MINNEAPOLIS — In the early morning chill of a Minneapolis neighborhood, Will Stancil idles in his gray Honda Fit, eyes scanning the streets for unmarked federal vehicles. For weeks, the 38-year-old policy researcher and online commentator has been at the forefront of a grassroots effort locals call 'commuting' — a term for tailing U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement agents through the city's Southside and Uptown areas. As ICE conducts what federal officials describe as routine enforcement operations amid a broader 'federal occupation' of the Twin Cities, Stancil and dozens of volunteers have turned their daily drives into acts of observation and resistance, recording arrests and agent interactions with cellphones.
Stancil's activities began gaining national attention in late 2024, shortly after he unsuccessfully ran for the Minnesota State House in District 61A. What started as sporadic sightings of ICE vans and SUVs has escalated into a community-wide mobilization, with residents using encrypted Signal group chats to coordinate patrols. According to participants, these efforts have documented what they term 'abductions' — sudden arrests of immigrants in broad daylight — and aggressive responses from agents, including the use of pepper spray and tear gas against observers. Stancil, who has faced such chemical agents multiple times, posts videos of these encounters on social media platforms like X and Bluesky, amassing followers who view him as an antihero challenging federal overreach.
But not everyone in Minneapolis applauds Stancil's high-profile approach. His invitation to journalists, including reporters from CNN, The Atlantic, New York Magazine, The Economist, the Guardian, the Financial Times, the Minnesota Reformer, Racket MN, Mpls. St. Paul Magazine, and the Toronto Star, led to his ouster from a key Uptown neighborhood Signal chat in early February 2025. Moderators cited a strict 'no press ever' rule, which Stancil claims he was never explicitly informed of. 'They said, “You broke the rule. The rule is no press ever.” I said, “No one’s ever told me that rule before,”' Stancil recounted during a recent ride-along. The incident sparked heated debates online, with some accusing him of poor operational security, or OPSEC, that could endanger the broader network.
The federal presence in Minneapolis stems from heightened immigration enforcement under the current administration, which has labeled anti-ICE activities as potential 'domestic terrorism.' Officials from the Department of Homeland Security have arrested dozens of protesters, including Renee Good and Alex Pretti, on federal charges. In a move that has fueled local paranoia, DHS subpoenaed Google, Meta, Discord, and Reddit for user data related to ICE tracking groups, seeking names, email addresses, phone numbers, and other details. Federal agents, reportedly disguising their vehicles with bumper stickers and bike racks to evade detection, have been spotted in unconventional rides like a Chevy Silverado — a vehicle Stancil described as his 'white whale' after multiple sightings.
During a pre-dawn patrol on February 10, 2025, in the Southside neighborhood — after Stancil gained access to a more media-friendly Signal group — he navigated unfamiliar streets with a mix of determination and haste. Accompanied by observers, he sped through yellow lights and occasionally ran reds, a stark contrast to the rule-abiding norms of Minnesotans. 'It’s a very Minneapolitan thing,' Stancil said, 'to be like, “I’m chasing a federal agent but there’s a yellow light. Oh no, I have to stop!”' The drive, lasting about an hour and a half, yielded no major sightings that morning, allowing Stancil to reflect on past encounters, including one where he and former New York City Comptroller Brad Lander approached the Silverado and spotted tactical gear inside before the agents sped away.
Stancil's critics within the activist community argue that his visibility undermines the low-key strategy preferred by many. One organizer, speaking on condition of anonymity, expressed concern that Stancil's media engagements could provoke harsher federal responses. Others worry his erratic driving and public posts invite retaliation, potentially doxxing participants. In early February, a video surfaced online showing Stancil being punched by a group of masked individuals during a confrontation. In the footage, Stancil is heard saying, 'Shut up, man. I’ve done so — I’ve done a lot more than you have,' before the altercation escalates. The incident's origins remain unclear, but it highlighted simmering tensions among those united against ICE but divided on tactics.
Despite the friction, Stancil emphasizes the unifying power of the federal incursion. Before ICE's increased presence, he noted, Minneapolis was rife with 'horrible factional infighting' among leftists, liberals, and moderates. Now, he said, 'I know for a fact people who previously hated each other’s guts and are now working together.' He cited a prominent moderate Democrat whose social media posts now echo Democratic Socialists of America rhetoric, and even former detractors approaching him with apologies. 'Even with me,' Stancil added, 'I’ve had people come to me like, “You know, I’ve said some things [about you].” And it’s like, I don’t care. Who cares? I don’t even remember. Set it aside.'
This coalition includes unexpected allies, such as what one organizer called 'Edina wine moms' — suburban liberals unaccustomed to street-level activism — joining patrols alongside anarchists and socialists. Events like a thank-you gathering at the Uptown Minneapolis VFW, hosted by Rep. Ilhan Omar in early February, brought together volunteers for tacos, drinks, and dancing to celebrate their efforts. Stancil attended, mingling with figures like Brad Lander, whom he invited on a patrol. Yet, the unity has limits; Stancil's removal from the Uptown chat left him feeling disconnected from his own neighbors. 'One reason I’m a little sad about getting kicked out of the group, and this is corny as all get out, is that there’s something about, they’re coming for my neighbors,' he said. 'They’re coming from my part of town.'
Stancil's background as a combative online figure — known for debates on school desegregation, clashes with white supremacists on X, and arguments with leftists on Bluesky — has amplified his role but also the backlash. Some locals encountered him for the first time at community events, surprised by his boyish appearance and earnest demeanor. He denies seeking attention for political gain, despite speculation tied to his 2024 campaign loss. 'I’m not saying, “Look at me!” It’s really not about that,' he insisted. Instead, he frames commuting as essential documentation: armed only with a phone against agents' weapons, volunteers create a public record of alleged abuses.
The scale of the response is notable. Hundreds, if not thousands, participate daily across neighborhoods, relying on sheer numbers rather than sophisticated tactics. Stancil acknowledges the method's flaws: 'This is exhausting, inefficient, there’s a lot of false positives, a lot of people get away.' He argues it's a makeshift solution because 'more traditional mechanisms have broken down here or aren’t available for us.' On slower days like the February 10 patrol, the futility is evident — circles driven in vain, suspicions raised by innocuous cars, such as an SUV with a lone smoker inside. Yet, persistence paid off briefly when Stancil spotted a blue-tinted Silverado, leading to a frantic U-turn and chase through traffic, though the vehicle escaped.
Beyond Stancil, the anti-ICE efforts have drawn scrutiny from federal authorities, who view coordinated tracking as a criminal enterprise. Arrests continue, with more expected as subpoenas yield data. Local paranoia is compounded by agents' subterfuge, like writing 'NOT ICE' on vans to mislead spotters. Community leaders, wary of escalation, urge discretion, but Stancil maintains that transparency strengthens the cause. His supporters see his openness as vital for awareness; detractors fear it invites crackdowns.
As winter lingers in the Twin Cities, the commuting phenomenon shows no signs of abating. Rep. Omar and other officials have called for federal restraint, while organizers plan expansions to suburbs. Stancil, undeterred by his chat ban or physical altercations, continues patrols, embodying the city's defiant spirit. Whether his approach ultimately aids or hampers the resistance remains a point of contention, but for now, it underscores a community grappling with intrusion on its streets. The long-term viability of such vigilantism, as Stancil notes, is questionable — 'you can’t have 5,000 people a day randomly patrolling their neighborhoods' — yet in Minneapolis, it's the response at hand.
The federal occupation, which intensified in late 2024, has transformed quiet commutes into high-stakes pursuits, blending everyday life with activism. As one volunteer put it off the record, the effort fosters a sense of reclaimed agency in a city under siege. Looking ahead, legal challenges to DHS actions loom, alongside potential policy shifts. For Stancil and his peers, the morning drives persist, a testament to resilience amid division.