Contributor – Kathleen “Katie” Clark, DNP, RN

Witness – Why we cannot look away

I write this as a nurse educator in Minneapolis, where federal immigration enforcement has become part of everyday life. As nurses, we have a fundamental responsibility to respond to the crises and challenges of our time, centering on emancipatory approaches. As a nurse who had previously known George Floyd and endured the aftermath of his death in a collective community of carers seeking to protect those unsheltered or vulnerable in Minneapolis, I now find myself in another unthinkable reality – the targeting of the Somali people, ICE overtaking our city and the killing of peaceful citizens by agents of the government.

Relationship – What we learn together

My understanding of what is unfolding is shaped by nearly two decades of relationship, care, and learning within the Somali community of Cedar-Riverside. Alongside a Somali physician and a Somali nurse, I co-founded the Health Commons in Cedar-Riverside, a health-focused drop-in center in the most densely populated neighborhood of Somali Americans in our city. Now in its fifteenth year of existence, it has become part of the community, and so have I.

The power of the Somali American community in the area lies in collective commitment to one another, to religious beliefs, and to a relational view of health. To think of the world in terms of individualism and health as an illness-cure framework is foreign to this community. And because relationships with health care workers are often lacking in depth or understanding of how Somalis view the connection between health and their faith, trust has been stunted, with ripple effects in this moment.

Power – Violence made ordinary

Yet, the social-political issues underlying these realities are deeply traumatic. Many of these individuals in this community fled a country they loved due to ongoing war, to live in fractured realities, separated from their beloved communities, families, and homelands. These experiences are still ongoing, and over time, multiple events have compounded these realities.

As many Somali Americans emigrated to the United States, the unspeakable happened on September 11th, 2001, resulting in rampant Islamophobia and racism throughout the world. Another event occurred in 2016, when President Trump called the Somali community “problematic” and enacted Executive Order 13769, known as the “Muslim ban.” The Somali community lived in deep fear of what this would mean for their safety, their families, and their futures. In the present day, most Somali people living in Cedar-Riverside often lack economic stability and reside in conditions that are far from ideal, with the majority of the housing units being public or subsidized.

While this is not an exhaustive list, it provides necessary historical context for the mounting stressors and intersectional realities shaping this current moment in the area being most targeted. This is a result of the system and hegemonic powers that continue to ensure privilege benefits those who hold it. Yet, despite these realities, there are endless Somali Americans who have been able to remove these shackles of oppressive systems imposed on them as an immigrant community – they are politicians, business owners, professionals, teachers, nurses, and doctors. They are robust members of the community who contribute to the common good. A narrative other than that is simply not true.

The situation now unfolding—regardless of whether it is publicly framed with overt hate speech—is one in which a community is being dehumanized, blamed for the wrongs of others, and living in a state of ongoing fear that they will be detained, removed from their homes, or separated from their loved ones. This grinding, inescapable stress has profound physical and emotional consequences, eroding people’s ability to feel calm, safe, or well.

I myself feel paralyzed by my experiences with the sustained ICE presence. Federal officers are walking into restaurants and public spaces, demanding proof of citizenship. A 20-year-old man without identification was forcibly detained, despite being a citizen born in the United States. Officers shoved him face-first into the snow. He had no previous charges or indications that he was a “criminal.” As bystanders recorded and shared the incident, comments flooded social media celebrating what was happening. People are cheering, witnessing the violence, and exclaiming, “This is what they voted for.” This is the world we are living in.

In these last weeks, I have witnessed people get pepper-sprayed, people afraid to leave their homes for fear of being racially profiled, and violence both in words and in physical form. And this all while trying to provide care to the community I love and to show up when things once again are “uncertain.” What I describe here is not an isolated incident, but part of a documented pattern of racialized immigration enforcement in public spaces.

I am struck by how often nurses respond to harm instinctively, even at personal risk. We saw this in Alex Pretti’s actions. He was a nurse responding to the needs in the moment. Something we would all do as nurses when witnessing harm. If his death doesn’t call us to action, I don’t know what will.

The health implications are profound and will have long-term outcomes—cancelled medical appointments, people not working or leaving their home for fear of being a target, families without food or necessities because they are frozen with fear, and people who are internally displaced within the confines of their own community in a land promised to give them freedom. Nurses also share this palpable trauma.

I have seen people cry in the streets, at grocery stores, and at work. First Renee, and now Alex. Why isn’t someone coming to our aid? Power is often described as something held by those with weapons, authority, and the ability to coerce. That form of power is real and violent.

But there is another kind of power—moral, relational, and collective—that emerges when people act together to protect one another’s dignity and lives. Nursing stands in the ethical gap between these forms of power: witnessing the harm enacted while remaining accountable to the people who bear its consequences. This power resides in being with one another.

With – Staying beyond crisis

Equally, I have witnessed people organize into watch groups to warn community members about ICE’s presence, document incidents as they unfold, and provide support to those caught in the crossfire. Somali community members have brought Somali tea and sambusas and expressed their gratitude for showing up for them.

The Health Commons’s fresh food distribution has had to change drastically. We need more volunteers to escort people to their homes in the high-rise apartments and to ensure we are aware of the protocols to follow if a federal agent enters our doors. Endless people have helped us — offering their time and energy as they show up with their neighbors. Yet it is a fine line between keeping our services available and ensuring we do not pose a risk to people’s safety. This is not choosing a political side. This is choosing every day to do what we can to mitigate harm. And also remember that doing nothing and staying silent also bears harm.

And now, as I prepare for another week as a nurse, a colleague, an educator, and a friend in this neighborhood, I ground myself in the analogies provided by Kagan, Smith, and Chinn(2014) on what emancipatory actions look like in this moment through: facilitating humanization, disrupting structural inequities, self-reflection, and engaging communities and examining the complexities surrounding taking action that must be named. (See summary of this source here)

I continue to ask myself: “Am I doing this for self-centered reasons or for the community?” Those of us who care deeply for this community but live outside it often feel helpless and compelled to protect it. I witnessed this same dynamic in the aftermath of George Floyd’s death. Too often, people acted without asking the community members themselves what they wanted or considering whether the community would bear the consequences if situations escalated. People acted in the moment on behalf of others they didn’t consult, people who weren’t there when their actions impacted the community after they were back home and no longer responded to their needs – not the communities – in the moment, ultimately risking the safety of others in the long term.

Before taking action, a pause is needed – to ask whether action is needed at all, and whether it will truly help.

I also feel a responsibility to speak openly with my students, not about why this situation is happening, but why it has become normalized to racially target and abuse one group of people. This normalization runs deeper than surface-level narratives or what the media says. It requires reckoning with the ethical foundations of normalizing hate. A pattern that our country was founded on, and one we swore we would disrupt, end, and begin to heal from.

Collective action is more than providing care as a nurse to the individuals in this community. Yes, we have had to rethink how we deliver care or distribute food safely, but we also must share these political realities beyond our immediate circles. We must engage policymakers, challenge the system, and work to prevent this from continuing. And, we must stay beyond this crisis to support community members when these realities end.
They don’t need an outsider to fix this for them. They need to know they matter, that they are seen, and that they will endure through their inherent strengths, collective agency, and political will. And now they have requested us to change our narrative and call them what they rightly are -Somali Americans. Naming Somali Americans is not semantic. It is a refusal of criminalization, foreignness, and disposability.

The knowledge and relationships I have gained with them have been transformative, grounded, and profound. The Somali American people are my mentors, friends, and colleagues. The Somali American people stand up. They rise. They have grace and passion, and they know that this, too, will end, and we hope that day will soon arrive. But in the meantime, hate has no place here.

Reference

Kagan, P. N., Smith, M. C., & Chinn, P. (2014). Philosophies and Practices of Emancipatory Nursing : Social Justice as Praxis. https://doi.org/10.4324/9780203069097

About Katie Clark, DNP, RN

Katie Clark is an educator, community-engaged scholar, and nurse providing care in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Her work is grounded in nearly two decades of leading the Health Commons, health-focused drop-in centers that foster community connections and advance health for all. Her perspective is informed by relational accountability, critical consciousness, and a commitment to emancipatory nursing praxis that centers humanization, community wisdom, and the ethical imperative to do no harm—individually and collectively.