On the morning of January 7, I opened social media to reports that federal agents had shot someone in the middle of a neighborhood street in Minneapolis. The intersection was only a few miles from me. I grabbed my camera and drove.
By the time I arrived, the scene was blocked off. Yellow tape stretched across 34th and Portland. Neighbors gathered in clusters, scrolling their phones, trading updates. Word spread quickly: a young mother had been shot multiple times through her windshield and driver’s side window. She had died.
In the middle of the intersection sat a crashed SUV wrapped around a light pole. The airbag was stained with blood. Children’s toys were visible inside. It wasn’t until I got home later, after the details came together, that the weight of what I had seen fully landed. Renee Good had been killed by federal law enforcement agents.
ICE activity had been increasing in the city for weeks. Community members were already organizing “ICE watch” groups and serving as legal observers. Renee’s killing marked a turning point. People understood that day that documenting federal activity could cost you your life.
Minneapolis did what it has done before. It showed up.
Within an hour, the intersection was full. People cried, prayed, and demanded answers from every local law enforcement agency present. Minneapolis Police, the Hennepin County Sheriff’s Office, and State Patrol focused on crowd control. The Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension and the FBI took over the investigation.
Across the street, local artist Noval Noir began painting a large portrait of Renee near what quickly became a vigil site. Flowers, candles, handwritten notes, and stuffed animals surrounded the growing memorial.
“Art can save us,” someone told her as she painted.
The vigil reflected the city itself. Older Somali women passed out homemade sambusas. A few older white men shoveled snow near a sign that read “Service for Renee.” Mexican and Palestinian flags stood beside bouquets and candles. There is a school a block away. Children were watching adults try to process what had happened in front of them.
Grief shifted into protest.
Demonstrations quickly moved to the Whipple Federal Building, where ICE operations are headquartered in Minnesota. The first nights were raw. You could see the shock on people’s faces. Dozens of federal agents stood shoulder to shoulder, facing Minneapolis residents across the street.
Protesters shouted questions. Was the money worth it? Were their families proud? Did they feel shame? There was particular anguish at the sight of Black and Brown agents standing among them. “Turning on your own people,” someone yelled. “How does it feel?”
The standoffs grew more tense. Federal agents periodically rushed toward the crowd, deploying chemical irritants and pushing people back. Local law enforcement formed barriers to keep protesters out of the street. When residents asked officers to take a stand, some replied simply, “I don’t have an opinion.”
Then it happened again.
Weeks later, I woke up to texts saying another person had been shot. Videos were already circulating online. This time the killing took place on Eat Street, a busy corridor lined with international restaurants. I had eaten pho down the block just days before.
By the time I reached the area, I could taste tear gas inside my car. Armored vehicles rolled past with a voice over a loudspeaker identifying the FBI and ordering streets cleared. Community members had already filled the blocks surrounding the scene.
Alex Pretti had been killed earlier that morning.
The atmosphere felt different from January 7, the day Renee Good was killed. Heavier. Faster. Federal agents moved aggressively. Media members were treated by volunteer medics before I even reached the main stretch of the street. Then a long line of agents advanced, deploying flash bangs, tear gas, pepper balls, and spray nearly all at once.
People ran. Some fell. Community medics treated coughing protesters and those with burning eyes. Tear gas canisters and flash bangs littered the pavement.
After each advance, agents would retreat briefly. “Be brave,” someone shouted. “Move back up.” And people did, slowly reclaiming space near where Alex had been tackled and killed.
A parked car nearby had its rear windshield shattered and began smoking after being struck by something fired during crowd control. Strangers poured water through the broken glass while calling for firefighters.
When fire crews arrived, the crowd cheered. It was a small reminder of how ordinary life intersects with these moments. Someone had parked that car earlier that morning for work or breakfast. By afternoon, it was collateral damage.
When federal agents finally pulled back, Minneapolis police replaced them at the perimeter. The intersection filled again. Loudspeaker warnings echoed briefly before officers launched tear gas and smoke directly into the center of the packed crowd. People scattered, coughing and grabbing for one another.
In the days that followed, the makeshift memorial at the site of Alex’s killing grew, just as Renee’s had. Flowers, candles, letters, and volunteers handing out hand warmers and food. Minneapolis grieved publicly. The nation watched.
But grief did not slow the crackdown. It intensified it.
The arrests began to widen.
On January 22, civil rights attorney and activist Nekima Levy Armstrong was arrested in connection with organizing a protest at Cities Church in St. Paul after it was revealed that a pastor there also served as an ICE field director. The federal courthouse lobby was filled with supporters. A judge initially ordered her release, but the federal government appealed, keeping her detained overnight.
Soon after, journalists were targeted.
Don Lemon and Georgia Fort were among those arrested in connection with protest activity. At a press conference at Minneapolis City Hall, reporters and community members called for the protection of journalists documenting federal operations.
Georgia Fort’s daughter addressed the crowd, visibly shaken. She asked for her mother’s release. When Fort was later freed, she briefly addressed supporters. “Do we have a constitution?” she asked, reiterating that journalists must be allowed to do their jobs.
Even after releases, federal agents remained present inside courthouse lobbies, standing among supporters in what many saw as an intentional display of force.
At the same time, broader resistance was growing. Thousands of students walked out of school on January 14 and marched to the Minnesota State Capitol. On consecutive Fridays, thousands participated in general strikes, staying home from work and refraining from spending money in protest of what many described as a federal occupation of their city.
Throughout it all, one place kept resurfacing in my frame: George Floyd Square.
On my way home from photographing Renee’s murder scene, I passed the square. On my way back from being tear-gassed on Eat Street, I passed it again. Days later, I returned intentionally.
A woman called out to me from across the street while I was taking photos. “Hey, family,” she said, walking over with hand warmers. She asked where I was from. When I told her I was from Minneapolis, she smiled. “Oh, you’re family family.”
It was a reminder.
Minneapolis has seen state violence before. Residents remember the murder of George Floyd and the tear gas, rubber bullets, and National Guard presence that followed. What is happening now feels connected, but also escalating.
In the span of weeks, two people were killed by federal agents in public view. Protests spread. Journalists were arrested. Federal vehicles rolled through city streets. Tear gas hung in the air where families had eaten days earlier.
But something else hung in the air, too.
Sambusas passed hand to hand. Strangers shoveled snow. Students marched. Families filled courthouse lobbies. Artists painted. People shouted, cried, and returned to the streets again and again.
Minneapolis showed up.
And it is still showing up.
