The Confidence to Win: How Somalis Became a Political Force in the West

How displacement, grassroots activism, and communal solidarity turned a diaspora into an electoral powerhouse—and why success brings new risks.

In just over a decade, Somali communities across Western democracies have moved from the margins of political life to the heart of decision-making. From Ilhan Omar’s historic election to the US Congress in 2018, to Ahmed Hussen’s rise as a Canadian cabinet minister, to Sagal Abdi-Wali’s recent breakthrough into the UK Parliament, and the five Somali MPs elected to Sweden’s Riksdag in the same year, a clear pattern has emerged. Somalis are not merely participating in politics; they are winning seats at national, regional, and local levels at a rate that outstrips many other recent immigrant communities.

This article analyses the underlying reasons for this phenomenon. It argues that the political success of Somalis in the West is driven by a unique combination of factors: the permanent displacement from a collapsed homeland, a cultural confidence that rejects inferiority, a deep-rooted tradition of grassroots activism, and a powerful—if sometimes fragile—sense of communal solidarity. It also examines why Somali women are outperforming their male counterparts, why this visibility attracts far-right backlash, and how old clan rivalries threaten to undermine the very unity that made these gains possible.

The single most important driver of Somali political engagement in the West is the stark reality of Somalia itself. For over three decades, the country has been mired in conflict, state collapse, and recurring humanitarian crises. While diaspora communities often maintain emotional and financial ties to their homeland, the prospect of a viable, safe, and prosperous return has steadily diminished.

This has profound political consequences. Unlike some immigrant groups who view their stay as temporary and therefore refrain from deep civic engagement, Somalis have largely accepted that their future—and their children’s future—lies in their adopted countries. That acceptance transforms politics from a foreign activity into a necessity. It fuels the desire to shape local schools, housing policies, policing, and social services. It also explains why so many Somali politicians speak not of returning, but of building power where they are. Ahmed Hussen, who arrived in Canada as a teenage refugee and later became a four-time Liberal MP and cabinet minister, embodies this shift from displacement to permanent investment in a new home.

“For Somalis in the West, politics is no longer a foreign activity—it is the only way to secure a future in the only home they have.”

British colonial administrators in Somaliland and Italian Somaliland frequently noted a peculiar trait among Somalis: they lacked the subservience and inferiority complex that colonisers encountered in many other parts of their empire. Somalis were described as proud, independent, and unwilling to accept second-class status. That historical observation has modern echoes.

In Western societies, Somalis do not generally approach white-majority, non-Muslim environments with timidity or self-effacement. They mingle, they debate, they organise. This confidence is not arrogance; it is a deeply ingrained sense of equality. It allows Somali politicians to walk into rooms—city councils, parliamentary committees, community halls—and engage as equals, not as guests. That disposition is a significant advantage in democratic politics, where presence, voice, and assertiveness matter. It is the same confidence that carried Ilhan Omar from a refugee camp to the US Congress and Sagal Abdi-Wali from Camden Council to the House of Commons.

Somalis are, by culture and history, political animals. They are naturally very interested in politics, love debate and analysis of public affairs—a tradition rooted in rural and urban practices of collective decision-making under the tree. This is not merely a cultural curiosity; it is a transferable skill.

Almost every Somali elected official in the West began their political journey in grassroots organisations. Ilhan Omar worked as a community organiser and policy analyst before running for the Minnesota House of Representatives. Ahmed Hussen co-founded the Regent Park Community Council and served as National President of the Canadian Somali Congress before his election to Parliament in 2015. Sagal Abdi-Wali served as a Camden councillor and cabinet member long before she won a seat in the House of Commons. Leila Ali Elmi was active in local Gothenburg politics before entering the Riksdag.

This pattern is consistent: Somalis do not emerge from nowhere. They build networks, run small organisations, advocate for tenants’ rights, education, and social services, and only then seek elected office.

Perhaps the most visible factor in Somali electoral success is communal solidarity. When a Somali candidate runs for office, the community mobilises. In areas with a sizable Somali presence—Minneapolis’s Cedar-Riverside, London’s Camden and Islington, Gothenburg’s suburbs, Toronto’s York South—Weston—this solidarity can translate into a decisive voting bloc. Geographic concentration gives Somalis a broad voting power that forces parties to listen.

This solidarity is not blind. It is strategic. Somalis understand that having one of their own in office means representation, access, and a voice at the table. It also creates a pipeline: once a community sees one of its members elected, others follow. The result is a self-reinforcing cycle of political empowerment. Ahmed Hussen’s repeated re-elections in York South—Weston, each time with over 55% of the vote, illustrate how a community’s concentrated support can sustain a political career across multiple election cycles.

“When a Somali candidate runs, the community does not just vote—it mobilises. That bloc can decide elections.”

One of the most striking features of Somali political representation in the West is the dominance of women. Ilhan Omar, Sagal Abdi-Wali, Leila Ali Elmi, Deqa Dhalac, Nadia Mohamed, Marian Hussein—the list goes on. Somali women are winning seats at rates that far exceed their male counterparts.

There are several reasons for this. First, Somali women are often the primary organisers in their communities. They run the grassroots networks, the parent-teacher associations, the mosque committees, and the social service organisations. Second, they are unapologetic about their religion and cultural identity. They wear the hijab, they speak openly about their faith, and they refuse to hide who they are. That confidence is magnetic. It attracts left-leaning, white-majority supporters who admire their courage, their articulate politics, and their social-mindedness.

In a political environment where authenticity is increasingly valued, Somali women offer something rare: a politics that is both deeply rooted in a specific community and confidently universal in its appeal. They are not asking for permission to belong. They are claiming their place.

“Somali women are not asking for permission to belong. They are claiming their place.”

However, the same factors that make Somalis successful and visible also make them a target. Far-right politicians, particularly in the United States, have seized on Somali political representation as a symbol of everything they oppose. Donald Trump’s attacks on Ilhan Omar—telling her to “go back” to Somalia—are the most prominent example. These attacks are not isolated; they are part of a broader anti-immigrant, Islamophobic discourse that seeks to portray Somalis as foreign, dangerous, and unassimilable.

The irony is that this backlash often strengthens rather than weakens Somali political engagement. It rallies the community, generates sympathy from progressive allies, and raises the profile of Somali politicians. But it also comes with real costs: threats, harassment, and a heightened sense of vulnerability. Success, in other words, is not without its dangers.

Despite the outward solidarity, Somali political unity is not absolute. Old clan rivalries from Somalia can resurface in diaspora politics, particularly in regions where Somalis are numerically strong. This phenomenon is well documented.

In Minnesota, for example, the mayorship race involving Omar Fateh saw fellow Somalis siding with his opponent—a division that shocked many observers who assumed communal solidarity would prevail. Similar fractures have appeared in Columbus, Ohio, where Somali candidates have sometimes found themselves opposed by members of their own community. These divisions are not merely personal; they are often proxies for older clan affiliations and political allegiances from back home.

When clan rivalries emerge, they dilute the Somali vote and undermine the collective power that made earlier victories possible. They also hand ammunition to opponents who argue that Somalis are too fractured to govern. Overcoming this internal challenge is perhaps the most difficult task facing Somali politics in the West.

“The same solidarity that wins elections can fracture when old clan rivalries resurface.”

The political rise of Somalis in the West is one of the most remarkable stories of immigrant integration in recent decades. It is driven by a unique combination of factors: the permanent displacement from a collapsed homeland, a cultural confidence that rejects inferiority, a tradition of grassroots activism, and a powerful sense of communal solidarity. Somali women, in particular, have emerged as leaders, their unapologetic identity and articulate politics attracting broad support. And figures like Ahmed Hussen demonstrate that Somali men can also ascend to the highest levels of government when they combine grassroots organising with strategic investment in their adopted home.

But this success is fragile. It is threatened by far-right backlash, which targets Somalis precisely because they are visible and effective. It is also threatened from within, by clan divisions that can fragment the very solidarity that made these gains possible.

The future of Somali political power in the West will depend on whether the community can maintain its unity, continue to build broad coalitions, and nurture the next generation of leaders. If it can, the Somali experience may well become a model for how diaspora communities can not only participate in democracy but shape it. If it cannot, the gains of the past decade may prove to be a high-water mark rather than a foundation for lasting influence.

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