Ramadan Under Ice’s Shadow
By Malika Dahir, Reviving Sisterhood
Almost three months after the conclusion of Ramadan, I am in deep reflection. Ramadan in Minneapolis didn’t arrive as it usually does. There was no sense of anticipation building in full mosques or bustling streets, and no shopping for decorations or food in local markets. Instead, it came quietly, overshadowed by ICE’s Operation Metro Surge, which had already reshaped daily life in the Twin Cities.
In our Black and Brown neighborhoods, people stayed home not just out of caution, but out of fear. Families whispered about relatives—children included—taken to detention, deported, or sent to distant centers like El Paso, Texas. They spoke of abandoned cars on their streets, silent witnesses to neighbors who had been taken by ICE while running errands. Even citizens like myself altered their routines, worried about being racially profiled. Our neighbors became allies, putting on yellow vests to patrol mosques and immigrant-owned businesses, trying to create a sense of safety in a moment that felt anything but secure. Officials say that ICE agents have drawn down, but by the time the Ramadan moon was sighted, about 500 agents remained, roughly three times the pre-surge numbers. The fear was palpable, and we clutched our passports like lifelines.
The Weight of Fear
That anxiety followed us into Ramadan. Mosques that are usually full were only half-filled. People came to pray but didn’t linger. The familiar rhythm of Ramadan nights, filled with long conversations, shared treats, and spontaneous connections, felt interrupted. You could see the tension in the hurried steps toward cars after prayers, the absence of laughter spilling into parking lots, and the briefness of every encounter.
I couldn’t shake the sense of what was missing across the city. Ramadan is typically one of the most vibrant times for Muslims. After evening prayers, people gather in restaurants, cafés, and markets. Elders sit together, young people connect, and families linger late into the night. These spaces are where our community thrives.
But this year, they were quiet. In Cedar-Riverside, along Lake Street, and in places like Karmel Mall, the usual rhythm slowed to a near standstill. Customers stayed home, workers hesitated to go to work, and businesses that usually buzzed with life sat half-empty. Some cut hours, while others closed altogether. When a business shuts down, it doesn't just affect the owners—it impacts workers who lose income, families who struggle to pay rent, and neighborhoods that lose the spaces that once held them together.
Balancing Reflection and Action
I am the executive director of Reviving Sisterhood (RISE), a Muslim women-led nonprofit founded in 2016 in the Twin Cities of Minneapolis and Saint Paul. Minnesota is home to one of the largest Muslim populations per capita in the United States, more than 180,000 people, nearly half of whom are women. RISE exists to serve and empower these women, the majority of whom are Black, Brown, immigrant, and refugee.
Our mission is to amplify Muslim women’s voice and power while challenging gendered Islamophobia. For nearly a decade, we have built a community where Muslim women lead, organize, heal, and shape the world around them.
Ramadan is usually a time when programming slows, allowing our largely Muslim staff space for worship and reflection. But this year felt different. I found myself moving constantly between reflection and action.
Our work took on new urgency as we navigated uncharted territory. Instability was everywhere. Families already navigating economic and social barriers faced new layers of risk and hardship. In response, we expanded our support. We did what we could: school drop-offs, grocery runs, and direct rent and utility assistance to families impacted by detention and deportation. When everything else feels uncertain, having a roof over your head becomes everything.
We also worked in close partnership with funders to support the reopening of 50 Black and brown immigrant-owned businesses that had been forced to close as enforcement activity sharply reduced foot traffic. At the same time, we maintained consistent outreach to elders and isolated community members to ensure they remained connected and supported.
Moments of care and reciprocity stood out. After one grocery delivery, a neighbor quietly made duaa (prayer) for me. It was a simple but powerful reminder that even amid distance and disruption, community remains intact.
At home, life felt quieter, but no less complex. My children’s laughter filled our space alongside a growing awareness of what was happening around us. We held joy and unease at the same time, presence and precaution in the same breath. Some nights we went out for prayer, other nights we stayed home. Ramadan became more internal this year, shaped as much by what we carried as by what we practiced.
A Collective Holding of Breath
Operation Metro Surge didn’t just disrupt daily life; it touched everything, from how we worship to how we gather to how we sustain ourselves. A community member I delivered groceries to said it felt like we were waiting to exhale. That moment of pause, that collective holding of breath, captured the tension of the holiday season.
By the time Eid arrived in March, it felt softer than usual. It wasn’t loud or crowded, but it was meaningful. There was relief in simply being able to gather, even if it looked different. Children laughed and played, and for a moment, everything felt light again. Not because the challenges had disappeared, but because we had made it through together.
