Miriam in Minneapolis: Lessons From Our Ancestors Amidst ICE Terror

As ICE agents terrorize my neighbors in Minneapolis, Jews across the country read the Exodus story. We retell the narrative of our freedom every year, plagues included. But this year is different. This year, Pharaoh is in the streets of Minneapolis, tackling teenagers and pepper-spraying journalists. Pharaoh kidnaps an entire painting crew at work. Pharaoh distributes fake flyers for food assistance at our elementary school to lure families into a trap. Pharaoh sits down for lunch, pays the bill, and then detains the kitchen staff.

This year, families hide in their homes—fearing the angel of death, or separation from their children, or eviction, or all of the above—without a mark over their doorposts to keep them safe.

At Tot Shabbat, my friend tells me about masked men pushing someone into an unmarked vehicle near the highway exit. I think about Shifra and Puah. Midwives who defied orders to save newborn babies deemed “illegal.”

On my way to daycare, I see a car abandoned in the middle of the street, presumably because its driver was detained by ICE. I think about Yocheved. A mother who risked everything for her child, praying the waters would carry him to safety.

While I eat lunch in my office, I see a photo of a five-year-old in blue bunny ears, moments before he was kidnapped by the government. I think about Miriam. A sister who hid in the reeds to deliver Moses amidst extreme danger.

On a cold Shabbat morning at home with my children, federal agents kill my neighbor Alex Pretti z”l a few blocks away. I think about Pharaoh’s daughter, who discovered a vulnerable newborn in the water and brought him into her arms with warmth.

So, when union workers come together to organize a massive General Strike, I imagine Shifra and Puah giving them strength and courage.

When my neighbors patrol street corners with bright vests and loud whistles, I see Yocheved’s legacy in their bravery.

When protestors bang their drums outside ICE agents’ hotel rooms, I hear Miriam’s voice in their song.

When mutual aid groups deliver groceries and provide rent relief to families in need, I am reminded of the compassion of Pharaoh’s daughter, who later changed her name to Batya, daughter of God, and joined arms with the Israelites across the Red Sea in a radical act of solidarity.

As our communities in Minnesota continue to face the plagues of ICE terror, I invite Jews around the country to join arms with our movement for liberation, wherever you are and however you can. May we find strength in our ancestors’ stories of courage, resistance, compassion, and solidarity. And, please God, may the sea soon split for our immigrant neighbors to live in freedom and safety.

To get involved, explore TCJewfolk's list of support efforts organized by local Twin Cities Jewish organizations and synagogues.