Texas Rep. Gill Demands 25-Year Somali Immigration Ban Amid Scandal

Paul Riverbank, 2/5/2026Texas debates a 25-year Somali immigration ban amid scandal, security fears, and cultural shifts.

State Representative Brandon Gill, rarely one to hold back, has leapt into the fray with a proposal that’s already splitting dinner tables and political gatherings alike: a 25-year halt on all new arrivals from Somalia. "It’s not working—none of this is working," Gill remarked recently, signposting the raw frustration shared by his supporters.

At the center of the controversy lies a bruising scandal: investigators in Minnesota uncovering fraud so vast even seasoned watchdogs blinked at the numbers. Estimates suggest some $9 billion in government funds lost, with alleged links to parts of the Somali community. The resulting outrage—feeding straight into Gill's argument—shows little sign of abating, especially when groups like the Center for Immigration Studies cite welfare dependency rates for Somali households near or above 80%. Headlines about widespread Medicaid and food stamp use, high dropout rates, and ongoing language barriers only intensify the anxieties.

Yet, as always, the reality resists simple soundbites. Start browsing through local forums in Dallas and you'll see stories that bristle with emotion, sometimes verging on alarm, other times on confusion. One parent recalls a hijab-awareness event at a Wylie high school; another brings up rumors—never quite confirmed—of pamphlets about Sharia law passed around near the school cafeteria. Mosque construction in certain suburbs has brought city planning meetings to a standstill, neighbors obliviously squabbling over property changes that seem, to some, to signal a deeper transformation.

Gill insists his proposal isn’t a blanket condemnation—“not about Somalis individually,” he maintains—but the concern, he says, is foundational: “If our policies don’t put American citizens first, what is the point?” The bill, as drafted, seeks to amend the Immigration and Nationality Act, cutting off new Somali entries for a full generation. There's a carve-out for those already settled—green card holders, legal immigrants, and diplomats are left alone. It all echoes the policy moves made under former President Trump, who wound down Temporary Protected Status for Somali refugees on the grounds that their home country’s situation had somewhat stabilized.

Wider security fears add layers to the debate. In Fort Worth, a high-profile incident involving an Afghan immigrant—alleged support for the Taliban, including threats to local residents—continues to haunt discussions, even though the case is, by rights, distinct from the broader Somali question. Nevertheless, some reports claim that millions in charitable funds from Somali-American organizations have wound up supporting al-Shabaab, the Somali militant group, raising alarms among intelligence agencies and, predictably, lawmakers.

Back in Austin, political lines are predictably drawn. Democrats dismiss Gill’s bill as little more than a distraction, accusing opponents of stoking ethnic panic and sidestepping the core challenges of integration. But Gill, for his part, says Texas can't afford the status quo. “We have to protect taxpayer interests, maintain safety, and honestly, many Texans just aren’t comfortable with how quickly some communities are changing. It’s not about hate—it’s about national cohesion,” he stated, referencing concerns over growing Islamic influence, from Imam-led street prayers to expansion of Islamic residential developments.

Governor Greg Abbott has already signed a law forbidding any so-called 'Sharia communities', while Attorney General Ken Paxton has opened probes into various Muslim-led developments—investigations that have prompted as many cheers as they have lawsuits.

Gill’s supporters—among them senior Republicans like Ted Cruz and John Cornyn—frame their efforts as overdue housekeeping. “Preventing benefit fraud isn’t xenophobia. It’s prudent stewardship,” Cruz wrote recently. And for many in conservative enclaves, the rapidly shifting character of certain neighborhoods feels, at minimum, unsettling.

But even among critics of large-scale Somali migration, nerves are frayed. Some acknowledge that closing America’s doors—even selectively—risks driving wedges deeper in a country already cleaved by anxiety over difference. Others insist that whatever the risks, policy needs to reorient, fast.

No one, least of all Brandon Gill, pretends the fix will be easy or painless. As Texas tilts further into the national glare, what happens here could well define the edges of America’s immigration identity for decades to come. For families in Dallas, and lawmakers alike, the next chapter is anything but certain.

For years, Texas has watched its demographics quietly shift, the stories behind those numbers often lurking in the background—until, suddenly, they've stepped into the harshness of the spotlight. Now, debate has reached fever pitch around Somali immigration as calls for reform sweep through both Texas and the nation at large.State Representative Brandon Gill, rarely one to hold back, has leapt into the fray with a proposal that’s already splitting dinner tables and political gatherings alike: a 25-year halt on all new arrivals from Somalia. "It’s not working—none of this is working," Gill remarked recently, signposting the raw frustration shared by his supporters.At the center of the controversy lies a bruising scandal: investigators in Minnesota uncovering fraud so vast even seasoned watchdogs blinked at the numbers. Estimates suggest some $9 billion in government funds lost, with alleged links to parts of the Somali community. The resulting outrage—feeding straight into Gill's argument—shows little sign of abating, especially when groups like the Center for Immigration Studies cite welfare dependency rates for Somali households near or above 80%. Headlines about widespread Medicaid and food stamp use, high dropout rates, and ongoing language barriers only intensify the anxieties.Yet, as always, the reality resists simple soundbites. Start browsing through local forums in Dallas and you'll see stories that bristle with emotion, sometimes verging on alarm, other times on confusion. One parent recalls a hijab-awareness event at a Wylie high school; another brings up rumors—never quite confirmed—of pamphlets about Sharia law passed around near the school cafeteria. Mosque construction in certain suburbs has brought city planning meetings to a standstill, neighbors obliviously squabbling over property changes that seem, to some, to signal a deeper transformation.Gill insists his proposal isn’t a blanket condemnation—“not about Somalis individually,” he maintains—but the concern, he says, is foundational: “If our policies don’t put American citizens first, what is the point?” The bill, as drafted, seeks to amend the Immigration and Nationality Act, cutting off new Somali entries for a full generation. There's a carve-out for those already settled—green card holders, legal immigrants, and diplomats are left alone. It all echoes the policy moves made under former President Trump, who wound down Temporary Protected Status for Somali refugees on the grounds that their home country’s situation had somewhat stabilized.Wider security fears add layers to the debate. In Fort Worth, a high-profile incident involving an Afghan immigrant—alleged support for the Taliban, including threats to local residents—continues to haunt discussions, even though the case is, by rights, distinct from the broader Somali question. Nevertheless, some reports claim that millions in charitable funds from Somali-American organizations have wound up supporting al-Shabaab, the Somali militant group, raising alarms among intelligence agencies and, predictably, lawmakers.Back in Austin, political lines are predictably drawn. Democrats dismiss Gill’s bill as little more than a distraction, accusing opponents of stoking ethnic panic and sidestepping the core challenges of integration. But Gill, for his part, says Texas can't afford the status quo. “We have to protect taxpayer interests, maintain safety, and honestly, many Texans just aren’t comfortable with how quickly some communities are changing. It’s not about hate—it’s about national cohesion,” he stated, referencing concerns over growing Islamic influence, from Imam-led street prayers to expansion of Islamic residential developments.Governor Greg Abbott has already signed a law forbidding any so-called 'Sharia communities', while Attorney General Ken Paxton has opened probes into various Muslim-led developments—investigations that have prompted as many cheers as they have lawsuits.Gill’s supporters—among them senior Republicans like Ted Cruz and John Cornyn—frame their efforts as overdue housekeeping. “Preventing benefit fraud isn’t xenophobia. It’s prudent stewardship,” Cruz wrote recently. And for many in conservative enclaves, the rapidly shifting character of certain neighborhoods feels, at minimum, unsettling.But even among critics of large-scale Somali migration, nerves are frayed. Some acknowledge that closing America’s doors—even selectively—risks driving wedges deeper in a country already cleaved by anxiety over difference. Others insist that whatever the risks, policy needs to reorient, fast.No one, least of all Brandon Gill, pretends the fix will be easy or painless. As Texas tilts further into the national glare, what happens here could well define the edges of America’s immigration identity for decades to come. For families in Dallas, and lawmakers alike, the next chapter is anything but certain.