On an icy block in south Minneapolis, the street is relatively calm, except for the sound of honking and whistles nearby – protesters alerting this neighborhood to the presence of immigration officers.
In an apartment on this street, the blinds are drawn. Inside, a 2-year-old toddles toward her mother, crying to be picked up.
"We haven't gone outside for anything in almost a month," the mother, A, says in Spanish. NPR is only using her first initial because she is an asylum seeker, and is afraid Immigration and Customs Enforcement, or ICE, will deport her.
A lives here with her wife and two daughters, who are both U.S. citizens. Her daughters are struggling with the confinement. The toddler cries more, throws tantrums. Her 10-year-old can't understand why they can't leave the house.
"She keeps asking, 'Why can't we go outside, why can't we play in the snow?' And we tell her 'No, no, you can't be out there alone,'" A says.
She tells her daughter it's not safe – and that's true. As the massive surge in federal immigration enforcement continues in Minnesota, children have been physically hurt.
The same day an ICE officer shot and killed Renee Macklin Good, immigration officers used chemical irritants on a crowd that included students during dismissal time at a Minneapolis high school. Last week, a family trying to get around a volatile protest was tear gassed in their car. Their 6-month-old baby was hospitalized. In previous statements about both incidents, Department of Homeland Security officials defended the actions of immigration officers.
And on Wednesday in the northern suburb of Columbia Heights, federal officers detained a 5-year-old boy, who lawyers for the family say was used as "bait" to draw family members out of their home. Officials with the Columbia Heights Public School District say federal agents have detained three other students, all under 18, in recent weeks.
According to MPR News, the boy's whereabouts are still unknown. "Why detain a 5-year-old? You can't tell me that this child is going to be classified as a violent criminal," Zena Stenvik, the district's superintendent, told reporters Wednesday.
Parents, teachers, counselors and health care workers across the Twin Cities say many Minnesota children are living in fear or seeing those fears realized. They worry loved ones will be taken away, that they'll witness violence, or get hurt themselves.
"Every single patient I saw yesterday, we had some discussion over the increased stress, trauma, worry, anxiety, depression that is stemming from the presence of ICE in our communities," says Dr. Razaan Byrne, a Minneapolis-based pediatrician at Children's Minnesota, a pediatric health system.
Byrne says fear is manifesting in the ways children are behaving. Some are having emotional outbursts. Others are regressing in milestones: Children who were potty trained, for instance, are wetting the bed again. And many are asking troubling questions.
"I have had patients who have specifically asked, 'If my friend doesn't come to school, is it because they're sick or is it because they're not safe?'" Byrne says. "'What happens if I'm not with my family anymore?' Saying it flat out."
Other adults NPR spoke with said they worry about the long-term effects that stress might have on children and families. And the surge in immigration officers is also affecting children whose families are not at direct risk of deportation.
"We live in an immigrant part of the city. That's who's at our bus stop. Those are our friends," says Jennifer Arnold, the parent of a 7-year-old in South Minneapolis. "He immediately was really upset about it, crying in my lap, worried about what happens if one of his classmates' parents is picked up when they are at school."
She says her son feels angry, and has grown quiet.
Kelly Fulton, a mom in south Minneapolis, says her 9-year-old daughter was at a playdate last week on the other side of the block when the other mom texted her a video of immigration officers surrounding a car while protesters whistled and honked.
"She said this is happening in front of our house right now," Fulton says.
In the video, she says, ICE agents smashed the car windows, opened the doors, and forcibly pulled out one of the passengers. Fulton rushed over. Her daughter had seen at least some of the incident, and kept talking about it that night.
"She kept saying things like, 'I think I hear whistles. I think I hear honking,'" Fulton says. "She wanted to stay downstairs in the basement, and she told me she felt safer in the basement, away from the windows. And what she said was, 'I just don't want to see ICE.'"
Many community members are taking action to try to make children feel safer.
On a recent afternoon, parents stood guard as children left the building at a Minneapolis elementary school just a few blocks from where Good was killed. But not every child who would normally be there was. In a nearby apartment building, yet another home had its blinds drawn.
"This is like nothing I've experienced, being trapped in my own home," V says in Spanish. NPR is only using her first initial, because she is afraid ICE will deport her. V has a work permit and an ongoing immigration case seeking longer-term legal status.
V lives with her 8-year-old daughter, a U.S. citizen and a third-grader at the school. Inside their apartment, a pastel Christmas tree still stands in the corner, next to a pile of well-cared-for stuffed animals.
"My daughter has no way of going out, and I feel terrible," V says.
The two of them have been inside for more than a month. The daughter is taking advantage of her school's remote learning option during the immigration enforcement surge, and neighbors have been bringing them food.
Her daughter says that in the apartment, she feels safe because ICE can't come in. But something her mom doesn't tell her: With a warrant, they could.
The two of them sit curled against each other in an arm chair. Hanging on the wall above them, there's a wood carving in the shape of Minnesota, etched in the middle: the word home.
NPR's Alfredo Carbajal contributed to this report.
Copyright 2026 NPR
