██FR█████ █INTELL███████████

“This Is What It Means to Be Minnesotan”: Why My Neighbors Continue to Stand Up Against ICE

On the day that federal immigration agents shot and killed Alex Pretti, I ran out of my house with my camera in hand to document the aftermath. As a visuals editor at ProPublica, I spend most of my time at my desk. But I couldn’t ignore this massive story rapidly unfolding in Minneapolis, the city I’ve called home for the past few years.

The first thing I photographed that day was a woman trying to calm a man with a hug. “There was a young man right at the police tape, honestly inches away from some of the agents, and he was so angry,” she told me later. “I was getting really scared for him.” Not long after, the scene grew volatile, as federal, state and city police forces tear-gassed and detained protesters in a standoff that lasted for hours.

Kristin Heiberg, I learned, is a 64-year-old technical writer, a volunteer at an animal shelter and a cancer survivor. And, like many other people here, she patrols her neighborhood with a whistle, on the lookout for Immigration and Customs Enforcement agents.

As I’ve watched the Twin Cities rally to respond to Operation Metro Surge, I’ve wanted to see the one thing I had not: What do these people look like in their day-to-day lives? I wanted to know who they are and what motivated them to patrol their streets, drive strangers to work and provide food and rent money for the families who have been in hiding since the surge began. While media coverage has moved on, and there are fewer ICE agents on the streets, they’re still here, and my neighbors are still providing mutual aid.

When I asked Heiberg who she felt was involved, she said: “Everyone in the community. Anyone with a heart.” This is how it has felt to me as well. Whether gathering with friends or ordering coffee or running into a neighbor while walking my dog, every recent conversation has led to the same place: What are you doing to meet this moment? 

Each of the people I photographed scoffed at the idea that they were paid agitators, or that they were led in their efforts by state or city officials. They said they just wanted to help their neighbors.

These are my neighbors, in their city, in their own words.

A woman sits with her hands clasped over her leg, looking at the camera. She is on a sofa in the living room of a condo, with several houseplants, paintings on the walls, a full bookshelf and her kitchen in the background.

We’re just watching out for our neighbors. If that’s a form of protest, so be it.

Kristin Heiberg, who writes software user guides, patrols her neighborhood every day and attends protests and vigils.
A woman in a dark room looks at the camera. She wears a sweatshirt with an image of an anglerfish and the words “my last day, I think I’ll go see the sun.”

I don’t want to be one of those people that sat. I don’t want to be somebody’s history lesson.

Libby Blyth is an accountant for an environmental consulting company. She drives people to work who are afraid of being spotted by ICE and delivers food to families in hiding.
An elderly man and woman stand together outside in the snow, looking at the camera with stern expressions, with a back porch and a house in the background.

We’re retired. We have white privilege. We have to be the ones to stand up.

Kris Allen is a retired palliative nurse practitioner. She and her husband, Ben, attend weekly prayer vigils for detained people with their church. They have protested at the federal building where ICE holds detainees and participated in sit-ins at Target stores.
A man and woman stand together in a basement, looking at the camera. Around them are stacks of food, in cardboard boxes on the floor or on tables, and the blurred movement of several people moving and arranging the food.

My parents are immigrants, and they moved here for a better life, but also to give us a better life. And we’re going to continue to support as many families as we can, especially kids.

Adan Tepozteco Gavilan owns a barbershop where he and his sister, Anai, started a food drive. They have provided food to hundreds of families.
A woman stands with her hands in her pockets, looking at the camera, in the living room of her home. Next to her is a small table and small red chair for a child, with toys and books on the table and the floor. Behind her are family photos on the wall.

It just seems so simple. My neighbors need help. And I would hope that if I was in a situation where I needed help, or if I was as scared as these people are, that somebody would help me.

Elizabeth Anderson works in performing arts. She arranges for drivers to take kids to school and coordinates food delivery for more than 100 families.
A woman stands looking at the camera in a brightly lit home. Behind her are neatly stacked books and family photos on a shelf.

People are still putting themselves out there. And it’s for the sake of humanity, and our community, and showing the rest of the U.S. and the world that this is what it means to be Minnesotan.

Nasrieen Habib founded Amanah Recreational Project, an organization that promotes outdoor activities for Muslim women. She redirected her organization to provide food and rent assistance.
A woman and a man stand together in a dining room. In front of them, a dining room table is covered with snacks, drinks, a pencil holder full of pencils, a laptop and a tablet. On a window next to them, a large sheet of paper is taped up with meeting notes written on it.

It was never a question. Once we knew what was happening, that people were being let out in the freezing cold, it wasn’t an option to leave that gate.

Natalie Ehret is an attorney. She and her husband, Noah, founded Haven Watch. The organization provides coats, food, phones and rides to detainees when they are released from federal custody, often with few belongings.
A head-and-shoulders portrait of a woman in her 20s, looking at the camera with a neutral expression, lit dramatically.
A head-and-shoulders portrait of a man in his 20s, looking at the camera with a neutral expression, lit dramatically.

When they give us their worst, we are giving us our best.

Shane Stodolka is a software developer. He and his roommate, Olivia Tracy, say they deliver food to more than 100 families every week.
A man stands looking at the camera in his living room, with a mirror and a framed photo of a young girl in the background. He wears a sweatshirt that says “perpetual grind” and holds a Star Wars Stormtrooper coffee mug.

Legal immigration, illegal immigration? That’s not my call. That’s not my fight. By the time you’re my neighbor, you’re my neighbor.

Norman Alston is a high school wrestling coach. When he’s not coaching, he sits outside school, watching for ICE.
A woman stands looking at the camera with her hands clasped in front of her with a large houseplant behind her.

I need my staff to know that they’re safe. It was crazy networking … but it’s all about feeling safe and vetted.

Melissa Borgmann, a cafe owner, organized rides and grocery deliveries for her staff.
A woman stands in a bright condo, looking at the camera. A poster that says “Trampled by Turtles” is framed on the wall, and resting against the wall is a protest sign that reads “F*ck ICE.”

We’re all sort of getting through this together. We don’t have formal leaders in these groups.

Jen Suek is a project manager in the health care field. She patrols her neighborhood and local schools, and she vets her neighborhood Signal chat.
A man stands with his hands in his pockets looking at the camera, in a snow-covered parking lot. In the background, people load boxes of food into cars.

I think that’s the true identity of Minnesota: peaceful protesting, caring about their neighbors and stepping up to the plate. Not waiting for the government to help.

Sergio Amezcua is pastor at Dios Habla Hoy church in south Minneapolis. Since early December, the church has provided food to thousands of people.
A woman sits in a dark room, looking at the camera, wearing a red floral print dress.

I call [my friends] and I say: ‘Please think positive. This is going away very soon.’ And they say, ‘OK, thank you for staying positive.’ And then I turn off the phone, and I start crying.

Jianeth Riera Lazo is the chef at a Minneapolis cafe. She helped connect friends and family members in need of food and rental assistance to people who could provide it.
A woman sits in a basement gym, wearing a sweatshirt and athletic pants. She is reflected in a mirror on the wall behind her. There are lines of weights and other gym equipment and a neon sign that says “squeeze your butt.”

It’s an unspoken bond, to stick up for what’s right, knowing that something might happen to us in the meantime. … And I truly think that this will continue, this bond.

Missy Dietrich is a personal trainer. She patrols her neighborhood, regularly protests at the federal building where ICE holds detainees and volunteers at a food pantry.

The post “This Is What It Means to Be Minnesotan”: Why My Neighbors Continue to Stand Up Against ICE appeared first on ProPublica.


This content originally appeared on ProPublica and was authored by Peter DiCampo.