When fear becomes policy, families pay the price.
Published on January 7, 2026. By J.F.R. Perseveranda
This morning’s shooting in Minneapolis hit closer to home than most headlines do.
An old college roommate of mine lives there now. He and his wife raised their two kids there. They chose a Minneapolis suburb deliberately. Her family is there. They wanted to raise their children near relatives, surrounded by a community that once promised safety, stability, and opportunity.
Their family is interracial. Like many American families, they didn’t imagine that simply living their lives would one day feel politically charged.
But here we are.
ABC News has verified video of the moment an ICE agent opened fire, fatally shooting a woman behind the wheel of an SUV in Minneapolis.
The Department of Homeland Security said the woman was allegedly "attempting to run over our law enforcement officers." The mayor of Minneapolis, however, said the agent's actions were not self-defense.
The FBI is investigating the shooting.
When Fear Becomes Policy
Whenever violence erupts in a city, political leaders rush to simplify it: crime, borders, “law and order.” What gets lost—almost immediately—are the people who wake up wondering if their kids are safe walking to school, if their neighbors are being profiled, if fear itself has become a governing strategy.
Under the Trump administration, Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) has expanded far beyond its original scope—not just in authority, but in posture.
In many communities, ICE is no longer experienced simply as an immigration agency. It is felt as a force of intimidation:
- high-visibility raids
- plainclothes operations
- racial profiling
- collateral arrests that sweep up long-settled families
This isn’t abstract for communities of color. It’s lived reality.
Budgets Reveal Moral Priorities
Budgets are moral documents.
In recent years, ICE funding has surged into the tens of billions of dollars annually, making it one of the most heavily funded federal law enforcement agencies in the country. This includes money for detention centers, enforcement operations, surveillance technology, and expanded personnel.
All of this is paid for by taxpayers—including immigrants, children of immigrants, and working families who rely on underfunded schools, healthcare systems, and public services.
When massive sums are allocated to enforcement and intimidation while education, mental health, housing, and violence prevention remain under-resourced, the message is unmistakable:
Control is prioritized over care.
Violence Does Not Exist in a Vacuum
Acts of violence are the responsibility of those who commit them.
But the climate in which violence occurs matters.
When government leaders use language that dehumanizes immigrants, minorities, and political opponents—when entire communities are framed as threats—it lowers the social cost of cruelty. It normalizes suspicion. It trains people to see neighbors not as fellow Americans, but as problems to be dealt with.
This is especially dangerous in cities like Minneapolis, which already carry deep scars from over-policing, racial trauma, and unresolved injustice.
More enforcement does not automatically create more safety. More intimidation does not create trust. More fear does not heal communities.
A Filipino American Perspective
As a Filipino American, this pattern feels painfully familiar.
Our history teaches us what happens when power operates without accountability: colonial rule, militarized policing, surveillance justified as “order.”
Many of our parents and grandparents left systems like that behind, believing the United States was different—that here, government power was constrained by law and answerable to the people.
That promise feels increasingly fragile.
When immigration enforcement becomes theatrical and punitive rather than lawful and humane, it echoes histories we were told would never repeat here.
Families Caught in the Middle
What haunts me most isn’t the politics—it’s the families.
Parents trying to keep routines normal. Children absorbing fear they don’t yet have words for. Spouses wondering whether their interracial family makes them more visible, more vulnerable.
My former roommate’s family didn’t sign up to be symbols in a national debate. They just wanted a life.
No child should grow up thinking sirens, uniforms, or strangers at the door are normal features of democracy.
Choosing a Different Measure of Strength
A strong country does not need to terrorize families to function. A confident democracy does not blur the line between law enforcement and political theater. A just society does not confuse cruelty with control.
Real safety comes from trust, accountability, and restraint—especially from those who hold power.
Why I’m Writing This
I’m writing this because silence is also a choice. Because fear spreads faster than facts. Because families like my friend’s deserve better than to feel like collateral damage.
And because being Filipino American means carrying a history that reminds me: unchecked power always asks for more.
We don’t honor democracy by surrendering to fear. We protect it by insisting that humanity remains at the center of governance—especially when it’s hardest.
PinoyBuilt Community Reflection
If this post resonates with you, take a moment to check on someone you care about. Listen to the lived experiences behind the headlines. And remember: policy decisions ripple outward—into homes, schools, and childhoods. I texted my ex-college roommate.
Our stories matter. Our voices matter. Our humanity must remain non-negotiable.
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