Lewiston Victims Betrayed: Millions Diverted, Somali-Linked Groups Exposed

Paul Riverbank, 1/10/2026Lewiston relief funds diverted; Somali-led groups, oversight lapses, and donor betrayal spark national concern.

But the money, as it turns out, had different destinations. One by one, victims learned their checks weren’t coming, or were far, far less than expected. Instead, $2 million was scattered across 29 charities—enough to turn gratitude into confusion, and for some, into indignation. Jennifer received a curt email, which seemed almost apologetic, saying the funds were redirected “for broader community healing.” For those on the edge of eviction, paying bills with borrowed cash or dealing with unending medical costs, the word “healing” felt slim.

Here’s the thing, though: of those 29 recipient organizations, it soon emerged, nine served almost exclusively immigrant communities. Seven of those were unmistakably Somali-led. One of the main beneficiaries, surprisingly, had a controversial figure at the helm—Abdullahi Ali, a city council member whose background had already troubled some in City Hall. Ali stepped away from his position just as questions started to mount: fraud allegations, gun charges, and, oddly enough, a business address that traced back to a boarded-up poultry shack.

Yet this isn’t just a Maine issue. A thousand miles away, in the chilly corridors of Minnesota’s state offices, Scott Stillman was thumbing stacks of files. As a digital forensics specialist, he’d watched for years as taxpayer money—intended for childcare assistance—seemed to vanish into thin air. “We’re not talking pennies here,” he later told a panel of stone-faced lawmakers, “but millions—likely over $100 million per year, in Minnesota alone.” State auditors never pinned down the full amount but verified enough, again and again, to sound the alarm. Jay Swanson, their lead sleuth, pegged fraud rates at “at least 50%” inside the $217 million annual pool.

It’s a cat-and-mouse routine. Close one “shell” daycare, a new one pops up—always just legitimate enough to keep the treadmill running. And behind many of these, investigators found links to Somali communities, with whispers (and sometimes evidence) of money quietly wiring its way out of the U.S.

All this, understandably, set Washington’s antennae twitching. Federal watchdogs—always careful, rarely declarative—voiced concern in muted memos. They referenced “large-scale overbilling” and “shell care centers” siphoning funds, and, chillingly, the possibility that terror groups like al-Shabaab benefit indirectly when illicit funds get sent abroad.

When the Treasury Secretary, Scott Bessent, announced a crackdown, some dismissed it as theater. The changes were real, though: banks would lower the threshold for flagging suspicious international transfers—from $10,000 to $3,000. And for people on public aid, wiring money out of the country would trigger red flags, new scrutiny. “Follow the money,” Bessent intoned, “just like we did with the mafia and the cartels.”

Minnesota’s Department of Human Services, meanwhile, laid bare in its own audit a lineup of bad practices: grants disbursed without records, payments approved with scant justification, $2.5 million pushed out with no competitive bids. The newly appointed interim commissioner, Shireen Gandhi, went on record: “I accept responsibility,” she said, “and we’ll address every single finding. No excuses.” Easy promises on paper, harder in the trenches.

Back in Lewiston, the wound remains. People like Jennifer Zanca, who survived the worst, see their trust eroded. Where they expected support, they got circuitous answers and shifting rules. For donors, there’s a sense of betrayal, of being misled by those who were supposed to steward goodwill.

The biggest lesson, perhaps, isn’t about one city or one scandal but about the frailty of oversight when crisis strikes. Without vigilant scrutiny, funds mean little, and the people who ought to benefit are left out. Real reform isn’t just about new policies—it’s about keeping a commitment to those most affected, and not letting mismanagement turn tragedy into yet another source of pain.

When Jennifer Zanca, an ER nurse from Lewiston, limped home in late October, bullet wounds still aching, the last thing on her mind was fundraising. Yet suddenly, she found herself and other survivors at the center of one—or what they believed was a lifeline, anyway. The local community, stunned by tragedy, rallied and poured close to $2 million into a relief fund. “They told us,” Jennifer recalls, “that every dollar, all of it, was meant for the victims.” Not for abstract causes, not for faceless nonprofits—just for those who lived through that night, or didn’t.But the money, as it turns out, had different destinations. One by one, victims learned their checks weren’t coming, or were far, far less than expected. Instead, $2 million was scattered across 29 charities—enough to turn gratitude into confusion, and for some, into indignation. Jennifer received a curt email, which seemed almost apologetic, saying the funds were redirected “for broader community healing.” For those on the edge of eviction, paying bills with borrowed cash or dealing with unending medical costs, the word “healing” felt slim.Here’s the thing, though: of those 29 recipient organizations, it soon emerged, nine served almost exclusively immigrant communities. Seven of those were unmistakably Somali-led. One of the main beneficiaries, surprisingly, had a controversial figure at the helm—Abdullahi Ali, a city council member whose background had already troubled some in City Hall. Ali stepped away from his position just as questions started to mount: fraud allegations, gun charges, and, oddly enough, a business address that traced back to a boarded-up poultry shack.Yet this isn’t just a Maine issue. A thousand miles away, in the chilly corridors of Minnesota’s state offices, Scott Stillman was thumbing stacks of files. As a digital forensics specialist, he’d watched for years as taxpayer money—intended for childcare assistance—seemed to vanish into thin air. “We’re not talking pennies here,” he later told a panel of stone-faced lawmakers, “but millions—likely over $100 million per year, in Minnesota alone.” State auditors never pinned down the full amount but verified enough, again and again, to sound the alarm. Jay Swanson, their lead sleuth, pegged fraud rates at “at least 50%” inside the $217 million annual pool.It’s a cat-and-mouse routine. Close one “shell” daycare, a new one pops up—always just legitimate enough to keep the treadmill running. And behind many of these, investigators found links to Somali communities, with whispers (and sometimes evidence) of money quietly wiring its way out of the U.S.All this, understandably, set Washington’s antennae twitching. Federal watchdogs—always careful, rarely declarative—voiced concern in muted memos. They referenced “large-scale overbilling” and “shell care centers” siphoning funds, and, chillingly, the possibility that terror groups like al-Shabaab benefit indirectly when illicit funds get sent abroad.When the Treasury Secretary, Scott Bessent, announced a crackdown, some dismissed it as theater. The changes were real, though: banks would lower the threshold for flagging suspicious international transfers—from $10,000 to $3,000. And for people on public aid, wiring money out of the country would trigger red flags, new scrutiny. “Follow the money,” Bessent intoned, “just like we did with the mafia and the cartels.”Minnesota’s Department of Human Services, meanwhile, laid bare in its own audit a lineup of bad practices: grants disbursed without records, payments approved with scant justification, $2.5 million pushed out with no competitive bids. The newly appointed interim commissioner, Shireen Gandhi, went on record: “I accept responsibility,” she said, “and we’ll address every single finding. No excuses.” Easy promises on paper, harder in the trenches.Back in Lewiston, the wound remains. People like Jennifer Zanca, who survived the worst, see their trust eroded. Where they expected support, they got circuitous answers and shifting rules. For donors, there’s a sense of betrayal, of being misled by those who were supposed to steward goodwill.The biggest lesson, perhaps, isn’t about one city or one scandal but about the frailty of oversight when crisis strikes. Without vigilant scrutiny, funds mean little, and the people who ought to benefit are left out. Real reform isn’t just about new policies—it’s about keeping a commitment to those most affected, and not letting mismanagement turn tragedy into yet another source of pain.