On a chilly December afternoon in St. Cloud, Minnesota, more than 100 residents and elected officials gathered in a local library, their voices united in support of their Somali neighbors. The meeting, held on December 3, 2025, followed a firestorm of controversy ignited by President Donald Trump’s recent remarks describing Somali immigrants as “garbage.” For many in the state’s Somali community—the largest in the United States, estimated at 60,000 to 80,000 people—such rhetoric felt like the latest blow in a series of challenges, from fraud allegations to immigration crackdowns.
“It’s really comforting to know that we have allies that are checking on us,” said Farhiya Iman, a social worker and mother of two who attended the gathering, according to USA TODAY. Yet, she acknowledged, “there’s also quite a few that have the same thinking as the president.” The tension in central Minnesota, she explained, has become palpable, with anti-Somali sentiment surfacing in online comments, on social media, and sometimes erupting into threats or vandalism.
The roots of Minnesota’s Somali community run deep. Many arrived in the early 1990s, fleeing civil war and famine in Somalia. The state, which had previously resettled large numbers of Hmong refugees, became a hub for Somali families seeking safety and opportunity. Today, the community includes police officers, doctors, academics, businesspeople, and an increasing number of elected officials. Many are U.S. citizens or permanent residents, with second-generation Minnesotans who have never set foot in Somalia. As Professor Ahmed Samatar of Macalester College put it, “It’s a different temperature now. It’s quite ferocious. And really quite intimidating for people.”
This sense of intimidation has only grown in the wake of high-profile fraud investigations. Since 2022, federal prosecutors have charged 78 people—most of Somali ancestry—for their suspected roles in a $250 million fraud scheme involving the nonprofit Feeding Our Future and the U.S. Department of Agriculture’s Federal Child Nutrition Program. The program, which expanded during the COVID-19 pandemic, was intended to provide meals to children in need. Prosecutors allege that sham sponsor distribution sites claimed to have distributed millions of meals, while funds were spent on luxury cars, homes, jewelry, and vacation properties abroad. Several dozen have pleaded guilty or been convicted, and the case drew even more attention in 2024 when five people were charged with attempting to bribe a juror with a bag containing $120,000.
Fraud allegations have not stopped there. In September 2025, prosecutors charged eight defendants in a scheme involving the Housing Stabilization Services program, which ballooned from $21 million in 2021 to $104 million in 2024. Authorities say some providers obtained the names of eligible beneficiaries from addiction treatment centers and submitted inflated or fake reimbursement claims. In another case, Asha Farhan Hassan was charged in connection with a $14 million fraud scheme involving therapy for autistic children, with allegations of kickbacks and fraudulent billing. The New York Times, citing prosecutors, reported that all but eight of the 86 people charged across these three cases were of Somali descent, the vast majority being U.S. citizens by birth or naturalization.
The impact of these cases has rippled far beyond the courtroom. “What we see are schemes stacked upon schemes, draining resources meant for those in need. It feels never ending,” Acting U.S. Attorney Joseph Thompson said in a statement, as reported by USA TODAY. Community organizations have felt the sting, too. Sara Greenberg-Hassan, executive director of Feeding Area Children Together, recounted how a Somali board member considered resigning out of fear that the scandal would taint the organization’s reputation. “I refused his resignation and asked him to stay and show our community that those fraudsters are not representative of Somali Americans,” she said.
The controversy reached new heights when, on December 1, 2025, the U.S. Treasury Department announced an investigation into whether Minnesota tax dollars had been diverted to Al-Shabaab, the al Qaeda affiliate in Somalia. This followed President Trump’s claim that Minnesota was a “hub of fraudulent money laundering activity,” echoing unverified reports that Al-Shabaab had benefited from fraud committed in the state. According to the Star-Tribune, there is scant evidence to substantiate these claims.
Representative Ilhan Omar, whose district includes much of Minneapolis—the heart of the Somali community—responded forcefully. Speaking on Face the Nation on December 7, 2025, she said, “If money from U.S. tax dollars is being sent to help with terrorism in Somalia, we want to know and we want those people prosecuted and we want to make sure that it doesn’t ever happen again.” She added, “If allegations linking Somali fraud schemes in Minnesota to terrorism financing for al Qaeda affiliate al Shabaab are true, it represents a failure of the FBI and the court system.”
For many Somali Minnesotans, the pressure is more than legal—it’s deeply personal. Suleiman Adan, deputy director of the Minnesota chapter of the Council on American-Islamic Relations (CAIR-MN), described the atmosphere as “inescapable.” He told USA TODAY, “The pressure is worse than ever. I think we’re past escalation. I think the volcano has erupted.” Adan recounted a surge of calls from community members fearful for their safety, imams receiving threats, and families worried about attending Friday prayers. Educators reported concerns about students being stopped by ICE on their way to school. Since December 1, 2025, ICE’s Operation Metro Surge in Minneapolis has resulted in the arrest of a dozen people, including five from Somalia, targeting those in the country illegally. While ICE officials insist that “those who are not here illegally and are not breaking other laws have nothing to fear,” the presence of agents in neighborhoods like Cedar-Riverside, known as “Little Mogadishu,” has revived painful memories for those who fled Somalia’s civil war.
Jamal Osman, a Minneapolis city council member, compared the current climate to the authoritarianism his family escaped. “It feels like we live in a dictatorship. It feels like people are having déjà vu with the crisis they went through, the civil war. We know authoritarianism,” he said. “I feel like I’m living what my parents lived through in Somalia.”
State and local officials have pushed back against the rising tide of anti-Somali rhetoric. Minneapolis Mayor Jacob Frey declared at a news conference, “Minneapolis is proud to be home to the largest Somali community in the country. They are our neighbors, our friends, and our family—and they are welcome in our city. Nothing Donald Trump does will ever change that.” Governor Tim Walz, for his part, has continued to support refugee resettlement and programs benefiting immigrants, even as he faces criticism over the fraud scandals. On December 2, 2025, Walz stated on social media, “Indiscriminately targeting immigrants is not a real solution to a problem.”
Still, the scars run deep. Hamse Warfa, a Somali Minnesotan who worked in state government and at the State Department, warned, “It’s language that should never be used by any political leader, let alone the most powerful president in the world. And that undoubtedly is having a profound, profound impact both on the safety and the security of people.” Warfa noted that Trump’s remarks echoed disparaging comments about other immigrant groups and feared that Somalis would not be the last to be targeted.
Despite the fear and uncertainty, many Somali Americans in Minnesota remain resolute. As Iman put it, “We’re not undocumented. We’re not going anywhere.” The community, battered by scandal and rhetoric, continues to draw strength from its deep roots and the support of its allies, determined to weather the storm and define its own future in the state it now calls home.