by Sudi Adow
Around this time last year, I was heading to St. Cloud for the LeadMN spring general assembly. I heard of the organization earlier that year and wanted to find any way I could get involved. There I was on the bus with my fellow RCTC senators, clinging onto my campaign flyers, wondering if I had a chance to win the presidential election I was running for.
Spoiler alert: I won.
I ran on a platform of ensuring tuition affordability and support for basic needs.
Those priorities shifted in December 2025, when ICE agents were deployed in our state. Suddenly students’ biggest concern wasn’t whether they could afford their class, but whether they could attend them. They were coming up to us with those fears and we saw this looming cloud of impending doom forming above their heads. One that we felt alongside them, wondering not if something would happen, but when.
I remember when I first saw this looming cloud above my mother’s head. She stopped me on my way out of the house, a panicked look on her face, asking me if I had my passport in my backpack. Carrying a passport without a plane ticket, luggage, or plans for a trip is something I never thought I would experience, but a privilege nonetheless.
This privilege was not afforded to my dear friend, who I will refer to as Zumba. It was the beginning of February, and Zumba, who I normally see at least once a week but hadn’t in a month, texted. I found out the mental health break he had been taking was due, in part, to the presence of ICE in our city. After his parents went back to Mexico in anticipation of the administration’s targeted pursuit of those that looked like them, his once lively home was now filled with silence. That familiar cloud had made its way above his head, as he felt helpless to the daunting reality of having no choice but to stop going to work.
This same cloud is felt by many students of color, not only in our city and state, but our country too. Later that month, I was given the opportunity to testify at the Capitol in St. Paul.
Leaving my house with a passport, as disheartening as it was, wasn’t a story I thought would leave a lasting impression on the Legislators. That’s when Zumba and I decided that his story, one of forced solitude, fear, and helplessness, was necessary to tell in order to emphasize the effect ICE had on people in our state.
Choosing to tell his story came at the risk of retaliation against him, which is why he has chosen to remain anonymous throughout the process. The following story is the testimony I had the privilege of giving on his behalf to the House Higher Education Finance and Policy Committee.