On a cold November night in Washington, the streets around the White House were quiet — unusually quiet for a capital still reeling from government shutdown brinkmanship, immigration battles, and the constant churn of political crises. But inside the residence, lights were still glowing, and somewhere behind the layers of security, President Donald Trump was scrolling through reports that had arrived on his desk that afternoon.

He paused, leaned forward, and reread one document in particular — a disturbing accounting of welfare fraud, terrorism financing, and elaborate state-level corruption in Minnesota. He had been warned before about the scale of the problem, but this report — paired with a bombshell City Journal investigation — was different. It did not merely hint at mismanagement. It described an entire ecosystem of exploitation and criminality, operating in broad daylight, fueled by taxpayer money.

At 11:52 p.m., with the rest of Washington largely asleep, Trump opened his phone and began typing on Truth Social.

“Minnesota, under Governor Waltz, is a hub of fraudulent money laundering activity…” he wrote. Within minutes, the post took a harsher turn.
“I am, as President of the United States, hereby terminating, effective immediately, the Temporary Protected Status (TPS Program) for Somalis in Minnesota. Somali gangs are terrorizing the people of that great State, and BILLIONS of Dollars are missing. Send them back to where they came from. It’s OVER!”

By morning, the news had reached Minnesota’s Somali neighborhoods — in Minneapolis, St. Paul, and the surrounding suburbs — where residents woke up to headlines describing the sudden cancellation of the humanitarian program that had protected them since 1991. TPS status had carved a delicate path between refuge and uncertainty, allowing thousands of Somali nationals to live and work lawfully in the United States while Somalia grappled with civil war, famine, and terrorism.

Now, with a single late-night post, that fragile protection had vanished.

A COMMUNITY WAKES TO CHAOS

In Minneapolis’ Cedar-Riverside neighborhood, known locally as “Little Mogadishu,” dawn broke on Friday with a different kind of tension. The area — a vibrant district of restaurants, mosques, coffee shops, and community clinics — has long been home to one of the largest Somali populations in the world outside East Africa.

For many residents, TPS wasn’t simply a program. It was a lifeline. A bridge. Sometimes the only reason a family could stay together.

At the Karmel Mall, a sprawling Somali market filled with henna salons and halal bakeries, shop doors opened slowly. Customers stood around televisions and phone screens, reading and rereading the president’s message.

Some whispered: Is it real?
Others asked: How fast can deportations start?
A few cried quietly near the coffee counters.

And yet, several younger men shrugged wryly. “We’re citizens,” one said. “Most of us anyway. He’s talking to the wind.”

His tone was dismissive, but beneath it was a trace of exhaustion — the exhaustion of constantly being used as a political symbol rather than seen as individuals.

Representative Ilhan Omar, the most prominent Somali-American figure in U.S. politics, echoed that sentiment hours later on X:

“I am a citizen and so are majority of Somalis in America… We are here to stay.”

It was a message of defiance — but not one that erased the fear many families now felt.

THE CITY JOURNAL BOMBSHELL

To understand Trump’s abrupt policy shift, one must go back to a months-long investigation into Minnesota’s welfare, housing, and nonprofit sectors. City Journal’s report landed like a thunderclap:

“Minnesota is drowning in fraud,” the article declared.
Millions — perhaps billions — in taxpayer funds had been siphoned away through coordinated criminal schemes. Some of the money, federal counterterrorism officials claimed, flowed overseas to Al-Shabaab, the militant Islamist group responsible for massacres across Somalia and East Africa.

One confidential counterterrorism source delivered the line that became the centerpiece of the story:

“The largest funder of Al-Shabaab is the Minnesota taxpayer.”

That sentence — stark, shocking, and politically radioactive — circulated rapidly through conservative media, intelligence circles, and eventually the White House.

To critics of the governor, the findings were unsurprising. Minnesota’s welfare and aid systems, praised for their generosity, had long been criticized for inadequate oversight and vulnerability to exploitation. But the magnitude of the alleged fraud was staggering.

The report detailed multiple cases:

• Widespread abuse of the state’s autism therapy program

• Massive Medicaid claims for services never provided

• Fake childcare centers collecting state subsidies

• Housing support programs billing the state for clients who did not exist

But nothing compared to the scale of Feeding Our Future.

THE LARGEST PANDEMIC FRAUD CASE IN U.S. HISTORY

At the center of Minnesota’s fraud universe was a nonprofit called Feeding Our Future — a group that claimed to distribute meals to children during the COVID-19 lockdowns.

According to the Justice Department, it was all a lie.

Participants in the scheme fabricated rosters of nonexistent children, forged attendance sheets, and billed the federal government for tens of millions of meals that were never prepared or delivered.

The numbers defy belief:

• $250 million stolen

• 70,000 meals falsely claimed from a single site

• Luxury cars, private homes, and high-end vacations purchased with government funds

• 75 defendants charged, with 50 guilty pleas so far

One Minneapolis man, Khadar Adan, admitted he allowed a fraudulent food distribution operation to run out of his business center, JigJiga. His profit was just $1,000 — a symbolic figure compared to the fortunes diverted elsewhere. But his plea placed him firmly inside the largest pandemic-era fraud prosecution in U.S. history.

Trump’s advisers argued that the case illustrated a systemic breakdown under Gov. Tim Walz — a collapse of accountability so profound it invited foreign exploitation.

For the president, it was the final catalyst.

THE GOVERNOR UNDER FEDERAL SCRUTINY

As scandal piled upon scandal, Minnesota Governor Tim Walz came under increasing federal examination.

The tipping point came from a state program called Housing Stabilization Services, designed to help older adults and people with disabilities secure permanent housing. The concept was simple and humane. The execution was catastrophic.

Costs exploded:

• $2.6 million in 2017

• $107 million by 2024

The rapid growth alarmed state and federal officials. DHS temporary commissioner Shireen Gandhi issued a stunning request: Shut the program down.

Her letter to federal authorities cited:

• “credible allegations of fraud”

• “exponential growth in spending”

• and a system “being exploited at multiple levels.”

For the Trump administration, these revelations were ammunition.

Not only were billions in welfare and aid dollars disappearing, but federal investigators now believed that some of the stolen funds were crossing oceans — ending up in the hands of Al-Shabaab fighters.

A violation of national security.
A breach of trust with taxpayers.
A stain on the reputation of Minnesota.

A PRESIDENTIAL DECISION YEARS IN THE MAKING

TPS for Somali nationals had been in place for over three decades. The program was never meant to be permanent, but Somalia’s instability — warlords, famine, terror networks, and political collapse — had made safe return nearly impossible.

Year after year, administration after administration, officials renewed TPS designations. It had become a political constant — an immovable policy object.

But Trump had been skeptical of TPS long before becoming president. He saw it, in his words, as a “backdoor amnesty” system — one ripe for loopholes, abuse, and political manipulation.

Officials in his administration had argued that Somalia’s conditions, while still dangerous, were not meaningfully worsened by the presence or absence of TPS recipients in the United States. Meanwhile, critics argued that returning individuals to a region where Al-Shabaab remained active would be inhumane.

The debate was complex — until the fraud revelations simplified it in the president’s mind.

If Minnesota had become, as one federal source put it, “a laundering laundromat,” then TPS had become — in the president’s view — a shield for bad actors.

The decision hardened.
And it hardened fast.

THE AFTERSHOCK: POLITICS, FEAR, AND FURY

Political reactions came quickly.

Ilhan Omar pushed back immediately.

Her message — calm, sarcastic, pointed — went viral within minutes.

“We are here to stay ‍♀️”

Omar argued that Trump’s announcement overstated TPS impact. Most Somalis in America were citizens, green-card holders, or asylees. The TPS population was relatively small. The announcement, she said, was political theater — a symbolic blow aimed at her community, not a meaningful change in deportation policy.

But immigration attorneys across Minneapolis disputed that characterization. TPS may not have been the majority status, they said, but thousands relied on it. Losing protections overnight meant:

• immediate loss of work authorization

• potential ICE detention

• family separation

• exposure to deportation orders that had sat dormant for years

Meanwhile, Republicans welcomed the move as a long-overdue corrective to what they called “decades of permissive mismanagement.”

One GOP strategist said privately:

“When foreign nationals steal federal money and send it to terrorists, TPS is no longer a humanitarian program — it’s a national security loophole.”

INSIDE THE SOMALI COMMUNITY: DENIAL, PAIN, AND HARD TRUTHS

The Somali community’s response reflected a complicated emotional landscape.

Many resented Trump’s rhetoric — particularly the way he conflated fraud cases with an entire ethnic group.

Others admitted privately that fraud had become a running joke in some circles.
A Somali elder in St. Paul said:

“Everyone knew. Everyone. There were people with no office, no staff, no kitchen — feeding 30,000 children on paper. It was crazy.”

But most were furious that a relatively small number of criminals were being used as justification for dismantling humanitarian protections for law-abiding families.

One young woman at a Minneapolis café said:

“We didn’t steal anything. We didn’t send money to terrorists. We’re just trying to work.”

That tension — between community pride and frustration at internal wrongdoing — had been simmering for years. Trump’s decision forced the issue into the open.

WHAT TRUMP’S ORDER ACTUALLY MEANS

Despite the blunt rhetoric, ending TPS does not mean immediate mass deportations. The legal process is slower and more complicated:

1. Work permits expire first, often within months.

2. ICE can issue removal notices, but must process individual cases.

3. Asylum claims continue separately, unaffected by TPS cancellation.

4. Citizens and permanent residents are unaffected entirely.

The deeper effect is psychological and economic:

• Employers may fire workers whose permits lapse.

• Students may lose eligibility for aid.

• Families living in mixed-status households are thrust into chaos.

• Communities feel targeted — whether or not they are at risk of deportation.

In the long run, the decision could shrink Minnesota’s labor force, strain public safety networks, and increase the vulnerability of Somali nationals who have lived legally in the country for decades.

A FORMER CAMPAIGN ASSOCIATE OF OMAR PLEADS GUILTY

Adding to the political volatility, another revelation emerged:
A former campaign associate of Rep. Ilhan Omar pleaded guilty to participating in the Feeding Our Future fraud scheme.

The plea intensified scrutiny on Omar’s political network, even though she was not accused of any involvement.

For Republicans, it was proof of proximity.
For Democrats, it was an uncomfortable reminder of the blurred lines between political allies and community leaders in Minnesota’s tight-knit Somali diaspora.

THE BROADER QUESTION: IS MINNESOTA A CASE STUDY OF SYSTEMIC FAILURE?

Many national observers see Minnesota’s scandal not as an exception but as a warning.

The combination of:

• rapid immigration growth

• under-resourced oversight systems

• political reluctance to enforce accountability

• and a robust welfare structure

created conditions ripe for exploitation.

In this context, Trump’s decision — however controversial — was framed by supporters as a response to a much deeper national problem.

THE HUMAN DIMENSION

In a small apartment in Eden Prairie, a Somali mother named Faduma sat on her couch late Friday night, her children asleep after a long day of anxious phone calls.

She has lived in Minnesota for 15 years under TPS. She works at a daycare. She pays taxes. She has never been arrested. Her youngest child is an American citizen.

When reporters asked how she felt about the president’s announcement, she paused for a long moment.

“Every year, I renew papers,” she said quietly. “Every year, I pray. I don’t want to go back. I don’t know anybody in Somalia anymore.”

Her eyes filled with tears — not dramatic tears, just the silent, steady kind.

“I don’t know what is going to happen. I only know we will survive. We always survive.”

THE FINAL QUESTION: WHAT COMES NEXT?

Trump’s termination of Somali TPS marks the most dramatic immigration action of his second term. But it also marks the beginning of a much larger battle:

• Legal challenges are inevitable.

• Minnesota’s fraud investigations are widening.

• Gov. Walz faces deepening pressure.

• Ilhan Omar is preparing for political warfare.

• Somali families are bracing for uncertainty.

And in Washington, Trump appears unmoved by the backlash.

To his advisers, this is not simply an immigration policy shift but a declaration of war against fraud, corruption, and what they see as systemic complacency.

To his critics, it is collective punishment masquerading as law enforcement.

To Somali TPS holders, it is the collapse of a 34-year promise.

And to historians, it may become one of the defining moments in the relationship between American immigration policy and the evolving political landscape of the Midwest.

Lila Hart

Lila Hart is a dedicated Digital Archivist and Research Specialist with a keen eye for preserving and curating meaningful content. At TheArchivists, she specializes in organizing and managing digital archives, ensuring that valuable stories and historical moments are accessible for generations to come.

Lila earned her degree in History and Archival Studies from the University of Edinburgh, where she cultivated her passion for documenting the past and preserving cultural heritage. Her expertise lies in combining traditional archival techniques with modern digital tools, allowing her to create comprehensive and engaging collections that resonate with audiences worldwide.

At TheArchivists, Lila is known for her meticulous attention to detail and her ability to uncover hidden gems within extensive archives. Her work is praised for its depth, authenticity, and contribution to the preservation of knowledge in the digital age.

Driven by a commitment to preserving stories that matter, Lila is passionate about exploring the intersection of history and technology. Her goal is to ensure that every piece of content she handles reflects the richness of human experiences and remains a source of inspiration for years to come.