Letter From Minnesota:
The Sun Will Rise Again

If you want a pair of shoes made, you don’t begin by studying the leather. You look first at the shoes the shoemaker is wearing. We measure character by example, not by words. That is how I learned to understand integrity, by watching how people walk through the world. Their history. Their conduct.

Somalis carry that understanding quietly. We have lived through war, or we were raised by parents who did. We watched the road at dusk. We have learned to sense danger without letting panic spread. We know what to grab when we must leave quickly; and most importantly, we take a child’s hand before fear reaches their eyes. Some of my relatives boarded overloaded boats heading toward refugee camps in neighboring countries with the hope that the journey would not swallow them. Many did not survive this journey. Still, Rajo la’aan Waa Rafaad—without hope, there is suffering.

My father carried that instinct differently. He was trained in law and had an undeterred conviction to advocate for justice. For more than two decades, he opposed a military regime that grew bold over time, and punished those who spoke the truth. The regime attempted to silence him through relentless intimidation. They asked him for his name. They asked him again.

My father imagined a future for his family in a country where the rule of law mattered and people had THE freedom to speak their truth. I see now how his courage shapes how I bear witness to this moment. He did not live long enough to see whether those ideals would hold, but instinct does not disappear across an ocean.

One afternoon, during a routine trip to a bookstore, I drove past Target and felt my body tighten. I scanned the parking lot for oversized vehicles with tinted windows. My throat narrowed. My chest felt heavy. Then I remembered the image of a uniformed Target employee harshly treated and detained while someone shouted that he was a citizen. My body responded before my mind could reason: “look up, look around, be careful.” His pain is my pain. His family, mine.

When ICE officers flooded through the streets of the Twin Cities a city I know and love changed immediately.

I have seen what force looks like. I watched officers pull a man in a white shirt and green khaki pants from his car and beat him in the street under a hazy afternoon sun. His helpless gaze and posture settled into me. That scene has never faded from my mind although it was decades ago. This haunting image resurfaces when the air shifts.

When ICE officers flooded through the streets of the Twin Cities a city I know and love changed immediately. There was increased enforcement in the Lake Street and Pillsbury area right outside of the Karmel Mall where Somali families come to spend time. It is a beloved community space known for the scent of its slow-cooked waslad and flavorful rice. Doors stayed closed in this mall and the parking ramp that once required circling to find a spot was now mostly empty. What is telling is that entire blocks of Somali- and Latino-owned businesses felt empty as though the neighborhood held its breath.

I decided to treat this moment as we treated COVID. There was no need to panic then but we learned as a community to measure risk and adjust our lives to stay safe. We have checked on friends and family to make sure they were ok. Preparedness does not equal fear; however, more than fear, it means applying memory to the present.

Minnesota is home. Most Somali Americans were born here, and many who arrived as refugees now hold US citizenship. We brought our traditions and textures to these streets. In the dead of winter when snow piles high, you can spot bright dresses moving through the cold, and colorful scarves waving in the wind. Our visibility can draw attention at times when all we want is to lay low, and go about our day quietly. Other immigrant communities know this, too. And still, this is home.

When I worked in the Frogtown area in St. Paul years ago, I watched the streets come alive with daily rhythms. Early mornings you would see families tending to their routines, businesses opening doors; life kept moving. My favorite Vietnamese Pho restaurant on University Street is the same as it was then, same owner and same pho menu. Years ago, the owner—who was 70 at the time—told me she  wants to retire but is holding off until she finds someone who can run the restaurant the way her customers expect. This tells us that belonging doesn’t announce itself but lives in the ways our lives intersect.

What steadies me is the wider circle of support we have formed around each other through the chaos. So many friends and colleagues have reached out through emails and texts to check in, and share their dismay over what is happening. The show of solidarity by the thousands of Minnesotans who protest relentlessly in below-freezing temperatures, in defense of  basic humanity, speaks to the future we hope to create.

If you want to understand who we are, look closely at the way we move, how we stand for each other, steady in the face of chaos.

What I know is that the sun always rises, even after the longest night. Snow begins to melt. Sidewalks clear. Life will have to continue, quietly insisting on itself.

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Featured image, Sunrise Over South Minneapolis, by Tony Webster, courtesy Creative Commons Attribution 2.0 Generic license.