moved swiftly, signing an executive order barring city-owned properties from facilitating federal immigration enforcement. City hall distributed warnings to businesses and landlords about keeping agents off private property.School leaders—historic defenders of Minneapolis families during tense times—added their voices. Elementary and high schools assured nervous parents that their doors would stay shut to outside agents. Counseling hotlines and resource packets circulated in backpacks and inboxes.Not everyone was convinced that local authorities were doing enough. Activist groups pushed back at any sign of city police cooperation with federal agents—a point of controversy since previous crackdowns, recalling fiery city council meetings and talk of ordering arrests of officials who covered badge numbers.Still, neither side shows any sign of standing down. Statements from Homeland Security on social media make it clear: “You will not stop us. This administration will not be intimidated.” The undertone is unmistakable—federal resolve pitched against cities that shield their most vulnerable.Chicago, Los Angeles, New Orleans; dozens of cities have joined Minneapolis in codifying sanctuary protections, threading the line between law and community trust. The gap between federal objectives and city priorities now stretches wider with every confrontation. At the heart of the standoff: Families caught between the cold machinery of the state and a patchwork of local resistance, hoping daily life won’t be interrupted by new chaos.That ongoing collision—between law, rights, and street-level existence—remains unresolved, and in Minneapolis at least, nobody’s sure how or when it eases.