Trump Threatens Insurrection Act as Minneapolis Descends Into Chaos

Paul Riverbank, 1/16/2026Minneapolis erupts amid federal-local clashes, violent unrest, and Trump's Insurrection Act warning. Read more.

It’s not the first time this city has become the canvas for national anxieties about law, order, and power. Yet it’s impossible to ignore the sense of finality in the air this week—something changed after officers fired shots and a woman, Renee Nicole Good, was left to die on the hard shoulder of an overpass. She’d been pulled over, the story goes, for some minor infraction. What exactly unfolded in those minutes—who shouted what, who reached first—now lies at the core of a thousand arguments. Federal agents maintain she weaponized her vehicle in a bid to escape. For others, it was an ending written long before the siren ever flashed behind her.

Hours later, Homeland Security Secretary Kristi Noem branded Good a “domestic terrorist” in blunt, uncomfortable terms. The pushback from City Hall arrived almost immediately. Mayor Jacob Frey, never one for understatement, cut short a press conference to deliver an expletive-laden rebuke: “Tell ICE to get the hell out of my city.” Few could miss the anger in his voice—or that he was aiming it squarely at Washington.

That tension, already at a boil, spilled into downtown. Protesters massed at Government Plaza, chanting slogans that, depending on who you asked, sounded either defiant or desperate. Flashlights cut through the dusk, glinting off makeshift signs and steel riot shields alike. By midnight, whatever line separated demonstration from disturbance was difficult to spot. In one charged moment, a local man, bracing himself against the cold, allegedly confronted federal agents—gun holstered but unpermitted, smoke canister kicked, a brief scuffle that ended with handcuffs and bruised faces. The Department of Homeland Security, in their statement, drew a clear and unforgiving distinction: “This is not the peaceful protesting that the First Amendment protects.”

Lost amidst the crowds was another exchange—this one even more violent. An immigration officer found himself fending off a blow from a shovel wielded by a Venezuelan migrant. There was gunfire again, echoing down a side street and scattering onlookers behind dumpsters and parked cars. The attacker survived, but that wasn’t enough to settle tempers already fraying.

As news of the incident spread, yet another confrontation unfolded barely a mile away: three men jumped an ICE agent in what officials now term “attempted murder.” Brooms, snow shovels—whatever could be gripped—became weapons in the winter darkness. This time, the officer’s sidearm barked a warning that could have been a tragedy. One man, Julio Cesar Sosa-Celis, took a bullet to the leg amid the chaos. Earlier that year, Sosa-Celis had already brushed up against the law—pulled over without a license, once caught giving police a string of fake names, let go before federal authorities could act. His companions, it seems, had similar stories of legal dodge and administrative limbo.

There’s a familiar discomfort to these details; the kind you get when bureaucracy and heartbreak start to overlap. Authorities note that one of the attackers, Alfredo Alejandro Ajorna, has been dodging a removal order. The third, Gabriel Alejandro Hernandez-Ledezma, is classified as a “non-enforcement priority” under the rubric of today’s immigration guidelines. But for the federal agents at the sharp end of the confrontation, these nuances disappear in the adrenaline and uncertainty of the moment.

On another front, federal officials have cast blame further up the local chain. DHS’s Border Commander Greg Bovino claimed, with a mixture of frustration and resignation, that local police had been ordered to stand back—leaving his teams to manage the turmoil alone. “Anytime we can work with the state and locals, that’s a success,” he suggested, referencing far-off Louisiana and more cooperative corners of Illinois and North Carolina. But, in Minneapolis, that partnership seems to have withered.

Unsurprisingly, politicians have weaponized the chaos. Minnesota Governor Tim Walz quickly dismissed federal communiqués as the product of a “propaganda machine.” The sparring only deepens the schism on the street: federal agents and city officials now seem less like partners than rival camps, each convinced the other is compounding the crisis.

And, as if the noise wasn’t loud enough, former President Donald Trump weighed in online, threatening the use of the Insurrection Act if Minnesota’s government does not “obey the law and stop the professional agitators.” His statement—pointed, strident—only added more fuel to an already volatile debate.

All of which leaves Minneapolis grimly unsettled, its leadership and residents stuck somewhere between fatigue and fury. As accusations and warnings fly, it is unclear who—if anyone—will carve out a way back to order. For those on the ground, there’s little time for grand pronouncements. They’re left to navigate each uneasy night, waiting, hoping the sun rises on something a little less broken than what they inherited at dusk.

It started with shattered glass and sirens, carried by the humid breeze sweeping down Hennepin Avenue. By midnight, Minneapolis felt less like itself. Outside the shuttered storefronts and battered police tape, crowds surged together—some for answers, others just for a sense of control in a city spinning well past its balance point.It’s not the first time this city has become the canvas for national anxieties about law, order, and power. Yet it’s impossible to ignore the sense of finality in the air this week—something changed after officers fired shots and a woman, Renee Nicole Good, was left to die on the hard shoulder of an overpass. She’d been pulled over, the story goes, for some minor infraction. What exactly unfolded in those minutes—who shouted what, who reached first—now lies at the core of a thousand arguments. Federal agents maintain she weaponized her vehicle in a bid to escape. For others, it was an ending written long before the siren ever flashed behind her.Hours later, Homeland Security Secretary Kristi Noem branded Good a “domestic terrorist” in blunt, uncomfortable terms. The pushback from City Hall arrived almost immediately. Mayor Jacob Frey, never one for understatement, cut short a press conference to deliver an expletive-laden rebuke: “Tell ICE to get the hell out of my city.” Few could miss the anger in his voice—or that he was aiming it squarely at Washington.That tension, already at a boil, spilled into downtown. Protesters massed at Government Plaza, chanting slogans that, depending on who you asked, sounded either defiant or desperate. Flashlights cut through the dusk, glinting off makeshift signs and steel riot shields alike. By midnight, whatever line separated demonstration from disturbance was difficult to spot. In one charged moment, a local man, bracing himself against the cold, allegedly confronted federal agents—gun holstered but unpermitted, smoke canister kicked, a brief scuffle that ended with handcuffs and bruised faces. The Department of Homeland Security, in their statement, drew a clear and unforgiving distinction: “This is not the peaceful protesting that the First Amendment protects.”Lost amidst the crowds was another exchange—this one even more violent. An immigration officer found himself fending off a blow from a shovel wielded by a Venezuelan migrant. There was gunfire again, echoing down a side street and scattering onlookers behind dumpsters and parked cars. The attacker survived, but that wasn’t enough to settle tempers already fraying.As news of the incident spread, yet another confrontation unfolded barely a mile away: three men jumped an ICE agent in what officials now term “attempted murder.” Brooms, snow shovels—whatever could be gripped—became weapons in the winter darkness. This time, the officer’s sidearm barked a warning that could have been a tragedy. One man, Julio Cesar Sosa-Celis, took a bullet to the leg amid the chaos. Earlier that year, Sosa-Celis had already brushed up against the law—pulled over without a license, once caught giving police a string of fake names, let go before federal authorities could act. His companions, it seems, had similar stories of legal dodge and administrative limbo.There’s a familiar discomfort to these details; the kind you get when bureaucracy and heartbreak start to overlap. Authorities note that one of the attackers, Alfredo Alejandro Ajorna, has been dodging a removal order. The third, Gabriel Alejandro Hernandez-Ledezma, is classified as a “non-enforcement priority” under the rubric of today’s immigration guidelines. But for the federal agents at the sharp end of the confrontation, these nuances disappear in the adrenaline and uncertainty of the moment.On another front, federal officials have cast blame further up the local chain. DHS’s Border Commander Greg Bovino claimed, with a mixture of frustration and resignation, that local police had been ordered to stand back—leaving his teams to manage the turmoil alone. “Anytime we can work with the state and locals, that’s a success,” he suggested, referencing far-off Louisiana and more cooperative corners of Illinois and North Carolina. But, in Minneapolis, that partnership seems to have withered.Unsurprisingly, politicians have weaponized the chaos. Minnesota Governor Tim Walz quickly dismissed federal communiqués as the product of a “propaganda machine.” The sparring only deepens the schism on the street: federal agents and city officials now seem less like partners than rival camps, each convinced the other is compounding the crisis.And, as if the noise wasn’t loud enough, former President Donald Trump weighed in online, threatening the use of the Insurrection Act if Minnesota’s government does not “obey the law and stop the professional agitators.” His statement—pointed, strident—only added more fuel to an already volatile debate.All of which leaves Minneapolis grimly unsettled, its leadership and residents stuck somewhere between fatigue and fury. As accusations and warnings fly, it is unclear who—if anyone—will carve out a way back to order. For those on the ground, there’s little time for grand pronouncements. They’re left to navigate each uneasy night, waiting, hoping the sun rises on something a little less broken than what they inherited at dusk.