From ICE raids in Minneapolis to Israeli military policy and shifting U.S. arms strategies, the link between local and global struggles against systems that normalize killing without consequence becomes prominent.

By Ruby Darwish

Renee Good’s death echoes the fate of countless Palestinians who have been killed by state forces operating within legal and political systems built to protect those who wield violence, not those who suffer from it. Her life ended not only at the hands of an agent, but within a broader structure that consistently shields authority from meaningful accountability.

On January 7, ICE agents fired three shots through the window of Good’s car in Minneapolis as she appeared to be driving away. Emergency responders were reportedly held back for fifteen minutes while she bled in the driver’s seat beside her partner. Within hours, Homeland Security Secretary Kristi Noem described Good as a “domestic terrorist,” framing the shooting as an act of self-defense against a woman accused of trying to run over a federal agent.

That storyline follows a familiar script. Israeli authorities have long employed similar narratives when Palestinians are killed. On December 6, in Hebron in the occupied West Bank, 17-year-old Ahmad Rajabi was ordered to stop his car. He did. He was shot and killed anyway. Medics were blocked from reaching him, and emergency crews were reportedly fired upon. Rajabi’s name joins a long list of people whose deaths were quickly reframed as security incidents rather than killings.

Critics argue that ICE and the Israeli military draw from a shared model of power, one rooted in militarization, racialized control, and political systems that prioritize force while insulating agents and soldiers from consequences. As legal scholar Noura Erakat has described, the tactics of occupation abroad eventually “boomerang” back into domestic governance.

Labeling the dead as “terrorists” or “threats” shifts responsibility away from those who use lethal force. In Israel, Palestinians killed at checkpoints are routinely described as attackers, journalists shot while clearly identified as press are accused of collaborating with militants, and even children are framed as imminent dangers. In the United States, similar language is used to justify deadly encounters with immigrants and protesters. In both cases, critics say, the rhetoric turns victims into perpetrators and violence into policy.

But this architecture of control is not sustained by weapons alone. It is also built on money, technology, and political strategy that bind U.S. and Israeli security systems together.

Palantir provides ICE with platforms that track immigrants and accelerate deportations, while also supplying Israeli forces with data-driven systems used in military targeting. Israeli defense firms such as Elbit and Paragon sell surveillance tools, radar, and spyware to U.S. agencies. Law enforcement exchanges, sponsored by organizations like the Anti-Defamation League, send American police to Israel to study checkpoint operations, crowd suppression, and population-wide security tactics.

At the same time, the financial relationship between Washington and Tel Aviv is shifting in ways that may further entrench this system. Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu recently announced his intention to reduce Israel’s reliance on U.S. military aid over the next decade. While framed as a move toward independence, analysts note that it could allow Israel to sidestep legal restrictions tied to American grant funding and rely instead on direct arms purchases and joint military projects.

Under this model, U.S. corporations would continue to profit from weapons sales, technology transfers, and co-development programs, even as Israel avoids some of the political and legal scrutiny that comes with receiving taxpayer-funded aid. For critics, this represents not a break in the relationship, but a restructuring of it—one that preserves the flow of weapons, capital, and diplomatic protection while reducing the political costs for both governments.

Legal immunity also links the two systems. In the United States, qualified immunity makes it extraordinarily difficult to hold law enforcement accountable for deadly actions. In Israel, internal military investigations into civilian deaths are frequently opened and quietly closed, with prosecutions rare. High-profile cases, like the killing of journalist Shireen Abu Akleh, illustrate how accountability often dissolves before reaching a courtroom.

Renee Good’s killing is not an isolated incident. At least thirty people died in ICE custody in 2025 alone, making it the deadliest year for detainees in more than two decades. Many of those names never became public. While ICE is often associated with recent administrations, its expansion into a heavily funded, increasingly militarized force spans both major U.S. political parties.

With a projected budget of $170 billion over four years, ICE now rivals national militaries in scale. Critics argue that its mission—detention, deportation, and intimidation—turns survival into a conditional privilege, reserved for those who fit within narrowing definitions of belonging.

Meanwhile, Israel’s own shift away from formal U.S. aid may further insulate it from political pressure. By moving toward arms sales and corporate partnerships instead of grants, Israel and its allies in Washington can blunt opposition that has increasingly focused on the idea that American taxpayers are directly funding Israeli military actions. The weapons will still flow, critics say, but the accountability will grow even thinner.

Renee Good and Ahmad Rajabi, separated by geography but linked by circumstance, died within systems that treated their lives as expendable and were designed to protect those who wielded lethal power.

Justice, the argument goes, does not arrive on its own. It must be demanded. That means pressing for prosecution of the agent who killed Renee Good under Minnesota law. It means organizing to defund and dismantle ICE rather than attempting to reform what many see as an institution built on coercion and harm.

It means recognizing that the struggle against occupation, militarization, and political impunity is interconnected. From Minneapolis to Palestine, critics argue, the same machinery of power, profit, and protection is at work. Unless it is confronted and dismantled, it will continue to expand, reshaping politics, law, and lives in its path—and leaving more names behind in its wake.