EXPOSED: Somali-Run Daycares, Political Ties, and Minnesota’s $6.5B Scandal

Paul Riverbank, 12/11/2025Unraveling Minnesota's Somali-linked daycare fraud, political entanglements, and tough questions on reform.

If news broke about the Feeding Our Future scandal, you might have thought this was an isolated fiasco, born of the chaos of the pandemic. Not quite. While the $250 million stolen in COVID relief funds grabbed national attention as the largest documented fraud of its kind, locals see it as just the tip of a much larger iceberg. Reach back to 2013, and you’ll find the state’s Child Care Assistance Program already knee-deep in trouble. Investigators found Somali-owned daycares billing for kids who were supposed to be receiving care, but who sometimes never showed up at all. In some cases, cameras caught empty classrooms. Whistleblowers warned that millions were vanishing—wire transfers sent overseas, thick envelopes slipped under doors. By 2018, internal estimates suggested fraud losses had reached $100 million a year, if not higher.

The story gets more tangled as it inches closer to politics. Members of Minnesota’s growing Somali political class haven’t escaped scrutiny. Rep. Ilhan Omar introduced a bill tied to the Feeding Our Future program, then argued that lax oversight was to blame when corruption followed. State Senator Omar Fateh pressed for changes that, it turned out, may have benefited his spouse’s nonprofit. Elsewhere, a City Council member’s wife ran a center, later shut down after authorities called it a shell operation. Each revelation set off its own mini-tempest at city hall and in the local press.

By the mid-2010s, insiders called this mess an “open secret.” A columnist in Minneapolis put it bluntly: “Starting a daycare was a license to print money.” The pandemic simply poured gasoline on a smoldering situation. While the rest of the country buckled under COVID, some saw an opportunity; agencies across the state faced a deluge of false paperwork, fake participants, and vanishing taxpayer dollars. “It wasn’t just a few bad actors making off with a few bucks,” grumbled one whistleblower who had tried, unsuccessfully, to raise alarms. “Pretty soon, you had to wonder if anyone wasn’t in on it.”

But the numbers behind the headlines paint a more complicated portrait. In Minnesota, the Somali community struggles—58% live below the poverty line; food stamps are a lifeline for nearly half; unemployment sits at a sobering 40%; and many haven’t completed high school. In terms of taxes paid versus state benefits drawn, the gap’s hard to ignore: annual revenues from the community—just $68 million—can’t match the hundreds of millions paid out.

Spend any time at Minneapolis’s Somali Mall—a small, bustling hub in the city’s east side—and you’ll hear stories that don’t make the papers. One shop owner explained how she supports three dozen relatives in Mogadishu: a modest shop here, critical groceries there, and money sent home every payday. “It’s what we do,” she shrugged. Such remittances, for the record, make up nearly a third of Somalia’s estimated GDP. A local Republican activist, reflecting on the practice, said, “It’s respectable. But folks need to see the wider picture.” She hinted at frustration: money meant for Minnesota sometimes ends up an ocean away.

And yet, the questions swirl beyond economics. Critics point to the insularity of the Somali community in Minnesota. Many businesses there serve their own—food, legal advice, childcare. Some locals complain that when public money flows in, it’s not truly circulating in the broader state economy, but ultimately heading abroad in wire transfers. “It’s like we’re writing blank checks to another continent,” said a frequent critic, not mincing words.

National commentators have weighed in, too, sometimes with more heat than light. On Fox News, Stephen Miller took things further. “If Somalians struggle to build a thriving nation in Somalia, should we expect them to succeed here?” Miller asked. For him, America’s mid-century immigration reforms were “the single largest experiment on a society in history.” He argued that policies have led to “persistent high rates of welfare use, repeated patterns of fraud, and lack of assimilation.”

Yet, not every voice in the conservative camp shares that hardline tone. Some Republican activists—perhaps out of pragmatism or simple Midwestern decency—have worked to connect, not condemn. “We tried to build bridges,” one told me, “because there are some terrific people in the Somali community.” Then, a pause. “But, honestly, the overall experiment just isn’t working. We need solutions that actually stop the bleeding.”

Back across the Atlantic, Somalia stares down its own grim statistics. Climate-driven drought and civil unrest are expected to displace hundreds of thousands more in the coming years, according to aid agencies. Families there desperately rely on money from Minnesota and Columbus and St. Cloud. It keeps children in school and buys rice and beans for dinner. But each year, dependency deepens, not lessens.

What’s next? That’s the conundrum. State leaders now face an uncomfortable choice: continue on the present course, patching leaks and hoping for the best; or roll out systemic reforms, knowing the backlash could echo loudly in immigrant and advocacy circles, and perhaps even in Washington. The numbers tell part of the story; on the ground, the reality remains tangled, painful, and unresolved. The need for accountability is pressing, but the path forward won’t be easy—or quick.

Minnesota finds itself in a tough spotlight these days. Reports of fraud tied to state programs aren’t dry numbers on a spreadsheet anymore—they’ve started drawing headlines and real anger from taxpayers and politicians alike. Federal and state officials are tossing around some sobering sums. U.S. Attorney Joe Thompson didn’t mince words: the losses, he said, break “into the billions.” Not all of the schemes are new—far from it. What’s changed is that the issue, long tucked away in audit reports and whispered about among insiders, now burns under a broad public glare.If news broke about the Feeding Our Future scandal, you might have thought this was an isolated fiasco, born of the chaos of the pandemic. Not quite. While the $250 million stolen in COVID relief funds grabbed national attention as the largest documented fraud of its kind, locals see it as just the tip of a much larger iceberg. Reach back to 2013, and you’ll find the state’s Child Care Assistance Program already knee-deep in trouble. Investigators found Somali-owned daycares billing for kids who were supposed to be receiving care, but who sometimes never showed up at all. In some cases, cameras caught empty classrooms. Whistleblowers warned that millions were vanishing—wire transfers sent overseas, thick envelopes slipped under doors. By 2018, internal estimates suggested fraud losses had reached $100 million a year, if not higher.The story gets more tangled as it inches closer to politics. Members of Minnesota’s growing Somali political class haven’t escaped scrutiny. Rep. Ilhan Omar introduced a bill tied to the Feeding Our Future program, then argued that lax oversight was to blame when corruption followed. State Senator Omar Fateh pressed for changes that, it turned out, may have benefited his spouse’s nonprofit. Elsewhere, a City Council member’s wife ran a center, later shut down after authorities called it a shell operation. Each revelation set off its own mini-tempest at city hall and in the local press.By the mid-2010s, insiders called this mess an “open secret.” A columnist in Minneapolis put it bluntly: “Starting a daycare was a license to print money.” The pandemic simply poured gasoline on a smoldering situation. While the rest of the country buckled under COVID, some saw an opportunity; agencies across the state faced a deluge of false paperwork, fake participants, and vanishing taxpayer dollars. “It wasn’t just a few bad actors making off with a few bucks,” grumbled one whistleblower who had tried, unsuccessfully, to raise alarms. “Pretty soon, you had to wonder if anyone wasn’t in on it.”But the numbers behind the headlines paint a more complicated portrait. In Minnesota, the Somali community struggles—58% live below the poverty line; food stamps are a lifeline for nearly half; unemployment sits at a sobering 40%; and many haven’t completed high school. In terms of taxes paid versus state benefits drawn, the gap’s hard to ignore: annual revenues from the community—just $68 million—can’t match the hundreds of millions paid out.Spend any time at Minneapolis’s Somali Mall—a small, bustling hub in the city’s east side—and you’ll hear stories that don’t make the papers. One shop owner explained how she supports three dozen relatives in Mogadishu: a modest shop here, critical groceries there, and money sent home every payday. “It’s what we do,” she shrugged. Such remittances, for the record, make up nearly a third of Somalia’s estimated GDP. A local Republican activist, reflecting on the practice, said, “It’s respectable. But folks need to see the wider picture.” She hinted at frustration: money meant for Minnesota sometimes ends up an ocean away.And yet, the questions swirl beyond economics. Critics point to the insularity of the Somali community in Minnesota. Many businesses there serve their own—food, legal advice, childcare. Some locals complain that when public money flows in, it’s not truly circulating in the broader state economy, but ultimately heading abroad in wire transfers. “It’s like we’re writing blank checks to another continent,” said a frequent critic, not mincing words.National commentators have weighed in, too, sometimes with more heat than light. On Fox News, Stephen Miller took things further. “If Somalians struggle to build a thriving nation in Somalia, should we expect them to succeed here?” Miller asked. For him, America’s mid-century immigration reforms were “the single largest experiment on a society in history.” He argued that policies have led to “persistent high rates of welfare use, repeated patterns of fraud, and lack of assimilation.”Yet, not every voice in the conservative camp shares that hardline tone. Some Republican activists—perhaps out of pragmatism or simple Midwestern decency—have worked to connect, not condemn. “We tried to build bridges,” one told me, “because there are some terrific people in the Somali community.” Then, a pause. “But, honestly, the overall experiment just isn’t working. We need solutions that actually stop the bleeding.”Back across the Atlantic, Somalia stares down its own grim statistics. Climate-driven drought and civil unrest are expected to displace hundreds of thousands more in the coming years, according to aid agencies. Families there desperately rely on money from Minnesota and Columbus and St. Cloud. It keeps children in school and buys rice and beans for dinner. But each year, dependency deepens, not lessens.What’s next? That’s the conundrum. State leaders now face an uncomfortable choice: continue on the present course, patching leaks and hoping for the best; or roll out systemic reforms, knowing the backlash could echo loudly in immigrant and advocacy circles, and perhaps even in Washington. The numbers tell part of the story; on the ground, the reality remains tangled, painful, and unresolved. The need for accountability is pressing, but the path forward won’t be easy—or quick.