Trump Sparks Minnesota Firestorm: Walz, Somali Tensions Boil Over

Paul Riverbank, 12/5/2025Trump’s slur against Walz ignites tensions over immigration, emboldening hate and deepening Minnesota divides.

Governor Walz faced the press a few days later, steeling himself on the steps outside his official residence. Unlike other political spats, this one quickly outgrew its initial playground. “People are driving by my home, shouting that word,” Walz said, voice a notch more weathered than usual. “They don’t care if my family’s on the porch, they don’t care who hears. That’s what this has become.” You could see he was tired—not just of Trump’s language, but of what trailed in its wake.

He went further: “To date, I haven’t seen a single Republican leader—anywhere in this state—call it what it is: shameful.” There was a long pause that filled the room with more gravity than any insult ever could. The silence from his opposition was, as he put it, almost as loud as the president’s slur.

Online, Walz tried to deflect with humor, telling Trump to “release the MRI results”—a wink at the president’s own recent talk about his health. Still, his concern was anything but a punchline. In private, staff relayed uneasy anecdotes. People were emboldened. It wasn’t policy talk energizing neighborhoods, it was something more primal—a license, of sorts, to let cruelty roam free in the open.

When pressed by reporters to take back the insult, Trump didn’t flinch. “There’s something wrong with the governor,” he insisted. “Anybody who does what he’s done—let’s Somalis in, wastes billions. Somalia isn’t even a country, but we send billions there. There’s something off about Walz.” He doubled down on a theme he’s sounded before: immigrants, particularly Somalis, aren’t to be trusted; he’d rather they never set foot in America.

Minnesota is no stranger to immigration, of course. In fact, it’s home to more Somali Americans than anywhere else in the U.S.—refugees, yes, but also entrepreneurs, cab drivers, nurses, state representatives, even a congresswoman. Much of what Trump harps on—like social service fraud connected to a handful of cases—gets painted as the community’s whole story. Walz called Trump’s feedback “unprecedented for a president.” Maybe the word “unprecedented” is overused in our era, but here it fits. In my decades reporting on this state, I’ve watched communities shape and redefine what it means to belong here.

This time, Trump had allies echoing his tone. Donald Trump Jr. took to social media after the first reports of slurs being shouted at Walz’s home. He didn’t disavow the hecklers; instead he wrote, “They’re not wrong.” Not exactly the moderating voice of reason. Vice President Vance for his part, literally pounded the table at a campaign event in approval. All gas, no brakes.

Minnesota’s tension over immigration isn’t new. The context is long and complicated. Among the state’s many neighborhoods—Cedar-Riverside, Frogtown, and beyond—you’ll find stories of hardship and triumph that stretch from Mogadishu to Minneapolis. But when national leaders sharpen their words, they put targets on the backs of real people—kids walking to school, folks shopping for groceries, an imam locking up at the mosque after evening prayers.

And while much of the attention hovers over the language itself, some on the right point out what they see as selective outrage. “Why isn’t anyone more concerned about the fraud in our systems?” they ask. Others, typically progressives, counter that policy shortcomings don’t justify broad slurs against entire groups, or the license such insults seem to grant.

This story, though, isn’t just about political sparring or a president’s tweets. It’s about the signals sent from the country’s highest office—how words migrate quickly from a smartphone screen to a neighbor’s doorstep. History’s full of similar moments—decades ago, Irish and Italian newcomers were targets, later, Hmong and Vietnamese, and today, Somalis. Each time the nation faces these tests, the outcomes shape who we are going forward.

Gov. Walz summed up his concerns, and they go beyond mere discomfort: “We know how this goes. These things start with taunts, then there’s vandalism or worse. I’m worried—deeply and personally, but also for every Minnesotan who gets caught in the crossfire.”

Maybe that is the real story here. It’s not just the presidents or governors but the bystanders—those who cheer, those who say nothing, and those who quietly close their doors and hope it all blows over. Eventually, the dust settles. The question is: what lingers longer, the words themselves, or the silence that greets them?

Every once in a while, politics skips the headlines and lands on your street. You notice it in sideways glances at the grocery store and in the tone of a talk radio caller whose voice is trembling and defiant all at once. In moments like this, it’s worth remembering that words—especially from those at the top—don’t just comment on the country. Sometimes, they help to make it, for better or worse.

The day after Thanksgiving in Minnesota, there was an unusual tension in the air—one you could feel on the streets and, if you listened closely, even in the questions reporters asked at the Capitol. It all traced back to a post sent out by President Trump—something between a midnight outburst and a statement of intent. He called Minnesota Governor Tim Walz, and let’s use his own terms, “seriously retarded,” accusing the governor of inaction and cowardice in the face of, well, just about everything. The post was loud—obnoxiously so—and the ripples were immediate.Governor Walz faced the press a few days later, steeling himself on the steps outside his official residence. Unlike other political spats, this one quickly outgrew its initial playground. “People are driving by my home, shouting that word,” Walz said, voice a notch more weathered than usual. “They don’t care if my family’s on the porch, they don’t care who hears. That’s what this has become.” You could see he was tired—not just of Trump’s language, but of what trailed in its wake.He went further: “To date, I haven’t seen a single Republican leader—anywhere in this state—call it what it is: shameful.” There was a long pause that filled the room with more gravity than any insult ever could. The silence from his opposition was, as he put it, almost as loud as the president’s slur.Online, Walz tried to deflect with humor, telling Trump to “release the MRI results”—a wink at the president’s own recent talk about his health. Still, his concern was anything but a punchline. In private, staff relayed uneasy anecdotes. People were emboldened. It wasn’t policy talk energizing neighborhoods, it was something more primal—a license, of sorts, to let cruelty roam free in the open.When pressed by reporters to take back the insult, Trump didn’t flinch. “There’s something wrong with the governor,” he insisted. “Anybody who does what he’s done—let’s Somalis in, wastes billions. Somalia isn’t even a country, but we send billions there. There’s something off about Walz.” He doubled down on a theme he’s sounded before: immigrants, particularly Somalis, aren’t to be trusted; he’d rather they never set foot in America.Minnesota is no stranger to immigration, of course. In fact, it’s home to more Somali Americans than anywhere else in the U.S.—refugees, yes, but also entrepreneurs, cab drivers, nurses, state representatives, even a congresswoman. Much of what Trump harps on—like social service fraud connected to a handful of cases—gets painted as the community’s whole story. Walz called Trump’s feedback “unprecedented for a president.” Maybe the word “unprecedented” is overused in our era, but here it fits. In my decades reporting on this state, I’ve watched communities shape and redefine what it means to belong here.This time, Trump had allies echoing his tone. Donald Trump Jr. took to social media after the first reports of slurs being shouted at Walz’s home. He didn’t disavow the hecklers; instead he wrote, “They’re not wrong.” Not exactly the moderating voice of reason. Vice President Vance for his part, literally pounded the table at a campaign event in approval. All gas, no brakes.Minnesota’s tension over immigration isn’t new. The context is long and complicated. Among the state’s many neighborhoods—Cedar-Riverside, Frogtown, and beyond—you’ll find stories of hardship and triumph that stretch from Mogadishu to Minneapolis. But when national leaders sharpen their words, they put targets on the backs of real people—kids walking to school, folks shopping for groceries, an imam locking up at the mosque after evening prayers.And while much of the attention hovers over the language itself, some on the right point out what they see as selective outrage. “Why isn’t anyone more concerned about the fraud in our systems?” they ask. Others, typically progressives, counter that policy shortcomings don’t justify broad slurs against entire groups, or the license such insults seem to grant.This story, though, isn’t just about political sparring or a president’s tweets. It’s about the signals sent from the country’s highest office—how words migrate quickly from a smartphone screen to a neighbor’s doorstep. History’s full of similar moments—decades ago, Irish and Italian newcomers were targets, later, Hmong and Vietnamese, and today, Somalis. Each time the nation faces these tests, the outcomes shape who we are going forward.Gov. Walz summed up his concerns, and they go beyond mere discomfort: “We know how this goes. These things start with taunts, then there’s vandalism or worse. I’m worried—deeply and personally, but also for every Minnesotan who gets caught in the crossfire.”Maybe that is the real story here. It’s not just the presidents or governors but the bystanders—those who cheer, those who say nothing, and those who quietly close their doors and hope it all blows over. Eventually, the dust settles. The question is: what lingers longer, the words themselves, or the silence that greets them?Every once in a while, politics skips the headlines and lands on your street. You notice it in sideways glances at the grocery store and in the tone of a talk radio caller whose voice is trembling and defiant all at once. In moments like this, it’s worth remembering that words—especially from those at the top—don’t just comment on the country. Sometimes, they help to make it, for better or worse.