Trump Admin Investigating Omar For Allegedly Marrying Brother to Illegally Enter US
Trump Admin Investigating Omar For Allegedly Marrying Brother to Illegally Enter US
Trump administration border adviser Tom Homan said this week that the Department of Homeland Security is reviewing allegations that Minnesota Democratic Rep. Ilhan Omar may have committed immigration fraud by entering into a marriage with a relative.
President Donald Trump and several of his allies have long asserted that Omar’s first husband, Ahmed Elmi, is her brother and that the marriage, which began in 2009 and ended in divorce in 2017, was arranged to facilitate immigration benefits.
No DNA evidence or official documentation has substantiated those claims, and Omar has consistently denied them.
In an interview with Newsmax, Homan said he is examining whether Omar violated immigration laws and whether her legal status could be affected. Omar’s congressional biography states that she arrived in the United States with her family in the 1990s after fleeing civil war in Somalia.
“We’re pulling the records, we’re pulling the files,” Homan said Monday. “We’re looking at it … I’m running that down this week.”
Homan stated that the DHS is conducting a thorough review of visa fraud within the Somali community in Minnesota, following the department’s claim that 50% of visas issued in Minnesota may be fraudulent.
“President Trump has instructed us to go down, and we’re going to deep dive all of this, and we’re going to hold people accountable,” he noted.
Trump accused the Somali-born congresswoman of marrying her brother to commit immigration fraud during a new interview with Politico released Tuesday.
“I don’t want to see a woman that, you know, marries her brother to get in and then becomes a congressman, does nothing but complain,” Trump said in the interview with Politico’s Dasha Burns, referring to Omar’s alleged 2009 marriage to Ahmed Elmi, who multiple reports and witnesses have claimed is her biological brother.
Trump made the remarks after Omar condemned recent Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) operations in Minneapolis targeting illegal Somali nationals—a crackdown that followed revelations of a $1 billion welfare fraud scheme in Minnesota, portions of which federal investigators say were funneled to the Somali terror group al-Shabaab.
“All she does is complain, complain, complain, and yet her country is a mess,” Trump continued. “Let her go back, fix up her own country. So no, Somalia—and I was right about it.”
The president also accused Minnesota’s Democratic Gov. Tim Walz of failing to address the crisis: “They have an incompetent governor there, too.”
On my birthday, my sister smashed the cake straight into my face, laughing as she watched me fall backward, blood mixing with the frosting. Everyone said, “It’s just a joke.” But the next mo
On my birthday, my sister smashed the cake straight into my face, laughing as she watched me fall backward, blood mixing with the frosting. Everyone said, “It’s just a joke.”
But the next morning in the emergency room, the doctor studied my X-ray and immediately called 911—because what he saw… exposed a horrifying truth.
Part One: “It’s Just a Joke”
On my birthday, the room smelled like sugar and candles and cheap champagne. A pink cake sat in the center of the table, my name written across it in looping frosting. Everyone was laughing. Phones were out. Someone shouted for me to make a wish.
My sister stood closest to me.
She grinned, eyes bright with something that wasn’t kindness. Before I could even lean forward, her hands slammed the cake straight into my face.
The impact was harder than anyone expected.
I felt myself stumble backward, my heel catching on the rug. There was a sharp crack as my head hit the edge of the table, then the floor. For a split second, the room spun in white and pink. I tasted sugar—and then iron.
Blood mixed with frosting, dripping down my chin.
People screamed, then laughed nervously.
“Oh my God,” someone said, still chuckling. “It’s just a joke!”
My sister laughed the loudest. “Relax! You’re so dramatic.”
I tried to sit up. Pain exploded behind my eyes. My vision blurred, and the ceiling swayed like it was floating. Someone wiped my face with a napkin, smearing blood across my cheek.
“You’re fine,” my mother said quickly. “Don’t ruin the mood.”
I remember thinking how strange it was that my ears were ringing louder than the music.
I remember the taste of frosting as I swallowed blood.
I remember waking up hours later in my bed, alone, my head throbbing, my phone full of messages telling me not to be “too sensitive.”
By morning, I couldn’t lift my arm.
Part Two: The X-Ray That Changed Everything
The emergency room smelled like disinfectant and sleepless nights. The doctor asked how it happened. I hesitated, then said quietly, “I fell.”
He nodded, unconvinced, and ordered X-rays “just to be safe.”
I lay on the cold table staring at the ceiling, replaying the laughter over and over in my head. It’s just a joke. That sentence hurt almost as much as my skull.
When the doctor returned, he wasn’t smiling.
He stared at the image on the screen for a long time. Too long.
Then he left the room without a word.
Minutes later, he came back—with a nurse, a security officer, and his phone pressed to his ear.
“Yes,” he said quietly. “I need emergency services. Immediately.”
My heart started pounding. “What’s wrong?” I asked.
He turned to me, his voice careful. “This isn’t a simple fall.”
He pointed to the X-ray. Even I could see it—fine fractures branching like cracks in glass, not just in my skull, but along my collarbone and ribs. Old fractures. Healed wrong. Layered.
“These injuries happened at different times,” he said gently. “Some weeks apart. Some months.”
I stared at the screen, my mouth dry.
“I don’t understand,” I whispered.
He met my eyes. “This pattern isn’t accidental. And the impact that brought you in today could have killed you.”
The word killed echoed in my ears.
“Who did this to you?” he asked softly.
I thought of my sister’s grin. My parents’ laughter. All the times I’d been shoved, tripped, “joked” into walls. All the times I’d been told I was clumsy. Sensitive. Overreacting.
My hands began to shake.
“I think…” My voice broke. “I think it was never a joke.”
Part Three: When Laughter Turns Into Sirens
The police arrived quietly. Calmly. Like this wasn’t the first time they’d seen something like me.
They didn’t accuse. They asked questions.
Who was there last night?
Who pushed you?
How often do you get hurt?
For the first time, I didn’t minimize. I didn’t protect anyone. I told the truth.
By evening, my phone was exploding.
My mother crying.
My father furious.
My sister screaming that I had “ruined everything.”
“You’re exaggerating!” she yelled over voicemail. “It was cake! Everyone saw it!”
Everyone had seen it.
That was the horrifying truth.
Everyone had seen it—and laughed.
The investigation didn’t take long. Videos surfaced. Old medical records were reviewed. Witnesses contradicted themselves. Patterns became impossible to ignore.
What started as a “birthday prank” became an assault case.
What they called humor was documented as violence.
I was moved to a different room that night, monitored closely, safe for the first time in years. As I lay there, ice wrapped around my head, I realized something terrifying and freeing all at once:
If that cake hadn’t been smashed into my face…
If I hadn’t fallen just right…
The truth might have stayed buried forever.
Sometimes it takes breaking something visible to expose what’s been shattered for years.
