“We Are the Cedar, We Are the River”

A Poem for Somali-Americans in Minnesota

My Fellow Democracy Defenders,

Happy New Year!

Racist MAGAts are attacking the Somali-American community in Minnesota. I wrote a poem to stand with them. If you see a Somali, please show your support. Eat their delicious food. Give them hugs to show them that we want to keep their vibrancy in America and deport the bigots.

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In the heart of the North, where snow meets sky,
A new rhythm pulses — bold, unafraid to fly.
From Mogadishu’s shores to Cedar-Riverside’s street,
They brought their stories, their spice, their beat.

Halal markets hum with the scent of cumin and cardamom,
Sambusas crackle — a taste of home, never lost, never gone.
Henna curls on hands that vote, teach, organize,
Poets in classrooms, turning pain into prize.

They didn’t just arrive — they built.
Schools, clinics, co-ops — roots deep, not just wood.
Grandmothers whisper xeer in council halls,
Justice woven through walls, standing tall.

When white hate marched with torches and lies,
They stood shoulder-to-shoulder beneath Minnesota skies.
No silence. No fear. Just chants, signs, song —
“We are here. This is our home. Strong.”

Ilhan Omar rose — not just to speak,
But to shatter ceilings, make systems weak
With truth. With fire. With grace. With might.
A daughter of diaspora, blazing light.

Youth in hijabs lead marches, film documentaries,
Create zines that scream: “Our voices are not decorative.”
They code apps that track hate, tweet counter-narratives,
Turn trauma into power — defiant, creative.

They defend democracy not with guns, but with votes,
With neighbors’ names memorized, with community notes.
They turn mosques into hubs, schools into stages,
Where every child learns: “Your story matters.”

White supremacy whispers — they answer louder.
With poetry, protest, and the power of the hour.
They remind us: freedom isn’t given — it’s grown,
By those who’ve been pushed out — now planting seeds of their own.

So when you walk down Lake Street or West Broadway,
See the murals, hear the Somali lullaby?
That’s culture blooming — not borrowed, not stolen —
But gifted, shared, fiercely, beautifully, whole.

Minnesota’s soul is no longer just pine and lake —
It’s khat and qat, dhaanto and debate.
It’s Somali hands holding up the banner of right,
Defending democracy — day after day, night after night.

We are the cedar that bends but won’t break.
We are the river that carves its own way.
Somali Minnesota — you don’t just belong.
You’re the heartbeat. The conscience. The song.