Trump Threatens Insurrection Act as Minneapolis Rebels Against ICE Crackdown

Paul Riverbank, 1/16/2026Federal ICE actions in Minneapolis spark protests, lawsuits, and a national debate over presidential power, as the city becomes a flashpoint for immigration policy, civil rights, and the controversial threat of military intervention.

Federal agents had been increasingly visible in Minneapolis for weeks, their newly militarized stance impossible to ignore—camouflage fatigues in the snow, masks pulled tight, tactical vehicles groaning over potholes. Residents reported being stopped on their morning walks, IDs checked, questions barked out in the flat monotone of authority. Tensions, always simmering here, escalated quickly: on some nights, exchanges amounted to little more than standoffs and shouting; on others, violence broke like a fever—flash-bangs echoing off shuttered storefronts, a man blinded by a nonlethal round, an ice-crusted broom wielded in desperate defense.

Not surprisingly, the president wasted little time entering the fray. “If the corrupt politicians of Minnesota don’t obey the law... I will institute the INSURRECTION ACT,” Donald Trump declared from the White House, reframing a local tragedy as a national crisis. The phrase, borrowed from a dusty 1807 statute, carries heavy constitutional overtones—it empowers a president to bring in the military when local order breaks down. Americans have rarely seen it invoked; last time, the backdrop was LA’s smoldering streets after Rodney King, and legal scholars have argued about its limits ever since.

But the facts remain mired in conflicting reports. Homeland Security officials say that an ICE agent fired after a struggle with a Venezuelan national, Julio Cesar Sosa-Celis, who, according to them, attacked with a shovel and broomstick; they called Sosa-Celis a convicted criminal. When state court records came under scrutiny, though, the only charges to surface were traffic infractions—a discrepancy leaving reporters piecing together timelines that simply don’t align. Reuters, after reviewing public documents, found no support for DHS’s account of prior convictions.

What’s not in dispute is that those caught in the middle feel trapped. “When I looked out the window, I saw kids hiding behind a neighbor’s grill,” said Angela Morris, a school counselor whose apartment overlooks Lake Street. “It’s winter, and somehow everyone’s standing in their socks, just terrified.” Others joined the swelling protests, neighbors handing out hand-warmers and shouting for ICE to leave—only to duck for cover when more agents arrived, faces obscured by snow-fogged goggles. One protest, hastily organized via group chat, ended with paramedics treating a teenager hit by a beanbag round.

City leaders, mostly sidelined, seemed stunned. Mayor Jacob Frey called federal tactics an outright “invasion.” His news conference, held in a drafty council chamber, became a forum for raw frustration. “We cannot be at a place right now in America where two governmental entities are literally fighting one another,” he told reporters, as a police radio clicked in the hallway behind him. Lawsuits filed almost instantly: the state attorney general accused ICE of violent, warrantless entries and racial profiling; the ACLU announced their own action the next day, adding weight to calls for federal restraint.

Meanwhile, federal spokespeople insisted the operation was about law enforcement, not intimidation. Yet, as the number of deployed agents climbed toward three thousand, the line between protecting officers and controlling local dissent grew murkier by the hour. National Republicans threw in their support—Senator John Thune urged local cooperation, hoping that “working with federal law enforcement...will settle things down.” But on the ground, few were convinced. Each night, armored vehicles lumbered through intersections as protest banners waved; the unspoken sense of occupation thickened.

Tensions boiled over again when a car believed to be used by federal agents was vandalized—red spray paint spelling out an ominous message, “Hang Kristi Noem.” For many, this was proof that the situation had begun to spiral beyond city politicians’ grasp, the anger now interlaced with fear and a grim solidarity.

Those who study law and national security warn that invoking the Insurrection Act would trigger more than just legal battles—it would stir the ghosts of past crackdowns and potentially ignite unrest far beyond Minneapolis. Polling, for what it’s worth, reflects an electorate as divided as ever: some see aggressive enforcement as a grim necessity, others recoil from the scenes playing out nightly.

For now, the standoff persists. Federal agents occupy posts on snow-packed corners; residents bundle against the cold, half-expecting the next flashpoint. And in homes across Minneapolis, families recalibrate their routines—calculating which roads might be blocked, which windows should be covered, which conversations are safe to risk while watching the shadows of unfamiliar uniforms pass through their neighborhoods.

As the lawsuits wind through the courts and the city tries to keep its fragile peace, one truth stands out: The fate of Minneapolis has become a mirror in which the entire country watches its anxieties reflected—uncertain, unresolved, and waiting for what comes next.

Late Wednesday afternoon, the usual quiet of a Minneapolis neighborhood tore apart—sirens surging, people running, police radios crackling through the slush. According to neighbors, Renee Nicole Good was approaching her car outside a faded brick tenement when federal immigration agents converged on her. In the chaos that followed, gunfire rang out; Good, 26, was left on the asphalt. What happened in those moments is already fiercely disputed, but as news of her death rippled across social media, crowds filled the icy streets—candles raised, cardboard signs slapped with marker, chants underscored by a rising sense of disbelief and anger.Federal agents had been increasingly visible in Minneapolis for weeks, their newly militarized stance impossible to ignore—camouflage fatigues in the snow, masks pulled tight, tactical vehicles groaning over potholes. Residents reported being stopped on their morning walks, IDs checked, questions barked out in the flat monotone of authority. Tensions, always simmering here, escalated quickly: on some nights, exchanges amounted to little more than standoffs and shouting; on others, violence broke like a fever—flash-bangs echoing off shuttered storefronts, a man blinded by a nonlethal round, an ice-crusted broom wielded in desperate defense.Not surprisingly, the president wasted little time entering the fray. “If the corrupt politicians of Minnesota don’t obey the law... I will institute the INSURRECTION ACT,” Donald Trump declared from the White House, reframing a local tragedy as a national crisis. The phrase, borrowed from a dusty 1807 statute, carries heavy constitutional overtones—it empowers a president to bring in the military when local order breaks down. Americans have rarely seen it invoked; last time, the backdrop was LA’s smoldering streets after Rodney King, and legal scholars have argued about its limits ever since.But the facts remain mired in conflicting reports. Homeland Security officials say that an ICE agent fired after a struggle with a Venezuelan national, Julio Cesar Sosa-Celis, who, according to them, attacked with a shovel and broomstick; they called Sosa-Celis a convicted criminal. When state court records came under scrutiny, though, the only charges to surface were traffic infractions—a discrepancy leaving reporters piecing together timelines that simply don’t align. Reuters, after reviewing public documents, found no support for DHS’s account of prior convictions.What’s not in dispute is that those caught in the middle feel trapped. “When I looked out the window, I saw kids hiding behind a neighbor’s grill,” said Angela Morris, a school counselor whose apartment overlooks Lake Street. “It’s winter, and somehow everyone’s standing in their socks, just terrified.” Others joined the swelling protests, neighbors handing out hand-warmers and shouting for ICE to leave—only to duck for cover when more agents arrived, faces obscured by snow-fogged goggles. One protest, hastily organized via group chat, ended with paramedics treating a teenager hit by a beanbag round.City leaders, mostly sidelined, seemed stunned. Mayor Jacob Frey called federal tactics an outright “invasion.” His news conference, held in a drafty council chamber, became a forum for raw frustration. “We cannot be at a place right now in America where two governmental entities are literally fighting one another,” he told reporters, as a police radio clicked in the hallway behind him. Lawsuits filed almost instantly: the state attorney general accused ICE of violent, warrantless entries and racial profiling; the ACLU announced their own action the next day, adding weight to calls for federal restraint.Meanwhile, federal spokespeople insisted the operation was about law enforcement, not intimidation. Yet, as the number of deployed agents climbed toward three thousand, the line between protecting officers and controlling local dissent grew murkier by the hour. National Republicans threw in their support—Senator John Thune urged local cooperation, hoping that “working with federal law enforcement...will settle things down.” But on the ground, few were convinced. Each night, armored vehicles lumbered through intersections as protest banners waved; the unspoken sense of occupation thickened.Tensions boiled over again when a car believed to be used by federal agents was vandalized—red spray paint spelling out an ominous message, “Hang Kristi Noem.” For many, this was proof that the situation had begun to spiral beyond city politicians’ grasp, the anger now interlaced with fear and a grim solidarity.Those who study law and national security warn that invoking the Insurrection Act would trigger more than just legal battles—it would stir the ghosts of past crackdowns and potentially ignite unrest far beyond Minneapolis. Polling, for what it’s worth, reflects an electorate as divided as ever: some see aggressive enforcement as a grim necessity, others recoil from the scenes playing out nightly.For now, the standoff persists. Federal agents occupy posts on snow-packed corners; residents bundle against the cold, half-expecting the next flashpoint. And in homes across Minneapolis, families recalibrate their routines—calculating which roads might be blocked, which windows should be covered, which conversations are safe to risk while watching the shadows of unfamiliar uniforms pass through their neighborhoods.As the lawsuits wind through the courts and the city tries to keep its fragile peace, one truth stands out: The fate of Minneapolis has become a mirror in which the entire country watches its anxieties reflected—uncertain, unresolved, and waiting for what comes next.