What Trump Gets Wrong About Somalis

In his speech last week at Davos, President Donald Trump zeroed in on Somalis: “We’re cracking down on more than $19 billion in fraud that was stolen by Somalian bandits. Can you believe that Somalia, they turned out to be higher IQ than we thought?” The president continued: “These are low IQ people, how do they go into Minnesota and steal all that money? And we have, you know, their pirates, they’re good pirates, right, but we shoot them out of the water, just like we shoot the drug boats out.”  This disparagement of Somalis—calling us “low IQ,” “bandits,” and “pirates”—has been translated into every language Somalis speak. These words are discussed in American living rooms, and in refugee camps and cities across the Somali diaspora. When the president of the United States speaks this way, Somalis everywhere hear it. I am Somali American, a refugee, and a naturalized U.S. citizen. I grew up in Mogadishu during a brutal civil war. I lost my sister. I was separated from my family. I taught myself English by watching American movies and listening to American music because America represented something rare to me: possibility. Law. Order. A future shaped not by violence, but by effort. When I finally arrived in the United States in Aug. 2014 through the Diversity Visa Lottery—my “golden ticket”—I arrived with gratitude, humility, and responsibility. I did not come to take from America. I came to join it. That is why the president’s words sting so deeply—not just because they are insulting, but because they flatten an entire people into a single, negative image. They ignore complexity. They erase our contributions. And they miss an essential truth: Somalis are not perfect, but neither is America, and neither is any community that has ever been part of this nation. Let me say this clearly: fraud is real, and fraud is unacceptable. Any Somali—or any American—who commits fraud should face the law. Accountability matters. Justice matters. No community should be shielded from consequences simply because it has suffered. Most Somalis I know believe this deeply. We want fairness, not favoritism. We want integrity, not excuses. Afterall, the vulnerable communities are the ones hurt by fraud. But what is unjust—and dangerous—is using the wrongdoing of some to condemn an entire people. There are so many Somali Americans like me who are law-abiding, hardworking, and deeply invested in this country. Many of us arrived after surviving war, displacement, years in refugee camps, and the most extensive vetting processes the U.S. government has. Somalis born here are not outsiders or visitors; we are Americans who know no other home. To suggest that all of us are suspect, or should be targeted, is not law enforcement. It is collective punishment. That is not how America works—or at least, not how it is supposed to work. President Trump’s rhetoric also misunderstands Somalia itself. Somalia is often spoken about as if it is nothing more than chaos. Yes, Somalia is fragile. Yes, it struggles with corruption, insecurity, and weak institutions. But it is also a country whose people have endured extraordinary hardship with resilience, faith, and determination. Somalia did not always know extremist violence in the way the world imagines today. Radical groups like Al-Shabaab emerged in a global context shaped by war, power vacuums, and regional destabilization. Today, Somali soldiers—poorly equipped and underpaid—are fighting an extremist group that openly chants “death to America.” They are dying on the front lines of a conflict that also protects American interests. That reality deserves honesty, not mockery. President Trump does not understand Somali American patriotism. Many Somali Americans love this country fiercely—not because it is flawless, but because we know what life looks like without functioning institutions. We value the rule of law because we have lived without it. We value free speech because we have known fear. We value citizenship because we have known statelessness. My story is not unique. Somali Americans are doctors, U.S. army servicemen and veterans, truck drivers, and public servants. We take the oath to be loyal to and serve this country, and many of us stand by that oath and stay here. Those who break the oath are not representatives of Somali Americans. Patriotism does not mean silence. It does not mean pretending problems do not exist. It means believing a country can do better—and choosing to stay engaged even when it is painful. When I write critically about America, I do so as someone invested in its future, not as someone standing outside of it. President Trump’s words have consequences. They shape how neighbors see each other. They influence policy. They embolden suspicion. Somali Americans—many of whom already navigate Islamophobia, racism, and misunderstanding—are caught in the weight of those words, regardless of how they live their lives. To be sure, America has always struggled with newcomers. Every immigrant group has faced suspicion before eventually becoming part of the national fabric. Somalis are no different. We are living through that familiar chapter of American history—one where fear speaks louder than facts. The president’s rhetoric is not just about Somalis. It is about America’s ability to hold complexity: to condemn wrongdoing without demonizing communities, to enforce laws without abandoning humanity, and to recognize that loyalty can come from many places. I am Somali and I am proudly American. These identities do not cancel each other out. They strengthen each other. And they allow me to say this with conviction: Somalis are not America’s enemy. We are part of its story: imperfect, accountable, resilient, and deeply committed to the country we now call home. America is strongest when it remembers that.