Race Card Shields Billions in Fraud: Minnesota's Feeding Our Future Exposed

Paul Riverbank, 12/15/2025The Feeding Our Future scandal in Minnesota reveals how fears of racism accusations hindered oversight, enabling massive fraud. The case underscores the urgent need for principled, fearless enforcement to safeguard public trust—no matter the political risks or social pressures involved.

Dig beneath the headlines and you’ll find an open secret. For years, whispers circled about money vanishing through convoluted food relief schemes, focused largely within Minnesota’s Somali community. Yet any attempt to pull at the thread risked being labeled as an act of bigotry. “The whole story kind of died under these accusations that people were being racist,” recalled Bill Glahn, who follows policy at the Center of the American Experiment. It’s an uncomfortable truth: nobody wants to be seen as the villain in someone else’s fight for dignity, but sometimes the truth isn’t so convenient.

Take Joe Teirab. As a former federal prosecutor, he sat in on meetings where suspects leaned into the climate. One, covertly recorded, flat-out accused Attorney General Keith Ellison of pursuing the case because of race. Their words weren’t abstract—they weaponized the accusation, knowing it could muddy the waters. Tellingly, at one trial, a juror was offered a bribe just to frame the case as racist in the deliberation room. That’s not a subplot. That’s part of the playbook.

The result? Investigators and officials found themselves handcuffed—not by lack of evidence, but by fears of being labeled. Mark Koran, a Republican in the state senate, summarized the bind: prosecutions landed on certain communities not out of prejudice, but because, frankly, that’s where the paper trail led. “The average legislator doesn’t care who’s responsible,” Koran said. “If the data points to you, you’re held accountable.” But in practice, following that principle came with baggage, and risk to one’s reputation.

Courthouse battles only stoked the fire. Some of those targeted by the probes sued Minnesota, insisting that any halt in payments was racially motivated. Local politicians, such as Omar Fateh and Jamal Osman, echoed the claims in public. Never mind that these lawsuits were ultimately tossed—they added just enough static to make people think twice about asking tough questions. Reporters caught wind that their editors were nervous too; according to one journalist, “We can’t run that because we’re going to be accused of being racist.” Not explicitly censorship, but a quiet pressure, all the same.

Inside the state’s education department, the message was equally clear. A legislative auditor’s report exposed widespread anxiety. Staff confessed that anything other than cautious, deferential handling of the nonprofits would attract ugly headlines. Conservative outlets claimed that managing the optics became as important as managing the funds themselves. That’s not policy, it’s paralysis.

It wasn’t just a bureaucratic issue, either. Gov. Tim Walz, according to some sources, hesitated to swing the subpoena hammer—delays in securing bank records gave the fraud room to grow. By the time federal indictments landed, the gap between what was known and what was done had already cost the state dearly.

What complicates this further is the political reality on the ground. Minnesota’s Somali community, large and well-organized, has become a crucial voting bloc. “If you don’t have the Somali vote behind you, your campaign may not survive the primary,” Glahn explained. That’s cold political math: decisions about oversight and investigation inevitably brush up against electoral calculus.

For ordinary Minnesotans—blue-collar workers, retirees, parents—the fallout is plain. Koran’s words echo: “With such blatant disregard for the value of that dollar, ordinary people were left behind.” Some $2 billion may be prosecuted, but watchdogs bet the real figure is much greater, factoring in missed chances and services that quietly failed.

So what’s the takeaway? Fighting fraud demands more than just good accountants or sharp lawyers. It takes the courage to wade into fraught territory, to weather accusations, and to let facts—not fears or reputations—steer the ship. The Feeding Our Future saga is an uncomfortable lesson: if the threat of public shaming can tie the state’s hands, accountability suffers, and ultimately, trust in government itself is what evaporates. In today’s climate, that’s a loss with far-reaching consequences.

It’s difficult to understate the chill that sweeps through a room—or an entire state—when accusations of racism enter the conversation. In Minnesota, that chill may have had real-world consequences with the multi-billion-dollar Feeding Our Future fraud, arguably the largest social program scandal in state history. The details, pieced together from court documents and state reports, rarely made it past the first hurdle: race.Dig beneath the headlines and you’ll find an open secret. For years, whispers circled about money vanishing through convoluted food relief schemes, focused largely within Minnesota’s Somali community. Yet any attempt to pull at the thread risked being labeled as an act of bigotry. “The whole story kind of died under these accusations that people were being racist,” recalled Bill Glahn, who follows policy at the Center of the American Experiment. It’s an uncomfortable truth: nobody wants to be seen as the villain in someone else’s fight for dignity, but sometimes the truth isn’t so convenient.Take Joe Teirab. As a former federal prosecutor, he sat in on meetings where suspects leaned into the climate. One, covertly recorded, flat-out accused Attorney General Keith Ellison of pursuing the case because of race. Their words weren’t abstract—they weaponized the accusation, knowing it could muddy the waters. Tellingly, at one trial, a juror was offered a bribe just to frame the case as racist in the deliberation room. That’s not a subplot. That’s part of the playbook.The result? Investigators and officials found themselves handcuffed—not by lack of evidence, but by fears of being labeled. Mark Koran, a Republican in the state senate, summarized the bind: prosecutions landed on certain communities not out of prejudice, but because, frankly, that’s where the paper trail led. “The average legislator doesn’t care who’s responsible,” Koran said. “If the data points to you, you’re held accountable.” But in practice, following that principle came with baggage, and risk to one’s reputation.Courthouse battles only stoked the fire. Some of those targeted by the probes sued Minnesota, insisting that any halt in payments was racially motivated. Local politicians, such as Omar Fateh and Jamal Osman, echoed the claims in public. Never mind that these lawsuits were ultimately tossed—they added just enough static to make people think twice about asking tough questions. Reporters caught wind that their editors were nervous too; according to one journalist, “We can’t run that because we’re going to be accused of being racist.” Not explicitly censorship, but a quiet pressure, all the same.Inside the state’s education department, the message was equally clear. A legislative auditor’s report exposed widespread anxiety. Staff confessed that anything other than cautious, deferential handling of the nonprofits would attract ugly headlines. Conservative outlets claimed that managing the optics became as important as managing the funds themselves. That’s not policy, it’s paralysis.It wasn’t just a bureaucratic issue, either. Gov. Tim Walz, according to some sources, hesitated to swing the subpoena hammer—delays in securing bank records gave the fraud room to grow. By the time federal indictments landed, the gap between what was known and what was done had already cost the state dearly.What complicates this further is the political reality on the ground. Minnesota’s Somali community, large and well-organized, has become a crucial voting bloc. “If you don’t have the Somali vote behind you, your campaign may not survive the primary,” Glahn explained. That’s cold political math: decisions about oversight and investigation inevitably brush up against electoral calculus.For ordinary Minnesotans—blue-collar workers, retirees, parents—the fallout is plain. Koran’s words echo: “With such blatant disregard for the value of that dollar, ordinary people were left behind.” Some $2 billion may be prosecuted, but watchdogs bet the real figure is much greater, factoring in missed chances and services that quietly failed.So what’s the takeaway? Fighting fraud demands more than just good accountants or sharp lawyers. It takes the courage to wade into fraught territory, to weather accusations, and to let facts—not fears or reputations—steer the ship. The Feeding Our Future saga is an uncomfortable lesson: if the threat of public shaming can tie the state’s hands, accountability suffers, and ultimately, trust in government itself is what evaporates. In today’s climate, that’s a loss with far-reaching consequences.