When Violence Becomes the Language, We All Lose

I never imagined that going to work would feel like an act of bravery.

Yet here I am—living in Minnesota, watching the news, listening to the shouting, the anger, the justifications—and quietly wondering if today is the day someone decides my life is collateral damage in their fight. That fear is not hypothetical. It is real, heavy, and exhausting. And it should not be dismissed.

Let me be clear from the beginning: I condemn all violence. Full stop.

Not just the violence I disagree with. Not just the violence that makes the headlines. All of it.

What troubles me deeply is the hypocrisy unfolding before our eyes. Some protesters loudly condemn violence by ICE agents—and there are legitimate, serious conversations to be had about accountability, training, use of force, and humane enforcement. Those conversations matter. But they are immediately undermined when the same voices excuse, minimize, or outright justify violence carried out by protesters themselves.

You cannot condemn violence with one hand while throwing a punch with the other. You cannot demand safety, dignity, and humanity while denying those same rights to others. Violence does not become moral simply because you believe your cause is righteous.

When rocks are thrown.

When people are shoved, assaulted, or threatened.

When intimidation becomes a tactic.

The message stops being about justice and becomes about control.

And people like me—ordinary workers, public servants, neighbors—become trapped in the middle.

I don’t wear a uniform. I don’t carry a badge or a sign. I am not part of any enforcement action or protest movement. I simply go to work, do my job, and try to contribute quietly to the functioning of our community. Yet lately, that feels dangerous. I find myself scanning crowds, listening for raised voices, watching exits. I think about what I would do if something went wrong. I think about whether today is worth the risk.

No one should feel this way.

Not protesters.

Not federal agents.

Not state or county employees.

Not the public.

Fear should never be the cost of civic life.

What has been lost in all this noise is a basic truth: violence hardens hearts; it does not open minds. It does not persuade. It does not heal. It does not build change that lasts. Violence only escalates—each act feeding the next, each justification making the next one easier.

History has shown us this again and again.

And yet, here we are—reliving the same cycle. Rage answered with rage. Force met with force. Each side convinced they are responding rather than provoking.

Meanwhile, trust erodes. Civility collapses. And the space for thoughtful dialogue disappears entirely.

I am tired of the false choice we are being offered—the idea that we must pick a “side” and excuse whatever that side does in the name of victory. That is not justice. That is tribalism. And it is tearing us apart.

It is possible—necessary, even—to hold multiple truths at once:

You can believe that immigration enforcement must be humane, accountable, and lawful.

You can believe that abuse of power should never be ignored.

You can believe in the right to protest and to speak out passionately.

And still condemn violence—without caveats, without excuses.

Peaceful protest has changed the world. Violence has only ever scarred it.

I worry about where this path leads. I worry about the normalization of intimidation, the casual way threats are dismissed, the speed with which empathy disappears when someone is labeled “the other.” I worry about what we are teaching our children—that anger justifies harm, that fear is an acceptable weapon, that safety is conditional.

Most of all, I worry about how small my world has become.

I should be thinking about my work, my family, my faith, the quiet moments that make life meaningful. Instead, I am calculating risk. I am bracing myself emotionally before stepping into public spaces. I am wondering whether tomorrow will be worse than today.

That is not freedom. That is not progress.

I long for a return to something better—not perfect, but better. A place where disagreement does not require dehumanization. Where protest does not require violence. Where accountability does not come at the cost of safety. Where we remember that every person caught in this chaos—on every side—is a human being first.

We cannot shout our way to peace.

We cannot strike our way to justice.

We cannot terrify one another into a better future.

If we truly care about change, then our methods must reflect the world we are trying to build. One rooted in dignity. In restraint. In courage that chooses nonviolence even when anger feels easier.

I condemn all violence because I believe in something higher than rage. I believe that fear should never be normalized. I believe that no one should dread going to work or walking down the street because of someone else’s cause.

And I believe—quietly but fiercely—that we are capable of better than this.