I was detained by federal agents in Minneapolis

In late 2025, the Department of Homeland Security zeroed in on the Twin Cities in Minnesota, supposedly in response to fraud allegations made by a right-wing influencer. In the months since, thousands of immigrants have been swept up by Immigrations and Customs Enforcement. In January alone, two American citizens were killed while documenting ICE operations in the city. Two Customs and Border Protection agents deployed to Minneapolis fatally shot protester Alex Pretti on January 24th, triggering another wave of protests throughout the city — and another DHS crackdown.

One local who was arrested while protesting at the site of Alex’s killing talked to The Verge about his harrowing experience in custody at the Bishop Henry Whipple Federal Building and how the community is fighting back. We’ve anonymized his identity due to safety concerns.

As told to Gaby Del Valle:

The first thing I saw when I opened my phone was the footage. It was two weeks after Renee Good was killed. As soon as I saw the video of Alex Pretti’s murder, I started putting on warm layers and let my partner know I was heading to the scene. I arrived around 11.

Federal agents had already started deploying chemical irritants: tear gas and pepper spray. I got shot in the chest by nonlethal rounds from about 30 yards away. Fortunately, I was wearing enough winter clothing that it didn’t hurt, but I most definitely felt the impact. I believe it was pepper balls. Still, they did not seem too pleased about it. I presume because it didn’t cause the injury they were hoping for.

I was only there for about 15, 20 minutes before they fixated on me and grabbed me. I remember two agents moving in a pair toward me. One of them already had their gun drawn and was pointing it at me. They tackled me to the ground, and then had my legs crossed. They put my arms behind my back and cuffed me, and then they brought me back to the very middle of everything, where the majority of the ICE agents and other officers were. They had both their military vehicles and unmarked cars.

They sat me on the ground and had one agent keeping an eye on me while they processed my stuff. They took my backpack, my balaclava and face mask, everything else I had on, so they could have my face out. As I was leaning up against one of the cars, another agent came up to me. He had a very large camera on a handle that had deflector bands on it, and he spent maybe 30 seconds to a minute filming me. They asked if I wanted water or anything, which I politely refused. I’m not necessarily too keen on breaking bread with people that I don’t agree with.

They put me in one of their unmarked SUVs. I was the first person they put in that vehicle, and shortly afterward, two other people were loaded into the car. One of the other people in the SUV had a chunk of their hair ripped out. I could see it on their lap. Another person in there, it was clear that their cuffs were painfully tight — all of ours were. My cuffs were excruciating, but I had no intention of letting them know, or even trying to imagine asking them, “Hey, could I get my cuffs loosened a little bit?” because I knew they’d immediately laugh it off. That’s exactly what they did to another person who was in the SUV. The agents were making a lot of disingenuous conversation with us, asking things like, “What kind of music do you want to listen to?” There was a lot of power-tripping going on.

The tear gas was getting into the vehicle. They had the doors open, and when they were closed, it was either lingering in the air or coming in through the air vents.

It wasn’t my first time smelling it and feeling it. The last time I remember was during the George Floyd protests. It’s a burning sensation in the lungs. This time, most of it was secondary and wafting through the air, so it wasn’t as noxious as it could’ve been. But it was very constricting on the lungs and throat and made it hard to catch your breath, as well as an irritant to the eyes.

They had other vans there; I want to say between six and 10 other people were loaded into an unmarked van with seating in it, almost like a church van. It had multiple rows of seating, and they had a bunch of people in there.

I was waiting at the scene for 45 minutes to an hour while they tried to regain control of the situation and figure out how they were going to get their vehicles out of there. Agents were coming back and forth between the vehicles to warm themselves up. There was a lot of machismo energy. A lot of them were coming to ogle and ooh and aah at us. There were a lot of locker room vibes. They were lording over their prize — the people they had grabbed.

Some of them were Border Patrol. They were saying they weren’t built for this weather, they’re used to working down at the border. And then other people had Velcro hook-and-loop patches that said “POLICE” on them and “ICE” underneath. It was a lot of manly-man dudes playing grab-ass with each other, giving each other high-fives, celebrating the haul they’d brought in. It was surreal to experience it firsthand.

Their driving was very erratic. We saw a lot of protesters lining the streets. It seemed like they wanted to stay together as a group, so they kept cutting people off in traffic and brake-checking. The agents were trying to move out of there as fast as they could and get to the Whipple building.

They pulled into a large garage bay at Whipple and started yanking us all out of the vehicles and lining us up against the wall. They began removing our cuffs from behind our backs and putting them on the front. They checked our pockets and layers and took all our personal belongings, which they put in white plastic bags that they set at our feet in front of us. We were up against the wall for well over an hour. At one point, Border Patrol commander Greg Bovino arrived, and I’m not sure who the hero was, but they said, “Fuck you, Bovino.” That made the agents very upset, so they told us all to turn around and face the wall. From that point on, we had to face the wall until we were processed. They were only pulling two or three people at a time to get processed before going into the cells. It was absolutely freezing in there. The garage doors were constantly opening and closing. Every time one of them opened, a huge gust of the cold would blow through.

I was charged with — allegedly — assaulting a federal officer. Strong emphasis on the allegedly.

After they initially sat us down for our charges, they brought us inside — still small numbers at a time — and when they walked us back, they brought us into another processing room, where they checked all of our coats and jackets. Anything that had strings on it, they cut the strings off of. If you had shoelaces, they would take your shoelaces. They took my boots entirely because they were steel-toe. I got them back, but this hoodie I’m wearing no longer has strings. They removed our wrist cuffs and replaced them with ankle cuffs and put us in a five-by-nine room with concrete benches built into the walls. The lighting was obnoxious. It was all very fluorescent, sterile, hospital-like. I was in there with six or seven other protesters who had been taken that morning.

Three or four hours after we got there, they gave us water and some food. Later they gave us each an Uncrustable and a granola bar. That was lunch or dinner — I wasn’t sure what time it was by that point.

Some people in there were asking for their lawyers, and the DHS officers were very dismissive about it. They would just say, “Yep, we’re working on it,” and another hour or two would go by and still nothing. They weren’t in a rush to process anybody. From what I was able to gather, they were going to process us and turn us over to the county, and we’d be their problem then.

Every 45 minutes to an hour, someone would get to make their phone call. Some people were getting fingerprinted. I was there for about nine hours. I didn’t ask them for anything. I was there for eight and a half hours before they called my name. They asked if I wanted to talk to anybody, and I told them I didn’t want to talk to anyone unless it was to get my phone call, get my fingerprints taken, or to get my charges. It was DHS and FBI agents doing the fingerprinting.

They almost confused me with someone else who was just getting brought in, but I explained that I was actually in the process of getting out. They handed us all of our bags and brought us into a smaller corridor.

They had us put our hands against the wall while they removed our cuffs from our ankles. They confiscated the phones of the majority of the people there. When they released me, nobody else had gotten their phones back. But when I got my belongings back, my phone was inside of my boot, which was inside the bag. Getting released, I was expecting I’d have to get out and find my own way back. I know there’s a green line or blue line relatively close by, so I was planning on hopping on the train.

When we got outside, they told us there were people out there in high-vis vests — volunteers — who were helping the people who were being released coordinate rides home. It was dark out by then. There were some protesters that had been out there all day. They greeted us. A lot of people were quick to come over. There was a van picking up people who were coming out of the building — a volunteer van. They brought us over to the parking lot of the Boy Scouts of America. There were people handing out ramen and hot drinks, food and water.

But to see that there were people out there using their precious time to help us, to receive us, was a real testament to how strong and resilient we are as a community. We’ve always been. We’ve always been labor-oriented in Minnesota and have always cared about social justice. It shows how much people here love and care about their city, their neighbors, their friends, and their loved ones and how much they want to keep them safe.

All I could feel when I got out was relief. I hadn’t been able to get in contact with anyone all day. I didn’t get home until 10:30PM, about 12 hours after I left in the morning. A lot of people were expecting worst-case scenarios. My friends and family had already reached out to all the local hospitals and police stations. They were expecting the worst.

I feel like I’m a rather insignificant person in the grand scheme of all this. I almost feel a sense of pride in wasting their time. I don’t think anyone should set out to get arrested by federal officers or the police, but it almost felt like a confirmation that I’m upsetting the right people, and I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be — not in government custody, but in helping people and using my voice.

This rounding up of protesters and arresting them on trumped-up charges is all politically motivated. I think they’re trying to send a message. The day after, my picture — and those of the people I was arrested with — was plastered all over the official ICE social media pages. They want to parade us around as political pariahs and say, “Look at these people that we’re getting. Look at these unhinged domestic terrorists.” I don’t think they’re rounding up protesters or immigrants with the intent of making this city or our country safer. They want to make it seem like there’s nefarious intent in the work we’re doing here, in standing up for our city.

When I was being brought in, there were at least a dozen immigrants, who I imagine they were planning on deporting or sending to Texas. They all looked very scared. They had both wrist cuffs and ankle cuffs on at the same time. It was heartbreaking. It felt like I was looking at pictures of Guantanamo Bay. Every single one of them looked terrified and unsure, which was so humbling, because I knew that I wasn’t about to receive the same treatment they did. Beyond seeing the videos of people who are being pulled out of their homes, their vehicles, and their schools, seeing this in-between phase, where they’re being processed almost like cattle before they’re sent to God knows where, it was heartbreaking. It’s probably what is most engrained in my brain out of the whole experience.