Trump's Immigration Surge Sparks Minneapolis Showdown: Agents Clash with Liberals

Paul Riverbank, 12/10/2025Federal immigration raids spur tense showdowns in Minneapolis, testing city solidarity against Trump policies.

Jamal Osman, a Minneapolis City Council member, watched from across the street. Osman, a Somali American himself, had warned neighbors there would be raids after Thanksgiving—since President Trump’s late-night announcement scrapping Temporary Protected Status for Somali nationals. “They were on edge,” Osman relayed. “I kept texting everyone: Bring your passport, keep it close.”

Over 84,000 Somali immigrants and Somali Americans call the Twin Cities home, with Cedar-Riverside at the heart. Most are U.S. citizens—either by birth or naturalization. Even so, neighbors eyed agents with suspicion, clinging to manila envelopes of documents. “Does our citizenship count right now?” one man murmured as agents stopped commuters, closing restaurant doors and querying patrons at random.

What was intended as a display of federal resolve erupted into an impromptu standoff instead. It started with a scuffle; a slender high school senior—born in Minnesota—was quietly cornered, cuffed, and shuffled off, only to be released after authorities inspected his U.S. passport. Word traveled swiftly. By sundown, crowds had formed outside the gated entrance of a senior complex where agents attempted another sweep. A ragtag group of mostly young, white activists arrived—some waving cardboard signs, others shrill with whistles—linking arms to block the agents’ path. The answer came in stinging clouds of pepper spray, but the blockade held fast. “They couldn’t get out,” Osman recounted later, shaking his head, “because the people wouldn’t let them.”

It’s a scene both chaotic and oddly organized, where solidarity takes the shape of car horns and impromptu sign-making. Several onlookers suffered temporary blindness from the spray, but the crowd held its ground until—hours later—the federal vehicles retreated under watchful eyes and phone cameras. Osman summed up the aftermath: “I don’t know what was accomplished today except panic, and a community wondering if they belong.”

Behind the scenes, the motivation was plain. In a statement released alongside a new Department of Homeland Security webpage, the administration spotlighted six Somali nationals—recently arrested in Minnesota—as “examples of criminal aliens.” The tone was unmistakable: agents acting on President Trump’s orders, fulfilling promises for rapid deportation. By week’s end, ICE touted three more arrests, listing charges—sexual abuse, robbery, domestic assault—but declined to give details about broader operations or those caught up unexpectedly. “Governor Walz and Mayor Frey protected these criminals at the expense of the safety of Americans,” the statement claimed. Whether justified or not, the messaging was aimed as much at local leaders as those detained.

But city officials and neighborhoods alike quickly pushed back. Within hours of DHS Secretary Kristi Noem’s press conference, Minneapolis Mayor Jacob Frey signed an executive order cracking down—not on immigrants—but on federal agents. City police could not cooperate with ICE unless there was an immediate threat to public safety. Municipal parking lots and city-owned spaces were off-limits for immigration dragnets. School principals and business owners rolled out hand-printed “No ICE allowed” placards. In some schools, teachers kept campus gates locked and instructed staff not to speak with agents under any circumstances.

Tensions did not subside. St. Paul city councilors grilled their own police department about responses during the raid—particularly the treatment of journalists and protesters. Minneapolis officials, likewise, debated whether city police ought to detain undercover federal agents operating outside local laws. Squabbles turned bitter; social media feeds filled with urgent updates and confused rumors.

This all sits atop a larger friction that’s been brewing for years. Minneapolis, like other sanctuary cities—Chicago, Los Angeles, New Orleans—deliberately shields immigrant communities against federal enforcement, even at the risk of federal reprisal. DHS responded by touting over 1,000 local police partnerships nationally, though not in these defiant cities. In public comments, the department signaled a hardened stance: “We will not be intimidated… Sanctuary laws will not shield criminal aliens.”

For Somali residents of Minneapolis, the effect is both lived and immediate. Phones stay charged; important documents rarely leave backpacks or glove compartments. Cafe chatter is more subdued—a palpable sense that citizenship papers may need producing at any moment. Police chiefs and school superintendents script new policies, unsure if their next directive will protect, or merely delay, further conflict.

As of now, no one seems sure what the final tally from Operation Metro Surge will be: DHS isn’t sharing numbers, and city officials say they’re still surveying the aftermath. But the outcome, for many, is stark. An uneasy balancing act—between the bluntness of federal immigration law and the reality of a deeply rooted, resilient local community—looks set to continue, with no clear end in sight.

Late on a Tuesday in Minneapolis, federal agents in tactical gear rolled into the West Bank district—where the air is thick with the smell of sambusas and the hum of Somali-language pop. They arrived without warning, forming a tight cordon along Cedar Avenue. “You need to show papers,” an officer barked, waving a canister of pepper spray. Judging by the wary glances exchanged by the crowd—grandfathers on stoops, teens carrying grocery bags, a girl clutching a hijab in one fist—this was not a routine patrol.Jamal Osman, a Minneapolis City Council member, watched from across the street. Osman, a Somali American himself, had warned neighbors there would be raids after Thanksgiving—since President Trump’s late-night announcement scrapping Temporary Protected Status for Somali nationals. “They were on edge,” Osman relayed. “I kept texting everyone: Bring your passport, keep it close.”Over 84,000 Somali immigrants and Somali Americans call the Twin Cities home, with Cedar-Riverside at the heart. Most are U.S. citizens—either by birth or naturalization. Even so, neighbors eyed agents with suspicion, clinging to manila envelopes of documents. “Does our citizenship count right now?” one man murmured as agents stopped commuters, closing restaurant doors and querying patrons at random.What was intended as a display of federal resolve erupted into an impromptu standoff instead. It started with a scuffle; a slender high school senior—born in Minnesota—was quietly cornered, cuffed, and shuffled off, only to be released after authorities inspected his U.S. passport. Word traveled swiftly. By sundown, crowds had formed outside the gated entrance of a senior complex where agents attempted another sweep. A ragtag group of mostly young, white activists arrived—some waving cardboard signs, others shrill with whistles—linking arms to block the agents’ path. The answer came in stinging clouds of pepper spray, but the blockade held fast. “They couldn’t get out,” Osman recounted later, shaking his head, “because the people wouldn’t let them.”It’s a scene both chaotic and oddly organized, where solidarity takes the shape of car horns and impromptu sign-making. Several onlookers suffered temporary blindness from the spray, but the crowd held its ground until—hours later—the federal vehicles retreated under watchful eyes and phone cameras. Osman summed up the aftermath: “I don’t know what was accomplished today except panic, and a community wondering if they belong.”Behind the scenes, the motivation was plain. In a statement released alongside a new Department of Homeland Security webpage, the administration spotlighted six Somali nationals—recently arrested in Minnesota—as “examples of criminal aliens.” The tone was unmistakable: agents acting on President Trump’s orders, fulfilling promises for rapid deportation. By week’s end, ICE touted three more arrests, listing charges—sexual abuse, robbery, domestic assault—but declined to give details about broader operations or those caught up unexpectedly. “Governor Walz and Mayor Frey protected these criminals at the expense of the safety of Americans,” the statement claimed. Whether justified or not, the messaging was aimed as much at local leaders as those detained.But city officials and neighborhoods alike quickly pushed back. Within hours of DHS Secretary Kristi Noem’s press conference, Minneapolis Mayor Jacob Frey signed an executive order cracking down—not on immigrants—but on federal agents. City police could not cooperate with ICE unless there was an immediate threat to public safety. Municipal parking lots and city-owned spaces were off-limits for immigration dragnets. School principals and business owners rolled out hand-printed “No ICE allowed” placards. In some schools, teachers kept campus gates locked and instructed staff not to speak with agents under any circumstances.Tensions did not subside. St. Paul city councilors grilled their own police department about responses during the raid—particularly the treatment of journalists and protesters. Minneapolis officials, likewise, debated whether city police ought to detain undercover federal agents operating outside local laws. Squabbles turned bitter; social media feeds filled with urgent updates and confused rumors.This all sits atop a larger friction that’s been brewing for years. Minneapolis, like other sanctuary cities—Chicago, Los Angeles, New Orleans—deliberately shields immigrant communities against federal enforcement, even at the risk of federal reprisal. DHS responded by touting over 1,000 local police partnerships nationally, though not in these defiant cities. In public comments, the department signaled a hardened stance: “We will not be intimidated… Sanctuary laws will not shield criminal aliens.”For Somali residents of Minneapolis, the effect is both lived and immediate. Phones stay charged; important documents rarely leave backpacks or glove compartments. Cafe chatter is more subdued—a palpable sense that citizenship papers may need producing at any moment. Police chiefs and school superintendents script new policies, unsure if their next directive will protect, or merely delay, further conflict.As of now, no one seems sure what the final tally from Operation Metro Surge will be: DHS isn’t sharing numbers, and city officials say they’re still surveying the aftermath. But the outcome, for many, is stark. An uneasy balancing act—between the bluntness of federal immigration law and the reality of a deeply rooted, resilient local community—looks set to continue, with no clear end in sight.