On a brisk February morning in Soldotna, Alaska, Alexander Sanchez-Ramos stepped outside for a smoke, his mind far from the national debate swirling around immigration enforcement. Yet, as he watched a cluster of unmarked SUVs with tinted windows gather on his quiet street, the controversy came crashing onto his doorstep. Within minutes, U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) agents poured out, detaining his new wife, Sonia Espinoza Arriaga, and her three children—ages 18, 16, and just 5 years old. The youngest, frightened and shoeless, was pulled from his brother’s arms and began to cry for his mother. "They’re like hurry, hurry," Sanchez-Ramos recalled, according to the Anchorage Daily News. "And I’m like, calm down, I’m trying to be translator and also keep the peace with the boys because they’re upset, they’re crying, they’re scared. I’m also trying to hide my fear because here they are, my family getting ripped from me."
Within 36 hours, Espinoza Arriaga and her two youngest children were deported to Mexico. Her oldest son, Alexis, remained in an Anchorage jail. The rapid and forceful nature of the raid sent shockwaves through the local community, galvanizing clergy, lawyers, and neighbors. It also signaled a broader shift in ICE tactics—one that’s not just isolated to Alaska, but has been unfolding across the United States, including the heartland of Minnesota.
According to Sahan Journal, Operation Metro Surge, a high-profile ICE initiative in Minnesota, was declared over on February 12, 2026, following an announcement by border czar Tom Homan that federal agents would withdraw from the state. The announcement, at first, offered a glimmer of hope to immigrant communities and their supporters. Observers and elected officials noted a visible reduction in ICE presence in Minneapolis and St. Paul, with fewer agents on the streets and less use of chemical agents. But the relief was short-lived.
State Representative Alex Falconer, who serves Minnetonka and Eden Prairie, told Sahan Journal, "As far as Homan’s announcement of a drawdown, there’s no difference. In fact, it’s become a little worse." While city centers saw a decline in overt ICE activity, the suburbs became the new frontlines. State Senator Doron Clark observed, "We’ve still seen ICE vehicles around, but they seem to be driving up to Fridley and Columbia Heights. It seems to be up in the suburbs." Residents in these areas, like Brenna Zeimet of Columbia Heights, described a continued heavy ICE presence, with agents deploying more covert tactics—using older, unmarked vehicles and avoiding uniforms that might draw attention.
"They’re much stealthier," said Avonna Starck, a Fridley resident and environmental nonprofit worker. "They’re not in full military garb. They’re wearing jeans, they’ve got baseball caps on, you really have to look for them now." Starck’s organization even received reports of ICE agents posing as environmental canvassers, a tactic that has put legitimate community workers at risk. In Eden Prairie, Mary (a pseudonym for safety), a local community watch member, reported, "They’re there every single day. There’s not a day since this announcement we haven’t seen them." She noted an increase in non-white agents and women driving vehicles, with agents staging near apartments, parks, and bus stops—sometimes for hours at a time.
ICE agents have also been staying at local hotels in both Minneapolis and its suburbs. Christa Sarrack, president of Unite Here Local 17, confirmed that at least three union hotels continue to house agents, with more possibly staying at non-union locations. In the suburbs, Mary’s group identified around 20 ICE vehicles still routinely parked in hotel lots. "They are not in our hotels any less than they were before. In fact, we actually saw a few new ones," she said.
Observers and elected officials who have tried to monitor ICE activity have found themselves targeted. State Senator Erin Maye Quade described an uptick in aggressive behavior: "Agents followed observers to their homes, drove at them, boxed them in and sat outside their houses." Falconer himself recounted being followed by an unmarked ICE vehicle, saying, "There was no license plate on the front, and occasionally he would flash his lights." Drone activity, suspected to be operated by ICE, has increased over neighborhoods in Eden Prairie, Chanhassen, and Chaska, with local officials confirming that city agencies were not responsible for the flights.
For many, the expectation that ICE would pull back after Operation Metro Surge has proven false. "This is still ongoing, and the devastating impacts are going to be generational," said Maye Quade. The financial and emotional toll on families and businesses has been severe, with many residents still unable to return to normal life. Zeimet, the Columbia Heights resident, lamented, "The media’s moving on, people are moving on like the story is closing. But people are still unable to leave their homes."
Meanwhile, in Alaska, the fallout from the Espinoza Arriaga case continued to build. Immigration attorney Lara Nations, representing the family, told the Anchorage Daily News, "I think this case means a major departure from previous norms here. I have never seen an elementary-aged kid in ICE custody here. Once we start arresting young children, it feels like anything is on the table." Espinoza Arriaga had applied for asylum after fleeing violence in her home state of Jalisco, Mexico, but missed a January 2026 court hearing—believing it was scheduled in June. That absence triggered an order of removal in absentia. Despite her recent marriage to Sanchez-Ramos, the couple hadn’t yet filed the necessary paperwork to adjust her status.
During the raid, Sanchez-Ramos was handcuffed while agents took the children, with the 5-year-old crying and calling for his family. The 16-year-old was handcuffed and put into a vehicle, while the 18-year-old was sent to Anchorage jail. The family was initially detained in a hotel under guard; a habeas corpus petition to prevent their transfer out of state and secure their release was denied by a federal judge the same day. Public outrage followed, with clergy and community members organizing vigils and the Alaska House Judiciary Committee scheduling a hearing to address the detainment of children by ICE.
For Sanchez-Ramos, the ordeal was compounded by a lack of information. He scoured ICE’s website, called hotlines, and waited for any word on his family’s whereabouts. Late Tuesday night, Espinoza Arriaga called from Mexico, having been deported with the younger children. She faced the prospect of returning to Jalisco, while her eldest son remained in jail in Anchorage. "He would probably work and save enough money to join them," Sanchez-Ramos said, staring out at the falling snow, his family scattered by the enforcement of laws that, for many, remain deeply contentious.
Across both Alaska and Minnesota, the pattern is unmistakable: ICE is adapting, shifting tactics, and in many cases, doubling down on enforcement even as public scrutiny mounts. Community members, observers, and elected officials continue to grapple with the fear, uncertainty, and fractured lives left in the wake of these operations. For those caught in the crosshairs, the story is far from over.