In the News

When President Joe Biden announced in the spring his plans for "once-in-a-generation investments in our nation's future," he said that "it is not enough to restore where we were prior to the pandemic. We need to build a stronger economy that does not leave anyone behind -- we need to build back better."

As I heard the news out of Afghanistan—the families scrambling to get on American planes, or the thousands of requests for assistance pouring into my office—I was taken instantly back to my childhood. I remembered sitting in a refugee camp in Kenya when I was about 10 years old and overhearing my father and grandfather discuss how we were going to get out. "Only in America can you ultimately become an American," my grandfather said. "Everywhere else we will always feel like a guest."

We've watched as they've lightened and retouched images of celebrities of color, from Beyoncé to Priyanka Chopra to Kerry Washington to Lupita Nyong'o

As I sat in my Capitol Hill office two weeks ago, watching a violent mob storm the symbol and seat of our democracy, I was reminded of my distant past. As a child, I saw my birth country of Somalia descend from relative stability into civil war, overnight. The spaces where people felt most secure—their homes and workplaces—suddenly became battlegrounds, torn by gunfights and bombings. Violent targeting of political leaders—once unheard-of—became commonplace.

I never expected to experience a direct assault on democracy in the United States, one of the oldest, most prosperous democracies in the world.

This month, we begin the transition away from a Trump era and toward a new presidency based on peace and cooperation. There is no area where this renewed vision is needed more than foreign policy. Trump has taunted, mocked, and burned bridges with our allies, while simultaneously cozying up to some of the most brutal dictatorial regimes around the world—especially those in the oil-rich Middle East. The damage done by the Trump administration runs deep, and it will take hard work and a clear understanding of the extent of the damage to fix it.

When I first came to this country as a refugee at the age of 12, I was horrified by the number of people I saw experiencing homelessness on the streets of New York City. I remember turning to my father one day as we drove through the city and saying, "This is not the America you told us about." "Hush child," my father replied. "We will get to that America." The America I'd dreamed of—the one my father had imagined back in Somalia—not only guaranteed equal protection under the law, but provided everyone the opportunity to live with dignity, to thrive. Two decades later, I'm still fighting for that America.

This past week, I met with community members and state lawmakers to push for more change in the wake of George Floyd's killing in Minneapolis. Floyd was killed in my Minnesota district — and his death was the catalyst for conversations around police brutality and structural racism that have begun to transform the nation.

Our city, and our nation, are at a crossroads.

For years, we have marched, protested and advocated to end police brutality. In 2015, a 24-year-old black man, Jamar Clark, was shot in the head and died after a confrontation with two white Minneapolis police officers responding to a reported assault. In 2016, Philando Castile, a 29-year-old black man, was fatally shot by a police officer in a Twin Cities suburb while Castile's partner and her 4-year-old daughter looked on.