December 1, 2025
In 1862, in the midst of the Civil War, the Union government under Abraham Lincoln passed the Homestead Act, offering 160 acres of land, for free, to just about anyone, as long as you were willing to farm it.
For thousands of Norwegians, Swedes, and Germans facing poverty and land scarcity back in Europe, 160 acres of free land was an irresistible invitation.
Minnesota’s vast prairies, dense forests, and endless lakes bore a striking resemblance to their native Scandinavian landscapes, and soon waves of settlers poured in, building farms, churches, and towns from the ground up.
Over time, they forged a deeply rooted culture—agrarian, devout, self-reliant, and fiercely community-oriented—that would shape the identity of the North Star State for generations.
Later waves of immigrants chose Minnesota for entirely different reasons.
In the early 1990s, Somalia collapsed into chaos after the fall of its government, and the US quickly found itself entangled.
President George H. W. Bush deployed American troops under the banner of humanitarian intervention. But after the infamous Black Hawk Down incident in 1993 in which 18 US service members were killed, President Clinton pulled the plug.
With Somalia descending even further into civil war, and the US eager to distance itself from direct military involvement, the Clinton administration came up with a new solution: asylum.
Tens of thousands of Somalis were granted refugee status, brought to America, and then placed in various cities across the country.
Some ended up in the South. Others landed in San Diego. But a small group—almost by accident—found their way to rural Minnesota, where meatpacking plants offered something no other place did: immediate employment that didn’t require English fluency.
These early Somali immigrants seized the opportunity. They moved to Minneapolis... and then started telling their friends.
As one immigrant later said, they “loudly blew the whistle” to urge fellow Somalis to come to Minnesota.
And word spread fast: the jobs were real, the welfare system was generous, and the community was growing. And that’s how the Twin Cities—snow and all—became the unlikely capital of Somali America.
Today, Minnesota is home to an estimated 60,000-80,000 Somalis—the largest Somali population outside of Somalia itself.
And many have found that meatpacking is no longer their most promising opportunity.
Minnesota has gone out of its way to build a welfare machine so outrageous that it seems to have been designed for fraud.
Under Governor Tim Walz, Minnesota has become ground zero for the most staggering welfare fraud in the nation.
Programs were built around low barriers to entry and minimal oversight. And the results have been both predictable and catastrophic.
Take “Feeding Our Future”, a nonprofit meant to provide food for impoverished kids. In 2019, they received $3.4 million in federal funding. But once COVID hit, the grift went into overdrive.
By 2021, Feeding Our Future pulled in nearly $200 million, supposedly serving millions of meals across Minnesota. The reality? Fake attendance rosters, falsified meal counts, and fabricated invoices.
The money was instead spent on luxury cars, real estate in Africa, and lavish lifestyles. Somalis were at the heart of this fraud.
Then there’s the Housing Stabilization Services (HSS) program. Launched in 2020 with a $2.6 million estimate, the program ballooned to $104 million by 2024.
Investigators uncovered that many of the “providers” were nothing more than fictitious storefronts, billing Medicaid for services never rendered. Federal authorities have stated outright that the “vast majority” of HSS payments were fraudulent.
Federally funded autism services were the next target. In just five years, autism-related claims in Minnesota exploded over 100x from $3 million to nearly $400 million.
It turns out that many of these were fabricated diagnoses, providing an intricate system of kickbacks to parents who were willing to pretend that their children were autistic.
Many of these came from the Somali community, with one Somali-American woman alone accused of siphoning $14 million from the program.
Under Tim Walz’s administration, at least 28 separate fraud scandals have emerged, with most of the large-scale rings being perpetrated by members of Minnesota’s Somali community.
When government agencies or journalists raise red flags, they're often met with a predictable defense: accusations of racism and xenophobia; Feeding Our Future even sued the state for racial discrimination when scrutiny increased.
The tactic worked. Timid politicians, unwilling to risk alienating a key voting bloc, turned a blind eye.
But the worst part is where most of that money ended up.
In 2023, the Somali diaspora sent back $1.7 billion to Somalia—more than the entire Somali government’s budget.
And Al-Shabaab, Somalia’s al-Qaida-linked terrorist group, takes a cut of every dollar remitted.
Investigators found that many of the senders were on public assistance themselves—meaning US taxpayers were indirectly funding a terror group that wants to destroy America.
The irony is that the US government has stacks of legislation—Bank Secrecy Act, PATRIOT Act, AML compliance, FinCEN regulations—all supposedly crafted to keep money out of the hands of terrorist and money launderers.
And yet, somehow, a network of welfare scammers in Minneapolis can funnel billions of taxpayer money overseas to fund a notorious terror group.
There are zero red flags, no meaningful enforcement, and absolutely no accountability.
You couldn’t invent a dumber system if you tried.
To your freedom,
James Hickman
Co-Founder, Schiff Sovereign LLC
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