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Minneapolis Somali community gripped by fear after ICE operations
Months after federal immigration agents scaled back their presence in Minnesota, anxiety persists among Somali residents, particularly in Minneapolis, home to the largest Somali diaspora outside Africa. Despite official claims that the enforcement surge has ended, many say raids continue, leaving families in hiding and businesses shuttered.
Life in the shadows
Abdi, a 23-year-old Somali man whose name has been changed for his safety, describes a life of constant vigilance. He avoids staying in one place for more than five nights, fearing Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) agents might target his home. "It hasn't ended," he told the BBC. "I don't know when they'll show up at my door."
Abdi holds Temporary Protected Status (TPS), a designation allowing nationals from conflict-ridden or disaster-stricken countries to live and work legally in the U.S. for a set period. Yet he says friends with similar documents have been detained. A federal judge has temporarily blocked the Trump administration's attempt to terminate TPS for Somalis, a move that would have affected roughly 2,500 people.
From Somalia to Minnesota: A perilous journey
Abdi fled Somalia in 2022 after al-Shabab militants attempted to recruit him. His family spent $15,000 (£11,000) to secure his passage-a journey that included flying to Brazil with a smuggled Kenyan passport, then traversing the Darién Gap, a treacherous jungle route between Colombia and Panama. "At one point, I stepped on a dead body," he recalled.
After crossing the U.S.-Mexico border, he applied for asylum and TPS, which grants him legal residency until 2029. But the recent raids have left him questioning his future. "I'd rather live in hiding here than return to Somalia," he said. "My life would be at risk."
Raids and repercussions
The Department of Homeland Security (DHS) calls Operation Metro Surge-a months-long enforcement campaign in Minnesota-a success, citing the arrest of over 11,000 "criminal illegal aliens" accused of endangering public safety. Critics, however, argue the operation has sown fear disproportionately, ensnaring legal residents and even U.S. citizens.
Relatives of those detained, including dual U.S.-Somali citizens, declined to speak publicly, fearing retaliation. Others face deportation to Somalia, a country plagued by decades of conflict, drought, and Islamist insurgencies. Deportation carries a 10-year ban on re-entering the U.S., separating families with children born in America.
"The federal government says Somalia is safe enough to end TPS, yet warns Americans not to travel there because it's dangerous. Which is it?"
Minneapolis Mayor Jacob Frey
Community under siege
Minnesota's Somali population numbers around 260,000, with more than half born in the U.S. or naturalized, according to census data. Yet the raids have left many feeling targeted, exacerbated by President Trump's rhetoric. In recent remarks, he called Somalis "garbage" and claimed their home country was "no good for a reason."
Trump has also highlighted a fraud case involving Somali-Americans accused of bilking Minnesota's pandemic meal program for children. While dozens have been convicted, Rep. Ilhan Omar, the first Somali-American in Congress, noted most indicted were U.S. citizens. "Immigration enforcement shouldn't be conflated with criminal investigations," she said.
The fallout has extended beyond the Somali community. Businesses remain closed, schools report absences, and volunteer networks have formed to alert residents of ICE activity. Two U.S. citizens, Renee Good and Alex Pretti, were killed by federal agents during the surge in January, further inflaming tensions.
Divided responses and unexpected solidarity
Reactions to the raids split along political lines. Minnesota Sen. Jim Abeler, a Republican, criticized ICE's tactics but framed the issue as a bipartisan failure of immigration policy. "This isn't a party problem-it's been a mess for a decade," he said.
Trump's comments have alienated some Somali voters who previously supported him. Foos Abe, a Minneapolis resident, said, "I voted for Trump and regret it. If I hadn't, he couldn't have called us 'garbage.'"
Yet the crisis has also fostered unlikely alliances. Imam Sharif Muhammad and Pastor Jane Buckley Farley, leaders of a mosque and Lutheran church respectively, described how the raids strengthened interfaith bonds. "It created more brotherhood and sisterhood," the imam said. Together, they organized alert systems to warn residents of nearby ICE activity.
Lisa, a retired white volunteer who asked not to be fully named, patrols her neighborhood with a whistle, ready to signal others if agents appear. "It's quieter now, but they're sneakier," she said. "They blend in."
An uncertain future
For Abdi and others like him, the raids have shattered their vision of America. "We hoped for a future here," he said. "Our dream is broken."
DHS maintains that those in the U.S. legally have nothing to fear, citing officer safety concerns for the use of masks during operations. Yet the scars of Operation Metro Surge remain visible across Minneapolis-closed shops, wary residents, and a community left questioning where it belongs.
