Federal immigration agents tackled and arrested a Somali American man in Minneapolis on Tuesday and detained him for about two hours for no apparent reason other than his ethnicity… Mubashir declined to share his last name out of fear for his and his family’s safety, but he gave a detailed account of the incident to reporters, who also viewed video that city officials shared recorded on a business’ security camera and a bystander’s mobile phone. Mubashir, who moved to the United States as a small boy and became a naturalized American citizen, said that he stepped onto a sidewalk near 4th Street and Cedar Avenue during his lunch break when two masked men approached him. The Cedar-Riverside neighborhood is the heart of the city’s Somali American community. Sensing trouble, he ducked into a restaurant. They followed him inside, dragged him out and forcibly arrested him. The agents handcuffed Mubashir, took him across 4th Street and pushed him onto his knees in the snow. One put him in a choke hold. —Minneapolis Public Radio, December 12, 2025
After the mayoral forum, a candidate and I remain at the table.
He apologizes for not being “on” today, for not realizing
his back had been turned to me. He’s tired. New baby. His first.
Would you like to see a picture? he asks, showing me his phone,
the stunning infant. I would lose sleep for him always, he says.
My husband kneels on the library floor to better survey
a shelf of jazz CDs, as a group of preschoolers scuttle around him.
A small boy approaches, holds out a box of chess pieces, asks
something in Somali. It appears he wants to put the box away
but doesn’t know where it belongs. A teacher comes to help.
The phlebotomist greets us, speaks to my daughter in a quiet voice,
assures she is comfortable in the reclining chair. After the blood draw,
he tells me some people say he should speak more loudly.
My daughter has been told that all her life, I say, and we talk about
communicating across cultures, about what signifies humility.
Our US representative leaves a phone message, inviting us to a town hall.
She wants to hear all of her constituents’ voices. The president calls her
garbage, dreams of throwing her away, along with the candidate,
the little boy, the phlebotomist. He laughs about shitholes and hellholes—
his heart, an empty hole.
Christine Sikorski’s work has appeared in Waterstone, Little Patuxent Review, Quartet, One Art, This Was 2020: Minnesotans Write About Pandemics and Social Justice in a Historic, and elsewhere. Her honors include a Minnesota State Arts Board Grant and Academy of American Poets Prizes. She has taught at two universities, the Loft Literary Center, a homeless shelter, a community center, and other venues. She lives with her family in Minneapolis.