Minnesota is home to the nation’s largest Somali community — a rapidly expanding Muslim population that has become a flashpoint in national debates over integration, welfare fraud and how the group is reshaping the state’s historically Scandinavian, Christian cultural landscape.
That scrutiny intensified this week after President Donald Trump blasted Somali Minnesotans as welfare abusers who have been raiding state coffers for years.
"I hear they ripped off — Somalians ripped off that state for billions of dollars, billions every year. . . . They contribute nothing," Trump said, amid news that some Somalis were involved in bilking that state out of hundreds of millions of dollars in various fraud schemes.
"I don’t want them in our country, I’ll be honest with you. Somebody says, ‘Oh, that's not politically correct.’ I don’t care. I don’t want them in our country. Their country’s no good for a reason. Their country stinks, and we don’t want them in our country."
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Trump and members of his administration have also accused the population of committing immigration fraud in order to bring friends and relatives to the U.S. and again claimed Rep. Ilhan Omar married her brother — a charge she has repeatedly denied.
For years, accusations of crime and gang activity — and the fact that a small cohort of Somali Minnesotans traveled overseas to join al-Shabaab — have cast a long shadow over the community’s efforts to assimilate.
Many Somali residents told Fox News Digital that they are angered that the entire community has been saddled with what they say is an unfair reputation, blaming a small minority of fraudsters and criminals for the negative attention against the group as a whole.
And now a massive COVID-19-era fraud scheme — which prosecutors say is the largest pandemic-era fraud case in U.S. history — has thrust the population back into the spotlight.
At first glance, the choice can seem perplexing: families from an East African nation putting down roots in a state known for subzero winters and harsh conditions.
But the Somali civil war forced thousands to flee their homeland beginning in the 1990s, with refugee resettlement and family reunification swelling the Somali population in Minnesota to roughly 80,000 to 100,000, depending on the estimate. One local leader told Fox News Digital the true number is likely closer to 160,000.
Like many immigrant groups before them, Somalis have brought their own customs and traditions — and have made their mark on the neighborhoods where they’ve settled.
Advocates say Somalis have woven themselves into Minnesota life — running restaurants and working in nursing, trucking and factories and filling shopping centers like the Somali-themed Karmel Mall in Minneapolis. They argue the community’s true story is one of hard work, civic pride, and assimilation — not the isolated crimes that grab headlines.
The largest cluster of Somalis in Minneapolis is in Cedar–Riverside, a neighborhood just south and west of downtown that has earned the nickname "Little Mogadishu," a nod to Somalia’s capital city. The name reflects the area’s sweeping demographic and cultural transformation.
When Fox News Digital visited Cedar–Riverside, the area felt almost hollowed out — run-down, like a poverty-stricken inner-city neighborhood.
On a Saturday afternoon, the streets were quiet, lined with shuttered storefronts and once-lively bars from years past, while a handful of East African restaurants carried on with a steady flow of local patrons. Some closed shops with faded English signs now displayed "Coming soon" notices in Arabic.
The Riverside Plaza complex — a cluster of 1970s-era brutalist concrete towers — loomed large over the neighborhood. Its once-vibrant multicolored panels have faded with time, mirroring the on-the-ground sense of wear and age — a reflection of the neighborhood’s shifting fortunes.
Outside, beside a street sign reading "Somali St," a woman dressed in bright green offered bottles of water for sale to passing drivers while flocks of pigeons flapped and spiraled up outside the towers.
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The Islamic call to prayer rang out from a nearby mosque occupying an older commercial building, echoing over an empty street and through the concrete courtyards — a sound that felt both peaceful and eerie in the stillness.
Men gathered outside the mosque, some wearing kufis for Friday prayers, while women passed by in hijabs and abayas — a sight still unfamiliar to many Americans, though now a regular part of daily life in Minneapolis.
Faith and politics were visible here.
The day before, the liveliest scene unfolded as people entered and left another mosque on a corner street, its windows boarded up, while political yard signs for mayoral candidate Omar Fateh dotted the grass outside, as did ones for Council Member Jamal Osma. Both are progressives like Ilhan Omar, who has become the community’s most visible national figure.
Jaylani Hussein, executive director of CAIR–Minnesota, said that faith remains central to Somali life but also serves as a bridge to their new home.
"Religion grounds us," he said. "It helps us build discipline and community, and it’s part of why Somalis have been able to succeed here."
The sight of Muslim garb is a striking change for a neighborhood that was once a European immigrant enclave and, more recently, a hub for students and music lovers drawn to the University of Minnesota’s West Bank and Augsburg University campuses nearby.
Many of the old watering holes — like Palmer’s Bar, which predates World War I — have struggled and closed amid changing demographics, shifting drinking habits and declining foot traffic. Alcohol is forbidden in Islam.
Palmer’s, which sits beside the commercial building-turned-mosque, has reportedly been purchased by the mosque. The congregation also bought the now-shuttered Nomad World Pub directly across the street, residents said, once a local mainstay for soccer fans and live music. In the 1990s, Minnesota had only a handful of mosques. Today, there are about 90 statewide, Hussein said.
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The Cedar Cultural Center — one of the last survivors of the West Bank’s old music corridor — still hosts musicians and artists, a reminder that Cedar–Riverside hasn’t entirely lost its creative pulse.
A few residents appeared high on drugs, huddled in doorways, the signs of addiction hard to miss.
In the evening, a group of Somali volunteers wearing orange high-visibility vests gathered in the town square, offering medical help to those who had overdosed or fallen ill.
One man said he had served time in jail for a gang-related crime, but denied being part of one. Another young man said he had just moved from South Dakota to rebuild his life after being jailed for murder, but let out after being wrongly accused.
"As soon as we entered the neighborhood, it was instantly like the demographics changed," Luke Freeman, a young white man who was visiting the city from Wisconsin with a friend, told Fox News Digital.
"Cedar–Riverside is very distinctly Somali. It’s a more rundown neighborhood — not bad, but certainly a rougher part of town."
The pair said they had heard about "Little Mogadishu" and wanted to check it out, complimenting a meal they had just finished at a local East African restaurant.
Most older Somali residents, known as "elders," spoke little English but were welcoming, although women were far more reluctant. Younger Somalis were warmer and more talkative, greeting visitors with "bro" and eager to discuss day-to-day life in Minneapolis and their African heritage. Some admitted they wanted to be more westernized to blend in; another boasted that his rap video had millions of views on YouTube.
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"It’s been great so far. Welcoming. ‘Minnesota nice,’ as we call it," said Abdi Fatah Hassan, who came to the U.S. in 2004 at age 13. "Thank God I’m in a great community. It’s close-knit, kind of feels like back home. You’re not just thrown in the deep end; people show you things, help you grow, help you adapt to the country."
"Every community has its bad apples. Don’t judge the few for the many. Most of us are hardworking, honest Americans — patriots, you could say."
Hussein, of CAIR–Minnesota, said that negative press about crime often overshadows the contributions Somalis have made to the state — even as the community continues to face persistent challenges.
"Somalis in Minnesota are hard-working folks — many of them work two jobs, and yet about 75% are still poor," he said. "There are entrepreneurs, successful restaurants, people in trucking, IT and even corporate America, making significant changes. But those positive stories don’t get much attention."
About 36% of Somali Minnesotans lived below the poverty line from 2019 to 2023 — more than triple the U.S. poverty rate of 11.1% — according to Minnesota has had thirty years with the Somali community — and ninety-five percent of it has been positive," CAIR's Hussein said.
"We’ve been here thirty years. We’re no longer newcomers. Our children were born here — they are Minnesotans now."