By Abdikarim Haji Abdi Buh

How Minnesota Became Home to Somali America

The story of Somalis in Minnesota begins not with politics, but with survival.

In 1991, the collapse of the Somali state triggered one of the longest and most devastating civil wars in modern African history. Entire cities were destroyed, institutions vanished overnight, and millions were displaced. Somalis fled to refugee camps in Kenya, Ethiopia, and Djibouti—many spending years, sometimes decades, in limbo.

The United States began resettling Somali refugees in the early 1990s under humanitarian programs designed to protect people fleeing war. Minnesota emerged as a primary destination for three reasons:

1) Existing refugee infrastructure built during earlier resettlement of Southeast Asian refugees.

2) Employment opportunities, particularly in manufacturing, meatpacking, and healthcare support roles.

1) Chain migration, as early Somali arrivals helped relatives and friends navigate resettlement.

By the early 2000s, Minnesota had become home to the largest Somali population in North America. Today, most Somali Minnesotans are either U.S. citizens or U.S.-born children of immigrants. Somali Americans serve as teachers, nurses, truck drivers, entrepreneurs, city council members, and members of Congress.

For many, Minnesota was not just a place of refuge—it was the first place they felt safe.

Amina’s Story: “I Thought We Had Finally Arrived”

Amina Hassan arrived in Minneapolis in 1997 after spending six years in a refugee camp in Kenya. She was 14 years old. “I still remember snow for the first time,” she says. “I thought, this is a place where war cannot reach.”

Amina learned English in public schools, graduated from a Minnesota high school, and later became a certified nursing assistant. She raised three children, all born in the United States. Last month, after hearing political leaders describe Somalis as criminals and threats, she says something broke.

“My youngest asked me, ‘Mama, are they going to send us away?’” she says. “How do you explain to a child that you are American, but some people don’t want to believe it?”

For Amina, the fear is not deportation—she is a citizen—but belonging.

“We did everything they asked,” she says. “We worked. We paid taxes. We followed the law. When did that stop being enough?”

From Neighbors to Suspects

Many Somali Minnesotans describe a sharp shift in how they are treated during periods of political hostility.

Mohamed Abdi, a small business owner in St. Paul, says enforcement actions and rhetoric have had an immediate economic and psychological impact. “People stopped coming to the shop,” he says. “Not because we did anything, but because fear spreads faster than facts.”

Mohamed arrived in the U.S. as a child. He graduated from college, opened a grocery store, and employs both Somali and non-Somali workers. “When politicians talk about ‘Somalis’ like we are one criminal organization, it erases everything else,” he says. “It turns neighbors into suspects.”

The Weight of Collective Blame

Community leaders stress that crime and fraud must be prosecuted, but they warn against collective punishment.

Hodan Nur, a community organizer in Minneapolis, explains the danger clearly:

“When wrongdoing by individuals becomes a justification to target an entire ethnic or religious group, you are no longer enforcing the law. You are manufacturing fear.”

She points out that Somali Americans have been here long enough to experience cycles of acceptance and suspicion—particularly after 9/11, when Muslim communities across the U.S. were subjected to surveillance and profiling.

“What is happening now feels familiar,” she says. “And that is what scares people most.”

Second-Generation Voices: “We’re Tired of Proving Ourselves”

Perhaps the deepest impact is being felt by young Somali Americans who have never known another home.
Layla Ahmed, a 21-year-old university student born in Minneapolis, says she feels trapped between identities others try to impose on her.

“I’ve never been to Somalia,” she says. “But when politicians talk, suddenly I’m not American enough.”

She describes constantly being asked to condemn things she has no connection to—foreign conflicts, crimes she didn’t commit, stereotypes she didn’t create.

“We are tired of proving we belong,” Layla says. “No one asks that of other Americans.”

Why This History Matters Now

Understanding Somali resettlement in Minnesota is essential to understanding why current rhetoric is so damaging.

Somali Americans did not arrive as opportunists. They arrived as refugees fleeing total state collapse. They rebuilt their lives in one of America’s coldest states, often starting from nothing. Over decades, they became woven into Minnesota’s social and economic fabric.

Targeting them today—through demeaning language, generalized accusations, or aggressive enforcement framed around identity rather than evidence—does not merely affect one community. It undermines the very principles of individual responsibility, equal protection, and citizenship.

A Community Still Standing

Despite fear and uncertainty, Somali Minnesotans continue to organize, vote, serve, and contribute.

Mosques have opened their doors for interfaith gatherings. Youth groups are hosting civic education workshops. Business associations are speaking out publicly.

The message from the community is consistent and simple:

“We are not guests. We are Americans.”

And like every chapter of American history where a minority community was tested by suspicion and scapegoating, the outcome will say far more about the nation than about the people being targeted.

Abdikarim Haji Abdi Buh
Email: abdikarimbuh@yahoo.com