ICE Pushes Back as Omar Accuses Agents of ‘State-Sanctioned Profiling’

Paul Riverbank, 12/15/2025ICE denies racial profiling as Omar spotlights Somali community tensions in Minnesota enforcement debate.

This wasn’t, for the Omar family, some isolated mishap. There’s a longer shadow at play, one shaped by prior incidents. She recalled a moment, months before, when federal agents showed up at a mosque where her son prays. The agents left as abruptly as they’d arrived, and yet the memory lingers. These are not moments plucked from urban myth. They land as cautionary tales and, in the eyes of some in Minnesota’s Somali American community, as a warning.

Minnesota is home to around 107,000 Somalis—a sizeable population, the largest in any U.S. state. Step off Cedar Avenue in Minneapolis and it becomes clear: this isn’t just a statistic, but a neighborhood reality. For many, that’s a badge of pride. For others, an unspoken worry—especially when national headlines circle back with stories of fraud, high-profile arrests, accusations flung not at individuals but communities.

Anyone following Minnesota politics this year has likely seen the swirl around COVID relief fraud. A handful of the accused happen to be Somali. The political response was, predictably, swift. Former President Trump, never shy with rhetoric, seized on the scandal at rallies. “We don’t want them,” he remarked, four words that echo in Somali homes, regardless of whether the speaker intended them for all or for a few.

Against this charged backdrop, Omar has grown increasingly vocal. She sees these stops and checks, these abrupt encounters, as far from routine. “All of these areas that they are talking about—those are places my son, and many others, could be. They’re looking for young men who look Somali, who they assume must be undocumented,” she explained during a recent interview. She doesn't pull punches: to her, this is “state-sanctioned racial profiling,” a phrase that lands like a dropped gavel.

ICE disputes such readings of their work. From official statements, the message is clear and clipped: these stops are standard procedure, no politics involved. Agents, they say, don’t pull over drivers or enter prayer spaces to make a point. “Law enforcement agencies don’t conduct traffic stops for political theater,” as one commentator on the matter bluntly put it. Nor has any evidence, at least not public, surfaced to show a directive aimed at Omar or her family.

Yet, for every press release maintaining business-as-usual, there’s lived experience painting a more complicated mural. Ask community leaders, and they’ll tick off a list—some stories verified, others passed around, each feeding into a shared feeling of being watched. Omar herself puts numbers front and center. She argues more than 90% of Somalis residing in the United States are, in fact, American citizens. But after the recent round of coverage, you’d be forgiven for thinking otherwise. “Here in the United States, we don’t blame the crimes of an individual on a whole community,” she said. If only the media always agreed.

The real question that’s surfaced, and it’s one with no easy answer: when does government enforcement drift into overreach? And how much proof, of what kind, is needed before claims of profiling move from allegation to established fact? The conversations in living rooms and coffee shops rarely hew to legalese. Instead, families talk about feeling “under suspicion,” about the chilling effect of just seeing an ICE vehicle tail a familiar route.

That unease has spurred action. Omar and her allies in Congress have fired off letters to the Department of Homeland Security, pressing for clarity—and, presumably, changes. She’s accused ICE of blatant racial profiling and “an egregious level of unnecessary force,” rhetoric that draws cheers in some quarters and eye-rolls in others. ICE, stubbornly steady, says their operations are rooted in ongoing investigations and actionable intelligence.

Minnesota is watching. So is, in its own way, the rest of the country—not simply out of concern for Omar’s son, but to see where the line between community safety and constant suspicion will eventually be drawn. Depending on whom you ask, this is a story about an agency out of control, a lawmaker exploiting an incident, or just another episode in the long, fractious relationship between immigrant communities and those tasked with enforcing the law.

Amid the swirl, what stands out is how quickly the abstract becomes profoundly personal. Every stop, every question, feels heavy; it weighs differently depending on where you sit in the debate. There’s talk, everywhere, about fairness—but rarely shared agreement about what that would look like. Whether this was truly just a routine inspection, as authorities maintain, or something more deliberate: that’s a debate that shows few signs of drifting away.

It doesn’t always start with a grand showdown or a march on city hall. Sometimes, it’s a Target run on an unremarkable day. That’s how Rep. Ilhan Omar’s son found himself at the center of a quietly simmering debate, one that stretches far beyond the checkout lanes. After he finished that errand, he was pulled over, not by local police, but by agents from Immigration and Customs Enforcement—ICE, as the acronym is known and, to many, intoned. The reason? Still a bit hazy. According to Omar, he reached for his passport—something he apparently carries out of habit—and, upon presenting it, was allowed to go about his business.This wasn’t, for the Omar family, some isolated mishap. There’s a longer shadow at play, one shaped by prior incidents. She recalled a moment, months before, when federal agents showed up at a mosque where her son prays. The agents left as abruptly as they’d arrived, and yet the memory lingers. These are not moments plucked from urban myth. They land as cautionary tales and, in the eyes of some in Minnesota’s Somali American community, as a warning.Minnesota is home to around 107,000 Somalis—a sizeable population, the largest in any U.S. state. Step off Cedar Avenue in Minneapolis and it becomes clear: this isn’t just a statistic, but a neighborhood reality. For many, that’s a badge of pride. For others, an unspoken worry—especially when national headlines circle back with stories of fraud, high-profile arrests, accusations flung not at individuals but communities.Anyone following Minnesota politics this year has likely seen the swirl around COVID relief fraud. A handful of the accused happen to be Somali. The political response was, predictably, swift. Former President Trump, never shy with rhetoric, seized on the scandal at rallies. “We don’t want them,” he remarked, four words that echo in Somali homes, regardless of whether the speaker intended them for all or for a few.Against this charged backdrop, Omar has grown increasingly vocal. She sees these stops and checks, these abrupt encounters, as far from routine. “All of these areas that they are talking about—those are places my son, and many others, could be. They’re looking for young men who look Somali, who they assume must be undocumented,” she explained during a recent interview. She doesn't pull punches: to her, this is “state-sanctioned racial profiling,” a phrase that lands like a dropped gavel.ICE disputes such readings of their work. From official statements, the message is clear and clipped: these stops are standard procedure, no politics involved. Agents, they say, don’t pull over drivers or enter prayer spaces to make a point. “Law enforcement agencies don’t conduct traffic stops for political theater,” as one commentator on the matter bluntly put it. Nor has any evidence, at least not public, surfaced to show a directive aimed at Omar or her family.Yet, for every press release maintaining business-as-usual, there’s lived experience painting a more complicated mural. Ask community leaders, and they’ll tick off a list—some stories verified, others passed around, each feeding into a shared feeling of being watched. Omar herself puts numbers front and center. She argues more than 90% of Somalis residing in the United States are, in fact, American citizens. But after the recent round of coverage, you’d be forgiven for thinking otherwise. “Here in the United States, we don’t blame the crimes of an individual on a whole community,” she said. If only the media always agreed.The real question that’s surfaced, and it’s one with no easy answer: when does government enforcement drift into overreach? And how much proof, of what kind, is needed before claims of profiling move from allegation to established fact? The conversations in living rooms and coffee shops rarely hew to legalese. Instead, families talk about feeling “under suspicion,” about the chilling effect of just seeing an ICE vehicle tail a familiar route.That unease has spurred action. Omar and her allies in Congress have fired off letters to the Department of Homeland Security, pressing for clarity—and, presumably, changes. She’s accused ICE of blatant racial profiling and “an egregious level of unnecessary force,” rhetoric that draws cheers in some quarters and eye-rolls in others. ICE, stubbornly steady, says their operations are rooted in ongoing investigations and actionable intelligence.Minnesota is watching. So is, in its own way, the rest of the country—not simply out of concern for Omar’s son, but to see where the line between community safety and constant suspicion will eventually be drawn. Depending on whom you ask, this is a story about an agency out of control, a lawmaker exploiting an incident, or just another episode in the long, fractious relationship between immigrant communities and those tasked with enforcing the law.Amid the swirl, what stands out is how quickly the abstract becomes profoundly personal. Every stop, every question, feels heavy; it weighs differently depending on where you sit in the debate. There’s talk, everywhere, about fairness—but rarely shared agreement about what that would look like. Whether this was truly just a routine inspection, as authorities maintain, or something more deliberate: that’s a debate that shows few signs of drifting away.