The city is just this minefield of ghosts.
Six months after federal agents swept through Minneapolis under Operation Metro Surge, the immigrant communities at the center of that enforcement action find themselves suspended in an aftermath that refuses to resolve. The operation officially wound down in February, yet its architecture of fear persists — in shuttered businesses, in children who chose remote learning over the risk of the schoolyard, in families awaiting letters that may revoke the legal status they believed was settled. Two American citizens were killed in the course of protests against the crackdown, and their memorials now stand as quiet markers of how profoundly a government action can reshape the emotional geography of a city. What Minneapolis is living through is not the end of something, but the long, uncertain middle.
- Thousands were detained during the January peak of Metro Surge, two American citizen protesters were shot dead by federal agents, and the trauma those weeks produced has not dissolved with the agents' partial withdrawal.
- Lake Street's immigrant-owned businesses hemorrhaged more than $30 million a month as workers stayed home in fear, and the Twin Cities economy absorbed an estimated $610 million in total losses — damage that outlasts the operation itself.
- More than 60 percent of those arrested in Minnesota carried no criminal conviction or pending charge, directly contradicting the administration's framing of the crackdown as targeted at dangerous offenders.
- The federal government has shifted from mass street enforcement to quieter, more surgical pressure — re-vetting 5,600 refugees, transferring some to out-of-state detention without legal counsel, and sending letters threatening to revoke refugee status.
- Advocates and educators warn that the children who witnessed the raids are carrying something that will shape their relationship to government and civic life for decades to come.
Six months after Operation Metro Surge brought hundreds of federal agents into Minneapolis, the city's immigrant communities say the crackdown never truly ended — it only became harder to see. Aliah, a 20-year-old Afghan refugee with a green card, came to the United States expecting school and work. What she found instead was a fear she cannot put down. Her family prays the operation will not restart. That prayer is widely shared.
The operation began in December, framed as an effort to remove undocumented immigrants with criminal records and tied to a federal fraud investigation involving Minnesota's childcare industry. Its true scale became visible in January, when federal agents shot and killed two American citizens — Renee Good and Alex Pretti, both 37 — during separate protests against the enforcement action. The deaths provoked a backlash that crossed political lines, and by late February the administration announced a partial withdrawal. But the machinery did not stop. It grew quieter.
Fatima, a 19-year-old Somali refugee, returned to in-person high school in April after months of remote learning. She is glad to be back, but the question she asks herself has not changed: if they come back, what will she do? Michelle Eberhard, director of refugee services at the International Institute of Minnesota, described what sustained fear does to a community. People are still living through the trauma, she said — still not leaving their homes. Katie, a Minneapolis teacher who organized grocery collections for students too frightened to attend class, drives past the memorials for Good and Pretti and feels it. "The city is just this minefield of ghosts," she said.
Government data obtained by the Deportation Data Project complicates the administration's account: more than 60 percent of those arrested in Minnesota had no criminal convictions or pending charges. The federal government also ordered a re-vetting of 5,600 refugees who had not yet received green cards, with some transferred to out-of-state ICE detention and re-interviewed without legal representation. Some families have received letters threatening to revoke their refugee status. Others have received nothing — a silence that carries its own particular weight.
The economic damage has been both severe and measurable. Lake Street, the predominantly Hispanic commercial corridor in south Minneapolis, saw at least half its businesses close during the height of the operation, costing more than $30 million in monthly revenue. Across the Twin Cities, workers lost an estimated $240 million in wages as people stayed home. Total business losses across Minneapolis and St. Paul reached an estimated $610 million. Statewide eviction filings rose 8 percent in 2026. "The terror inflicted on this community was significant," said Theresa Swaney of the Lake Street Council, "and its effects will be long-lasting."
ICE's presence has diminished but not disappeared. As of March, 482 federal agents remained in Minnesota — more than double the pre-operation level. Enforcement has grown more targeted, moving from city centers with high visibility toward suburbs and workplaces. Deportation flights from Minneapolis continue, though less frequently. Katie, the teacher, holds onto the possibility that transformation can come from pain, but she does not minimize what the children in her school have absorbed. What they witnessed, she believes, will shape what they vote for, what they trust, and what they think their government is capable of.
Six months have passed since federal agents flooded Minneapolis in what the Trump administration called Operation Metro Surge, but the city's immigrant communities say the operation never really ended—it only changed shape. Aliah, a 20-year-old Afghan refugee who arrived in the United States in 2021 and now holds a green card, expected her life here to revolve around school and work. Instead, she spends her days managing a low-grade fear that has not lifted. "We're still a little scared," she told the BBC. "We don't have anywhere to go if we go back to my country." Her family prays the operation will not restart. She is not alone in that prayer.
The crackdown began in December as part of the administration's stated effort to remove undocumented immigrants with criminal records. It was framed around a federal fraud investigation into Minnesota's childcare industry, which officials said involved defendants from the state's large Somali community. But the operation's true scale became apparent in January when federal agents shot and killed two American citizens—Renee Good and Alex Pretti, both 37—in separate incidents while they were protesting the enforcement action. The deaths triggered a backlash that crossed political lines. By the end of February, the administration announced it was withdrawing hundreds of agents from the city. Yet the machinery of enforcement did not stop. It simply became less visible.
Fatima, 19, a Somali refugee granted asylum, returned to in-person high school classes in April after months of remote learning. She is glad to be back in the building, but the fear has not released its grip. "I ask myself every day," she said. "If they come back, what are you going to do? I'm scared still if they come back." Michelle Eberhard, director of refugee services at the International Institute of Minnesota, explained what this sustained anxiety does to people. "When you have an invasion like this, people continue to experience the ramifications of that for a long time," she said. "People are still living through that trauma." During the height of the operation, masked ICE and Customs and Border Protection agents patrolled streets, raided homes and schools, and detained thousands. Katie, a Minneapolis teacher, organized her school's response by collecting groceries and donations for students too frightened to attend classes. Most chose to stay home. Even now, months later, Katie drives past memorials erected for Good and Pretti and feels the weight of what happened. "The city is just this minefield of ghosts," she said. "Even when you forget about it, it just pops up again."
The federal government maintains the operation was necessary and successful. The Department of Homeland Security announced it had arrested thousands of what it called "criminal illegal aliens" and listed 23 immigrants convicted or charged with serious crimes. But government data obtained by the Deportation Data Project tells a different story: more than 60 percent of those arrested in Minnesota had no criminal convictions or pending criminal charges. The administration also ordered a re-vetting of 5,600 refugees in Minnesota who had not yet received green cards, deeming the previous vetting process "wholly inadequate." Some refugees were transferred to ICE detention out of state and re-interviewed without legal representation. Letters have arrived at some homes announcing the government intends to revoke refugee status. Others have received nothing at all—a silence that carries its own weight. Eberhard said the city has shifted from chaos into "a very big period of ongoing uncertainty." She is confident many people are still not leaving their homes.
The economic toll has been severe and measurable. Lake Street, a mile-long corridor in the predominantly Hispanic Phillips neighborhood of south Minneapolis, is lined with hundreds of immigrant-owned small businesses. During the height of Metro Surge, at least half closed. The Lake Street Council estimates that closure caused a monthly revenue loss of more than $30 million. Across the Twin Cities, workers lost approximately $240 million in wages as people stayed home out of fear of arrest. The U.S. Immigration Policy Center estimated that businesses across Minneapolis and St. Paul lost a combined $610 million in revenue because of the operation. Statewide eviction filings in 2026 were up 8 percent compared to the previous year. Theresa Swaney, the Lake Street Council's director of operations, called the devastation "immediate and severe." "The terror inflicted on this community was significant," she said, "and its effects on Minneapolis and Lake Street in particular will be long-lasting."
ICE's presence in Minnesota has diminished but not disappeared. According to the ACLU-Minnesota, 482 federal agents remained in the state as of March, compared to about 190 before the operation began. Border Czar Tom Homan said the agency would continue "targeted immigration enforcement operations" as it has for decades. ICE declined to disclose details about its current operations. Morgan Budiandri, of the Minnesota Immigrant Rights Action Committee, noted that enforcement has become more surgical. "There's less activity in the cities where there's a lot more prying eyes," he said. "But out in the suburbs, we still have reports of officers coming to businesses demanding to see a manifesto of undocumented employees." Deportation flights from Minneapolis continue, predominantly to El Paso, Texas, though the frequency is declining monthly.
Katie, the teacher, thinks about what the children in her school witnessed and what it will mean for the city's future. "Transformation can come from pain," she said. "But what these children have witnessed, it will affect our city. It'll affect what they vote for, what they believe in, what they think of our government." The operation may have officially ended, but its shadow remains stretched across Minneapolis—in the fear that has not faded, in the businesses still struggling to reopen, in the families uncertain whether their legal status will hold, and in the memorials that mark where two American citizens were killed.
Notable Quotes
We're still a little scared. We don't have anywhere to go if we go back to my country.— Aliah, 20-year-old Afghan refugee with green card
When you have an invasion like this, people continue to experience the ramifications of that for a long time. People are still living through that trauma.— Michelle Eberhard, director of refugee services at International Institute of Minnesota
The Hearth Conversation Another angle on the story
Why does the fear persist if the operation has largely ended and most agents have left?
Because people learned something in those months that doesn't disappear when the agents do. They learned they can be taken from their homes, their schools, their workplaces. They learned the government can change the rules about who gets to stay. That knowledge doesn't evaporate.
The data shows most people arrested had no criminal record. Does that change how people understand what happened?
It confirms what people already suspected—that the stated purpose and the actual practice were different things. But confirmation doesn't comfort you when you're still waiting for a letter about your refugee status, or when you're afraid to go to work.
Why did the economic impact last so long after the operation ended?
Because a business can't reopen overnight. Landlords still want rent. Suppliers still want payment. And customers—many of them also immigrants—are still afraid. Trust takes longer to rebuild than it takes to destroy.
Some Minnesota Republicans supported the crackdown. Does that complicate the story?
It does. One state representative acknowledged "mistakes were made." But acknowledging a mistake and undoing its damage are different things. The uncertainty about refugee status continues. The eviction filings are still rising.
What does it mean that ICE is still there, just less visible?
It means the threat hasn't gone away—it's just operating differently. In the suburbs instead of downtown. At businesses instead of schools. The machinery is still running; people just can't see it as clearly.
What will the long-term impact be?
That's what the advocates are asking. These children watched federal agents kill two American citizens. They watched their neighbors disappear. They watched their parents stay home from work out of fear. That shapes how they see government, how they understand safety, what they believe is possible in this country.