In brief
With the visibility of federal immigration officers increasing in Minnesota, parents of immigrant children are forced to make difficult choices about their children's education. Giancarlo, who still goes to school, represents many families wrestling with fear, faith, and the desire for a normal childhood amidst a backdrop of increased surveillance and detentions. School attendance has plummeted, with community efforts responding to unprecedented absenteeism due to fears surrounding ICE operations.
MINNEAPOLIS (AP) — In some ways, 10-year-old Giancarlo is one of the lucky ones. He still goes to school.
Each morning, he and his family bundle up and leave their Minneapolis apartment to wait for his bus. His little brother hefts on his backpack, even though he stopped going to day care weeks ago because his mom is too afraid to take him.
As they wait behind a wrought-iron fence, Giancarlo's mother pulls the boys into the shadow of a tree to pray. It's the only time she stops scanning the street for immigration agents.
“God, please protect my son when he’s not at home,” she says in Spanish. She spoke with The Associated Press on condition of partial anonymity for the family, because she fears being targeted by immigration authorities.
For many immigrant families in Minnesota, sending a child to school requires faith that federal immigration officers deployed around the state won’t detain them. Thousands of children are staying home, often for lack of door-to-door transportation — or simply trust.
The fear has turned into reality. Many parents and some children have been detained, including 5-year-old Liam Conejo Ramos, who with his father, originally from Ecuador, was taken into custody in the Minneapolis suburb of Columbia Heights as he was arriving home from school. They were sent to a detention facility in Texas but returned after a judge ordered their release.
Schools, parents and community groups have mobilized to help students get to class so they can learn, socialize and have steady access to meals. And for those who are still sending their children, the trip to and from school is one of the only risks they’re willing to take.
“I don’t feel safe with him going to school,” Giancarlo's mother said, shaking her head. “But every day he wakes up and wants to go. He wants to be with his friends.”
Giancarlo’s Minneapolis elementary school is the best thing going for him these days. There’s soccer to play at recess. The recorder to learn. Giancarlo has set his eyes on learning the flute next year when fifth graders choose an instrument. He has “demasiado” — “too many” — best friends to name.
But his mother and brother’s home confinement weighs on him. He saves half the food he gets at school breakfast and lunch to share with them, and he’s lost four pounds this year. He takes extra care to bring pizza or hamburgers, treats the family used to eat in restaurants when his mom, an asylum-seeker from Latin America, was still working and they felt safe leaving the house. Giancarlo has also applied for asylum and his brother, Yair, has U.S. citizenship.
Sometimes only seven of Giancarlo’s classmates show up when there should be close to 30. “The teachers cry,” he said. “It’s sad.”
With as many as 3,000 federal officers roaming the state this year, some immigrant parents have made a bet that their children are safer riding or walking with white Minnesotans who were strangers just weeks ago — rather than in their own cars or while holding their hands.
Toward the back of the line, second grade teacher Jenna Scott chatted with a former student, now a third grader. She tried to keep the conversation light.
“I’m so excited to see your house,” Scott told her.
“Have you signed up for parent-teacher conference?”
“No, miss. ICE,” the girl said.
“I know. Tell your parents you can do it online this time.”
The day before, Argueta said, they were walking the students home when they heard cars honking to warn that immigration agents were nearby. One little girl who was walking ahead started to panic and ran back toward Argueta.
“ICE viene,” or “ICE is coming,” she yelled.
He took her hand and kept walking. She asked if he was afraid.
No, he said.
She asked if he had papers, if he was in the country legally. Argueta has a green card and permission to work, but he lied. He told her he didn’t, so she wouldn’t feel alone.
Her hand relaxed in his. She smiled again.
Valley View Elementary School principal Jason Kuhlman delivers food donations to families from the school Tuesday, Feb. 3, 2026, in Columbia Heights, Minn. (AP Photo/Liam James Doyle)
