‘It’s never been like this’: Minneapolis’ Somali Americans under sweeping federal scrutiny
On an icy Friday morning in south Minneapolis, Mahad Omar watched armed federal agents sprint past his window and tackle a neighbor to the pavement. They cuffed the man and loaded him into a black SUV. “Minneapolis is a great city,” said Omar, 28, an Uber driver who came from Somalia as a child. “It’s never been like this.”
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Across a metro area known for its immigrant roots and East African cultural hubs, Somali Americans say routine life has narrowed to a wary hush. Apartment complexes and shopping centers have seen intensified enforcement in recent weeks. Volunteers keep watch for caravans of dark SUVs. Parents keep children close. Some residents say strangers not connected to law enforcement have walked into cafes and shops demanding to see “papers.”
Minneapolis is the latest flash point in President Donald Trump’s immigration campaign — a crackdown sharpened by a viral video purporting to show widespread fraud at Somali-run social service and child care centers. Federal attention, Somali community leaders say, has hardened into a blunt focus on their community: Black, immigrant and Muslim.
“Maybe they got tired of attacking Muslims,” said Imam Yusuf Abdulle, director of the Islamic Association of North America, which oversees dozens of Islamic centers nationwide. “Now, they have another name, another reason,” he said, citing Vice President JD Vance’s description of “the Somali problem.”
Tensions escalated further last week when a federal agent shot and killed a woman, Renee Nicole Good, as she sat at the wheel of an SUV that was partially blocking a Minneapolis lane. The shooting drew protests around the country. On the streets where federal agents continued their operations, though, Somali residents said it did little to slow the pressure they feel.
Rep. Ilhan Omar, D-Minn., the first Somali American elected to Congress, said Saturday that she and two other Democrats were denied full entry to inspect a federal detainee holding area in Minneapolis. “He’s trying to scare them and terrorize them every single day,” she said of Trump. “And what we know is that Somalis are not intimidated.”
Trump’s derision of immigrants has long targeted people from Africa and developing nations. In Minneapolis, he called Somali resettlement a “disaster” and has repeatedly attacked Omar. In December, at the tail end of a Cabinet meeting, he called Somali immigrants “garbage” as he denounced a Minnesota fraud scandal. Last week he said his administration was taking steps to strip some naturalized Somali Americans of U.S. citizenship.
The White House has defended the shift in tone and tactics. “President Trump is right,” spokeswoman Abigail Jackson said. “Aliens who come to our country, complain about how much they hate America, fail to contribute to our economy, rip off Americans, and refuse to assimilate into our society should not be here.”
That rhetoric collides with a reality three decades in the making. Somali refugees began arriving in large numbers in the early 1990s, fleeing civil war. Word of steady jobs and affordable living drew families north; today an estimated 260,000 people in the United States have Somali heritage, and about 42% live in Minnesota, mostly in and around Minneapolis and St. Paul. The majority are U.S.-born, and more than 92% are citizens. Others hold visas or asylum; some are undocumented. About 700 Somalis were living and working under Temporary Protected Status until the administration moved in November to revoke those protections.
In Minneapolis, a once-unfamiliar city became a patchwork of home. The Karmel Mall hums with the scent of spices, perfumes and baked sambusas. Cedar-Riverside, “Little Mogadishu,” greets new arrivals with halal markets and storefront mosques. Poverty rates have fallen over time; homeownership has climbed. Many Somali Minnesotans work in home health care or run small businesses, including child care centers built to serve families who wanted caregivers sharing their language and faith.
Suspicion has shadowed those gains. After the Sept. 11 attacks, anti-Muslim sentiment shuttered money-transfer agencies that connected Minnesotans with relatives overseas. In the late 2000s, after authorities found that about 20 Somali Americans from Minnesota left to join terror groups, federal agencies worked with local leaders on anti-radicalization efforts. In 2017, a white supremacist bombed the Dar Al-Farooq mosque in Bloomington, which has a largely Somali congregation.
But many residents say the last few weeks feel different. Parents say schoolchildren have come home in tears after classmates called them “garbage.” Sidewalks once crowded with aunties and toddlers are quiet. “Just going to the grocery store, people look at you differently,” said Mina Omar, 27, a Minneapolis-born nurse who recently intervened when a shopper told an elderly woman to “go back home.”
Federal officials reject the idea that their tactics are indiscriminate. “Claims law enforcement officers are ‘terrorizing the Somali community’ is absolute garbage,” said Tricia McLaughlin, a Department of Homeland Security spokeswoman. “Our law enforcement are arresting criminal illegal aliens who are terrorizing American citizens.” She said ICE’s Homeland Security Investigations unit is targeting people “who are defrauding the American people in Minnesota,” adding, “We will root out this fraud and hold those who steal from American taxpayers accountable.”
The allegations themselves are serious. Federal prosecutors in Minnesota have laid out what they call a sprawling scheme that siphoned millions — possibly billions — from state social services. Of the 98 people charged so far, 85 are of Somali descent, according to the White House. Somali leaders, including community organizer Abdulahi Farah, say fraud must be investigated and punished — especially because child care and senior services are desperately needed and must be trusted. But, they argue, the administration’s response amounts to collective vilification. “It’s a way to distract Americans,” Farah said.
For many, a single video turned a long-simmering debate into a chilling national spectacle. The late-December clip, which claimed to expose extensive wrongdoing in Somali-run centers, catapulted a niche state scandal into a feed-scrolling frenzy. “Once I saw the video,” said writer Ahmed Ismail Yusuf, “I was actually punched in the gut. I just knew something terrible was on the horizon.”
What followed, residents say, has changed daily habits. Volunteers in Somali-heavy neighborhoods use whistles to warn of approaching SUVs. Shopkeepers keep their IDs within reach. Ismail Mohamed, an Ohio state representative and among the first Somali Americans elected to the Ohio General Assembly, said the speed and scale of national attention shocked him: “In a population of, like, 330 million, we are such a small, insignificant group. I don’t think I would have naturally thought that the vice president and the president, Elon Musk and everyone would be tweeting about Somalis.”
There have also been scenes of solidarity. On a snowy Saturday evening, Farah and other organizers bought trays of sambusas from struggling Somali restaurants and handed them out at a memorial for Good. The vigil recalled for some the response after the Bloomington mosque bombing, when neighbors showed up to rebuild, stand watch and hold homemade signs with messages of love.
On Friday, a few miles away, Taher Muse, 38, the owner of a Minneapolis auto shop, ran toward a man being questioned by federal agents down the block. He shouted that the man had a right not to answer. Within minutes, a caravan of SUVs pulled up outside Muse’s garage. Among the agents, he recognized Gregory Bovino, a top Border Patrol official and a key figure in the enforcement push. Agents asked Muse and his employees for their IDs. They refused to answer questions and waved the officers off. “I thought they would stop after killing Renee Good, but they are still out here harassing people,” said Muse, who arrived from Mogadishu at age 2, became a U.S. citizen long ago and opened his shop last year after stints in a poultry plant, behind the wheel of a truck and at a rental car counter. “This country is better than they think it is.”
For Omar, the Uber driver who watched his neighbor disappear into a government vehicle, that faith is being tested. He remembers the welcome his family found in Minnesota and the promise it held — the schools, the jobs, the chance to build a life far from war. He also hears the echo now of old slanders with new volume and the simple fear that comes when unmarked SUVs circle the block. Between those realities, he and his neighbors are trying to keep ordinary life intact: a trip to the market, a school pickup, a quiet evening prayer.
By Ali Musa
Axadle Times international–Monitoring.
