Trump Targets Somali Day Cares: Viral Fraud Claims Ignite National Firestorm

Soon, things started to feel different in neighborhoods with Somali child care providers. Cars—sometimes with out-of-state plates—were suddenly parked on quiet side streets, their drivers lingering. Providers like Samsam Khalif in San Diego, nerves already ragged, realized she was being watched—literally. On one early afternoon, two men with a camera sat inside an idling car as she pulled up to her house, a van loaded with children. She hesitated and circled the block repeatedly. “I didn’t want them to see the kids get out,” she would later recall, still shaken enough to install new cameras around the property. She isn’t alone—many have taken similar precautions, wary not of regular licensing visits but of strangers with open hostility.

Events in Minneapolis took on an even uglier note. Over just a few weeks, incidents piled up—one provider described someone stepping out of a car and relieving himself brazenly near her door, an act that was both a message and a humiliation. Another day, a passing motorist rolled down his window and sneered that she operated a “fake day care.” Repeatedly, providers shut blinds—sometimes to keep children from seeing Immigration officers, sometimes just to restore a little normalcy.

The claims in the viral video had teeth precisely because they surfaced against a backdrop of political rhetoric. Former President Donald Trump’s harsh words about Somali immigrants—some so vitriolic they bordered on the unspeakable—were already fresh in the community’s memory. His frequent references to Rep. Ilhan Omar, herself Somali-born and now representing Minneapolis, stoked disquiet. The president, seemingly moved by the uproar, even cited a years-old fraud case, despite the fact that the situation involved a nutrition program and not the child care centers in question.

Still, official response came—this time from investigators, not influencers. Local inspectors pored through records and quickly concluded the allegations lacked merit; the supposed “ghost children” were, in fact, real kids in need of care. Even so, the Trump administration attempted to freeze federal child care funding to Minnesota and several other states, only for a court to intervene and restore payments. The administrative limbo added still another layer of uncertainty for providers already on edge.

Unfounded or not, suspicion had a way of spreading. Suddenly, Somali day care centers from Columbus to Federal Way, Washington, became the targets of unannounced “citizen journalism.” In Ohio, a man pressed his cellphone to a glass door, muttering, “It doesn’t look like a child care center at all.” State authorities later confirmed the facility was indeed properly licensed, but rarely do corrections echo as loudly as accusations.

For some, the hostility went beyond the merely suspicious. In Ohio, a Somali provider picked up her voicemail only to discover it had been hacked, the message now a tirade of racist epithets. In Washington state, police grew accustomed to calls from worried families and neighbors about “reporters” staking out front lawns. Scrutiny bordered on vigilantism.

Elected officials—local and federal—were soon drawn into the maelstrom. Seattle’s mayor, Katie Wilson, stated plainly that harassment of Somali providers would not be tolerated. That prompted a pointed rejoinder from Harmeet Dhillon of the DOJ’s Civil Rights Division, arguing that even aggressive citizen journalism should not be considered a “hate crime.” An uneasy standoff between free speech and public safety emerged.

Ohio’s Governor Mike DeWine, standing before TV cameras, dismissed the logic that suspicion alone should be proof. “A locked door isn’t evidence,” he told viewers, noting that any reasonable center would want to keep strangers out. Nevertheless, Ohio lawmakers proposed tough new rules, including a controversial measure to stream live video from inside child care centers directly to state officials—a move that struck many as government overreach.

For child care advocates, the whole episode felt like a dangerous diversion. They pointed out that thousands of working-class families—especially immigrants—face year-long waits for assistance, skyrocketing fees, and recent cuts to already stretched programs. Ruth Friedman, who oversaw the Office of Child Care under President Biden, was blunt: “This is being used to undermine support for investments in child care.” Accusations had, in her eyes, become a political tool.

The Department of Health and Human Services, fielding criticism from both sides, insisted their oversight of funding was not manufactured for politics and encouraged anyone with legitimate concerns to come forward in good faith.

Scratch beneath the headlines, and you find a much quieter story unfolding daily: Somali parents drop off toddlers at the center, lunches are packed, games begun, children kept safe and busy. Outside, however, the sense of menace lingers—a nervous glance here, a new security camera there, routines now colored by caution.

In the end, the passions and fact-finding of the adults often obscure the simplest reality for the children: inside those colorful rooms, they just want to learn and feel safe, blissfully unaware of the storm swirling outside. The responsibility for giving them that peace, many providers say, grows heavier with every news cycle.