Letter From Minnesota: From Otaango to Eat Street

I grew up as a Child of the Horn in Minnesota, landing first at an address in South Minneapolis that my mom taught me to memorize—a landmark of survival, a place of new beginnings. I was nine, caught between missing friends and the familiar, embarrassed by my broken English and the unfamiliar rhythms of this city.

Even then, life offered ordinary joys: Hot Cheetos, video games, and my brothers acting like wild, normal kids—the same energy they carried from Otaango Refugee Camp in Kenya, where we lived before Minnesota. The camp burned down after we left, leaving smoke, memory, and lessons that traveled with us.

My mother modeled welcome long before I understood the word—inviting new arrivals into our home. I learned to do the same in school, helping classmates navigate a combination locker or interpret with the little English I had. Over time, I learned to balance two cultures: the quiet rituals of my family and the restless pulse of my new city.

As an adult, I can tell you where to eat, where to hear intimate music, how to enjoy nature, and I’ve mastered Eat Street—the corridor where my mom and aunties owned one of the first Somali clothing stores, long before Karamel opened, a store where I grew up. The store is now closed, and that space is Pimento Jamaican Kitchen, just blocks from where Alex Pretti was killed. This city has been home for most of my life: where I fell in love, got educated, and reinvented myself over and over, because of its art, resilience, and expressive spirit, as much as its ten thousand lakes.

Belonging didn’t feel like fitting in. It felt like missing the familiar, stumbling through a new language, carrying the quiet embarrassment of not knowing the rules. But even then, joy left breadcrumbs. When this season of occupation passes, I imagine what remains: tea poured generously without looking over our shoulders, sambuus split without hesitation, laughter while bargaining at the Somali mall, weddings loud with joy. I imagine neighbors who know one another because we once learned to stand close in the cold. Protest did not harden us—it softened us toward each other. Care learned in crisis does not disappear.

History will ask: who noticed early, who spoke carefully, who refused to mistake silence for safety.

From my perspective as someone who fled conflict, occupation is not only enforcement. It is the quieter betrayal of being othered again by a place that once promised safety. You feel it when your accent, your name, or your documents begin to matter, when belonging becomes provisional, when survival demands staying unremarkable. Occupation teaches people to shrink their lives. Betrayal teaches them to shrink their expectations.

Even now, in Minnesota, echoes of that early vigilance remain. Certain communities feel fear quietly—people in Saint Paul, the suburbs, and greater Minnesota towns where support networks aren’t visible. And then there are neighbors like Renee, whose courage became a northern star for me. She didn’t speak my Hooyo’s language, but she understood what it meant to protect, to witness, to show up. Her presence reminded me that even in fear, care and solidarity are possible.

Occupation and othering are not abstract. They arrive quietly, shaping daily life. My experiences as a Child of the Horn whose life was shaped by movement offer insight into how enforcement and fear land unevenly in Minnesota. Community visibility and recognition matter—some lives are highlighted, others ignored, but all are impacted.

History will ask: who noticed early, who spoke carefully, who refused to mistake silence for safety. I answer in part with Renee—her northern star still lights the way. I carry the dust of distant roads in my lungs, honor the courage of neighbors, and refuse to be afraid. To be a Child of the Horn is to know the value of a door. To be a neighbor is to guard it, as Renee showed me.

Even in ordinary moments—sharing tea, splitting food, laughing in the snow, dancing at weddings—Minnesota feels alive. Warm, watchful, connected. Even under pressure, under fear, under occupation, life finds ways to bloom.