Trump Freezes Somali Immigration as $9 Billion Fraud Empire Exposed

Paul Riverbank, 1/15/2026Minnesota’s $9B fraud scandal sparks tough immigration crackdown and fierce debate on oversight, identity.

In the thick of the outcry, Senator John Cornyn—a Texan known as much for his measured tone as for his procedural know-how—rolled out legislation with a title that seemed crafted to leave no doubt about its intent: the Stop Fraud by Strengthening Oversight and More Accountability for Lying and Illegal Activity, or the SOMALIA Act. His message? Not only should fraudsters be cut off, but the gaps that let such schemes run rampant must be closed, permanently. “Minnesota’s scandal is a national disgrace,” Cornyn declared, pledging that his bill would ensure anyone who gamed the system wouldn’t get another crack at the public’s wallet.

What’s under the hood of Cornyn’s proposal is pointed, if not novel. The plan would ban anyone convicted of this kind of fraud from ever again seeing a cent in child care subsidies funded by Washington. Repayment of the stolen millions would be mandatory, while the handoff to federal criminal prosecutors would be non-negotiable. Buried in its language is a provision tightening the leash on states, so no provider could just fold their fraud-riddled business and emerge the following week with a new name and a clean slate.

Yet, it’s the bill’s final section—stepping squarely into the debate over immigration—that’s drawing as much attention as the sums missing from Minnesota’s budget sheets. Within the SOMALIA Act lies a rule change: non-citizens convicted of fraud would be marked permanently ineligible for asylum or legal residency, and face deportation on an expedited clock. This, combined with a move from Homeland Security putting an end to protected status for Somali nationals, marked a chilling turn for many residents. Secretary Kristi Noem cut straight to her rationale: “Temporary means temporary. Somalia simply doesn’t fit the legal bill for continued protections.”

None of this, though, would have pierced the national consciousness without the efforts of journalists on the ground. Nick Shirley, a local reporter with a relentless streak, made certain Americans would see just what was at stake. With a camera and no shortage of nerve, Shirley turned up at one daycare after another in Minneapolis. “It’s hard to describe the eeriness of standing outside a supposedly thriving business and hearing nothing but silence,” Shirley later recounted in an interview. At more than a few of these addresses, the clues were the same: empty lots, bolted doors, and not a child in sight. His partner, David, who’d tracked spreadsheet after spreadsheet of dubious “non-medical emergency transportation” companies—over 1,000 in all, by their count—argued that more than 90% of these ventures were Somali-owned. It was a claim that landed like a match in dry grass.

The backlash was swift, coming from all angles. Shirley, while filming, reported being shouted down and threatened by onlookers who accused him of targeting the Somali community, fueling a déjà vu of Minneapolis’s recent cultural rifts. Protesters insisted most residents were honest and condemned both fraud and the paintbrush of collective guilt. “We have to ask who benefits from stoking these divisions,” Imam Yusuf Warsame of south Minneapolis remarked at a heated city council session.

Still, the White House—acting with unusual speed—froze immigration from Somalia and more than seventy other nations, matching new deportation squads with a slashed $185 million in federal payments to Minnesota’s child care system. Tommy Pigott, a top administration spokesperson, accused foreign nationals of “extracting wealth” at the expense of taxpayers, doubling down on the notion that welfare fraud is a security threat as well as a fiscal one.

Congressional Republicans saw an opportunity. In a letter signed by the entire Senate GOP caucus, lawmakers demanded a blow-by-blow accounting of how Minnesota’s programs slipped the leash. Senate Majority Leader John Thune didn’t mince words—hinting that budgetary tactics first tried during the Trump years could be revived, with an eye on clawing back any lost funds and tightening oversight strings nationwide.

Supporters of this crackdown argue it’s overdue. “If this could happen in Minnesota, what’s to stop something similar in California, or Texas, or anywhere federal programs distribute billions?” Cornyn shot back at critics in a recent radio interview. The investigative work, supporters say, only highlights the “tip of an iceberg” that needs a systemic, muscular response—all the way up to Washington.

Yet it’s equally clear that lines are being drawn not just on fraud, but on identity. Civil rights advocates warn that Washington’s heavy hand is already being used to justify harassment, casting suspicion over thousands of lawful Somali residents in Minneapolis—a city that, after all, has been both a landing place and a success story for East African immigrants. Local officials, many of them first- or second-generation Americans, have condemned threats as “appalling” even as they back a state inquiry into every dollar spent.

The story of Minnesota’s vanished billions is still unfolding. Laws are being rewritten almost in real time. The challenge for the months ahead is obvious, if daunting: Will new rules actually restore public faith in oversight? Or will the cure, as some warn, inflict lasting wounds on communities already under strain? With the whole country watching, and a Congress eager to flex its oversight muscles, Minnesota’s reckoning has become America’s—and this chapter, it seems, isn’t finished just yet.

For months, headlines out of Minnesota have told the story of a stunning fraud that almost defies belief. What began as whispers about misspent childcare funds spiraled into federal agents tracing an alleged network that, prosecutors now estimate, siphoned off up to $9 billion. In a matter of weeks, daycare centers that existed only on paper, health clinics with questionable client lists, and food assistance rollouts that raised more questions than they answered were at the center of a growing political storm.In the thick of the outcry, Senator John Cornyn—a Texan known as much for his measured tone as for his procedural know-how—rolled out legislation with a title that seemed crafted to leave no doubt about its intent: the Stop Fraud by Strengthening Oversight and More Accountability for Lying and Illegal Activity, or the SOMALIA Act. His message? Not only should fraudsters be cut off, but the gaps that let such schemes run rampant must be closed, permanently. “Minnesota’s scandal is a national disgrace,” Cornyn declared, pledging that his bill would ensure anyone who gamed the system wouldn’t get another crack at the public’s wallet.What’s under the hood of Cornyn’s proposal is pointed, if not novel. The plan would ban anyone convicted of this kind of fraud from ever again seeing a cent in child care subsidies funded by Washington. Repayment of the stolen millions would be mandatory, while the handoff to federal criminal prosecutors would be non-negotiable. Buried in its language is a provision tightening the leash on states, so no provider could just fold their fraud-riddled business and emerge the following week with a new name and a clean slate.Yet, it’s the bill’s final section—stepping squarely into the debate over immigration—that’s drawing as much attention as the sums missing from Minnesota’s budget sheets. Within the SOMALIA Act lies a rule change: non-citizens convicted of fraud would be marked permanently ineligible for asylum or legal residency, and face deportation on an expedited clock. This, combined with a move from Homeland Security putting an end to protected status for Somali nationals, marked a chilling turn for many residents. Secretary Kristi Noem cut straight to her rationale: “Temporary means temporary. Somalia simply doesn’t fit the legal bill for continued protections.”None of this, though, would have pierced the national consciousness without the efforts of journalists on the ground. Nick Shirley, a local reporter with a relentless streak, made certain Americans would see just what was at stake. With a camera and no shortage of nerve, Shirley turned up at one daycare after another in Minneapolis. “It’s hard to describe the eeriness of standing outside a supposedly thriving business and hearing nothing but silence,” Shirley later recounted in an interview. At more than a few of these addresses, the clues were the same: empty lots, bolted doors, and not a child in sight. His partner, David, who’d tracked spreadsheet after spreadsheet of dubious “non-medical emergency transportation” companies—over 1,000 in all, by their count—argued that more than 90% of these ventures were Somali-owned. It was a claim that landed like a match in dry grass.The backlash was swift, coming from all angles. Shirley, while filming, reported being shouted down and threatened by onlookers who accused him of targeting the Somali community, fueling a déjà vu of Minneapolis’s recent cultural rifts. Protesters insisted most residents were honest and condemned both fraud and the paintbrush of collective guilt. “We have to ask who benefits from stoking these divisions,” Imam Yusuf Warsame of south Minneapolis remarked at a heated city council session.Still, the White House—acting with unusual speed—froze immigration from Somalia and more than seventy other nations, matching new deportation squads with a slashed $185 million in federal payments to Minnesota’s child care system. Tommy Pigott, a top administration spokesperson, accused foreign nationals of “extracting wealth” at the expense of taxpayers, doubling down on the notion that welfare fraud is a security threat as well as a fiscal one.Congressional Republicans saw an opportunity. In a letter signed by the entire Senate GOP caucus, lawmakers demanded a blow-by-blow accounting of how Minnesota’s programs slipped the leash. Senate Majority Leader John Thune didn’t mince words—hinting that budgetary tactics first tried during the Trump years could be revived, with an eye on clawing back any lost funds and tightening oversight strings nationwide.Supporters of this crackdown argue it’s overdue. “If this could happen in Minnesota, what’s to stop something similar in California, or Texas, or anywhere federal programs distribute billions?” Cornyn shot back at critics in a recent radio interview. The investigative work, supporters say, only highlights the “tip of an iceberg” that needs a systemic, muscular response—all the way up to Washington.Yet it’s equally clear that lines are being drawn not just on fraud, but on identity. Civil rights advocates warn that Washington’s heavy hand is already being used to justify harassment, casting suspicion over thousands of lawful Somali residents in Minneapolis—a city that, after all, has been both a landing place and a success story for East African immigrants. Local officials, many of them first- or second-generation Americans, have condemned threats as “appalling” even as they back a state inquiry into every dollar spent.The story of Minnesota’s vanished billions is still unfolding. Laws are being rewritten almost in real time. The challenge for the months ahead is obvious, if daunting: Will new rules actually restore public faith in oversight? Or will the cure, as some warn, inflict lasting wounds on communities already under strain? With the whole country watching, and a Congress eager to flex its oversight muscles, Minnesota’s reckoning has become America’s—and this chapter, it seems, isn’t finished just yet.