‘Operation Buckeye’ and a barrage of online attacks leave Somali Americans in Columbus living with fear — and facing an uncertain future
COLUMBUS, Ohio — The men began circling the 161 Child Care center just after dawn. They idled in their cars, cracked their windows and spoke across the December cold: “We’re exposing all of you. Every single one of you, you’re all going back.”
- Advertisement -
Days later, in the early hours of New Year’s Day, someone broke into the Somali American–owned daycare on the city’s north side. For co-owner Abukar Mohammed, who spent years building toward a small business of his own, the message felt unmistakable.
“It was heart-breaking to me,” Mohammed said. “I never thought that in America there would be racial things, that this could happen in America. I was shocked.”
In Columbus, home to an estimated 60,000 Somali Americans, the threats and harassing drive-bys have coincided with national politics and a federal enforcement surge. In December, former President Donald Trump used inflammatory language to attack Somali Americans, claiming “the Somalis are ripping off the country.” Days later, Immigration and Customs Enforcement announced “Operation Buckeye,” an effort it said would target “the worst of the worst criminal illegal aliens in Columbus and throughout Ohio.”
What followed, residents and business owners say, has been months of unease—federal agents seen near Somali-owned businesses and schools serving immigrant families, and right-wing influencers, including leaders at Turning Point USA, livestreaming outside community offices and shops.
“Before this happened, I thought the president was going to be a good president,” Mohammed said. “I’m scared to go outside. They drive around, they cuss, they say bad stuff.”
The intimidation has hit livelihoods. Owners say customers are staying away, unnerved by the parked cars and cameras. Several schools shuttered temporarily amid plunging attendance linked to the presence of federal agents and anti-immigrant provocateurs, community advocates say. The 161 Child Care facility, which passed state inspections last fall, was not yet open when the harassment began; Mohammed has since installed a new security system and says he is struggling to keep the project alive. “I was already struggling financially to open this daycare,” he said. “When I tried to leave, people outside would say things like, ‘you bought your clothes with our money.’”
Influencers have pushed claims—echoing narratives seen in Minneapolis—that Somali-run childcare centers in Columbus are fraudulent or misusing public funds. Ohio helps fund roughly 5,200 childcare programs. In a December statement, Republican Gov. Mike DeWine’s administration said tips from the public had led to 12 programs—about 0.2% of state-funded facilities statewide—being shut down. State officials did not single out centers by ethnicity. Still, the online allegations stuck, and the cameras kept coming.
The distress is palpable inside the Somali Community Association of Ohio, a nonprofit offering social services and guidance to new arrivals. Its president, Hassan Omar, who came to Columbus in 1998 and has watched the community grow to an estimated 500 businesses along Cleveland Avenue and beyond, now fields obscenity-laced voicemails and finds agitators outside his door.
“[They called me] ‘motherfucker, go back to Somalia,’ I don’t know how they got my cell number,” Omar said. “That’s not normal.” One man, Omar recalled, stood outside the office “all day, in front of the door, taking pictures.”
Local politics have sharpened the divide. While Minnesota’s Somali community benefits from a Democratic-led statehouse that has embraced immigrant communities, Somali Americans in Ohio are navigating a more hostile climate. Two Republican state representatives have proposed requiring recording equipment in all publicly funded child and daycare facilities. Lawmakers have also floated measures compelling local law enforcement to cooperate more closely with ICE.
City leaders in Columbus have taken a different course. On Feb. 23, the city council passed legislation restricting local participation in federal immigration enforcement and barring city employees from collaborating with ICE and U.S. Customs and Border Protection without prior council approval.
“Our community works hard, follows regulations and values education,” said Kawther Musa, a community relations officer for the city who left Somalia at 15. “But unfortunately, when communities grow and become visible, they sometimes face backlash. Hate speech and cyber harassment should be investigated seriously. At the same time, leaders must be careful not to inflame tensions.”
Beyond the daily intimidation, a policy clock is ticking. Roughly 2,500 Somali nationals in the United States are protected by Temporary Protected Status (TPS), a humanitarian program granted in 1991 because of civil war and unrest. That protection is set to end on March 17. “TPS for Somalis was enacted in 1991,” Omar said. “So imagine somebody who lived here for 36 or 37 years [and now] has to go back.”
The possible return comes as conditions inside Somalia remain perilous. The World Food Programme has warned it may have to halt emergency aid without new United Nations funding. The World Bank ranks Somalia among the poorest countries globally by GDP, and more than 6.5 million people face acute hunger. The U.S. State Department maintains a “do not travel” advisory citing crime, terrorism and civil unrest; al-Shabaab controls significant swaths of southern Somalia and was the target of U.S. airstrikes as recently as last May. The Trump administration’s move to end TPS for Somalis hangs over families in Columbus, where many work in health care and Central Ohio distribution centers while raising American-born children.
To those on the north side, the winter brought a drumbeat of events that felt less like isolated episodes and more like a campaign against an entire neighborhood built over three decades. After years of saving, Mohammed rented rooms, painted walls and waited on final paperwork. Then the cars started looping past his windows. At community offices, phones buzzed with new threats. At corner shops in Banadir and along Cleveland Avenue, owners watched their regulars hesitate. “Our community values education,” Musa said, “and follows regulations.” They are also learning, painfully, how quickly a rumor with a camera can sap confidence.
Key moments behind Columbus’s winter of fear:
- December: Trump attacks Somali Americans; ICE unveils “Operation Buckeye.”
- Late December: Men begin circling Somali-owned childcare centers in Columbus.
- Jan. 1: Break-in at the yet-to-open 161 Child Care facility.
- Feb. 23: Columbus city council limits local participation in federal immigration enforcement.
- March 17: TPS for Somalis set to expire, affecting an estimated 2,500 people nationwide.
As spring nears, there are small signs of resolve. Parents still swap referrals. New arrivals stop at the Somali Community Association for help with paperwork and jobs. Community leaders say they are working with city officials to document harassment and push platforms to curb targeted abuse.
But fear is hard to unwind. Mohammed says he now hesitates before turning his key in the daycare door, scanning the parking lot for cameras and idling cars. “I never thought that in America there would be racial things,” he said again, weighing the decision to open, or to walk away. For now, he waits—guarding a doorway he hoped would be an entry to something better.
By Ali Musa
Axadle Times international–Monitoring.
