“A Little Rough This Morning”: The Oklahoma Raid No One Will Own

They came in the dark. Twenty armed men. Faces hard. Rifles raised.

They said they were the law.

They said they had a warrant.

They didn’t have the right house.

They didn’t care.

On Thursday, April 24, 2025, in a quiet neighborhood in Oklahoma City, a U.S. citizen named Marisa and her three daughters were violently pulled from sleep by men claiming to be federal agents. ICE. The FBI. The U.S. Marshals. The names shifted, the threats didn’t. They ordered the family out of bed and out of their home — into the cold morning rain — in their undergarments. Rifles trained. Questions barked. No time to dress. No concern that one of the girls was a minor. No pause to reconsider the name on the warrant that didn’t match anyone who lived there. The family had only just moved in two weeks prior.

The men ransacked the house. They took every phone, every laptop, and the family’s life savings in cash — money they’d carried across the country to start over. When Marisa, drenched and humiliated, begged for her phone back so she could find food for her kids, one of the men looked at her and said, with all the smugness of a man who knows he’ll never be held accountable, “I know it was a little rough this morning.”

And then they left.

No names.

No paperwork.

No receipts.

No apologies.

The FBI says it wasn’t them. The U.S. Marshals say the same. ICE has remained silent. Not a single agency will claim responsibility for the raid. No one will explain why the family was targeted, why their possessions were taken, why their rights were trampled. No one has told Marisa how to get her property back. She doesn’t even know which office to call. Her children, once asleep in what they thought was a safe new home, now live with fear that the men will return.

And while all of this unfolded — while a mother and her daughters were treated like fugitives in their own home — another story broke. A different crisis. One that drew national headlines and an immediate law enforcement response.

Kristi Noem, Secretary of Homeland Security, had her purse stolen at a restaurant in Washington, D.C. A Gucci bag, reportedly containing $3,000 in cash, medications, apartment keys, and her DHS badge, was snatched from beneath her chair. Within hours, two suspects were arrested. The media ran with it. The system worked. Statements were made. Justice was served. Noem got her purse back.

Marisa is still waiting.

This country protected Kristi Noem’s purse with more urgency than it protected Marisa’s children. It mobilized for luxury leather, but turned its back on a family stripped of dignity, security, and constitutional protection. One woman got swift justice. The other got soaked, robbed, and forgotten.

And make no mistake: this was not a bureaucratic slip-up. This was a test. A flex. A soft rollout of unchecked power. What happened to Marisa was not just illegal — it was strategic. These were not mistakes. These were messages. That no one is safe. That citizenship means nothing. That the agents of the state can barge in, terrorize a family, take what they want, and vanish — and the country will yawn and move on.

Ask yourself: if Marisa had stood her ground, would she be alive? If her daughter had screamed or resisted, would they be burying her? If this had happened to Kristi Noem’s family, would Congress be holding hearings? Of course they would. Because in Trump’s America, power protects power. Purses are prioritized. Mothers are expendable.

They took Marisa’s belongings. They left the trauma. And they are betting no one will make noise about it.

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Closer to the Edge is making noise. Rook T. Winchester is not looking away. And if you’re still reading — maybe you’re not either.