Opinion | I spent 8 hours detained at Whipple for observing ICE

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For weeks, people in Minneapolis had been rounded up by ICE and I’d seen the toll it was taking on my community. Some students were missing from my classroom, my dad (who is from Mexico) was afraid to leave home without his U.S. passport, and my neighbors and I had been grieving after the death of Renee Good.

So on Jan. 11, as protected by the Constitution, I decided to observe and document ICE activity in public spaces to help keep my community safe from further harm. When my friend Patty O’Keefe and I heard that ICE was using pepper spray on people filming them at 42nd St. and 16th Ave. in south Minneapolis, we decided to go there. We’d heard that there was safety in numbers, that ICE was less likely to use force if there were more witnesses.

When we arrived, we saw two unmarked SUVs blocking in another observer. It was the first time I’d ever seen ICE agents. Patty started honking and I rolled down my window and started blowing my whistle to encourage more people to document their actions.

The SUVs turned south onto 16th Avenue. We followed them for about 40 seconds. My heart was pounding. I took the whistle out of my mouth and tried to slow my breathing. The SUVs stopped and masked men got out and surrounded us.

“What are we doing to break the law?” Patty yelled. “We aren’t obstructing, you can move!” There were no cars ahead of them and the other observer cars were behind us. We held our hands in the air. They yelled at us and, apparently satisfied, they walked back to their vehicles.

“Renee Good. Renee Good,” I said.

An agent then grabbed pepper spray and methodically sprayed the intake vent on the front hood of our car. I coughed as the chemicals filled my throat. We followed for another 30 seconds and continued to honk. They decided to stop and surround us again.

“Car is in park! You can go forward!” Patty yelled. “We are not obstructing!`”

We put our hands in the air.

“Shut the [expletive] up!” an agent replied.

“Get the [expletive] out of the car!”

“Yes sir, coming out,” I said as calmly as I could, keeping my hands in the air. He jerked me out and slammed me against the car and handcuffed me.

He brought me to one of the unmarked SUVs. On the way, I saw people coming out of their houses, some recording.

“My name is Brandon Sigüenza, please tell my wife … ,” I told an onlooker. I didn’t have time to tell him her phone number.

I was then driven to the Whipple Federal Building at Fort Snelling. The two agents in my car didn’t speak to me, but the agents in Patty’s car took a picture of her, called her ugly, then told her: “You guys need to stop obstructing us, that’s why that lesbian bitch is dead.”

I was processed in an unheated garage, had shackles placed around my ankles, and was led to the U.S. citizens area of Whipple. My cell was a 10-by-10-foot room painted yellow with gray concrete benches. I was initially by myself, but a couple of other men were later brought in. I could hear screaming and crying from deeper in the facility. There was an intercom, but requests for water and bathroom breaks were ignored. So I pounded on the one-way mirror and asked agents passing by for assistance.

There was no system for meeting our basic needs. It was based on the whims of agents, so I begged. “Excuse me, please sir,” I pleaded once, banging on the window as an agent passed my cell. “My friend hasn’t eaten all day, he’s hungry.” I pointed to another U.S. citizen who was brought to the cell later.

“You and everyone else,” he responded and walked away.

We were eventually offered a turkey sandwich, fruit snacks (with gelatin) and a granola bar. I don’t eat meat, so I only ate the granola bar. After pestering them, I was also finally able to get someone to take me to the bathroom.

Waddling with my ankles shackled, I passed another hallway where I could see into a large holding area where at least 50 other people were being held. I passed another cell the same size as mine where a Hispanic man, seemingly desperate for stimulation, had his face pressed up against the observation glass. There were over a dozen people inside with him. They were silent. They had no room to lie down. Most of them were staring at the wall or at the floor, completely devoid of energy or hope.

At one point, I was brought into a room with three agents who vaguely offered to help me. After I pressed them, they said they could help family members of mine get into the country, or even give me money. They wanted to know the names of protest organizers and the names of undocumented people I might know.

“I just wanted to protect my neighbors,” I tried explaining.

“Oh, your neighbors? Where are they from?” one of them responded.

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After eight hours in detention at Whipple, I was finally released without charges. I was led out of the building and into an area where protesters had assembled outside. I was instructed to cross the street to the sidewalk. Then, for the second time that day, I was hit with a chemical irritant — tear gas, this time — and I was also struck by a projectile as ICE advanced on the protesters.

While sitting in my cell that day, I kept thinking to myself, “I need to get out of here, I can’t wait to go home.” But then I would pause, and remind myself that I probably would go home. The woman crying in the bathroom, the man with his face pushed against the glass, the man Patty heard yelling, “Let me out! Let me out! Let me out!” — they didn’t likely go home. I got to sleep in my bed that night, but I had a nightmare for the first time since I was a child.

I wrote a Facebook post about my experience, and a woman messaged me in response. She sent me a picture of her boyfriend who was rounded up, then shipped to El Paso. She asked if I’d seen him, and wanted to hear from me that he was OK. I wracked my brain, trying as hard as I could, trying to remember the faces I’d seen, but I could not remember him.

I put my phone down and cried. Next time I see ICE, I’ll be thinking of her grief as I blow my whistle.