The rain fell cold and relentless on January 7, 2026, mirroring the grief and anger that erupted after the death of Renee Good. In the days that followed, a space took shape in south Minneapolis, near Portland Avenue and East 34th Street – a defiant assertion of control born from tragedy, just a mile from the site of another searing loss.
Activists, fueled by outrage, began constructing barricades. Trash bins, discarded Christmas trees, anything they could find became obstacles, defining a perimeter. A stark message was displayed: “Federal agents not permitted on premises.” This wasn’t simply a protest; it was a declared no-go zone for authority, guarded by those who had appointed themselves its protectors.
The makeshift zone quickly disrupted the lives of residents, blocking streets and access to homes. A yurt, delivered by the Twin Cities-based Autonomous Yurts Union, offered scant shelter from the elements for those maintaining the barricades. But the fragile autonomy wouldn’t last.
Before dawn on January 9th, Minneapolis police moved in. Officers in riot gear dismantled the obstructions, responding to desperate pleas from those trapped within the zone. Safety was paramount, officials stated, emphasizing the critical need for emergency services to have unimpeded access. The zone dissolved, leaving behind a lingering tension.
This wasn’t an isolated incident. Minneapolis had witnessed this before, a haunting echo of the “Free State of George Floyd” established after the death of George Floyd in 2020. For over a year, East 38th Street and Chicago Avenue were under the control of activists, marked by barricades and guarded by self-proclaimed “guardians.”
The atmosphere within the “Free State” quickly deteriorated. Crime surged, and a disturbing pattern emerged: police were actively discouraged from entering the zone, even during high-speed chases. One recording revealed a supervisor ordering officers to abandon pursuit of a suspect speeding at 70 mph, fearing confrontation within the occupied territory.
The consequences were devastating. In 2020, nineteen people were shot – fatally and non-fatally – in the George Floyd Square area, a stark contrast to the three shootings recorded the previous year. Evidence was routinely destroyed at the barricades, hindering investigations and shielding perpetrators. The occupation, some warned, had become a haven for criminal activity.
Minneapolis wasn’t alone. Across the country, similar episodes unfolded. Seattle’s CHOP/CHAZ, born from police abandonment of a precinct, lasted 23 days and ended in violence, claiming the lives of two young men. The city ultimately faced millions in legal costs and settlements with affected residents and businesses.
New York City saw a “No Pig Zone” erected near City Hall, coinciding with a dramatic cut to the NYPD budget. Washington D.C., Portland, Philadelphia, and other cities experienced similar attempts at autonomous zones, most quickly dismantled. A pattern was emerging – a volatile mix of protest, occupation, and escalating crime.
The phenomenon resurfaced in a new form in 2025, this time on college campuses. At Columbia University, protesters seized Butler Library, renaming it the “Basel Al-Araj Popular University” and displaying Palestinian flags. The occupation ended with arrests, followed by severe disciplinary action against dozens of students.
Similar actions spread to other institutions – Bowdoin, Barnard, Swarthmore, Brooklyn College – each marked by declarations of “liberation zones” and confrontations with authorities. The echoes of Minneapolis and Seattle resonated, raising profound questions about the limits of protest and the fragility of public order.
