Trump Slams Minnesota ‘Daycare Mafia’—Democrats Scramble Amid Federal Crackdown

Paul Riverbank, 1/2/2026Alleged daycare fraud in Minnesota has ignited federal action and political sparring, casting a spotlight on oversight failures and raising concerns over collective blame and scapegoating within Somali communities. The unfolding scandal tests the balance between accountability, justice, and responsible governance.

Federal agents landed in Minnesota like a harsh winter squall. Homeland Security, auditors, even the FBI—boots on the ground and files in hand. Nearly a hundred people stand indicted in what prosecutors describe as an “industrial-scale” scheme that siphoned off millions from programs meant to serve vulnerable children. The numbers are dizzying: $185 million in childcare funds frozen; $300 million in grants allegedly rerouted, intended for free meals that some say were never served. “Fifty-seven have already been convicted,” said Joseph H. Thompson, the case’s federal point man, his voice edged with disbelief. “There’s no question—the scale is staggering.”

As is often the case, a local story has taken on a symbolic heft. President Trump, quick to pounce, didn’t mince words in a recent speech at Mar-a-Lago: “They stole $18 billion, that’s just what we’re hearing about. And it’s worse in California, Illinois, New York—worse in a lot of places.” On Fox News, Rep. Mike Haridopolos ratcheted up the rhetoric: “This is mafia stuff. The federal government has to use the same tools it used to crack down on the mob in the ‘60s. Nothing less.”

Pressure is mounting in every direction. Former House Oversight Committee Chair Jason Chaffetz has called for public testimony from state leaders, demanding answers. “The people of Minnesota and the country deserve an explanation,” he said, his tone almost weary after years of oversight jousting on Capitol Hill.

Minnesota’s Democratic governor, Tim Walz, finds himself on the defensive—accusing the Trump administration of politicizing the crisis, describing the federal freeze as a blunt instrument harming families who rely on these programs. “We take fraud seriously,” he reassured—a refrain echoed by Tikki Brown, the state’s commissioner for children, youth, and families. She offered a measured response: while the viral footage raised questions, some methods used in those investigations “need scrutiny.”

The political crossfire is fierce, but flickers of anxiety are most visible in Minneapolis’ Somali community, where the majority of the accused have roots. Somali leaders and residents now contend with threats—calls for deportation, and a creeping sense of guilt by association. Jamal Osman, a city council member, voiced the anxiety plainly: “Anyone who looks like me is scared right now.” Kowsar Mohamed, who lives nearby, adds a note of exasperation: “We’re seeing people stopped in the street and interrogated about their immigration status. This isn’t a sensible way to tackle the problem.”

On the legislative front, DFL state lawmakers are pushing back hard against what they describe as scapegoating. “Trump is targeting a sliver of our community to make a statement,” argued Zaynab Mohamed, a first-term legislator and Somali-American. “This isn’t about safety; it’s about removing people who look like me.”

As the facts trickle in, the outlines of the crisis grow both sharper and murkier. The FBI has suggested the investigation is still scratching the surface. National media scrambled to verify the influencer’s claims—CBS, for its part, found no evidence of fraud at most of the daycares spotlighted in Shirley’s clip, though it did note citations for dingy classrooms and tattered playgrounds.

Still, the prosecutions—close to a hundred arrests, more than sixty convictions—are real, and so is the fallout. And Washington is taking notice. The House is teeing up new hearings. State officials in Minnesota brace for further scrutiny. Other states, too, are checking under the hood, wondering if similar scams are quietly bleeding their own budgets.

It is now a story that stretches far beyond daycare centers or Minnesota’s borders. It has become a Rorschach test for national anxieties about fraud, oversight, and what happens when entire communities get swept up in political crosswinds. Everyone here, from parents scanning sign-in sheets to lawmakers testifying before Congress, find themselves caught in something far larger: an American reckoning over trust, accountability, and who gets to feel at home.

The worn signs outside a row of Minneapolis childcare centers now seem to carry a strange weight, their promises of long hours and play-filled weekends rendered suspicious by blinking “open” lights and empty parking lots. It was only a few months ago that Nick Shirley -- a local influencer, not a lawman or city official -- parked across the street with his phone and a rising sense of disbelief. “It says they’re running seven days a week—7 a.m. to 10 p.m.,” he muttered, panning across a deserted lot, “but there’s just nobody here.” Within days, his video had erupted across social media, picking up more than a million clicks and catapulting an obscure set of allegations into the national spotlight.Federal agents landed in Minnesota like a harsh winter squall. Homeland Security, auditors, even the FBI—boots on the ground and files in hand. Nearly a hundred people stand indicted in what prosecutors describe as an “industrial-scale” scheme that siphoned off millions from programs meant to serve vulnerable children. The numbers are dizzying: $185 million in childcare funds frozen; $300 million in grants allegedly rerouted, intended for free meals that some say were never served. “Fifty-seven have already been convicted,” said Joseph H. Thompson, the case’s federal point man, his voice edged with disbelief. “There’s no question—the scale is staggering.”As is often the case, a local story has taken on a symbolic heft. President Trump, quick to pounce, didn’t mince words in a recent speech at Mar-a-Lago: “They stole $18 billion, that’s just what we’re hearing about. And it’s worse in California, Illinois, New York—worse in a lot of places.” On Fox News, Rep. Mike Haridopolos ratcheted up the rhetoric: “This is mafia stuff. The federal government has to use the same tools it used to crack down on the mob in the ‘60s. Nothing less.”Pressure is mounting in every direction. Former House Oversight Committee Chair Jason Chaffetz has called for public testimony from state leaders, demanding answers. “The people of Minnesota and the country deserve an explanation,” he said, his tone almost weary after years of oversight jousting on Capitol Hill.Minnesota’s Democratic governor, Tim Walz, finds himself on the defensive—accusing the Trump administration of politicizing the crisis, describing the federal freeze as a blunt instrument harming families who rely on these programs. “We take fraud seriously,” he reassured—a refrain echoed by Tikki Brown, the state’s commissioner for children, youth, and families. She offered a measured response: while the viral footage raised questions, some methods used in those investigations “need scrutiny.”The political crossfire is fierce, but flickers of anxiety are most visible in Minneapolis’ Somali community, where the majority of the accused have roots. Somali leaders and residents now contend with threats—calls for deportation, and a creeping sense of guilt by association. Jamal Osman, a city council member, voiced the anxiety plainly: “Anyone who looks like me is scared right now.” Kowsar Mohamed, who lives nearby, adds a note of exasperation: “We’re seeing people stopped in the street and interrogated about their immigration status. This isn’t a sensible way to tackle the problem.”On the legislative front, DFL state lawmakers are pushing back hard against what they describe as scapegoating. “Trump is targeting a sliver of our community to make a statement,” argued Zaynab Mohamed, a first-term legislator and Somali-American. “This isn’t about safety; it’s about removing people who look like me.”As the facts trickle in, the outlines of the crisis grow both sharper and murkier. The FBI has suggested the investigation is still scratching the surface. National media scrambled to verify the influencer’s claims—CBS, for its part, found no evidence of fraud at most of the daycares spotlighted in Shirley’s clip, though it did note citations for dingy classrooms and tattered playgrounds.Still, the prosecutions—close to a hundred arrests, more than sixty convictions—are real, and so is the fallout. And Washington is taking notice. The House is teeing up new hearings. State officials in Minnesota brace for further scrutiny. Other states, too, are checking under the hood, wondering if similar scams are quietly bleeding their own budgets.It is now a story that stretches far beyond daycare centers or Minnesota’s borders. It has become a Rorschach test for national anxieties about fraud, oversight, and what happens when entire communities get swept up in political crosswinds. Everyone here, from parents scanning sign-in sheets to lawmakers testifying before Congress, find themselves caught in something far larger: an American reckoning over trust, accountability, and who gets to feel at home.