By Ben Kesling
MINNEAPOLIS--Abdi Mohamed strode into a coffee shop on a recent
morning and took a lap around the place, shaking hands with about a
dozen men as they paused their lively discussions of the news of
the day to give him a warm greeting.
"This is our place," he said of the Starbucks in the Seward
neighborhood, where thousands of Somalis live. "This might be the
loudest Starbucks in the United States."
Mr. Mohamed, who immigrated here from Somalia nearly two decades
ago, is clearly a member of the group, though he works for the
Hennepin County Sheriff's Office. His job as a full-time liaison to
the Somali community includes ample cups of coffee and handshakes
in hopes of picking up gossip here and there while fielding
questions from local East Africans about law enforcement and the
court system. He was tapped for the liaison job because of his
contacts and his ability to connect with people, "I was very
knowledgeable with what was going on in the community," he
said.
It is a job that grew out of crisis nearly a decade ago when the
sheriff said he was caught completely unaware that some two dozen
Somalis began leaving Minnesota to join the Islamist extremist
group al-Shabaab. And it was tested again this past week, as six
young Somalis from Minnesota were arrested for allegedly conspiring
to travel to Syria and join Islamic State, the militant group known
as ISIS.
"Shame on us for not knowing," said Sheriff Richard Stanek, who
took office just months before the initial, high-profile al-Shabaab
exodus. "Community engagement was born out of necessity."
Such outreach to Somali and other Muslim communities in the U.S.
has been highlighted by the Obama administration in its push to
prevent young people from being drawn into joining terrorist
groups. The sheriff's program is now well-established and part of
the reason Minneapolis is one of three cities chosen as a model to
test and expand outreach efforts like Mr. Mohamed's before they are
rolled out across the country. Muslims are divided on the plan,
with some wary the programs will lead to spying, and others arguing
it gives them greater influence.
Today, Mr. Mohamed, who owned a limousine service before taking
this job, does his best, with visits to places like the Starbucks,
to stay plugged into the group to avoid another surprise.
"This is where Somalis come for 'Crossfire,' " said Ahmed
Shukri, referring to the former debate-filled television show.
"Once you leave here, there's no stress, but here, lots of
stress."
This past week, he said the focus of debate among the mostly
middle-aged men has been recent Islamic State executions of about
30 Ethiopian men, and the past week's arrest of the six young men
who represent a generation that can become disconnected from the
rest of the community.
"They have left us, and they haven't integrated into society, so
they're dangling in the middle," Mr. Shukri said of the young men,
who on Thursday were ordered held until their trial. "The
communication system between the parents and these kids doesn't
even exist."
Mr. Mohamed had relatives killed in the Somali civil war
beginning in the early 1990s, and he came to the U.S. to study and
make a living. About three years ago, he took the lead engaging
what the sheriff estimates to be a community of 100,000 Somalis,
using the playbook of community-oriented policing models of opening
lines of communication and building trust.
"It's the same way we deal with gangs," said Mr. Stanek. He said
this past week's arrests of the six Somalis are a sign things are
getting better, not worse. "Twelve to 14 years ago, they all would
have gone," the sheriff said.
The Community Engagement Team, which includes a handful of
plainclothes liaisons like Mr. Mohamed, is coordinated by a
sergeant in the department who sometimes rides along, also wearing
civilian garb. The team works with other immigrant communities
including in Vietnamese and Hispanic neighborhoods.
More than one-third of the 1.2 million people in the county,
which includes Minneapolis and many western suburbs, are
non-Caucasian, according to the 2012 census.
A few miles from the Starbucks, Mr. Mohamed parallel-parks by
nosing the car into a spot rather than backing it in, something he
boldly calls "Somali-style driving," with a laugh. At the Afro Deli
& Catering restaurant, he begins the routine again, shaking
hands and laughing, checking in with everyone.
Nasser Mussa, a local educator who has lived in the area for
nearly a decade, is getting lunch and takes some time to talk about
the recent arrests and how federal officials' use of an informant
in the case has soured relationships. "I'm not saying they
shouldn't be arrested," Mr. Mussa said, before expressing
frustration that the young men strayed so far before they were
engaged sooner.
Mr. Mohamed's next stop is near the Riverside Plaza residential
towers, a largely East African neighborhood wedged between
highways. Across the street at a community center, Mohamud Noor,
who directs a local Somali outreach group, said he appreciates the
efforts of the sheriff's office, but said there is much more that
needs to be done in the community, including reaching out to
mothers in the area who have been devastated by their sons'
arrests.
"If you have the resources, bring them to us," Mr. Noor
said.
Back in the car at the end of the day, Mr. Mohamed heads to the
sheriff's office.
"We have to have different angles," he said, reflecting on the
day and the strategy needed to beat back disaffection, delinquency
and violence. "The solution has to come from the community," he
said, "and 90% of the community is on the same page."
Write to Ben Kesling at benjamin.kesling@wsj.com
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