Trump Orders ICE Crackdown: Somali Minneapolis Erupts in Chaos and Defiance

Paul Riverbank, 12/10/2025Federal agents descended on Cedar-Riverside, sparking chaos and fear in Minneapolis’s Somali community. Despite resistance and confusion, no arrests were made—a stark reminder of the human cost and blurred lines in America’s evolving immigration policy.

The crowd outside the shops and cafes wasn’t just curious onlookers. Most knew each other, some by name, all with skin in it. Families, business owners, elders—almost everyone with a tie to Minneapolis's Somali enclave gathered as the officials made their rounds. You could hear them warning each other: “Passports out, don’t let them catch you off guard.” Jamal Osman, a city councilman who grew up just blocks away, watched the scene with a mixture of worry and resignation. “I told them, keep your documents with you at all times. Today, it’s the only thing that kept people safe,” he said, speaking later as the adrenaline wore off.

Inside the taquerias and coffee houses, ICE agents shut the doors, asking for IDs—methodically, without much regard for the growing anxiety outside. That night, no arrests happened in the eateries. Everyone inside, Osman confirmed, turned out to be a U.S. citizen. Still, agents didn’t stop there. Once they left the restaurants, the group splintered, detaining at least one man briefly in the street—until they checked his U.S. passport, fingerprinted him, and finally let him go. He didn’t get a ride; he trudged home through slushy snow, shaken and alone.

By now, stories ricocheted across the neighborhood, some muddled by panic. A string of mostly white, younger activists—some longtime allies, others there for the first time—blew whistles, warning residents and signaling others to come. Someone’s car blocked a federal vehicle at the intersection. Shouts, whistles, then suddenly a haze of pepper spray. For several in the crowd, it didn’t end with stinging eyes. One elderly shopkeeper, coughing in the aftermath, shook his head at what he’d just witnessed.

The official version, as delivered later by ICE, was spare. They insisted there were no arrests that night on Cedar Avenue, offering little more. But to Osman and the locals, the point seemed lost. “They didn’t get what they were after, but they left us bruised,” Osman reflected. “What did they gain? Just chaos. Fear.”

This is not a new anxiety. Since President Trump announced efforts to end Temporary Protected Status for Somali immigrants—an announcement that landed especially hard here, where nearly 84,000 Somali Americans live in the Twin Cities—the community has been on edge. Most are U.S. citizens (close to 58 percent born here), and the vast majority of immigrants have legal status. Yet, the threat lingers, in part because recent ICE operations have booked Somali Minnesotans alongside others accused of robbery or assault; these arrests appear on federal reports used to support the effort.

On talk radio and social media, outrage swelled after Trump used an inflammatory word to describe Somalis. Governor Tim Walz and local Democrats erupted in protest; meanwhile, Republican lawmakers at the Capitol responded mostly with silence.

Life in Cedar-Riverside won’t snap back to normal quickly. Osman is blunt: “This is our home, our city. We’re not criminals. We’re neighbors.” For him and many others, the scars left that night run deeper than pepper spray. Some say it’s just the latest chapter in a long story, but the confusion and uncertainty have a way of making even the familiar streets feel strange—at least for now.

Snowflakes drifted down over Cedar-Riverside that evening—soft at first, then swirling fast enough to sting your face if you stepped out too long. On the sidewalk, the tension did not ease. Word had already swept through the Minneapolis neighborhood: federal agents, here and now.The crowd outside the shops and cafes wasn’t just curious onlookers. Most knew each other, some by name, all with skin in it. Families, business owners, elders—almost everyone with a tie to Minneapolis's Somali enclave gathered as the officials made their rounds. You could hear them warning each other: “Passports out, don’t let them catch you off guard.” Jamal Osman, a city councilman who grew up just blocks away, watched the scene with a mixture of worry and resignation. “I told them, keep your documents with you at all times. Today, it’s the only thing that kept people safe,” he said, speaking later as the adrenaline wore off.Inside the taquerias and coffee houses, ICE agents shut the doors, asking for IDs—methodically, without much regard for the growing anxiety outside. That night, no arrests happened in the eateries. Everyone inside, Osman confirmed, turned out to be a U.S. citizen. Still, agents didn’t stop there. Once they left the restaurants, the group splintered, detaining at least one man briefly in the street—until they checked his U.S. passport, fingerprinted him, and finally let him go. He didn’t get a ride; he trudged home through slushy snow, shaken and alone.By now, stories ricocheted across the neighborhood, some muddled by panic. A string of mostly white, younger activists—some longtime allies, others there for the first time—blew whistles, warning residents and signaling others to come. Someone’s car blocked a federal vehicle at the intersection. Shouts, whistles, then suddenly a haze of pepper spray. For several in the crowd, it didn’t end with stinging eyes. One elderly shopkeeper, coughing in the aftermath, shook his head at what he’d just witnessed.The official version, as delivered later by ICE, was spare. They insisted there were no arrests that night on Cedar Avenue, offering little more. But to Osman and the locals, the point seemed lost. “They didn’t get what they were after, but they left us bruised,” Osman reflected. “What did they gain? Just chaos. Fear.”This is not a new anxiety. Since President Trump announced efforts to end Temporary Protected Status for Somali immigrants—an announcement that landed especially hard here, where nearly 84,000 Somali Americans live in the Twin Cities—the community has been on edge. Most are U.S. citizens (close to 58 percent born here), and the vast majority of immigrants have legal status. Yet, the threat lingers, in part because recent ICE operations have booked Somali Minnesotans alongside others accused of robbery or assault; these arrests appear on federal reports used to support the effort.On talk radio and social media, outrage swelled after Trump used an inflammatory word to describe Somalis. Governor Tim Walz and local Democrats erupted in protest; meanwhile, Republican lawmakers at the Capitol responded mostly with silence.Life in Cedar-Riverside won’t snap back to normal quickly. Osman is blunt: “This is our home, our city. We’re not criminals. We’re neighbors.” For him and many others, the scars left that night run deeper than pepper spray. Some say it’s just the latest chapter in a long story, but the confusion and uncertainty have a way of making even the familiar streets feel strange—at least for now.