By Eloge Willy Kaneza
In the quiet agricultural pockets of Maine, where mornings begin with dew settling over endless green rows and evenings end with hands still carrying the smell of soil, Somali Bantu farmers are cultivating far more than crops.
They are rebuilding lives fractured by war, exile, and years spent in refugee camps. They are reclaiming traditions nearly erased by displacement. And in the fields of rural Maine, they are proving that survival alone was never enough.
For many Somali Bantu families, the journey to the United States was the final chapter in a long history of uprooting. Historically rooted in farming communities along Somalia’s fertile Jubba and Shebelle river valleys, the Somali Bantu population endured generations of marginalization even before the collapse of the Somali state in the early 1990s.
When civil war erupted, they were among the communities hit hardest. Villages were emptied. Families fled. Entire generations grew up in refugee camps across Kenya, especially in Dadaab and Kakuma, far away from the farms and riverlands that had once defined daily life.
Among those shaped by this rupture is Muhidin Libah, a Somali Bantu community leader whose life reflects the collective displacement. Born in southern Somalia and raised in Kenya’s refugee camps, he arrived in the United States in September 2004, settling in Syracuse, New York before moving to Maine in 2005. Today, he serves as executive director and co-founder of the Somali Bantu Community Association of Maine, helping guide efforts to rebuild what exile disrupted: land, memory, and belonging.
pared with ingredients produced on the farm Photo | Mark Mattos
Arrival in America: survival before stability
For Somali Bantu refugees, arrival in the United States brought safety — but not immediate stability.
Families resettled in cities and small towns across the country, including Maine, often entering low-wage labor markets in factories, warehouses, and service work. Life was safer than in the camps, but emotionally and culturally incomplete. “We were alive, but we were not fully living,” Libah reflected.
What was missing was not only economic opportunity, but something deeper: connection to land, to farming, and to a way of life that had defined generations. That absence became the foundation for a quiet but powerful transformation.
Returning to the soil
Slowly, Somali Bantu families began returning to what they knew best: farming. With support from local allies and immigrant-led organizations, families began accessing small plots of land and growing culturally familiar crops such as corn, beans, squash, and leafy greens. One key partner in this transition has been Cultivating Community, which helped refugee farmers secure land, training, and access to local food markets.
From these early efforts emerged Liberation Farms in Wales, Maine — a 103-acre collective space where Somali Bantu families share land, labor, and harvests while rebuilding an agricultural life that displacement once interrupted.
Liberation Farms: rebuilding a world on 103 acres
The land on Liberation Farms now includes cultivated fields, high tunnels, barns, storage areas, and shared community spaces. But none of it existed in its current form at the beginning. “It is not the same property we purchased,” Libah said. “We built it step by step — roads, greenhouses, goat barns, everything.”
More than 220 people now farm on the land, while cooperative groups are trained in production, propagation, and small business development.
For Libah, the farm is also about continuity across generations. “We have children who come here every week,” he said. “They decide what to grow. They learn planting, watering, and harvesting. Farming is our heritage, and we want them to understand that.”
ADVERTISEMENT
At Liberation Farms, farming is organized as a cooperative system rooted in shared responsibility and mutual support. Families cultivate individual plots while contributing to a broader collective economy that sustains food production, training, and intergenerational learning. What began as small-scale cultivation has evolved into a structured community-led farming model that now engages hundreds of participants each season.
Libah is well known in the Somali Bantu diaspora community and often advises groups in New York and Pennsylvania on how to start their own farming collectives and community food systems. His message to African immigrants across the United States is grounded in both pragmatism and pride: “If you were a chef back home, start a kitchen. If you were a farmer, farm again. Don’t waste years trying to become someone else. What you brought with you is enough. Your roots are not a weakness — they are your strength.”
Through Liberation Farms, that philosophy is not only spoken — it is practiced daily. The farm has become both a production site and a model of diaspora-led self-determination, showing how displaced communities can rebuild systems of livelihood by returning to skills and knowledge carried across borders.
Food, culture, and healing
Beyond agriculture, Liberation Farms has become a place of cultural restoration and emotional healing.
For many families, the first years in America came with cultural dislocation, even in food. “When we arrived here, we saw vegetables we didn’t even know how to cook,” Libah said. “Everything was new, even though it looked beautiful.”
Today, families grow crops tied to Somali Bantu food traditions while also adapting to Maine’s climate and markets. Harvests are stored for winter, shared among households, and distributed within the wider community.
The farm has also become a gathering space — where children play freely, elders walk through fields, and families reconnect with one another. “This is a place where people can come anytime,” Libah said. “Even if you are not farming, you can come, walk, and feel at home.”
Seasonal traditions such as the Spring Blessings ceremony further connect agriculture with spirituality, as families pray for rain, health, and a productive season. “In our tradition, rain means life,” Libah explained. “We ask for blessing because farming depends on it.”
Challenges in a new environment
Despite its growth, Somali Bantu farming in Maine continues to face structural challenges. The short growing season, unpredictable weather, and limited access to permanent land ownership make long-term planning difficult. Many farmers still rely on temporary leases and unstable grant funding. Transportation costs, equipment access, and market logistics remain persistent barriers.
Yet the community continues to adapt by expanding greenhouse use, strengthening cooperatives, and pooling resources across families.
Immigration fears and community resilience
In recent years, increased immigration enforcement and national political rhetoric have added new layers of anxiety. Even families with legal residency or citizenship reported fear during heightened ICE activity.
“The stress affected everyone,” Libah said. “People felt targeted because of how they looked.” Some avoided work or stayed indoors for days. Others missed wages, creating ripple effects on rent and household stability. “Our mosque was also affected,” he added. “People going to Friday prayer were questioned or intimidated.”
In response, the Somali Bantu Community Association organized emergency food deliveries, coordinated volunteer networks, and created support systems for families unable to leave their homes.
The organization also worked with immigration lawyers to assist detained community members. “In our community, three people were detained — and all three were eventually released,” Libah said.
Misconceptions and identity
Libah also pushed back against widespread misconceptions about Somali Bantus.
“We are Somali, but our history is different,” he said. “We are agricultural people. We start from the ground up.”
He emphasized that Somali Bantus are often wrongly associated with simplified narratives about Somalia’s political history, despite having a distinct social and historical trajectory rooted in farming communities.
Coexistence and memory of conflict
Throughout the interview, Libah returned to one central theme: coexistence. He reflected on witnessing the breakdown of social cohesion in Somalia before the civil war. “I saw coexistence disappear,” he said. “People separated, mistrust grew, and then everything collapsed.”
That memory, he said, shapes his perspective on life in the United States today. “When coexistence is lost, peace is lost,” he added.
Looking ahead
For Libah, the future of the Somali Bantu community in Maine depends on youth. “Our priority is passing farming knowledge to the next generation,” he said. “That is how we preserve who we are.”
He also called on policymakers to better understand refugee integration as a long-term process rather than immediate adaptation. “People cannot adjust overnight,” he said. “They need time and investment to become stable contributors.”
Supporting immigrant communities, he argued, is not charity but long-term nation-building. “Invest in refugees,” he said. “They become workers, taxpayers, and leaders.”
Speaking to policymakers
Libah urged policymakers to remember that “everybody was a refugee and immigrant at some point,” adding that newcomers should be treated “as you would treat your grandmother or grandfather.” He also called for policies that slow the pace of integration and help refugees “stand on their feet” and become contributing taxpayers.
A rooted future
Back at Liberation Farms, daily life continues with quiet persistence. Seeds are planted. Irrigation systems are maintained. Harvests are prepared for local markets and community distribution.
Children run between rows of crops. Elders watch the land with familiarity. Families work collectively, carrying forward knowledge that exile once threatened to erase.
“We came here as refugees,” Libah reflected. “But through farming, we became ourselves again.”
