Trump Threatens Insurrection Act as Minneapolis Defies Federal Crackdown

Paul Riverbank, 1/16/2026Federal crackdowns in Minneapolis ignite fresh protests and deepen unease, as Native Americans report wrongful detentions. The city's struggle now extends beyond law enforcement, raising difficult questions about identity, justice, and the true meaning of citizenship in a divided America.

When President Trump fired off a tweet, his words seemed to ripple across the city in real time: a threat to invoke the Insurrection Act, promising federal troops if local leaders couldn’t rein in the unrest. “If the corrupt politicians of Minnesota don’t obey the law and stop the professional agitators… I will institute the INSURRECTION ACT… and quickly put an end to the travesty,” he warned. At that, even those not inclined to protest found themselves drawn to downtown, compelled less by ideology than a nagging sense that something had snapped.

Federal agencies, for their part, insist their hands were forced. According to statements from Homeland Security, an immigration stop on a Venezuelan national spiraled after others joined in, escalating to what they described as a life-threatening situation. One officer shot a man, now recovering in hospital, a detail Minneapolis Police Chief Brian O’Hara shared quickly—perhaps hoping transparency might ease tensions. It didn’t.

Mayor Jacob Frey, looking notably tired in a recent press conference, called the presence of federal agents “an invasion.” He repeated it—five times in fifteen minutes. For neighbors, the sight of gas-masked officers and streets choked with tear gas has become worryingly routine. Some nights, it’s hard to tell where the fireworks end and the chaos begins.

But far from the TV crews, another story is unfolding—one that rarely makes the headlines, at least not prominently. Minnesota’s Native American communities are feeling targeted, a suspicion turning to certainty in the face of repeated ICE stops and arrests. At a community center near Lake Street, tribal elders remember earlier times when Fort Snelling, now hosting ICE’s local detention center, was a place of suffering for their ancestors. The parallels sting.

Raelyn Duffy spent hours searching for her son, Jose Roberto “Beto” Ramirez, both of them descendants of the Red Lake Nation. His arrest was jarring: neighbors saw immigration agents pull him from his car, ignoring his aunt’s cries that he was born here. When he finally reappeared, his wrists were marked by deep, angry lines from the cuffs. Held for ten hours, then let go. “He was all marked up,” Raelyn said, holding onto his hand as if afraid he’d vanish again.

Leaders of the Oglala Sioux and Red Lake Nation are blunt—too many of their citizens, almost all U.S. by birth, have been swept up and harassed by ICE recently. Frank Star Comes Out, president of the Oglala Sioux, wrote to federal officials: “Members of the Oglala Sioux Tribe are United States citizens. We are not undocumented immigrants. We are not subject to unlawful immigration enforcement actions.” The tribal government says ICE has quietly asked for formal cooperation agreements; they refuse, wary it would only bring more federal eyes onto their communities. “We will not enter an agreement that would authorize, or make it easier, for ICE... to come onto our tribal homeland to arrest or detain our tribal members,” declared Star Comes Out.

To DHS, these accounts don’t add up—they say there’s no official record of Oglala Sioux members being detained, that tribes haven’t been asked to sign anything mandatory. But among tribal members, trust is thin. History, after all, hasn’t offered many reasons for faith in federal promises.

Several lawmakers, including State Senator Mary Kunesh, see this pattern as part of a bigger, more troubling story: “Using members of the tribe as pawns in micromanaging or emotionally manipulating tribes is just abhorrent,” she told reporters. Elizabeth Hidalgo Reese, an expert in tribal law, summed it up briskly: “Native Americans are getting caught up in this search for Brown people who look a certain way.” The past isn’t just prologue—it’s pressing in on the present from all sides, reminders as literal as the ICE detention center built atop the soil where Dakota ancestors once suffered, and as current as detentions happening in side streets and supermarket parking lots.

Politically, the stakes are rising. The Trump administration is determined to expand ICE’s reach, pushing for hundreds more local partnerships. The numbers tell their own story: two years ago, only 135 jurisdictions had signed on; now, that’s ballooned to more than 1,300. Yet, in Minnesota, resistance is palpable—from protesters, from tribal councils, from ordinary citizens exhausted by the rolling tension.

Plenty of nights, the city feels like it’s holding its breath, unsure whether it hungers for relief or simply a chance to be heard. “Trump saying: If you don’t come along with our agenda… we will crush you. But they’ve never been able to crush our spirits—ever,” Rep. Liish Kozlowski said, standing by the makeshift memorials that crowd the sidewalk.

What’s happening in Minneapolis isn’t just a back-and-forth over immigration law or federal force. It’s an ongoing reckoning with American identity, belonging, and the meaning of safety and voice—questions as old as the city’s forgotten alleys and as urgent as the flash of police lights on Hiawatha Avenue. For now, at least, it seems the answers are farther away than ever.

On a damp morning in Minneapolis, anxiety hovers thick in the air. News vans and hand-painted signs crowd street corners—evidence of a city on the edge. Last week’s fatal shooting of a woman by an immigration agent still hangs heavy, made rawer by a fresh wound: a federal officer shot a man in the leg. Since then, crowds have been a nightly constant—sometimes shouting, sometimes just standing and watching, waiting for an answer that never quite seems to come.When President Trump fired off a tweet, his words seemed to ripple across the city in real time: a threat to invoke the Insurrection Act, promising federal troops if local leaders couldn’t rein in the unrest. “If the corrupt politicians of Minnesota don’t obey the law and stop the professional agitators… I will institute the INSURRECTION ACT… and quickly put an end to the travesty,” he warned. At that, even those not inclined to protest found themselves drawn to downtown, compelled less by ideology than a nagging sense that something had snapped.Federal agencies, for their part, insist their hands were forced. According to statements from Homeland Security, an immigration stop on a Venezuelan national spiraled after others joined in, escalating to what they described as a life-threatening situation. One officer shot a man, now recovering in hospital, a detail Minneapolis Police Chief Brian O’Hara shared quickly—perhaps hoping transparency might ease tensions. It didn’t.Mayor Jacob Frey, looking notably tired in a recent press conference, called the presence of federal agents “an invasion.” He repeated it—five times in fifteen minutes. For neighbors, the sight of gas-masked officers and streets choked with tear gas has become worryingly routine. Some nights, it’s hard to tell where the fireworks end and the chaos begins.But far from the TV crews, another story is unfolding—one that rarely makes the headlines, at least not prominently. Minnesota’s Native American communities are feeling targeted, a suspicion turning to certainty in the face of repeated ICE stops and arrests. At a community center near Lake Street, tribal elders remember earlier times when Fort Snelling, now hosting ICE’s local detention center, was a place of suffering for their ancestors. The parallels sting.Raelyn Duffy spent hours searching for her son, Jose Roberto “Beto” Ramirez, both of them descendants of the Red Lake Nation. His arrest was jarring: neighbors saw immigration agents pull him from his car, ignoring his aunt’s cries that he was born here. When he finally reappeared, his wrists were marked by deep, angry lines from the cuffs. Held for ten hours, then let go. “He was all marked up,” Raelyn said, holding onto his hand as if afraid he’d vanish again.Leaders of the Oglala Sioux and Red Lake Nation are blunt—too many of their citizens, almost all U.S. by birth, have been swept up and harassed by ICE recently. Frank Star Comes Out, president of the Oglala Sioux, wrote to federal officials: “Members of the Oglala Sioux Tribe are United States citizens. We are not undocumented immigrants. We are not subject to unlawful immigration enforcement actions.” The tribal government says ICE has quietly asked for formal cooperation agreements; they refuse, wary it would only bring more federal eyes onto their communities. “We will not enter an agreement that would authorize, or make it easier, for ICE... to come onto our tribal homeland to arrest or detain our tribal members,” declared Star Comes Out.To DHS, these accounts don’t add up—they say there’s no official record of Oglala Sioux members being detained, that tribes haven’t been asked to sign anything mandatory. But among tribal members, trust is thin. History, after all, hasn’t offered many reasons for faith in federal promises.Several lawmakers, including State Senator Mary Kunesh, see this pattern as part of a bigger, more troubling story: “Using members of the tribe as pawns in micromanaging or emotionally manipulating tribes is just abhorrent,” she told reporters. Elizabeth Hidalgo Reese, an expert in tribal law, summed it up briskly: “Native Americans are getting caught up in this search for Brown people who look a certain way.” The past isn’t just prologue—it’s pressing in on the present from all sides, reminders as literal as the ICE detention center built atop the soil where Dakota ancestors once suffered, and as current as detentions happening in side streets and supermarket parking lots.Politically, the stakes are rising. The Trump administration is determined to expand ICE’s reach, pushing for hundreds more local partnerships. The numbers tell their own story: two years ago, only 135 jurisdictions had signed on; now, that’s ballooned to more than 1,300. Yet, in Minnesota, resistance is palpable—from protesters, from tribal councils, from ordinary citizens exhausted by the rolling tension.Plenty of nights, the city feels like it’s holding its breath, unsure whether it hungers for relief or simply a chance to be heard. “Trump saying: If you don’t come along with our agenda… we will crush you. But they’ve never been able to crush our spirits—ever,” Rep. Liish Kozlowski said, standing by the makeshift memorials that crowd the sidewalk.What’s happening in Minneapolis isn’t just a back-and-forth over immigration law or federal force. It’s an ongoing reckoning with American identity, belonging, and the meaning of safety and voice—questions as old as the city’s forgotten alleys and as urgent as the flash of police lights on Hiawatha Avenue. For now, at least, it seems the answers are farther away than ever.