“We’re NOT Black, We’re Somali!” Somali Govt. to Ilhan Omar: Replace Black Americans & Work for Us!

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“We’re Not Black, We’re Somali”: Identity, Ilhan Omar, and a Growing Rift With Black America

A viral video clip has ignited a raw, uncomfortable debate about race, loyalty, and political representation in the United States—particularly between Somali immigrants and foundational Black Americans.

At the center of the storm is Representative Ilhan Omar, a Somali‑born congresswoman from Minnesota and member of the Congressional Black Caucus. But the controversy isn’t just about her. It’s also about what Somali leaders, activists, and influencers say among themselves—and how that clashes with the way they present themselves to Black Americans and the broader U.S. public.

In one widely circulated clip, a Somali government official appears to boast that Ilhan Omar is occupying a seat in the U.S. Congress that would otherwise go to a Black American—and that she is there to work for Somalia, not for Black Americans or the United States as a whole. Add to that a growing chorus of Somali voices openly declaring, “We’re not Black, we’re Somali,” and you have a formula for mistrust, resentment, and calls for separation between Black Americans and African immigrant groups.

This is more than online drama. It touches on questions of who gets to claim “Blackness,” who benefits from civil‑rights gains won by foundational Black Americans, and whether some immigrant communities are using “Black” as a costume when convenient—then discarding it once they’ve gotten what they wanted.

The Trump Factor: “They Contribute Nothing… I Don’t Want Them in Our Country”

The backdrop to this tension includes clips of Donald Trump speaking bluntly, as usual, about Somali refugees in Minnesota:

“Somalians ripped off that state for billions of dollars. Billions. Every year billions of dollars and they contribute nothing. The welfare is like 88%. They contribute nothing. I don’t want them in our country. I’ll be honest with you… I don’t care [if it’s politically incorrect].”

To many Somalis and progressives, this is naked xenophobia—demonizing an entire community and writing them off as parasites. To many frustrated Americans, including some Black Americans, Trump is simply saying out loud what they see in cities where welfare dependency is high and large‑scale fraud has been exposed—particularly in Minnesota.

This sets the stage for a bigger question: Who is Ilhan Omar really representing? And where do Somali immigrants stand in relation to the Black Americans whose struggle created much of the legal and political groundwork they now benefit from?

The Somali Leadership Meeting: “She’ll Take That Chair From a Black Person”

In the viral commentary, the host references a meeting involving Somali political figures—including Hassan Sheikh Mohamud (often anglicized or misnamed in commentary as “Hassan Ali”), the president of Somalia—discussing Somali influence in U.S. politics. Ilhan Omar is present.

In the clip described, a Somali official speaks (in Somali, translated by the commentator) about Omar in strikingly candid terms:

He emphasizes that Ilhan Omar is Somali first and foremost, not “Black,” not broadly “African American.”
He suggests that it is important to recognize she is in the U.S. government to work for Somali interests.
He reportedly says, in essence, that Omar will “take that chair from a Black person”—referring to a congressional seat that would otherwise be held by a foundational Black American.

The commentator interprets this as:

“They made it very clear what her purpose was in the U.S. government. Her job is to replace a Black person for a position of power in America and then use that power to work for Somalia.”

If the translation and framing are accurate, it’s explosive:

It implies Somali leadership sees Omar not as a representative of Black Americans, or even of all Americans, but as a strategic asset deployed in U.S. power structures on behalf of Somalia.
It suggests a zero‑sum relationship with Black Americans: Somali gains are explicitly described as Black losses—“taking a chair” from a Black American.

For foundational Black Americans already skeptical of “Pan‑African” unity, this sounds less like solidarity and more like replacement and resource capture.

In the Black Caucus—But Not “Black”?

Ilhan Omar is a member of the Congressional Black Caucus (CBC), a political bloc historically devoted to advancing the interests of Black Americans—especially descendants of slaves whose ancestors built the country under bondage.

Yet Somali voices online are increasingly explicit:

“We are Somali, not Black.”
“Somalis are not Black.”
“There’s a difference between African and Black.”

One viral Somali influencer explains:

“Looking at me right now, am I Black? I’m literally brown.”
“Somalis are Arabs. We’re in the Arab League. We speak the Arab language. We eat Arab food.”
“If a whole community doesn’t regard themselves as Black, we can’t be Black, bro. Somalis are not Black.”

The logic is not subtle:

Somalis belong to their own ethnic and cultural category.
They may be African, but they reject the racial identity “Black” as defined in Western/colonial discourse.
They distinguish themselves from Black Americans both culturally and, in some cases, socially and politically.

For many Black Americans watching this, the anger comes not from Somalis having their own identity—it’s from the double game:

In Africa or in private: “We’re not Black, we’re Somali. We’re Arabs. We’re separate from you.”
In the U.S. political system: Check “Black” on demographic forms, join the Black Caucus, invoke Black suffering and racism when seeking protection or benefits.

As one commentator put it:

“She’s not Black, but she’s going to cosplay when it’s convenient to get in position to do what? Work for Somalia.”

That’s the core accusation: Blackness as a strategic costume.

“No Allies”: Why Some Black Americans Feel Used

The video commentary reflects a deep cynicism among some foundational Black Americans:

“Black Americans have no allies at all. We don’t have friends here, especially Africans. It’s sad, but it’s true.”

The argument goes roughly like this:

Foundational Black Americans fought and bled for civil‑rights gains—voting rights, anti‑discrimination laws, affirmative action, fair housing protections.

 

Later immigrant groups—African, Caribbean, Middle Eastern—enter the U.S. and

immediately benefit

 from those hard‑won gains:

Protected minority status
Access to set‑asides, housing, welfare, minority business programs
Political platforms built on “diversity” and “Black and Brown” coalitions

Some of these groups look down on Black Americans, viewing them as lazy, criminal, or culturally inferior—while simultaneously using their suffering and their category (“Black”) to gain resources and protection.
When backlash or scrutiny hits (e.g., Minnesota fraud investigations, ICE actions, Trump policies), these same groups suddenly invoke Black solidarity:

“This hurts Black people.”
“This is racist against Black communities.”
“We are all Black together, under attack.”

This is what the commentators mean by “using Black as a race card.” Somali influencers may insist “we’re not Black” in one breath, but when facing deportation or political crackdowns, Ilhan Omar and others pivot to:

“Trump doesn’t like Black Americans. We’re all Black. This will put Black Americans at risk.”

To foundational Black Americans who have watched their neighborhoods gentrified or reoccupied by immigrant groups—and their own people left homeless and displaced—this feels like manipulation, not solidarity.

“They Took Our Neighborhoods”: A Ground‑Level View

The tension isn’t just abstract ideology. Some Black Americans describe very concrete experiences with Somali migration.

One woman from Columbus, Ohio, recounts:

She grew up in Urbancrest, Ohio, a historically Black American municipality, founded and built by Black Americans—something like a local Black Wall Street.
One day, she remembers playing outside and suddenly seeing Somali men in long garments walking through the neighborhood—people who clearly were not from the community.
Shortly afterwards, hundreds and then thousands of Somalis were resettled in the area. Over time:

The Black‑owned businesses declined or disappeared.
The demographic makeup changed dramatically.
The area no longer resembled the thriving Black American community it once was.

Later, the same pattern repeated in North Columbus: a once‑Black neighborhood with Black‑owned homes and businesses gradually replaced and overlaid by Somali and Arabic signage, Somali businesses, and Somali landlords.

Her claim:

“There are so many homeless Black Americans in Columbus because all the places we used to live got Somalians in them now.”

Does immigration always cause displacement? Not necessarily. But from her perspective—and that of many others like her—the arrival of large Somali populations did not bring parity or partnership, but replacement and exclusion:

Somalis prioritize renting to and hiring their own.
They cluster resources and opportunities internally.
Black Americans, once dominant in those areas, are priced out or sidelined.

So when Somalis, or Ilhan Omar, later seek Black solidarity to resist deportations or enforcement, foundational Black Americans who have already felt pushed out ask:

“Where was that allyship when we were being displaced? Where was that allyship when you locked us out of housing and jobs?”

Fraud, Crime Stats, and the “Black” Category

Another point of anger: crime and statistical blame.

Critics argue:

Somali and other African immigrants check “Black” on U.S. forms, so:

Their welfare usage counts as “Black” welfare usage.
Their arrests and convictions count as “Black” crime.
Their fraud prosecutions (like the Minnesota scandal) inflate “Black” crime statistics.

Yet, culturally and politically, many of them do not identify with Black Americans, and sometimes openly disparage them.

So from a foundational Black American perspective:

When Somali networks allegedly siphon hundreds of millions or billions in welfare fraud,
And when defendants are counted as “Black” in crime statistics,
Then the entire Black category—especially Black Americans—is blamed in the public mind.

Meanwhile, Somalis may insist:

“We’re Somali, not Black. We came on planes, you came in chains.”

There’s a double benefit:

Use Blackness when it leads to money, political clout, or legal protection.
Deny Blackness when it comes to cultural loyalty, accountability, or shared struggle.

For foundational Black Americans trying to push for targeted, lineage‑based reparations and policies, this “everyone’s Black when it’s convenient” paradigm is a direct threat. It dilutes their claim and lets newer groups cut in line for benefits meant for the descendants of slavery.

Dragging Black Americans Into a Somali Fight

Ilhan Omar has publicly framed Trump’s focus on Somali deportations and denaturalization as a threat not just to Somalis but to Black Americans at large:

“This is not about crime, it’s not about safety. This is about purging people like me from this country.”

She invokes Minnesota’s history as a welcoming place for emigrants, including Black Americans fleeing the Jim Crow South, and frames Trump’s actions as part of a broader racist project.

To Somali and progressive audiences, this is a call to Black‑Brown solidarity.

To foundational Black Americans who have heard “we’re not Black, we’re Somali” for years, it sounds like:

“Now that we’re in trouble, let’s suddenly pretend we’re all the same.”

As one commentator put it:

“They only pull out the race card when it’s beneficial to them… Don’t use ‘Black’ when it’s beneficial and deny it the rest of the time. Keep that same energy.”

Deportation, “Milk and Honey,” and Taxpayer Anger

The commentary also highlights anger over the perception that:

Millions of immigrants—Somali and otherwise—were promised “milk and honey” in America.
Many arrived under refugee or asylum programs and quickly accessed public benefits, housing, and welfare financed by U.S. taxpayers.
Foundational Black Americans, meanwhile, continue to work low‑wage, physically demanding jobs with little generational wealth or relief.

One speaker asks:

“How come we can’t have the milk and honey? How come we can’t chill? How come we keep giving everybody else a good life, but every day we’ve got to wake up and go to work, with our bones hurting in blue‑collar jobs?”

From this vantage point, mass deportations of Somalis or other groups are not tragedies but course corrections:

“Deport them all. We don’t care. There’s no deportation for us. We’ll sit back, eat popcorn, and laugh.”

It’s a hard line—but it reflects the depth of resentment among some foundational Black Americans who feel exploited, displaced, and disrespected by immigrant groups who benefit from systems built on Black suffering and then claim victimhood when asked to obey laws or face consequences.

The Black Caucus Question: Representation or Replacement?

Perhaps the sharpest criticism in the commentary is reserved for the Congressional Black Caucus itself:

Ilhan Omar sits in the CBC.
Somali officials, according to the viral clip, explicitly say her job is to replace Black Americans in positions of power and work for Somalia.
The commentator calls the Black Caucus “do‑nothing” and “useless traitors of Black America,” serving everyone except the foundational Black constituents they were supposed to represent.

The charge is that:

CBC membership has become a catch‑all label for any member who is phenotypically dark‑skinned or identifies as “Black” in U.S. racial terms.
But in reality, many of those members are:

First‑ or second‑generation African, Caribbean, or otherwise non‑foundational Black.
Politically committed to “diversity” coalitions that prioritize immigration, LGBTQ issues, globalist agendas, and foreign causes over lineage‑based Black American demands (e.g., reparations, targeted economic policies, anti‑displacement efforts).

Seen through this lens, Ilhan Omar’s membership in the CBC is not just symbolic—it’s emblematic of a larger substitution, where foundational Black Americans are:

Asked to provide moral capital, historical suffering, and votes,
While policy and resources flow to everyone else under the broad “Black and Brown” umbrella.

The Larger Picture: Race, Ethnicity, and Political Honesty

This entire controversy exposes several hard truths:

“Black” is not a precise political or ethnic category.

It lumps together foundational Black Americans whose ancestors were enslaved on U.S. soil with recent African immigrants, Afro‑Caribbean migrants, Afro‑Latinos, and others.
These groups do not have the same history, the same claims, or always the same interests.

Many African immigrants do not self‑identify as “Black” in the American sense.

They may see themselves as Somali, Nigerian, Ethiopian, Arab, etc.
They may resist being grouped with Black Americans in a shared political or social identity—except when it offers strategic advantages.

Foundational Black Americans are increasingly rejecting “one big Black family” narratives.

The rise of terms like “Foundational Black Americans” (FBA), “American Descendants of Slavery” (ADOS), and similar frameworks reflects a desire to differentiate their lineage and claims from those of later arrivals.

Ilhan Omar sits at the fault line.

She is an immigrant, Somali, Muslim, member of the Black Caucus, and an icon of progressive identity politics.
But to many foundational Black Americans, she symbolizes exactly what they fear:

A representative using Blackness as a label while prioritizing immigrant and foreign agendas.

Conclusion: No More “Cosplay Blackness”

The viral clips and commentary may be harsh, emotional, and sometimes unfair in their generalizations. But they reflect a real and growing sentiment:

Foundational Black Americans are tired of being treated as a permanent moral backdrop and statistical dumping ground for the actions of others.
They are tired of immigrant groups who reject Blackness in private, but invoke it in public when they need protection, funding, or political leverage.
They are tired of watching their communities displaced, their crime stats inflated, and their political representation diluted—only to be told they’re “jealous” or “xenophobic” for noticing.

If Somali leaders and influencers want to insist “We’re not Black, we’re Somali,” many Black Americans are increasingly willing to say:

“Fair enough. But don’t come calling us your ‘Black allies’ when you get in trouble. And don’t use our category, our history, and our political infrastructure as your shield and your ticket to power.”

That’s the real fault line this controversy reveals: not just between the U.S. and immigration, or Trump and Omar, but between foundational Black Americans and those who want to wear Blackness when convenient, and discard it when it’s not.

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