If It’s the Right Thing to Do, We Have Every Right to Do It (Lessons from Minnesota)

By Ashley Lin

On my flight back from Minneapolis, I watched War Pony (2022), a drama feature film about two young Lakota men living on the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation in South Dakota. The title stayed with me; I’ve been wondering about what it means to be a warrior in this Year of the Fire Horse.  

War horses were painted with carefully chosen symbols that told stories. For instance, a rider’s last act would be to pat their bloodied hand on their horse’s right shoulder as a “message of death.” Now in the year of 2026, messages of death are captured on our smart phones from many angles. On May 25, 2020, George Floyd’s message of death was “I can’t breathe.” On January 7, Renee Good’s message of death was “That’s fine, dude. I’m not mad at you.” On January 24, Alex Pretti’s message of death was “Are you OK?” 

On Martin Luther King Jr’s birthday, Minnesota organizers made the call for experienced individuals to support them on the ground: “At Chicago’s height they had 600 agents. We are (quite literally) staring down the barrel of 3,000. ICE is going door-to-door, setting up pop-up checkpoints, spreading across the state, arresting, shooting at & killing observers, tear gassing schools, and getting more & more violent by the minute.” 

I figured months of helping set up foot patrols at Oakland day labor corners and schools would be useful (not really, Minnesotans have been hella organized). I wanted to learn what it would be like to “stare down the barrel” because I knew that Minneapolis, like Gaza, is Trump’s testing ground for using our tax dollars to fund unchecked militarized terror—and that it’s likely a matter of time before this terror lands on our doorstep. 

Four days later, my dear friend Michelle and I arrived at the Minneapolis-St Paul airport, from which over 2,000 Minnesotans have been deported since January 2026.

The blocks where Renee Good and Alex Pretti were killed have been transformed. Renee’s memorial block is filled with frozen and fresh flowers, toys, notes of gratitude, international and rainbow flags. A nearby house keeps firewood under a blue tarp and supplies so people can stay longer. It’s quiet and people are there to keep a fire burning and to continue keeping watch for ICE. 

Alex’s memorial block is busier. Drivers look out their windows and traffic slows as people exit their cars to pay their respects. They surround the front of the New American Development Center, arriving with fresh flowers and sorrow. Local and international news camera crews are stationed to capture the collective grief. Businesses near Alex’s memorial have signs letting people know they can come inside and get warm. A neighborhood florist donates flowers so visitors can make bouquets for Alex. Native communities hold healing ceremonies at the memorial sites to honor their lives. Among the flowers, a poster reads “Pretti Good Humans.” 

The day after Alex Pretti was killed by ICE, Michelle and I were invited to join a Native women ceremony circle at Fort Snelling. This sacred site is where the Mississippi and Minnesota Rivers meet, the birthplace of the Dakota people. The American Indian Movement started in Minneapolis. Each person received tobacco to hold in her hand and offer her Asemaa (prayer) before returning the tobacco to the snow-covered earth. The Elder of the circle shared that the worst feeling is helplessness. Together, the gathered women sang songs carried down generations of grief and resilience. War horses were honored for their purpose to protect the people. 

Across Minneapolis, I saw ICE OUT signs everywhere: taped onto the windows of houses and apartment buildings; stapled onto telephone poles; on bed mattresses and trashbins used as blockcades; spray painted on the side of brick buildings and bus stop shelters; on the front doors of restaurants, health clinics, schools, and grocery stores. A neighbor organized his loved ones to shovel ICE OUT on a frozen Lake Nokomis (Nokomis means “my grandmother” in Ojibwe) and a thousand people gathered with Brass Solidarity to illuminate the message with candles for those in the sky. People want ICE OUT of everywhere. 

Many people wear whistles both as a symbol of solidarity and as a means of safety. Neighbors make makeshift roundabouts with chairs around firepits, to slow down traffic and push ICE vehicles onto more visible streets. After school, children in safety vests join adults as crossing guards singing songs for safe passage. Patrollers stand on the corners in the Somali neighborhood known as the West Bank. Pow Wow Grounds Cafe and All My Relations Gallery transformed into a mutual aid center, so legal observers can get free coffee, warm clothes, handwarmers, safety goggles, food, and more. 

So many people have changed their lives under military occupation. People are reconnecting with neighbors years after the George Floyd uprising. This time, they are not just putting out fires by right-wing agitators. Neighbors are meeting up in person, organizing block-by-block, mapping their neighborhoods, and getting plugged into hyperlocal rapid response networks. They are weaving strong webs of mutual aid: driving workers to and from work, taking children to and from school, helping cover monthly rent, buying groceries for people sheltering in place. They are on the streets in subzero temperatures and driving around their neighborhoods to keep watch for ICE and to keep each other safe. 

Everyday people are protesting outside the Whipple federal building where their neighbors are detained, even in the face of violent arrests. They are making cacophonous noise outside hotels at night so agents cannot sleep, and singing songs of compassion during the day: “It’s ok to change your mind, show us your courage, leave this behind. It’s okay to change your mind, and you can join us, join us here anytime.” 

Students are walking out of school, speaking out at city council meetings, and asking their parents if other families can stay in their homes for safety. Teachers are learning how to de-escalate stressful situations with direct action. All tactics are welcome and trust is constantly growing. There is room for every emotion to be felt. There is no central leader; anyone and everyone is welcome to join in this beautiful symphony of resistance. Minnesotans show us that a more caring response is possible. 

In the Movement Memos podcast episode “Burnout Is Not Inevitable: Building Movements That Can Hold Us”, Kelly Hayes talks about how witnessing somebody in their struggle with an open heart and with grace keeps us in touch with our humanity. In the mornings, I stood outside a Native day care center to keep watch for ICE. Caregivers and children would wave at me and I would wave back. Patrollers I met said that they take shifts at the center because the Native community always shows up for every community. One mother came up to me and a fellow foot patroller who sewed a patch on his jacket that reads “ICE out of Mni Sóta Makóče. No one is illegal on stolen land”; she said our presence is the reason she feels safe to bring her kids to school. I felt honored to be part of that protective presence. 

I think being a warrior means to be courageous and to keep trying, to keep showing up for yourself and for each other. I think it means knowing that if it is the right thing to do, then we have every right to protect and defend each other. Know your rights, meet your neighbors, make your emergency plan, go with a buddy, wear your whistle. Build your ongoing sense of what is happening around you at all times, make your risk assessment, and do the next best thing. When you can be prepared, you know that you can better face the unknown. When you can build a strong web of support, you know that you will never be alone. We can build safety in numbers, and we can scale it up on our blocks, in our neighborhoods, in our cities. 

On my last day in Minneapolis, I went to Ricardo Levins Morales’ art studio, which is filled with decades of artwork rooted in social justice movements. There is a piece with a quote crafted by a group fighting for Aboriginal rights in Queensland, Australia in the 1970s: “If you have come to help me you are wasting your time. But if you have come because your liberation is bound up with mine, then let us work together.” 

Minnesotans are building creative networks of care and not backing down until ICE is out of everywhere, out of existence. Some people are showing up for the first time, and that’s ok because everyone is learning from each other all the time. I’m scared for what’s going to happen everywhere. I learned that it’s not too late to get prepared. There is so much to fight for. Let’s work together because a better world is not only possible, it’s happening. “I can hear her breathing” every time someone chooses to show up and practice courage. Nokomis is breathing with the Native prayer camp at the sacred site of Mni Owe Sni (Coldwater Spring). 

If it is the right thing to do, we have every right to do it. We will find courage in each other. 

Ashley Lin is a daughter of Taiwanese immigrants. She is growing her roots in Oakland, CA and is getting ready to survive and remake the world with courageous people.