Volkswacht Bodensee - Minnesota Somalis organize house call care amid ICE raid fears

The paranoia and fear fomented by the sweeping immigration crackdown in the Midwestern state has led many migrants -- both those with legal status and those without -- to shelter at home, campaigners say.

Members of migrant communities have avoided medical treatment, been unable to purchase essentials, lost jobs and even taken their children out of school to avoid venturing outside where they are more vulnerable to immigration checks.

Hafsa, a mental health student, was spurred to act after an acquaintance delayed seeking medical help for their child, meaning the youth's condition deteriorated by the time they sought help.

"I got a call from a mom that that's a immigrant and she was afraid to go to the hospital, and her child is now in the Intensive Care Unit," said the Somali-born American who, like all of the St. Paul-based volunteers, gave only their first name for fear of retaliation.

Somalis have been at the forefront of Donald Trump's aggressive anti-immigrant campaign, with the US president branding the community "garbage," questioning its intelligence and calling for deportations to intensify.

Immigration officers have been seen at hospitals and clinics, waiting for patients and questioning them about their legal status, according to a recent article in the American Journal of Managed Care.

That has led to a surge in "healthcare avoidance" in the Somali and Hispanic communities, it reported.

Beyond connecting people in St. Paul, which along with Minneapolis makes up the Twin Cities, to health care workers willing to make house calls, the volunteers also devote resources to vetting the medical staff themselves.

"It is a lot of work because you want to make sure that whoever you're sending to that person's house is somebody who doesn't have any ill intentions. So you're making a lot of calls," said Hafsa, 25.

Care is taken to ensure the travelling health workers are not followed by Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) officers as they drive to migrants' homes.

The small, informal team of volunteers spends upwards of 12 hours daily answering calls, matching community members to care, and onboarding the professionals.

"You get their skills, and then... there might be an intake form where they can list all that and their availability," said volunteer Cass, 43, a compliance officer in health care.

"It's project management 101," she added.

- 'Word of mouth' -

Beyond the slick, computerized tools, the volunteers rely on community contacts to raise awareness and receive referrals.

"It's just word of mouth," said Musab, 34, an entrepreneur.

He pointed to one of the women supporting the service and said she was "locked in with every single community member."

"We're a very collective community, so we know about each other's statuses. So somebody would just call and say 'Hey, this person is sick or whatever'."

Hafsa likened the community response in the face of the unprecedented immigration crackdown to giving first aid to a wounded patient.

"We need as many hands on our body, patching all the wounds," she said.

After receiving an urgent call, Musab rose and put on his heavy down coat to fend off the bitterly cold conditions.

"This brother actually works with people in recovery... So I think one of the kids might be sick, so I'm about to just go see kind of what I can help them out with and what they need," he said heading out.

The volunteers' staging space, an events center in St. Paul, has been volunteered by a Somali businesswoman who made sweetened tea for the team.

A room set aside for brides-to-be has been converted into a storeroom for the medical supplies and cold weather gear being donated from across the United States.

Hafsa said the well-wishes that have accompanied the donations arriving in Amazon packages were helping to keep her going.

"I cry from gratitude," she said.

C.Stoecklin--VB