“Federal Agents Detain Gamer in Minneapolis”

In late 2025, the Department of Homeland Security turned its attention to the Twin Cities in Minnesota, allegedly due to fraud claims made by a right-wing influencer. Since then, thousands of immigrants have been apprehended by Immigration and Customs Enforcement. In January, two American citizens lost their lives while documenting ICE activities in the area. On January 24th, two Customs and Border Protection agents shot and killed protester Alex Pretti, sparking a new wave of protests and a subsequent DHS crackdown.

One local who was arrested while protesting at the site of Alex’s death shared their intense experience in custody at the Bishop Henry Whipple Federal Building, and how the community is rallying in response. For safety reasons, we’ve kept their identity anonymous.

As recounted:
The first thing I saw when I opened my phone was the footage. It was two weeks after Renee Good was killed. Upon seeing the video of Alex Pretti’s murder, I quickly bundled up and informed my partner I was heading to the scene. I arrived around 11.

Federal agents had already begun deploying chemical irritants like tear gas and pepper spray. I was hit in the chest by nonlethal rounds from about 30 yards away. Thankfully, my winter clothing cushioned the impact, but I definitely felt it. I believe they were using pepper balls. They didn’t seem too happy about it, likely because it didn’t inflict the injury they were aiming for.

I was only there for about 15 to 20 minutes before they focused on me and grabbed me. I remember two agents approaching me, one already with their gun drawn. They tackled me to the ground, crossed my legs, and cuffed my arms behind my back before dragging me back to the center of the chaos, surrounded by ICE agents and other officers. They had both military vehicles and unmarked cars.

They sat me on the ground, with one agent watching me while they processed my belongings. They took my backpack, balaclava, face mask, and everything else I had on to expose my face. While I leaned against one of the cars, another agent approached with a large camera on a handle, equipped with deflector bands, and filmed me for about 30 seconds to a minute. They offered me water, which I politely declined. I wasn’t keen on sharing anything with people I fundamentally disagreed with.

I was the first person placed in one of their unmarked SUVs, and shortly after, two others were loaded in. One had a chunk of hair ripped out, which I could see on their lap. Another had cuffs that were painfully tight — all of ours were. Mine were excruciating, but I didn’t want to show any weakness or ask for relief, knowing they’d just laugh it off. That’s exactly what they did to another person in the SUV. The agents engaged in disingenuous small talk, asking us what kind of music we wanted to listen to, clearly enjoying their power.

The tear gas was seeping into the vehicle. With the doors open, it lingered in the air or came in through the vents. It wasn’t my first encounter with it; I remembered the burning sensation from the George Floyd protests. This time, it was mostly secondary, wafting through the air, so it wasn’t as intense, but it still constricted my lungs and throat, making it hard to breathe and irritating my eyes.

There were other vans nearby; I’d estimate six to ten people were loaded into an unmarked van with seating like a church van. I waited at the scene for 45 minutes to an hour while they tried to regain control and figure out how to get their vehicles out. Agents were moving back and forth between the vehicles to warm up, exuding a lot of machismo. Many were ogling us, creating a locker room atmosphere, reveling in their “catch.”

Some agents were from Border Patrol, complaining about the weather, saying they were used to working at the border. Others had Velcro patches reading “POLICE” and “ICE.” It felt surreal to witness this firsthand, with a bunch of macho guys celebrating their haul.

Their driving was erratic as they navigated through protesters lining the streets. They seemed intent on staying together, cutting people off and brake-checking as they rushed to the Whipple building.

Upon arriving, they pulled us out of the vehicles and lined us up against the wall. They removed our cuffs from behind our backs and placed them in front, checking our pockets and taking all personal belongings, which they bagged in white plastic. We stood against the wall for over an hour. At one point, Border Patrol commander Greg Bovino arrived, and someone shouted, “Fuck you, Bovino,” which visibly upset the agents. They ordered us to face the wall until we were processed, pulling only two or three people at a time to go through the process before heading into cells. It was freezing in there, with the garage doors constantly opening and closing, letting in cold gusts.

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

After they initially sat us down for our charges, they brought us inside in small groups to another processing room, where they checked our coats and jackets. Anything with strings was cut off, including shoelaces. They even took my steel-toe boots, though I eventually got them back. My hoodie lost its strings in the process. They replaced our wrist cuffs with ankle cuffs and placed us in a five-by-nine room with concrete benches. The lighting was harsh and sterile, reminiscent of a hospital. I was with six or seven other protesters who had been taken that morning.

Three or four hours later, they provided us with water and some food — an Uncrustable and a granola bar, which served as our lunch or dinner; I had lost track of time.

Some people were asking for their lawyers, but the DHS officers were dismissive, saying, “Yep, we’re working on it,” while hours passed with no progress. They weren’t in a hurry to process anyone. From what I gathered, they planned to process us and hand us over to the county, making us their problem.

Every 45 minutes to an hour, someone was allowed to make a phone call, and some were fingerprinted. I was there for about nine hours without asking for anything. It was eight and a half hours before they called my name. When they asked if I wanted to talk to anyone, I said I only wanted to get my phone call, fingerprints, or charges. It was DHS and FBI agents handling the fingerprinting.

They almost confused me with someone else being brought in, but I clarified that I was in the process of getting out. They handed us our bags and led us into a smaller corridor.

We had to put our hands against the wall while they removed our ankle cuffs. Most of the phones were confiscated. When I was released, no one else had gotten their phones back. However, when I retrieved my belongings, my phone was hidden inside my boot, which was in the bag. I expected to have to find my own way home, but I knew there was a green or blue line nearby, so I planned to hop on the train.

Once outside, they informed us that volunteers in high-visibility vests were helping coordinate rides home for those being released. It was dark by then, and some protesters had been there all day to greet us. A volunteer van was picking up people, taking us to the parking lot of the Boy Scouts of America, where food and hot drinks were being handed out.

Seeing people dedicate their time to help us was a powerful reminder of the strength and resilience of our community. Minnesota has always been labor-oriented and committed to social justice, reflecting how much people care about their city, neighbors, and loved ones, and their desire to keep everyone safe.

When I finally got out, I felt immense relief. I hadn’t been able to contact anyone all day and didn’t get home until 10:30 PM, about 12 hours after I left in the morning. Many were bracing for the worst; my friends and family had reached out to local hospitals and police stations, fearing the worst.

I feel somewhat insignificant in the grand scheme of things, but I take pride in wasting their time. While no one should aim to get arrested by federal officers or police, it felt like confirmation that I’m upsetting the right people and that I’m where I’m meant to be — not in government custody, but in service to others and using my voice.

This crackdown on protesters and the arrests on dubious charges are politically motivated. They’re trying to send a message. The day after, my picture — along with those of my fellow arrestees — was plastered across official ICE social media pages. They want to showcase us as political pariahs, labeling us as “unhinged domestic terrorists.” I don’t believe they’re rounding up protesters or immigrants to make our city or country safer; they aim to paint our efforts to stand up for our community as something sinister.

While being processed, I saw at least a dozen immigrants who I assume were being prepared for deportation or sent to Texas. They all looked terrified, with both wrist and ankle cuffs on. It was heartbreaking, reminiscent of images from Guantanamo Bay. Each of them appeared scared and uncertain, which was humbling, knowing I wouldn’t face the same treatment. Witnessing this in-between phase, where they were processed like cattle before being sent off to who knows where, was the most haunting part of the entire experience.