Republican lawmakers are starting to break with the Trump administration over its immigration crackdown in Minneapolis, as the party scrambles to respond to growing public anger after two US citizens were killed by federal agents.
But even as some Republicans in Washington speak out against the fatal shootings, they've avoided directly criticising President Donald Trump or his broader immigration agenda.
The emerging messaging on Minneapolis points to the party's main dilemma heading into the midterm elections: whether and how to distance itself from the biggest controversies of Trump's second term, while running on his overall record on immigration and other issues - a record that's popular on the right, and that most Republicans helped push through Congress.
So far, Republicans have focused criticism on US Immigration and Customs Enforcement, or ICE - the agency at the forefront of the Minneapolis operation - and other agencies within the Department of Homeland Security taking part.
At the same time, Republicans have backed Trump's immigration plans since his return to the White House, but now avoid highlighting their support.
Last year, the Republican-controlled Congress approved roughly $45 billion for border security and additional funding for interior enforcement to help the administration carry out Trump's plan to deport millions of undocumented migrants from the country.
That support continued as opinion polls have consistently shown a majority of Americans believe ICE has gone too far in its tactics under Trump. A New York Times/Siena poll out last Friday found that 61 percent of voters believe ICE's tactics have 'gone too far.'
The survey came out two weeks after Renee Good, a US citizen, was fatally shot by a federal agent in Minneapolis, and one day before another American citizen, Alex Pretti, was killed by agents in the city, sparking nationwide protests.
Senator Rand Paul of Kentucky, the chairman of the Senate Committee on Homeland Security & Governmental Affairs, called on Monday for the leaders of ICE and two other federal agencies to testify before his panel next month. The request came alongside calls from other Senate Republicans for more oversight of ICE after Pretti's shooting.
Moderate Republicans like Lisa Murkowski aren't the only ones in the party criticising the immigration operation in Minnesota. In recent days some of Trump's allies in Congress also began speaking out against the shootings, though most issued carefully worded statements that didn't explicitly mention the president.
The growing criticisms from Republican lawmakers came as Trump shifted his own tone in recent days after more facts emerged about the circumstances surrounding Pretti's death. After the shooting, Trump initially called Pretti a 'gunman,' and other senior US officials claimed that he had turned up armed at an enforcement action. However, others have disputed that narrative, claiming Pretti was filming ICE agents with his phone.
Trump has since softened his rhetoric and taken steps to try and ease tensions in Minneapolis. This week, he sent White House border tsar Tom Homan to take over the operation there, a decision that marks a shakeup in leadership amid escalating concerns.
![Caterers, Countless Lives: Detroit Chef's Food Feeds Lebanon's War‑Torn Families","description":"In the suburbs of Dearborn Heights, a 47‑year‑old Lebanese chef turns her catering profits into lifelines for over a million displaced from Lebanon, illustrating how U.S. diaspora communities bridge crises from afar.","summary":"When war in southern Lebanon breaks out, hundreds of thousands flee to neighboring Israel and the United States. Amid rising costs, Mirvet Makki—Detroit‑based caterer—sets aside a portion of her earnings each week to sponsor families back home. Her culinary endeavor, which serves soured couscous stews and savory kibbeh, becomes a quiet lifeline for a nation in economic crisis. The problem mirrors a larger diaspora trend: U.S. Lebanese communities fund relief, rally politically, and keep cultural bonds alive, even as they watch conflict unfold from afar.","image":"https://images.unsplash.com/photo-1588097834006-0edc6c69d944?auto=format&fit=crop&w=640&q=80","text":"<p>In the Detroit suburb of Dearborn Heights, 47‑year‑old Mirvet Makki punches kitchen knives and pushes trays of fragrant Lebanese dishes, the same dishes that stir memories of her childhood village in Bint Jbeil. When the devastating war between Israel and Hezbollah dragged thousands of civilians into tent cities, a wave of refugees hit Lebanon’s southern coast—and the Lebanese diaspora in America felt a pull they could not ignore.</p><p>Every week, Makki allocates a slice of her catering profits to families in Lebanon devastated by aerial bombardments and land mines. She says the money is not a charitable donation in the truest sense. Rather, it is a trans‑national family budget trickle that keeps aunts and cousins fed while they await a return that may never happen. The funds travel across borders to a people whose homes have been reduced to rubble.</p><p>Lebanon’s displacement crisis has reached a scale previously thought unlikely: more than one million of the 6‑million‑strong population—roughly one in six—have fled their homes. The economic damage is brutal and the currency has weakened to the point that the U.S. dollar circulates in many rural markets. Food cost, fuel availability, and basic utilities have all collapsed, leaving communities hungry and desperate.</p><p>“I was thinking, ‘What can I do for other people?’” Makki says. “So I used my business.” She maintains a strict budget, limiting personal overhead to spare enough money for her sisters, nephews, and a small handful of friends who live in the most affected regions.</p><p>Many Lebanese Americans—some of them in the U.S. since the late 1800s—have become the de facto financial lifeline for Lebanon. According to the last census, roughly 625,000 Lebanese‑American residents live in the United States now, though many estimates claim the number could be as high as 1.4 million. Secretary‑General António Guterres shook hands with families in South Lebanon while speaking in Nairobi, underscoring how diaspora remittances are crucial to the country's survival.</p><p>Christians, Sunni and Shiite Muslims, and smaller Druze communities in Lebanon face distinct hardships, but their U.S. cousins unite over common concerns. When the U.S. voted to provide war aid to Israel, a wave of Lebanese Americans gathered around the “uncommitted movement” to protest, and the community also rallied to condemn a Michigan synagogue shooting. These political coalitions share a single aim: to be the voice and the hand for those who cannot lift themselves.</p><p>“When they see suffering in Lebanon, people’s immediate reaction … is for the community to come together, raise funds, raise money, and try to help everybody as much as they can,” says Akram Khater, director of Lebanese Diaspora Studies at North Carolina State University. “Most rely on one another – they are not looking to Washington for the furniture to rebuild.”</p><p>In February, Makki visited her homeland. She saw how the price of living had skyrocketed: a car rental that once cost $200 would now be a luxury. She felt the loss firsthand in a small roadside food stall that had dwindled to a single dish. That trip cemented her determination to channel her income back to Lebanon.</p><p>Some Americans are moving beyond bank transfers; they meet with families on video calls and, when possible, travel to Lebanon themselves to deliver goods or give a hands‑on hand. Nadia Bryant, a 37‑year‑old mother of Troy, Michigan, sends money to her sisters in temporary housing after their village of Ayta ash‑Shab was invaded. “They donated in direct form to orphans,” she says. “They do not even ask to put the money toward their own betterment.”</p><p>While the U.S. still cannot process immigrant visas for Lebanese nationals due to congressional stand‑by, many families despair. Attoui, a Detroit‑based fundraiser, has urged her relatives to immigrate. They are unwilling. “I have all my aunts and my cousins over there,” Attoui says. “So if you could bring [people] here, that would be a relief.”</p><p>Despite the personal losses and cultural distance, the Lebanese diaspora in the U.S. remains fiercely alive. They keep the poise of their homeland, raise money, and stand together in protest. As the war stretches on, the warmth of a pot of stew and the generosity of a family’s earnings become a quiet, daily rebellion against impossible hunger.</p>](/m/d1/2a/d12a9a3593712ff0281d85ddca1a552c8f027c57cb44d7ac67e0241a3bd37d9d/o.webp)
