Omar Accuses ICE of Racial Profiling, Critics Blast ‘Outrage Without Proof’

Paul Riverbank, 12/15/2025Omar alleges ICE racial profiling; critics demand proof. Minnesota's Somali-American community faces heightened fears.

For those who follow Minnesota's immigrant communities—especially the state's more than 100,000 Somali-Americans—this incident isn’t just another news item; it’s a reflection of the tension simmering beneath the surface. Omar, one of the most prominent Somali-American politicians in the country and a frequent critic of ICE, said her son carries his passport out of precaution, a habit borne from shared anxieties in their community.

Lately, ICE has ramped up operations in Minnesota, linking the surge to a sprawling fraud inquiry. But within the Somali-American enclave, talk of enforcement quickly blurs with old wounds. Omar, speaking with the candor that’s made her both admired and controversial, warned of a pattern: “They are looking for young men who look Somali, assuming they must be undocumented.” Her worries, she explained, extend far beyond her immediate family.

A particular incident at a local mosque left an indelible mark on the congresswoman. ICE agents, she says, entered the house of worship where her son and others prayed. For anyone versed in the rhythm of mosque life in Minnesota, an unexpected knock from federal agents can unravel trust built over decades.

But ICE pushes back against claims of targeting. Agency spokespersons describe the stop as routine—nothing special, not orchestrated with politics in mind. “Law enforcement agencies don't stage traffic stops for show,” one federal officer was quoted. “Leads, warrants, and operational priorities drive our actions. Not politics.” The agency maintains that its work responds to demographic realities in the state, not vendettas or rhetoric from Washington.

Doubt, however, remains plentiful. Omar pulls no punches. In a pointed letter to immigration officials, she accused the agency of racial profiling and described their latest push—dubbed “Operation Metro Surge”—as “state-sanctioned racial profiling used as a tool of political intimidation.” On social media she added: “Somali Minnesotans aren't intimidated, we're brave. Our community has always stood strong.”

Her critics, meanwhile, accuse Omar of stoking outrage with thin evidence. They view her rhetoric as part of a broader pattern—claims of persecution, they argue, can overshadow the details and, sometimes, cloud legitimate debate. “Action invites scrutiny, but calling every enforcement action persecution,” one local columnist remarked, “risks flattening the very real nuances of these arguments.”

Etched behind these exchanges is a broader struggle for trust. The distance between Minnesota’s Somali-American community and federal officials is neither new nor easily bridged. Past comments from Donald Trump, who linked Somali enclaves to fraud and pressed for hardline immigration steps, continue to reverberate in local conversations, sometimes deepening skepticism toward federal authorities.

Still, this is a story about far more than a single traffic stop. It’s about the basic question of fairness, the right for any citizen—not just Omar’s son—to feel secure in daily routines, and the ongoing push-pull between security and liberty. Some observers worry that, when accusations of bias outpace evidence, real instances of discrimination risk falling through the cracks. “We owe it to ourselves,” one Twin Cities pastor noted after Friday prayers, “to ask hard questions both of law enforcement and our elected officials.”

In all, what remains is not just a set of allegations and denials, but a mirror reflecting deeper American debates—over immigration, policing, and the meaning of belonging. As Minnesota wrestles with these topics yet again, it’s clear both truth and mistrust travel on winding roads, often marked by more questions than answers.

When Rep. Ilhan Omar's son left a Target store in Minnesota last week, he probably expected a routine drive home. What followed, according to Omar, unfolded with an edge of unease all too familiar to families like hers. She told a Minneapolis radio host that U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) agents pulled over her son shortly after his outing. It wasn’t until he produced his passport ID that they let him continue on his way.For those who follow Minnesota's immigrant communities—especially the state's more than 100,000 Somali-Americans—this incident isn’t just another news item; it’s a reflection of the tension simmering beneath the surface. Omar, one of the most prominent Somali-American politicians in the country and a frequent critic of ICE, said her son carries his passport out of precaution, a habit borne from shared anxieties in their community.Lately, ICE has ramped up operations in Minnesota, linking the surge to a sprawling fraud inquiry. But within the Somali-American enclave, talk of enforcement quickly blurs with old wounds. Omar, speaking with the candor that’s made her both admired and controversial, warned of a pattern: “They are looking for young men who look Somali, assuming they must be undocumented.” Her worries, she explained, extend far beyond her immediate family.A particular incident at a local mosque left an indelible mark on the congresswoman. ICE agents, she says, entered the house of worship where her son and others prayed. For anyone versed in the rhythm of mosque life in Minnesota, an unexpected knock from federal agents can unravel trust built over decades.But ICE pushes back against claims of targeting. Agency spokespersons describe the stop as routine—nothing special, not orchestrated with politics in mind. “Law enforcement agencies don't stage traffic stops for show,” one federal officer was quoted. “Leads, warrants, and operational priorities drive our actions. Not politics.” The agency maintains that its work responds to demographic realities in the state, not vendettas or rhetoric from Washington.Doubt, however, remains plentiful. Omar pulls no punches. In a pointed letter to immigration officials, she accused the agency of racial profiling and described their latest push—dubbed “Operation Metro Surge”—as “state-sanctioned racial profiling used as a tool of political intimidation.” On social media she added: “Somali Minnesotans aren't intimidated, we're brave. Our community has always stood strong.”Her critics, meanwhile, accuse Omar of stoking outrage with thin evidence. They view her rhetoric as part of a broader pattern—claims of persecution, they argue, can overshadow the details and, sometimes, cloud legitimate debate. “Action invites scrutiny, but calling every enforcement action persecution,” one local columnist remarked, “risks flattening the very real nuances of these arguments.”Etched behind these exchanges is a broader struggle for trust. The distance between Minnesota’s Somali-American community and federal officials is neither new nor easily bridged. Past comments from Donald Trump, who linked Somali enclaves to fraud and pressed for hardline immigration steps, continue to reverberate in local conversations, sometimes deepening skepticism toward federal authorities.Still, this is a story about far more than a single traffic stop. It’s about the basic question of fairness, the right for any citizen—not just Omar’s son—to feel secure in daily routines, and the ongoing push-pull between security and liberty. Some observers worry that, when accusations of bias outpace evidence, real instances of discrimination risk falling through the cracks. “We owe it to ourselves,” one Twin Cities pastor noted after Friday prayers, “to ask hard questions both of law enforcement and our elected officials.”In all, what remains is not just a set of allegations and denials, but a mirror reflecting deeper American debates—over immigration, policing, and the meaning of belonging. As Minnesota wrestles with these topics yet again, it’s clear both truth and mistrust travel on winding roads, often marked by more questions than answers.