Trump's Twin Cities immigration crackdown has made chaos and tension the new normal

MINNEAPOLIS (AP) — Work starts around sunrise for many of the federal officers carrying out the immigration crackdown in and around the Twin Cities, with hundreds of people in tactical gear emerging from a bland office building near the main airport.

Within minutes, hulking SUVs, pickup trucks and minivans begin leaving, forming the unmarked convoys that have quickly become feared and common sights in the streets of Minneapolis, St. Paul and their suburbs.

Protesters also arrive early, braving the cold to stand across the street from the fenced-in federal compound, which houses an immigration court and government offices. “Go home!” they shout as convoys roar past. "ICE out!”

Things often turn uglier after nightfall, when the convoys return and the protesters sometimes grow angrier, shaking fences and occasionally smacking passing cars. Eventually, the federal officers march toward them, firing tear gas and flash grenades before hauling away at least a few people.

“We’re not going anywhere!” a woman shouted on a recent morning. “We’re here until you leave.”

This is the daily rhythm of Operation Metro Surge, the Trump administration's latest and biggest crackdown yet, with more than 2,000 officers taking part. The surge has pitted city and state officials against the federal government, sparked daily clashes between activists and immigration officers in the deeply liberal cities, and left a mother of three dead.

The crackdown is barely noticeable in some areas, particularly in whiter, wealthier neighborhoods and suburbs, where convoys and tear gas are rare. And even in neighborhoods where masked immigration officers are common, they often move with ghostlike quickness, making arrests and disappearing before protesters can gather in force.

Still, the surge can be felt across broad swaths of the Twin Cities area, which is home to more than 3 million people.

“We don’t use the word ‘invasion’ lightly,” Minneapolis Mayor Jacob Frey, a Democrat, told reporters this week, noting that his police force has just 600 officers. “What we are seeing is thousands — plural, thousands — of federal agents coming into our city.”

Those agents have an outsized presence in a small city.

It can take hours to drive across Los Angeles and Chicago, both targets of Trump administration crackdowns. It can take 15 minutes to cross Minneapolis.

So as worry ripples through the region, children are skipping school or learning remotely, families are avoiding religious services and many businesses, especially in immigrant neighborhoods, have closed temporarily.

Drive down Lake Street, an immigrant hub since the days when newcomers came to Minneapolis from Norway and Sweden, and the sidewalks now seem crowded only with activists standing watch, ready to blow warning whistles at the first sign of a convoy.

At La Michoacana Purepecha, where customers can order ice cream, chocolate covered bananas and pork rinds, the door is locked and staff let in people one at a time. Nearby, at Taqueria Los Ocampo, a sign in English and Spanish says the restaurant is temporarily closed because of “current conditions.”

A dozen blocks away at the Karmel Mall, where the city’s large Somali community goes for everything from food and coffee to tax preparation, signs on the doors warn, “No ICE enter without court order.”

It’s been nearly six years since George Floyd was murdered by a Minneapolis police officer, but the scars from that killing remain raw.

Floyd was killed just blocks from where an Immigration and Customs Enforcement officer shot and killed Renee Good, a 37-year-old American citizen, during a Jan. 7 confrontation after she stopped to help neighbors during an enforcement operation. Federal officials say the officer fired in self-defense after Good “weaponized” her vehicle. City and state officials dismiss those explanations and point to multiple bystander videos of the confrontation.

For Twin Cities residents, the crackdown can feel overwhelming.

“Enough is enough,” said Johan Baumeister, who came to the scene of Good’s death soon after the shooting to lay flowers.

He said he didn’t want to see the violent protests that shook Minneapolis after Floyd’s death, causing billions of dollars in damage. But this city has a long history of activism and protests, and he had no doubt there would be more.

“I think they’ll see Minneapolis show our rage again,” he predicted.

He was right.

In the days since, there have been repeated confrontations between activists and immigration officers. Most amounted to little more than shouted insults and taunting, with destruction mostly limited to broken windows, graffiti and some badly damaged federal vehicles.

But angry clashes now flare regularly across the Twin Cities. Some protesters clearly want to provoke the federal officers, throwing snowballs at them or screaming obscenities through bullhorns from just a couple feet away. The serious force, though, comes from immigration officers, who have broken car windows, pepper-sprayed protesters and warned observers not to follow them through the streets. Immigrants and citizens have been yanked from cars and homes and detained, sometimes for days. And most clashes end in tear gas.

Drivers in Minneapolis or St. Paul can now stumble across intersections blocked by men in body armor and gas masks, with helicopters clattering overhead and the air filled with the shriek of protesters' whistles.

In a state that prides itself on its decency, there’s something particularly Minnesotan about the protests,

Soon after Good was shot, Gov. Tim Walz, a Democrat and regular Trump target, repeatedly said he was angry but also urged people to find ways to help their communities.

“It might be shoveling your neighbor’s walk,” he said. “It might mean being at a food bank. It might be pausing to talk to someone you haven’t talked to before.”

He and other leaders have pleaded with protesters to remain peaceful, warning that the White House was looking for a chance to crack down harder.

And when protests do become clashes, residents will often spill from their homes, handing out bottled water so people can flush tear gas from their eyes.

Residents stand watch at schools to warn immigrant parents if convoys approach while they're picking up their children. They take care packages to people too afraid to go out, and arrange rides for them to work and doctor's visits.

On Thursday, in the basement of a Lutheran church in St. Paul, the group Open Market MN assembled food packs for more than a hundred families staying home. Colin Anderson, the group’s outreach director, said the group has seen a surge in requests.

Sometimes, people don’t even understand what has happened to them.

Like Christian Molina from suburban Coon Rapids, who was driving through a Minneapolis neighborhood on a recent day, taking his car to a mechanic, when immigration officers began following him. He wonders if it's because he looks Hispanic.

They turned on their siren, but Molina kept driving, unsure who they were.

Eventually, the officers sped up, hit his rear bumper and both cars stopped. Two emerged and asked Molina for his papers. He refused, saying he’d wait for the police. Crowds began to gather, and a clash soon broke out, ending with tear gas.

So the officers left.

They left behind an angry, worried man who suddenly owned a sedan with a mangled rear fender.

Long after the officers were gone he had one final question.

“Who’s going to pay for my car?”

This story has been updated to correct the name of the Immigration and Customs Enforcement agency.

Associated Press reporters Rebecca Santana and Giovanna Dell’Orto in Minneapolis, and Hallie Golden in Seattle, contributed to this story.

Federal immigration officers confront protesters outside Bishop Henry Whipple Federal Building, Thursday, Jan. 15, 2026, in Minneapolis. (AP Photo/Yuki Iwamura)

A federal immigration officer deploys pepper spray as officers make an arrest Sunday, Jan. 11, 2026, in Minneapolis. (AP Photo/John Locher)

Protesters gather in front of the Minnesota State Capitol in response to the death of Renee Good, who was fatally shot by an ICE officer last week, Wednesday, Jan. 14, 2026, in St. Paul, Minn. (AP Photo/Abbie Parr)

Protesters try to avoid tear gas dispersed by federal agents, Monday, Jan. 12, 2026 in Minneapolis (AP Photo/Adam Gray)

Federal immigration officers are seen outside Bishop Whipple Federal Building after tear gas was deployed Monday, Jan. 12, 2026, in Minneapolis. (AP Photo/Jen Golbeck)

PROVIDENCE, R.I. (AP) — Catholic priests in Rhode Island preyed on hundreds of children for decades, getting away with sexual abuse largely due to a system where bishops prioritized minimizing scandal as the diocese maintained a secret archive to conceal the revelation of more victims.

These findings were among the many sobering details released Wednesday as part of a multiyear investigation into the Catholic Diocese of Providence, Rhode Island, led by Attorney General Peter Neronha.

The report was designed to spark a “full reckoning” of the abuse that had long remained elusive inside the smallest state in the U.S., home to the country’s largest Catholic population per capita, with nearly 40% of the state identifying as Catholic. Neronha, himself a Catholic, sided with the victims who have argued that not enough has yet been done to address the problem, more than two decades after it was widely exposed in the nearby Boston diocese.

“Not until now has there been a comprehensive review of this painful chapter in our state’s history, with a view toward offering transparency, accountability, and systemic reforms that will, I hope, lessen the likelihood of future child sexual abuse, not just within the Diocese of Providence, but in our community as a whole,” Neronha wrote in the report.

The investigation found that 75 Catholic clergy molested more than 300 victims since 1950, but officials stressed that the number of victimized children and abusive priests is likely much higher.

The diocesan records, described as “damning” in the report, revealed that the diocese often transferred accused priests to new assignments without thoroughly investigating complaints or contacting law enforcement.

This includes the Diocese of Providence opening a “spiritual retreat-style facility” in the early 1950s, where several accused priests were sent for treatmentwith the goal of returning to work. This practice evolved into sending accused priests to more formal “treatment centers” after determining clergy abuse may be a mental health problem.

The report said the diocese’s “overreliance and misplaced faith” in the treatment centers was at best “absurdly pollyannaish.”

By the 1990s, accused priests were sometimes placed on sabbatical leave.

For example, the report says priest Robert Carpentier was accused in 1992 of sexual abuse by the family of a 13-year-old victim. Carpentier confirmed the abuse took place in the 1970s and resigned.

Carpentier was sent to a treatment center in Connecticut and eventually went on sabbatical at Boston College. He remained on a “leave of absence” until his official retirement in 2006 and received support from the diocese until he died in 2012.

Overall, the majority of cases involving accused priests avoided accountability from both law enforcement and the diocese.

Neronha said his office has charged four current and former priests for sexual abuse they allegedly committed while serving in the diocese between 2020 and 2022. Three of those priests are still awaiting trial. The fourth priest died after being deemed incompetent to stand trial in 2022.

In total, only 20, or about 26% of the clergy identified in the report, ever faced criminal charges, and just 14 clergy were convicted. A dozen accused clergy were laicized or dismissed from the clerical state.

One survivor in the report shared that he was groomed before he was sexually abused by Monsignor John Allard, who served at Immaculate Conception Church in Cranston in 1981.

The survivor, who is not named in the report, said Allard gave him attention and physical affection between seventh and eighth grade. By ninth grade, Allard brought the young teenager to the priest’s bed, took off the victim’s clothing and began fondling his penis.

“He never asked me for a hug, he never asked me if I wanted a hug, his comment to me was always, ‘You need a hug,’ and that’s something that I can hear him saying very clearly to this very day,” the survivor told officials in 2013.

While a review board deemed the victim’s abuse credible, then-Providence Bishop Thomas Tobin intervened, asking the Vatican’s powerful doctrine office to allow Allard to retire without being removed from the priesthood. The Vatican agreed.

Sometimes, even those tasked with reviewing abuse cases were also abusers. In 2021, priest Francis Santilli received a child sexual abuse complaint after serving on Rhode Island’s diocese review board. Santilli stepped down, but remained in active ministry even after receiving additional abuse complaints in 2014 and 2021. Santilli wouldn’t be removed until 2022.

“Only the Diocese can explain why this plainly necessary action took so long,” the report says.

Neronha first launched the investigation in 2019, nearly a year after a Pennsylvania grand jury report found more than 1,000 children had been abused by an estimated 300 priests in that state since the 1940s. The 2018 report is considered one of the broadest inquiries into child sexual abuse in U.S. history.

However, unlike Pennsylvania, Rhode Island law doesn’t allow grand jury reports to become public — a hurdle that Neronha has long fought to change.

Instead, Neronha had to enter into an agreement with the diocese to access hundreds of thousands of records of abuse that spanned decades.

While Neronha said the church cooperated, handing over 70 years of what became known as the “secret archive,” or files containing internal investigations, civil settlement records of sexual abuse cases, treatment costs and more.

Yet Neronha says the arrangement “was not without important limits, or without delays.”

“It repeatedly refused my team’s requests for interviews of Diocesan personnel responsible for overseeing the Diocese’s investigations and response to child sexual abuse allegations,” Neronha wrote about the diocese.

Furthermore, an unknown number of victims likely died before coming forward, while some church records have been lost or even destroyed surrounding possible abusive priests. It’s also common for child sexual abuse victims to take decades before coming forward with their stories.

St. Mary's Church is seen Tuesday, Feb. 24, 2026, in Cranston, R.I. (AP Photo/Charles Krupa)

Cathedral of Saints Peter and Paul, which serves as the home church of the Roman Catholic Diocese of Providence, is seen Tuesday, Feb. 24, 2026, in Providence, R.I. (AP Photo/Charles Krupa)

Cathedral of Saints Peter and Paul, which serves as the home church of the Roman Catholic Diocese of Providence, is seen Tuesday Feb. 24, 2026, in Providence, R.I. (AP Photo/Charles Krupa)

A statue of the Virgin Mary and baby Jesus is displayed outside St. Mary's Church, Tuesday, Feb. 24, 2026, in Cranston, R.I. (AP Photo/Charles Krupa)

FILE - Attorney General Peter Neronha gives a victory speech after winning a second term, during an election-night gathering of Rhode Island Democratic candidates and supporters on Nov. 8, 2022, in Providence, R.I. . (AP Photo/Mark Stockwell, File)