Fear divides us, but courage, compassion build community

By Éloge Willy Kaneza 

When fear infiltrates everyday life, it changes everything: how people leave their homes, how children attend school, how families plan their futures. For the immigrant and refugee communities in Maine, that fear has become a constant presence. It has left many feeling isolated, vulnerable, and uncertain. But amidst this climate of anxiety, many people are working tirelessly to bridge the gap between fear and hope, including Ifraax Saciid-Ciise, Founder and Executive Director of Ifka Community Services in Lewiston.

Born in Somalia and arriving in Lewiston as a teenager, Saciid-Ciise understands firsthand the complexities of migration and integration. Her mother, the owner of Mogadishu Store, is a well-known entrepreneur in the city. The young Ifraax graduated from Lewiston High School and later earned a degree at the University of Maine. Rather than building her life outside of Lewiston, she chose to return to serve the community that once welcomed her, determined to ease the path for others facing similar hardships.

“Coming to a new country as a young person is hard,” she said. “You don’t just learn a new language or culture – you learn to navigate systems that aren’t always designed for you. I wanted to make sure no one had to do that alone.”

A climate of fear and distrust

Today, she said, the environment feels more hostile than ever. President Donald Trump’s executive orders directly target immigrants. “Since the current administration took office, our community has been under siege. People stopped going to work out of fear of being detained. Parents hesitated to send kids to school. Even going to the grocery store became risky.”

Saciid-Ciise recalled reports of U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) agents spotted in Lewiston neighborhoods and how those reports spread rapidly, prompting many to stay indoors for days. “ICE was arresting people without warrants, knocking on doors in the middle of the night. People were whispering to each other, warning each other to be careful. The trust in law enforcement and public institutions crumbled overnight,” she said.

The Somali-speaking community of Lewiston, many with roots in Djibouti, Eritrea, Ethiopia, and Kenya, and now faces a dual challenge: coping with trauma from displacement while confronting suspicion from the wider public. “The community is resilient, but the fear is real,” Saciid-Ciise said. “They feel like they are being watched, judged, and criminalized for simply existing. Even if you are a citizen, you start questioning whether you are safe.”

She has heard from elders who no longer walk to the mosque alone, mothers who avoid playgrounds, and students who miss school for fear of encountering authorities. “When you live like that, every knock on the door feels like it could change your life,” she said quietly.

Misplaced blame, youth violence

Lewiston, like many small cities, has seen a rise in youth gun violence. But instead of focusing on solutions, some people are quick to point fingers at immigrants, Saciid-CiiseIfraax said. “I keep hearing people say these kids brought violence here from their war-torn countries,” she said, her voice firm. “That’s not just inaccurate – it’s dangerous. It dehumanizes young people and gives an excuse for harsh immigration crackdowns.”

Many of the young people involved were either born in the U.S. or came here at a very young age, she explained. “They didn’t bring violence from somewhere else. What they face here is poverty, trauma, isolation, and a lack of safe spaces. These are local problems that require local solutions.”

The reality, she stressed, is that violence often stems from desperation and disconnection. “If you grow up with nothing to do, nowhere to go after school, and no one to guide you, you start to feel invisible. That’s when risky behavior becomes appealing.”

For Saciid-Ciise, youth safety is tied to opportunity. “When young people see a path forward – through education, sports, jobs – they make better choices. But those programs are being cut, and the blame is being misdirected.”

The problem, she noted, is compounded by mistrust. “Instead of working together, the wider community and immigrant families often see each other as adversaries. This creates more division, more finger-pointing, and fewer real solutions.”

Struggles amidst shrinking resources

Financial pressure is another battle Ifka Community Services must fight daily. Federal funding cuts and intense competition have made survival harder for small nonprofits. “We rely heavily on private donations,” Saciid-Ciise explained. “But as the political climate hardens, donors become more cautious, and grants are harder to secure. Meanwhile, the need only grows.”

The organization had to make a painful decision to reduce staff and scale back some services. “It’s heartbreaking,” she said. “Every time I turn someone away because we don’t have the capacity, I feel like I’ve failed them. But we can only stretch so far.”

Despite these constraints, the organization remains committed to its core mission: mental health and crisis support for migrants and refugees. “Many of our clients come from places where mental health is taboo or unavailable,” she said. “They don’t know where to begin, and they fear being judged or labeled.”

Hidden crisis of mental health

Untreated trauma is one of the greatest threats to the community’s stability, Saciid-Ciise said. “We have people here carrying years of pain from war, from refugee camps, from dangerous journeys – and then they arrive here and are met with suspicion and hostility. It’s too much for anyone to bear alone.”

She takes a hands-on approach: staff accompany clients to therapy, help them navigate the medical system, arrange transportation, and mediate with schools and landlords. “It’s about showing up, consistently, until people know they can count on you,” she said.

In one case, a mother had stopped leaving her apartment after hearing about ICE raids. “Her kids were missing school. She was struggling with severe anxiety. We went with her to appointments, connected her with a therapist, and slowly she began to feel safe enough to step outside again. That’s the kind of change we work for.”

The stigma, however, remains a significant barrier. “I’ve had parents say, ‘We don’t do mental health, that’s for crazy people.’ I tell them, ‘No, it’s for everyone.’ Mental health is health. And when we take care of our minds, we take care of our families.”

The pandemic and aftermath

The COVID-19 pandemic created new layers of difficulty for immigrant families. With schools moving online, parents who did not speak English – and in some cases had little or no formal education – suddenly became responsible for teaching their children. Saciid-Ciise said, “Some [immigrant] mothers didn’t know how to read. They couldn’t help their children, but the schools expected them to.”

The result was that many children fell years behind academically, and behavioral issues worsened. “We are still dealing with the consequences,” she said. “Youth are disengaged from education, struggling with substance abuse, and vulnerable to violence. The pandemic exposed gaps that were already there  and widened them.”

Building bridges for the future

For Saciid-Ciise, the path forward depends on unity and mutual respect. “We need to stop pointing fingers and start working together. Safety should not come at the cost of dignity. We all want to live in a safe city, that’s something we have in common.”

She envisions a Lewiston where youth programs are restored and expanded, where mentorship and job training are available for every teenager who needs them, and where cultural understanding is fostered through partnerships. “When people know each other’s stories, it’s harder to fear each other,” she said.

Law enforcement, she added, must also play a role in rebuilding trust. “If people can’t call the police when they need help because they’re afraid of being deported, then no one is safe. We need policies that separate public safety from immigration enforcement.”

An act of resistance and hope

In a time of uncertainty, Saciid-Ciise’s work is both practical and symbolic. It is about meeting urgent needs – a rent payment, a counseling session, a school meeting – but also about defending the idea that migrants deserve to live without fear.

“Every day I get calls from families terrified, from youth struggling with trauma, from elders feeling invisible,” she said. “It would be easier to give up. But that’s not who we are. We keep going because our community depends on it.”

Her determination is rooted in her own journey. “Lewiston gave me a home when I was young,” she reflected. “Now it’s my turn to give back, to make sure the door stays open for others.”

In a city shaped by both welcome and suspicion, her voice is a call to remember our shared humanity.By Éloge Willy Kaneza 

When fear infiltrates everyday life, it changes everything: how people leave their homes, how children attend school, how families plan their futures. For the immigrant and refugee communities in Maine, that fear has become a constant presence. It has left many feeling isolated, vulnerable, and uncertain. But amidst this climate of anxiety, many people are working tirelessly to bridge the gap between fear and hope, including Ifraax Saciid-Ciise, Founder and Executive Director of Ifka Community Services in Lewiston.

Born in Somalia and arriving in Lewiston as a teenager, Saciid-Ciise understands firsthand the complexities of migration and integration. Her mother, the owner of Mogadishu Store, is a well-known entrepreneur in the city. The young Ifraax graduated from Lewiston High School and later earned a degree at the University of Maine. Rather than building her life outside of Lewiston, she chose to return to serve the community that once welcomed her, determined to ease the path for others facing similar hardships.

“Coming to a new country as a young person is hard,” she said. “You don’t just learn a new language or culture – you learn to navigate systems that aren’t always designed for you. I wanted to make sure no one had to do that alone.”

A climate of fear and distrust

Today, she said, the environment feels more hostile than ever. President Donald Trump’s executive orders directly target immigrants. “Since the current administration took office, our community has been under siege. People stopped going to work out of fear of being detained. Parents hesitated to send kids to school. Even going to the grocery store became risky.”

Saciid-Ciise recalled reports of U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) agents spotted in Lewiston neighborhoods and how those reports spread rapidly, prompting many to stay indoors for days. “ICE was arresting people without warrants, knocking on doors in the middle of the night. People were whispering to each other, warning each other to be careful. The trust in law enforcement and public institutions crumbled overnight,” she said.

The Somali-speaking community of Lewiston, many with roots in Djibouti, Eritrea, Ethiopia, and Kenya, and now faces a dual challenge: coping with trauma from displacement while confronting suspicion from the wider public. “The community is resilient, but the fear is real,” Saciid-Ciise said. “They feel like they are being watched, judged, and criminalized for simply existing. Even if you are a citizen, you start questioning whether you are safe.”

She has heard from elders who no longer walk to the mosque alone, mothers who avoid playgrounds, and students who miss school for fear of encountering authorities. “When you live like that, every knock on the door feels like it could change your life,” she said quietly.

Misplaced blame, youth violence

Lewiston, like many small cities, has seen a rise in youth gun violence. But instead of focusing on solutions, some people are quick to point fingers at immigrants, Saciid-CiiseIfraax said. “I keep hearing people say these kids brought violence here from their war-torn countries,” she said, her voice firm. “That’s not just inaccurate – it’s dangerous. It dehumanizes young people and gives an excuse for harsh immigration crackdowns.”

Many of the young people involved were either born in the U.S. or came here at a very young age, she explained. “They didn’t bring violence from somewhere else. What they face here is poverty, trauma, isolation, and a lack of safe spaces. These are local problems that require local solutions.”

The reality, she stressed, is that violence often stems from desperation and disconnection. “If you grow up with nothing to do, nowhere to go after school, and no one to guide you, you start to feel invisible. That’s when risky behavior becomes appealing.”

For Saciid-Ciise, youth safety is tied to opportunity. “When young people see a path forward – through education, sports, jobs – they make better choices. But those programs are being cut, and the blame is being misdirected.”

The problem, she noted, is compounded by mistrust. “Instead of working together, the wider community and immigrant families often see each other as adversaries. This creates more division, more finger-pointing, and fewer real solutions.”

Struggles amidst shrinking resources

Financial pressure is another battle Ifka Community Services must fight daily. Federal funding cuts and intense competition have made survival harder for small nonprofits. “We rely heavily on private donations,” Saciid-Ciise explained. “But as the political climate hardens, donors become more cautious, and grants are harder to secure. Meanwhile, the need only grows.”

The organization had to make a painful decision to reduce staff and scale back some services. “It’s heartbreaking,” she said. “Every time I turn someone away because we don’t have the capacity, I feel like I’ve failed them. But we can only stretch so far.”

Despite these constraints, the organization remains committed to its core mission: mental health and crisis support for migrants and refugees. “Many of our clients come from places where mental health is taboo or unavailable,” she said. “They don’t know where to begin, and they fear being judged or labeled.”

Hidden crisis of mental health

Untreated trauma is one of the greatest threats to the community’s stability, Saciid-Ciise said. “We have people here carrying years of pain from war, from refugee camps, from dangerous journeys – and then they arrive here and are met with suspicion and hostility. It’s too much for anyone to bear alone.”

She takes a hands-on approach: staff accompany clients to therapy, help them navigate the medical system, arrange transportation, and mediate with schools and landlords. “It’s about showing up, consistently, until people know they can count on you,” she said.

In one case, a mother had stopped leaving her apartment after hearing about ICE raids. “Her kids were missing school. She was struggling with severe anxiety. We went with her to appointments, connected her with a therapist, and slowly she began to feel safe enough to step outside again. That’s the kind of change we work for.”

The stigma, however, remains a significant barrier. “I’ve had parents say, ‘We don’t do mental health, that’s for crazy people.’ I tell them, ‘No, it’s for everyone.’ Mental health is health. And when we take care of our minds, we take care of our families.”

The pandemic and aftermath

The COVID-19 pandemic created new layers of difficulty for immigrant families. With schools moving online, parents who did not speak English – and in some cases had little or no formal education – suddenly became responsible for teaching their children. Saciid-Ciise said, “Some [immigrant] mothers didn’t know how to read. They couldn’t help their children, but the schools expected them to.”

The result was that many children fell years behind academically, and behavioral issues worsened. “We are still dealing with the consequences,” she said. “Youth are disengaged from education, struggling with substance abuse, and vulnerable to violence. The pandemic exposed gaps that were already there  and widened them.”

Building bridges for the future

For Saciid-Ciise, the path forward depends on unity and mutual respect. “We need to stop pointing fingers and start working together. Safety should not come at the cost of dignity. We all want to live in a safe city, that’s something we have in common.”

She envisions a Lewiston where youth programs are restored and expanded, where mentorship and job training are available for every teenager who needs them, and where cultural understanding is fostered through partnerships. “When people know each other’s stories, it’s harder to fear each other,” she said.

Law enforcement, she added, must also play a role in rebuilding trust. “If people can’t call the police when they need help because they’re afraid of being deported, then no one is safe. We need policies that separate public safety from immigration enforcement.”

An act of resistance and hope

In a time of uncertainty, Saciid-Ciise’s work is both practical and symbolic. It is about meeting urgent needs – a rent payment, a counseling session, a school meeting – but also about defending the idea that migrants deserve to live without fear.

“Every day I get calls from families terrified, from youth struggling with trauma, from elders feeling invisible,” she said. “It would be easier to give up. But that’s not who we are. We keep going because our community depends on it.”

Her determination is rooted in her own journey. “Lewiston gave me a home when I was young,” she reflected. “Now it’s my turn to give back, to make sure the door stays open for others.”

In a city shaped by both welcome and suspicion, her voice is a call to remember our shared humanity.