Minnesota’s $9 Billion Scandal: Cornyn Unleashes SOMALIA Act Crackdown

Paul Riverbank, 1/15/2026Massive fraud in Minnesota triggers sweeping reforms, immigration debate, and deep community tensions.

Senator John Cornyn of Texas, who’s built his reputation on a certain brand of directness, called it out in charged language on national television: “The Minnesota mess has exposed a deep rot in the system—a fraud empire with no conscience.” Rather than issuing the standard political platitude, Cornyn quickly rolled out a bill with a name practically designed for cable news: the SOMALIA Act. Officially, it’s a mouthful—Stop Fraud by Strengthening Oversight and More Accountability for Lying and Illegal Activity—but the title alone made it into headlines.

Cornyn’s legislation throws sand in the gears of future fraud. He wants anyone caught scamming these systems to face a lifetime ban on receiving child care funds. There’s an emphasis on tracking too: states would be tasked with monitoring each provider closely, so the old dodge—shutting down and popping back up with a fresh LLC—is out. The bill also puts real teeth in enforcement: repay stolen funds, face criminal charges, and expect state officials to follow through.

The proposal doesn’t stop at financial rules; it veers right into the national conversation on immigration. Non-citizens found guilty would be cut out of legal status, ineligible for asylum or future entry—measures that Secretary Kristi Noem referenced as the White House soon ended special protections for thousands of Somali nationals. “Temporary means temporary. The law’s clear on that,” Noem said, framing her administration’s move as simply following the book.

Then came the freeze. In an unusually swift step, the government locked up $185 million in payments bound for Minnesota’s child care system. Clinics wondered aloud if their funding would return. Meanwhile, Homeland Security pulled the emergency brake on most Somali immigration from the region, pending further review.

This all might have churned away quietly if not for the persistence of a local journalist, Nick Shirley. Armed with a camera and a knack for stubborn fieldwork, Shirley wandered Minneapolis streets, filming padlocked playgrounds and echoing empty hallways. One clip shows a faded sign above a door, untouched throughout the afternoon: a “24-Hour Learning Center,” as vacant as the sidewalks stretching past its lawn. Digging into state business lists with a community contact named David, Shirley counted more than a thousand “non-medical emergency transportation” companies, a majority owned by Somali Americans according to state records he reviewed.

Shirley's reporting, hardly a dry recitation of facts, kicked up both dust and debate. As his videos drew viewers, so did protestors. Critics accused him of singling out Somali-owned businesses and fanning resentment; at city meetings, community leaders like Imam Yusuf Warsame stressed the importance of separating the guilty from the innocent. “We all want fraud rooted out,” Warsame said, “but there’s a line between investigation and scapegoating our neighbors.” Weeks of tense back-and-forth saw both sides claiming the mantle of justice, but also cautioning against the reflex to punish an entire community for the actions of a few.

On Capitol Hill, political momentum outpaced nuance. Every Republican in the Senate signed onto a letter pressing Minnesota’s governor for a full accounting; Senator John Thune urged “whatever force is necessary” to claw back public funds and block “schemes like this” from reemerging.

To supporters, all of these steps—stepped-up audits, lifetime bans, and linking immigration consequences to fraud—are long overdue for a system too prone to waste. Cornyn asks a simple but uncomfortable question: “If it happened in Minnesota, why assume any other state is immune?” The implication is clear—without reform, taxpayer dollars everywhere are vulnerable to vanishing acts.

Yet beneath the blaze of new rules and political soundbites, less straightforward realities take hold. Local officials, while anxious to restore faith in oversight, worry that the fallout is erasing years of trust-building among Minnesota’s diverse communities. Civil rights advocates describe Somali families withdrawing from civic life, wary of being doubted on sight.

The money is missing, the policies are changing, but the traces of suspicion and anger remain. In the months ahead, policymakers and communities alike will face a difficult reckoning: Can stricter rules actually rebuild credibility, or will quick solutions deepen divides? Minnesota’s latest scandal has left more than a budget hole—it’s forced open questions about accountability, identity, and the fragile promises of American fairness. And for now, the story remains very much unfinished.

What began as an unremarkable hiccup inside Minnesota’s bureaucratic routine shattered into front-page scandal, with federal agents revealing losses approaching $9 billion—the result not of one criminal mastermind, but of dozens of fake daycares, clinics, and food programs, some nothing more than an address and a silent keypad on a locked door. At lunchtime, the swings were still, the parking lots empty—yet checks flowed steadily from government coffers.Senator John Cornyn of Texas, who’s built his reputation on a certain brand of directness, called it out in charged language on national television: “The Minnesota mess has exposed a deep rot in the system—a fraud empire with no conscience.” Rather than issuing the standard political platitude, Cornyn quickly rolled out a bill with a name practically designed for cable news: the SOMALIA Act. Officially, it’s a mouthful—Stop Fraud by Strengthening Oversight and More Accountability for Lying and Illegal Activity—but the title alone made it into headlines.Cornyn’s legislation throws sand in the gears of future fraud. He wants anyone caught scamming these systems to face a lifetime ban on receiving child care funds. There’s an emphasis on tracking too: states would be tasked with monitoring each provider closely, so the old dodge—shutting down and popping back up with a fresh LLC—is out. The bill also puts real teeth in enforcement: repay stolen funds, face criminal charges, and expect state officials to follow through.The proposal doesn’t stop at financial rules; it veers right into the national conversation on immigration. Non-citizens found guilty would be cut out of legal status, ineligible for asylum or future entry—measures that Secretary Kristi Noem referenced as the White House soon ended special protections for thousands of Somali nationals. “Temporary means temporary. The law’s clear on that,” Noem said, framing her administration’s move as simply following the book.Then came the freeze. In an unusually swift step, the government locked up $185 million in payments bound for Minnesota’s child care system. Clinics wondered aloud if their funding would return. Meanwhile, Homeland Security pulled the emergency brake on most Somali immigration from the region, pending further review.This all might have churned away quietly if not for the persistence of a local journalist, Nick Shirley. Armed with a camera and a knack for stubborn fieldwork, Shirley wandered Minneapolis streets, filming padlocked playgrounds and echoing empty hallways. One clip shows a faded sign above a door, untouched throughout the afternoon: a “24-Hour Learning Center,” as vacant as the sidewalks stretching past its lawn. Digging into state business lists with a community contact named David, Shirley counted more than a thousand “non-medical emergency transportation” companies, a majority owned by Somali Americans according to state records he reviewed.Shirley's reporting, hardly a dry recitation of facts, kicked up both dust and debate. As his videos drew viewers, so did protestors. Critics accused him of singling out Somali-owned businesses and fanning resentment; at city meetings, community leaders like Imam Yusuf Warsame stressed the importance of separating the guilty from the innocent. “We all want fraud rooted out,” Warsame said, “but there’s a line between investigation and scapegoating our neighbors.” Weeks of tense back-and-forth saw both sides claiming the mantle of justice, but also cautioning against the reflex to punish an entire community for the actions of a few.On Capitol Hill, political momentum outpaced nuance. Every Republican in the Senate signed onto a letter pressing Minnesota’s governor for a full accounting; Senator John Thune urged “whatever force is necessary” to claw back public funds and block “schemes like this” from reemerging.To supporters, all of these steps—stepped-up audits, lifetime bans, and linking immigration consequences to fraud—are long overdue for a system too prone to waste. Cornyn asks a simple but uncomfortable question: “If it happened in Minnesota, why assume any other state is immune?” The implication is clear—without reform, taxpayer dollars everywhere are vulnerable to vanishing acts.Yet beneath the blaze of new rules and political soundbites, less straightforward realities take hold. Local officials, while anxious to restore faith in oversight, worry that the fallout is erasing years of trust-building among Minnesota’s diverse communities. Civil rights advocates describe Somali families withdrawing from civic life, wary of being doubted on sight.The money is missing, the policies are changing, but the traces of suspicion and anger remain. In the months ahead, policymakers and communities alike will face a difficult reckoning: Can stricter rules actually rebuild credibility, or will quick solutions deepen divides? Minnesota’s latest scandal has left more than a budget hole—it’s forced open questions about accountability, identity, and the fragile promises of American fairness. And for now, the story remains very much unfinished.