MINNEAPOLIS — In a winter of raids, fear and strobe-lit confrontations, a fried, triangular pastry became an unlikely emblem of resistance. As U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) agents in masks flooded the Twin Cities over the past two months, Somali Minnesotans met them not only with phones, whistles and signs, but with sambusas — crisp, fragrant parcels of spiced meat and vegetables — pressed into the hands of neighbors and strangers alike.
“Food brings people together in our culture,” said community organizer Fatoun Ali, who has lived in Minnesota for 20 years. “Sambusa smells and tastes good, and we eat it together for special gatherings and holidays, like during Ramadan when we’re breaking the fast at the end of each day.” Handing out hundreds of pastries last December around community hubs, she hoped to counter rising xenophobia by inviting conversation — and care — through something everyone understands: a hot bite on a cold day.
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What began as welcome turned into triage. ICE’s aggressive posture, residents said, swiftly scrambled daily life across the metro — documented or not. “In the beginning, we were telling people that as long as they were documented, they would be safe,” Ali recalled. “But it turned out that wasn’t true. Everyone became terrified, regardless of their status. Businesses closed. People became scared to go to work. They lost their jobs. They couldn’t pay rent. They couldn’t feed their families.”
Ali refocused. Through the Somali Youth and Family Development Center, the nonprofit she leads, volunteers expanded a mutual-aid network to deliver halal groceries — meat, rice, flour, dates, spices and other staples that meet Islamic dietary laws — to more than 400 people each week. “As a mother and someone who has experienced civil war and knows firsthand what it feels like to be hungry, my immediate instinct was to feed people,” she said.
Those deliveries have taken on deeper urgency during Ramadan, when families prepare specific foods for prayer and breaking fast. Organizers say the work will outlast any federal drawdown. The siege, they note, leaves a mark.
“The fear created by the federal presence and enforcement activity has changed daily life for us and has reopened old wounds,” said chef and nutritionist Jamal Hashi, who has lived in Minneapolis for more than 30 years. “Even with the announced drawdown, the emotional and psychological impact on the Somali community here doesn’t simply disappear overnight. The feeling right now is a mix of relief, vigilance and resilience — because our community has survived much worse.”
Hashi has spent his career building culinary bridges. In recent weeks, he partnered with food bank Second Harvest Heartland to create a halal grocery program distributed through trusted neighbors making small deliveries in their own cars. Off-hours, he’s doing the same informally, ferrying hot meals from immigrant-owned restaurants — whose owners fear drawing attention — to families too anxious to leave home.
Shuttered storefronts have become another symbol of this season. Karmel Mall, the sprawling marketplace known as “Little Mogadishu,” has sat quiet as a precaution against drawing an ICE raid. The economic damage has rippled: immigrant-owned businesses across the Twin Cities lost a combined $46 million in December and January, the Star Tribune reported.
For restaurateur Abdirahman Kahin of Afro Deli & Grill, the disruption has been immediate. He temporarily closed two of his four locations after two ICE encounters at his St. Paul shop in December. “As a Somali restaurant, we’re definitely a target,” he said. “They came to our St. Paul location twice and served us with subpoena. They asked for a list of our employees, which we delivered. The second time they came, they just asked silly questions, like, ‘Do you hire illegals?’ They tried to be as intimidating as possible.”
Kahin is no stranger to large-scale feeding efforts. During COVID-19, Afro Deli collaborated with Second Harvest Heartland, the Red Cross, Meals on Wheels and World Central Kitchen to prepare an estimated 1.5 million meals. About 80% went to people in public housing — halal fare such as goat, chicken and sambusas designed to be culturally familiar to East African families and nutritionally balanced for anyone. The past two months, he said, stir the same unease. “For the past two months, we’ve been living in fear, not knowing what to expect. You carry your passport all the time. We never could have imagined living like this, and we don’t know how long it will go on. During COVID, a vaccine was the remedy. Now, we’re waiting for ICE to leave so we can feel comfortable again.”
That tension exists alongside a longer, richer story. After fleeing civil war in the early 1990s, Somali refugees built lives in Minnesota, which is now home to the nation’s largest Somali population. They launched businesses, anchored neighborhoods and helped shape civic life — from the entrepreneurial bustle of Karmel Mall to the election of Rep. Ilhan Omar, the first Somali American in Congress, in 2018. Over three decades, the community has become an essential thread in the state’s fabric.
Recent events have complicated public perception. The Feeding Our Future scandal, in which a small group — several of them Somali — were accused of stealing nearly $250 million in federal funds for child-nutrition programs during the pandemic, cast a long shadow. Then, in late December 2025, a right-wing influencer, Nick Shirley, posted a viral video claiming to expose fraud at Somali-run day cares. His posts, community leaders say, helped prime the environment that led to ICE’s heavy presence.
Yet the response on the ground has been broad, visible and, at times, defiantly joyful. Protesters have shared food, phone chargers and childcare tips on sidewalks and outside shuttered malls. Volunteers have mapped grocery routes that crisscross Minneapolis and St. Paul, bridging mosques, apartment towers and suburban cul-de-sacs. Against the spectacle of armored agents and chemical irritants, everyday acts of hospitality have stitched a measure of safety back into daily life.
Those connections cut across culture. “These vital food mutual-aid initiatives, like the ICE protests themselves, have been cross-culturally powered, with Minnesotans from all backgrounds showing up for their neighbors,” Ali said. The support, she added, fortifies resolve in a period marked by harassment and fear. “The love I have received is stronger than the hate I have faced. Minnesota has set such a strong example of how we love each other, how we support each other, how we feed each other. This is an amazing state, and so many immigrants ended up here because of the resources, services and support available here. This is our home, and we’re not going anywhere.”
For now, the work continues: brown paper bags filled with rice and dates, halal meats picked up before dawn, WhatsApp threads alive with last-minute drop-offs. In a city recalibrating after a weeks-long siege, the smell of frying sambusas still drifts out of kitchen windows — an invitation to sit, to talk and to remember, over something warm, what community can do.
By Ali Musa
Axadle Times international–Monitoring.
