“I’m From the Government, and I’m Here to Help.”
Graphic by Angie Li
Perhaps Ronald Reagan was right all along when he jokingly said, “The nine most terrifying words in the English language are: I’m from the government, and I’m here to help.”
ICU nurse Alex Pretti, as well as writer and poet Renee Good, were killed in the streets of Minneapolis in Jan. by ICE and United States Customs and Border Protection officers, respectively. Some members of the Trump administration have attempted to mislead the American public, such as United States Secretary of Homeland Security Kristi Noem, who described Good as a “domestic terrorist,” and Homeland Security advisor Stephen Miller, who labeled Pretti an “assassin.”
But I know what I saw, and so do you.
What about an unarmed man, held to the ground by a multitude of federal agents, screams “assassin?” What about a scared mother reacting to conflicting instructions screams “domestic terrorist?” I ask because language, with its definitions and associations, matters.
When I think of a domestic terrorist, I think of people hiding behind masks with assault rifles, spreading fear amongst the populace. I do not think of an ICU nurse who dedicated his life in service to others, nor a scared creative who simply was in the wrong place at the wrong time.
I strive to write balanced articles, giving credence to both sides of the argument, but in this case, I cannot contradict the truth. While there is unrest in the streets, a larger war is being waged against the very concept of truth in this nation. The President routinely tweets, posts on Truth Social, or makes blatantly untrue statements, which he attempts to present as facts. These comments are eagerly retweeted, praised, and regurgitated by his cabal of cronies.
In the 2021 political satire “Don’t Look Up,” Leonardo DiCaprio’s character Randall emphatically declares, “the President of the United States is FUCKING LYING.” But what was once dark comedy is no longer satirical—it now reflects a depressing reality.
In Minneapolis, unjust death lurks at street corners, and vigils have become a permanent fixture on the calendar. The city has become a symbol of this country’s failure to protect its own people.
The violence with which the federal government has carried out its operations in Minneapolis is frightening. So too is their certainty they are insulated from accountability, emboldening them to act without fear of consequences. That sort of damaging rhetoric and conduct not only deepens public fear and mistrust in the government but also signals a troubling shift towards excusing unchecked power.
Though Vice President JD Vance has since retracted the statement, he previously said that the ICE officer involved in the killing of Renee Good was “protected by absolute immunity” and “doing his job.” Even conceptually invoking absolute immunity in this context is terrifying. The implication that state violence can be morally or legally pre-justified is un-American, and its mere suggestion should make us question the extent to which power and accountability have distanced themselves.
Furthermore, the Vice President’s invocation of “absolute immunity” speaks directly to the dangerous kind of certainty Cardinal Lawrence warns against in the 2024 political thriller “Conclave.” Lawrence, played by Ralph Fiennes, delivers a pivotal speech to his fellow cardinals as they prepare to select the new pope. Lawrence cautions against certainty and argues that it is important that the future pope must embrace doubt; otherwise, without doubt there can be no faith.
This sentiment, that embracing skepticism is essential to growth, applies well beyond its religious context and speaks to the idea of the danger of this concept of “absolute immunity.” When those who wield state power believe themselves to be protected unquestionably, they become living proof of Lawrence’s warning that “Certainty is the great enemy of unity.” Unity requires compromise, but when there is none, and dissenting voices are met with tear gas and rubber bullets, it only serves to breed more division in a country already, arguably, pulling itself apart across economic, racial, and political lines.
Lawrence ends his impassioned plea with the words, “Let us pray that God will grant us a pope who doubts.” I share this sentiment—in the civic sense. We need leaders who doubt and officials who hesitate. The dismissal of Gregory Bovino, a controversial leader within Border Patrol, and Trump’s change in rhetoric with regard to ICE operations in Minnesota are not examples of doubt or atonement for past sins, but capitulations to political and PR pressure. True doubt would mean officers now trained for de-escalation, not domination, coupled with a clear, holistic immigration vision not rooted in an approach characterized by aggression.
The question we must reckon with is not whether Minneapolis will heal. It has healed before and will again. The question, rather, is whether we can build a government willing to change before another city must hold candlelit vigils for its sons and daughters killed at the hands of overzealous, undertrained federal officers.
The administration says these operations make the country a safer place, using buzzwords like “illegal alien” and “enemies from within.” They will ask for your trust, but you’ve seen what their demand for trust, and their certainty of safety, have led to.
Reagan’s nine terrifying words weren’t wrong, just incomplete. True terror isn’t found when you hear the words “I’m from the Government, and I’m here to help,” but when masked men with assault rifles show up to your door and say, “I’m from the Government, I’m here to help, and I’m absolutely certain I’m right.”
Noah Basden ’29 (nhbasden@college.harvard.edu) hopes this is all a bad dream.