What resistance looks like: Invisible communities in the Twin Cities - The Mac Weekly

It was Saturday, Jan. 24, 2026. Exactly two weeks had passed since Renée Nicole Good was killed by a federal agent. The Twin Cities were — and still are — under siege.

As out-of-state students, returning to school and Minnesota during this restless time felt uncanny and dystopian. Rather than feeling excited for the semester to come, we felt unsure. How would we keep our friends safe? How would we protect ourselves?

That morning, Alex Pretti, a nurse for the U.S. Department of Veterans Affairs, was filming federal agents and directing traffic on Nicollet Avenue in South Minneapolis. Minutes later, Pretti was surrounded by seven federal agents, pinned to the ground, pepper-sprayed and shot multiple times. Around 10 a.m., a video of the incident began to circulate online, and Minnesota was in mourning once again.

Videos that capture violent corruption — like the killing of Pretti, Good and all the way back to the murder of George Floyd — have a unique ability to light the flame of resistance in many of us. Hearing about a story is something. But actually seeing it unfold in front of our own eyes has been one of the biggest privileges and curses of the 21st century.

The stories of Pretti and Good are just a sliver of the many networks of resistance that have been bubbling up in our country since President Donald Trump’s inauguration in January 2025. When the president’s words of an immigration crackdown shifted from a mere warning to a nightmarish reality, many of us began to feel fearful and hopeless. But behind the scenes, immigrant communities have faced this reality all along.

Overwhelmed with sadness, anger and anxiety about what was happening to our community, that night we decided to attend a vigil and rally for Pretti. This was our first time engaging in a large-scale demonstration.

Stepping outside that evening, we were greeted with subzero temperatures that bit our cheeks and burned our skin. The atmosphere was one of the heaviest we had ever experienced. Yet, there was a sort of warmth to it all. Walking around, instead of seeing faces, we saw hands — carrying candles, flowers, pictures and notes. Collectively, we kept each other safe.

After the vigil, a rally moved towards Nicollet Ave. As we approached the site of Pretti’s killing, the sorrowful mood shifted into a mass of active anger. Chants for victims echoed across the neighborhood. Our voices rang out around every corner.

That night, we were flooded with deep aggravation. We demanded justice for all victims of ICE, including Good, Pretti, Liam Conejo Ramos and Keith Porter. We demanded justice for all of the immigrants, families and communities affected.

After about an hour, we found ourselves shivering and feeling acutely numb from the weather. Seeking refuge in any establishment that would allow us to, we walked several blocks before eventually stumbling into an unassuming shopping center.

As we entered, aromas of warm, traditional, made-from-scratch food elicited a sigh of relief from every one of us. Not only was this a stark contrast from the overwhelming atmosphere of the minutes prior, but it gave an unspoken signal that we were welcome and safe.

We sat on the ground to recollect ourselves. A minute later, one of the store owners began to approach us. We thought we were going to be asked to leave, but instead, she gently asked us if we were alright and gestured for us to follow her deeper into the shopping center.

We entered her store, and the woman and a few others inside began to set up chairs for us around a heater. While we tried to regain our composure, two other women in the store began to hand us water bottles, and later came over again with socks.

Their generosity didn’t end there, as they continued to bring cups of homemade chai to warm us up as well as sambusas and bur when they overheard how hungry we were. Their acts of kindness towards us felt overwhelming, especially given the other events of the night.

Prior to meeting these women, we had been so caught up in our frustrations and indignation that we had completely overlooked one of the most significant aspects of these protests.

That night, we were reminded how resistance and change come in many different forms. People on the streets are aggravated. But behind every publicized effort and call for action in the media, there is and always has been a network of invisible communities coming together every day to support one another and the movement as a whole.

Before we left, we conversed with the women one last time. They expressed how their shopping center had been deeply affected by ICE’s occupation. Their store remained closed for weeks on end to ensure the safety of their customers and themselves. Despite the trajectory of their everyday lives being interrupted, they continue to place kindness and camaraderie above anything else.

Perhaps these ordinary acts of humanity are what truly matter right now. In a country so divided, it can feel easy to isolate ourselves in moments of anxiety and grief. However, what’s important is that we continue to create unity and fight for one another. Because ultimately, our strength is held in our differences. This is what weaves the fabric of our nation — and we must preserve that.