A troubling episode occurred last night.
As I arrived to meet my son’s carpool, a young black woman followed me in the dark outside the closed library. She leaned toward the passenger window to look through. Thinking she’d mistaken me for another driver, I waved her on.
But she lingered.
I lowered the passenger window. She leaned forward in the cold to explain she’d been waiting thirty minutes for her ride. Her phone was dead. Could I please call her husband?
Panicky, she repeated, “It shouldn’t take him this long. He should be here by now. Where is he?”
On speaker phone we tried the number twice. She left a message. Was that Wolof? Anyway, a West African language.
“Why not wait at the grocery store,” I said, naming the plaza just up the road.
“Yes,” she said. “I can charge my phone.”
“I’ll text this number and let your husband know you’re there.”
Her gratitude was drowned by some other concern, heightening panic, her face a picture of worry. “It shouldn’t take him this long. It should not. Which way to the store?”
I indicated left and she went.
My son arrived soon after. “We’ll go a different way tonight,” I said.
Ordinarily we exit right onto the busy four-lane road. Tonight, I wanted to follow the woman’s direction, see she reached, maybe give a lift through the cold.
She hadn’t got far. As we approached, my window down, I heard a bawling, wailing despair. I called gently, but no response. She continued walking, filling the night with deep, wracked pain, no ordinary concern for a delayed spouse.
I said, “Do you need a ride?”
The sobs broke enough for her to say, “I can make it. It’s just there.” She continued walking, sunken into softer wailing.
I drove on, describing the earlier episode to my son. I avoided speculation on the many things that might have upset her so. One thing in particular stood out.
Before we’d gone far, a text arrived. It was her husband. Simply: “Okay.”
Hope
The episode resonates still, riling my despair for the deep trauma going on in America right now.
Seems to me this woman’s trauma has roots in what she’s seen in Minneapolis: what horrible, irreversible thing had delayed her husband?
Our immigrant communities are under attack, a masked hounding and forceful interrogation of ordinary civilians by undisciplined squads in militarized gear. It’s real for non-immigrants, too, for U.S.-born and other American citizens.
I feel sick. Then along comes a voice that gives hope.
It’s the voice of Hamse Warfa sharing his story with Minneapolis native Christopher Wurst on SoftPower/FulStories. The story describes the rise of an immigrant refugee from civil war in Somalia to the heights of influence in his adopted state—Minnesota—and the halls of power in Washington, D.C. Three books. A Ph.D.
His story proves the American dream ain’t dead. That it’s accessible to more than just himself. Here’s why.
Warfa’s story isn’t about his rise alone, but about how his rise lifts others. As CEO of World Savvy, a non-profit that prepares educators and students for the challenges of an interconnected world, Warfe drives positive change.
One of the two big storms we face in 2026, he says, is a “crisis of belonging:” How do we make sure that everyone feels they belong to Minnesota?
“I’m not just talking about immigrants. I’m also talking about long-term residents, white males who feel (threatened by) this (great replacement) theory and I don’t think we pay enough attention to address the grievances, some real, some perceived.”
To address these issues, World Savvy works in 45 states and 32 countries to train young people with the ability to hold multiple perspectives and the skills needed for community wellness and workforce success.
Speculation isn’t helpful, but I do wonder this. Might a similar intervention, a decade or so earlier, have paved the way for more humane enforcement tactics than what we’re seeing right now on the streets of Minneapolis?
This episode of SoftPower/FulStories, uncharacteristically in-the-moment, offers two hopeful voices paddling calmly, sanely, purposefully, across a turbulent river of present despair.
Give it a listen, or read more here: https://www.softpowerfulstories.org/23-hamse-warfa/
##
Ben East Books 
Leave a comment