I moved to Minnesota in late 2024. This move was the biggest of my life — 11 hours, starting in my prior residence in Cincinnati, Ohio, and ending at my new apartment in Minneapolis. I had only ever lived in the Eastern timezone, moving between northeastern and mid-Atlantic states. Prior to this move, I had never even set foot in Minnesota.

This wasn’t a journey done for fun. At the time, Ohio had introduced new health rules that would have, in part, forced adult trans people to detransition. While these fortunately were mostly overturned, the fear was instilled. Virtually overnight, I had a realization that I wasn’t safe.

Minnesota was the leading candidate, without question. It was affordable, it was safer for trans people, I had a ton of friends and connections there, along with a slew of smaller benefits. The journey itself didn’t turn me off from how good it’d be as a place to live.

It was, however, extremely exhausting. In the four years prior, I had moved states four separate times. The mere act of doing that once is enough to turn people off from moving for years – having to do that several times, while battling homelessness and immense poverty, really fucking sucked.

But the move was worth it. I was immediately welcomed by some of the friendliest people I’ve ever met, and felt like I was instantly a part of the community. Everyone who I saw on a regular basis was queer, an immigrant, or marginalized in some way. There was a feeling of solidarity among everyone, the idea that if you’re living there, you’re one of us. I never once felt unsafe or unwelcome. Before this, I never had a place I could call home. Now, I never want to leave.

In late 2025 things changed. ICE began to deploy across the city. They started bursting in the doors of people in my community, kidnapping parents in front of their children, denying people the resources they need while in detention.

ICE started off with a relatively small force, but enough to try to instill fear. Among plenty, it also sparked a desire to resist. Protests were common but not super widely-attended. Then more trainings and actions emerged, and there were always more seats available to learn more. The community had banded together, and it felt like we had a good defense up. Things were scary, horrible things were happening, but life mostly went on for a majority of people.

Then the year turned, and everything started becoming a blur. Thousands of agents were sent to the city. More than Chicago, for a city with less than a quarter of the population. People tackled, assaulted, teargassed daily. Thousands signed up for ICE response trainings. Children screaming, assaulted, kidnapped. More kept coming. More community members showed up. Confusion hit, terror hit, and more learned and mobilized.

Then Renee Nicole Good was murdered.

She wasn’t the first person shot by ICE and, tragically, she would not be the last. In a day, everything had changed. Every single person I encountered became terrified. People learned once again, this time in far greater numbers, what plenty under the most direct attack already faced; it can be any one of us. A vigil for Renee was organized in less than 12 hours, same day. Over 10,000 people showed up. Every person had a look in their eyes, one of terror, one of trauma. It gets worse, more hollow, more angry every single day.

We became unified against ICE in a way I’ve never seen before. Actions are decentralized, every single person is mobilizing, ready to put themselves on the front lines for their neighbors. More people are shot. Another person, Alex Pretti, is killed.

Time starts to lose its meaning. I’m dissociating most of the day every day. I keep my whistle on me, have a supply kit ready to go and a plan if things escalate. I still have to work, pay bills, do errands, attend appointments, do chores. Meanwhile, people are kidnapped, infants are choking on tear gas. ICE is beating minors and abandoning them with nothing on their person in places they’ve never been. I’m checking every license plate I see, jumping at every bang I hear, running to the door at every gut-wrenching feeling I get. Local and state cops — along with the National Guard — continue working with ICE. People deny it, but the knowledge hits in that no one will save us, no authority will liberate us. More and more realize this is real, and this is now the way things are

Like many trans people in poverty, I’ve dealt with no shortage of oppression and violence in my life, but for the first time, it properly sinks in how myself and everyone I love, everyone I know, everyone I see and could have contact to, can die in an instant. Before I know it, I could be next. My loved ones can be next. My neighbors can be next. I have no way of knowing. No one does.

It sinks for everyone here that the only way out is through, to keep organizing. Any of us can be next.

These thoughts repeat, over and over every day. It’s harder to remember things. It’s harder to have a sense of self. Hours pass in seconds, weeks pass that seem like years. I try to distract myself. My friends have stories of getting teargassed. An undercover ICE agent tries to run me off the highway. People are getting followed home, ICE is keeping track, it seems, of damn near everyone. Suspicious cars are infrequent, but common enough that I’m hypervigilant. Every cop car, every federal agent’s car is a new potential threat. Every time I see someone pulled over, I wonder if this is a kidnapping. There is no end in sight.

When will it be my time? How will I be remembered if I become a martyr? How will I remember my loved ones if they’re in the headlines? What will I do if I lose it all?

As I’m starting to write this, it’s late January. It feels like a century has passed since 2026 began. The old normal, the old status quo is dead. Even if ICE vacated Minnesota tomorrow, there will be no end to this feeling, this knowledge that at any time, the government could decide to kill anyone I know with impunity. The only next step is how it can be stopped from happening again.

Just today, I jumped up and checked on four different bangs, perked my head at the sound of anything quite like a whistle. I try to distract myself, but every problem is huge and small at the same time, and there is no way out of hell when every moment is a reminder of what you’re living through.

It’s hard to talk to people outside of here about what’s going on. The only ones I’ve found who have related are those who have gone through large-scale civil conflicts outside the U.S. I feel isolated from many people I knew, because there isn’t any way to properly verbalize how this feels.

Many tell me with confidence what they think will happen, how they think this will end, how they feel about what’s happening, how they would approach this and cope with it. I just smile and nod because I don’t have it in me to argue with people who just can’t understand by virtue of not having to go through this.

Few outside of the Twin Cities seem to get it when I say that everyone is affected by this, everyone has their own story or knows someone affected. But we’re all unified, because we recognize ICE won’t stop until they target as many people of color, as many immigrants as possible. Resistance isn’t an option, it’s a necessity.

This is a community of people who welcomed me, and now I’m willing to put myself on the line for it. So is everyone else here. We can’t let ICE take anyone else, we have to minimize it as much as possible.

The vibe shift is bizarre. Small wealthy white, predominantly Republican towns, distant from the metro, have responder trainings completely booked out, with organizers pleading to audiences of dozens to hundreds to listen to and center the people most affected. This isn’t white people in the suburbs, it’s the people who spearheaded this fight, those that have gave it wind, those that are targeted every day. It’s immigrants and people of color that need to be centered.

The public view is unified, and the organizing is decentralized. The only way to respond to this properly is with decentralized, community-run efforts. While there are people taking on a great deal of the effort and who got the ball rolling, there are also no leaders here, no central authority on which everything relies on. This is self-sustaining, it’s growing bigger than anyone could’ve imagined. Everyone, from once-Biden-loving wine moms to the owners of the bodega around the corner, is realizing the impact, and is working to protect each other. We all only take on roles temporarily, never as an immutable figure.

There is no waiting for November, or any other election. They are not letting up just because one commander was removed, while the brutal violence against our communities continues non-stop. People increasingly are seeing people like Gov. Tim Walz and Minneapolis Mayor Jacob Frey as weak and useless, given their tendency to play softbody and write strongly worded letters to murderous ICE agents. No politician can or will save us. Certainly no police or military will.

The silver lining, of course, is that the people of these cities are more unified than ever.

People are learning how to protect their neighbors, how to build a stable community, how to create effective resistance and ensure that each of us is able to live and thrive here in Minnesota. People are learning about mutual aid, taking legal courses, taking medical classes, getting trained on how to protest and defend themselves effectively, how to unionize, how to do whatever it takes to keep each other safe. We are all willing to put ourselves on the line to protect one another.

We are bonded in a horrifying collective trauma on a scale few of us have ever seen. Each person has a distinct look in their eyes, one of exhaustion, of terror, of anger. We have a fighting spirit, and we will not quit. We are unified in this together.

If there ever was an organic anarchist movement in the United States, this is such an example. People are resisting in a way that is natural, that comes as easy to humans by our nature to care for one another, and are doing so non-hierarchically. These movements are the key proof that we do not need centralized bodies of authority to tell us what to do and how to do it. We do not need masked men with guns at our doors to keep each other safe.

I’ve never been more hopeful in my life. At the same time, I’ve never been more terrified in my life. While I’m optimistic for the future, I also recognize that no path there is easy or comforting. Too many have already shed blood, and at the rate ICE is terrorizing us, many more will follow. Our motivation for resistance is simple – we want to minimize the amount of suffering and help each other any way we can.

We cannot forget what’s happening to us. We will never forget this. Even if every immigration agent and law enforcement officer were to leave Minnesota tomorrow, the trauma would not go away. We would all be scarred for years, with our first thought being how we can prevent this from happening again. We can only hammer in that we want to keep each other safe, and the only way to do this is to fight.

If people outside of Minnesota want to take one lesson from us, take this: the knowledge that no one is free until all of us are free, and the skills we’ve developed and cultivated amidst hell. Fascism comes for us all, and the only way to be prepared is to organize. To achieve liberation is to build solidarity with your community.

We fight for all of us.

—Edited by David Forbes