Where We've Been
Ella is a 21-year-old Cambodian American who fights for what is just. Her story about the largest mass arrest in Minnesota history shows what community and solidarity can look like.
Ella's Story
It was the largest mass arrest in Minnesota’s history. I was 18 and a freshman in college.
November 4, 2020—the day right after the presidential election.
It was a protest for stopping hate against Asian Americans. It was a protest for Black Lives Matter, for health equity, for not having Trump be president and holding Biden accountable for doing the work. It was huge. Over 700 people from social justice organizations, local colleges, and neighborhoods filled the downtown streets of Minneapolis.
I was one of the speakers for the protest. It was my first large speech in front of a crowd, and the light shone brightly on me. The cheers and hoots and claps filled the air. Excitement and promise welled up in me as the applause echoed my words. I had a good feeling about this protest.
We started marching down the street and down to the highway entrance, where we had planned to demonstrate for 10 minutes with permission of the city. We proceeded onto the pavement waving our signs and pumping our music loudly. Then, the parade marshal said, “There’s cops.” Before you know it, we got wrangled up like cattle and I was getting arrested.
There were so many cops like I’ve never seen before. Hundreds and hundreds of cops. They came on their bikes and their motorcycles and their horses. They brutalized people, using their horses to kick them and pull them down to keep them from escaping. People got pepper sprayed and maced. Minors, young people, adults, elderly people—all mishandled! They threatened the residents right off the highway saying, “If you film this, then you’re going to get into trouble.” A young kid got separated from his mom.
Just try to be positive. Just try to be happy. I told myself. We’re cool. I’m not alone. I’m with my friends. But I wasn’t sure what to do. I was two months into college, and I was getting arrested.
I turned and unexpectedly saw my high school teacher through the crowd. A rush of relief and solidarity spread through my body. Despite the police and everything that was happening, people were dancing. We were jamming to music and having fun. Despite the armed officers trying to detain us, we were in community. All 646 of us.
Amidst the arrest, I shot an email off to my professor:
Hey Professor Jones,
I don’t know if I will be in class tomorrow. I’m at a protest and getting arrested right now, so I don’t know what’s going to happen next. I don’t know if I’m going to be able to do some of my work either. Let me know what I should do.
Ella
My professor emailed me back right away:
Hi Ella,
I’ve been keeping up on the news and watching what’s going on. Don’t worry about class. If you need anything, let me know.
In solidarity,
Prof. Jones
With a brief sigh of relief, I shut my phone off and turned back to the crowd.
We were on the highway for so long. Five or six hours went by, and we were tired. In exhaustion, my friend and I volunteered to get arrested. We linked arms and walked to the front. I just wanted to be home. They gave us a whiteboard, wrote down our information, and took our mugshots. I smiled in my picture. “Starships” by Nicki Minaj played in the background. Then they let us go.
My friend’s sister picked us up in the nearby neighborhood and dropped us off at our dorms. It was the middle of the night, and we were past curfew. The two RAs were really cool about it when we told them what happened. I made my way to my room and went straight to sleep. The next morning, I woke up and my messages were flooded. Everyone wondered if I was okay.
I was charged with a misdemeanor and a petty misdemeanor. I was fine, but I was angry. The state didn’t care about us or our issues, and the mass arrest proved that. A couple days later, I was back at it with my people, protesting about our charges.
My student group got a lawyer. We were one of the first few cases to go to trial, so the community was watching us. Four virtual court dates later and I was tired of fighting it. I thought, I’ll just take the community service hours and go. But then, it worked! The judge dismissed all charges. My record was clear.
About Ella
Ella, a third-year student studying Youth and Family Studies, grew up in poverty in Minnesota. She couldn’t have a comfortable life when she always felt like money was tight. On top of the stress of not having enough, she constantly felt pressured by her family to do well in school. Ella never felt close to her parents. As refugees, they faced significant trauma and loss during the war in Cambodia. Grief and family separation haunted them, and the pain felt as near now as it did in the 1970s. They spoke little of their time in refugee camps, as prisoners of war, and how they ended up in the suburbs of Minnesota.
There were barely any other Cambodians in her hometown, except for Ella’s closest friend Sophie. For years, Sophie begged Ella to come to her youth group at the Cambodian Buddhist temple. After much resistance, Ella finally caved. She was surprised by how cool the people were. She made friends from other towns, friends who were really connected to their Cambodian culture. She had mentors who were succeeding in life—going to school, graduating, getting married, and having children. It was amazing!
Only 12% of the Cambodian American population have a bachelor’s degree. For Ella to get a college degree was a big deal, and she was going to make the most of it. During her first two years of college, Ella joined the Asian American Union, made close friends at school, and survived the pandemic. She stood arm in arm with her Black friends during the Black Lives Matter protests while they supported her during Stop Asian Hate. She came face to face with what felt like the second Civil Rights Movement of the United States, happening right in her backyard.
Through it all, she realized what her Cambodian identity really meant. It wasn’t just about celebrating Lunar New Year and eating good food. It was about the barriers of being Southeast Asian: the data aggregation, war, genocide, immigration, refugeeism, and education disparities. It was about families, community, trauma, resilience, and history. It was about fighting for justice and making change where Asian Americans have been silenced and pushed aside.
Ella now works in politics and advocates on behalf of families and youth for a more equitable world. She works to end detention and deportation for Southeast Asian Americans and is passionate about the liberation of the Southeast Asian communities in the U.S.
For Ella, being Cambodian and Southeast Asian was about becoming—becoming vastly aware of all that has come before, all that shapes the present, and all that the future can be.
Photo from Minnevangelist
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