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Somalia is Dangerous: Former US Deportees Struggle With Fear, Uncertainty
Those previously deported by the US warn that President Trump’s plan to expel more Somali migrants may endanger lives.
Mukhtar Abdiwhab Ahmed, who lived in the US as a refugee, was deported back to Somalia in 2018
Mukhtar Abdiwhab Ahmed sits in a plastic chair outside his house in Mogadishu. Nearby, children play, soldiers congregate, and rickshaws speed by under the scorching sun.
“If I knew I would end up here [in Somalia] I would have never gotten these tattoos,” the 39-year-old tells Al Jazeera, saying he has taken to mostly wearing long sleeves to avoid the negative comments and “dirty looks” he gets from people in the city.
Mukhtar spent most of his life in the United States but has struggled to readapt to conservative Somali society since being deported in 2018 under the first Donald Trump presidency.
Now, newly inaugurated for a second time in office, the Trump administration has once again announced removal orders for migrants he says are in the US “illegally”. This includes more than 4,000 Somalis who, like Mukhtar, face deportation to the country of their birth.
But lawyers, activists and Somalis who were deported from the US in previous years say the plan may put lives at risk as insecurity and instability still plague Somalia, readapting to a country many left as children is difficult, and work opportunities are scarce.
Meanwhile, Washington itself warns its own citizens about “crime, terrorism, civil unrest … kidnapping, [and] piracy” in the East African country, where attacks by the armed group al-Shabab are a common occurrence.
‘The wrong path’
Mukhtar and his family were among the first to flee Somalia after the collapse of the government in 1991. They left for neighbouring Kenya before Mukhtar and his older brother made it to the US as refugees.
The two settled in the south end of Seattle, Washington in 1995 – an area with high rates of poverty and youth violence, where Mukhtar says he fell into “crime, drugs and temptation”.
“At 16, I started getting into trouble,” he says. He skipped school, dabbled in crime, and was arrested and charged with a felony after stealing and crashing a relative’s car.
Though he tried to get his life on track, in 2005, he was charged with armed robbery. It was the then 19-year-old’s first time going through the system as an adult; he was found guilty and sentenced to two years in prison.
Mukhtar was deported from the US after he was arrested and jailed for a crime
The day his sentence ended, agents from US Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) visited him in prison, and instead of releasing him, transferred Mukhtar to the Northwest Detention Center in Tacoma, Washington – one of the largest immigration detention centres in the US.
“It felt like serving two sentences for committing one crime, and when I reached the immigration jail, I felt like an animal being taken to the slaughterhouse,” he says.
A few months in, ICE agents brought him a document to sign, saying he would be deported to Somalia. As part of its Criminal Alien Program, ICE works to identify and remove jailed migrants they believe “threaten the safety” of the US.
Mukhtar says he knew he wouldn’t be deported as Somalia was at war. It was 2007 and during that time, US-backed Ethiopian troops were in the country battling splinter groups that rose from the ashes following the ouster of the Islamic Courts Union, and the subsequent rise of its youth military wing, al-Shabab.
Tired of being in prison, Mukhtar decided to sign the document. But after he was released by ICE, he says he “kept going down the wrong path”. When he was arrested for burglary in 2015, he expected to be released after completing his one-year sentence, but ICE showed up again and sent him back to Northwest Detention Center for 11 months.
“It was like history repeating itself once again,” he says.
He again thought ICE would not deport him to Somalia “because of the war and instability back home”. But in December 2017, he was among 92 Somalis put on a deportation flight manned by ICE agents that prompted an international outcry after the plane did not make it to its destination for logistical reasons and it emerged that the deportees were abused en route.
“We were abused on the deportation flight,” he says. “I recall there were about 20 guards, they roughed up a lot of us, including one guy who was tased. They really beat us and, mind you, the whole time we were in handcuffs and shackled by our waist and feet for like 40 hours.”
Upon returning to the US, they were taken to an immigration detention centre and most of the Somalis on his flight filed motions to reopen their immigration cases to fight deportation.
However, others like Mukhtar accepted deportation to Somalia – rather than risk a lengthy court process and further jail time.
“If I look at all the times I’ve been incarcerated my entire life, it adds up to eight years, nearly a decade, and I couldn’t bear to stay behind bars any longer,” he says.
Mukhtar, left, and fellow deportee from the US, Anwar Mohamed, try to readjust to life in Mogadishu
‘Too dangerous for ICE agents’
In March 2018, Mukhtar was one of 120 migrants on a deportation flight from the US – 40 Somalis, 40 Kenyans and 40 Sudanese, he says. The Kenyans were released upon the plane’s arrival in Nairobi, while the Sudanese and Somalis were placed on separate flights headed for Khartoum and Mogadishu, respectively.
“We were still handcuffed when we switched planes in Nairobi but the ICE agents didn’t continue the journey with us from Nairobi to Mogadishu,” Mukhtar says.
Other deportees sent back in past years also report ICE using a third party to complete the removal process to Somalia.
In 2005, Somali immigrant Keyse Jama was flown from Minneapolis to Nairobi by ICE, only for a private security firm to escort him to Somalia – at a time when most of the country was controlled by strongmen.
Anwar Mohamed, 36, who was deported a month after Mukhtar, says he landed in Nairobi before he and the other Somali passengers were placed on another flight to Mogadishu.
“When we asked the ICE agents why they weren’t going to escort us to Mogadishu, they responded by saying Somalia is too dangerous,” Anwar tells Al Jazeera.
“If Somalia is too dangerous for ICE agents to go, then why did the [US] government send us here?” he asks.
As of 2024, the US State Department has marked Somalia as a level 4 “Do Not Travel” country for US citizens, citing crime, terrorism and kidnapping, among other reasons. Al-Shabab and other groups opposed to the government continue to carry out armed attacks, including in places frequented by civilians.
While Somalia is deemed unsafe for US citizens, the Trump administration has marked 4,090 Somalis for deportation this year.
Residents gather near the scene of an explosion of a bomb-rigged car parked near the National Theatre in the Hamar Weyne district of Mogadishu in September 2024 [Feisal Omar/Reuters]
“The Trump administration is definitely endangering lives by deporting people to places like Somalia,” says Marc Prokosch, a senior lawyer at Prokosch Law, a firm in Minnesota that specialises in immigration cases.
“The balancing test for elected officials is whether it is worth it when considering our legal obligations [such the Convention Against Torture] and our moral and ethical obligations, compared to the obligations of protecting the safety and security of United States citizens,” he tells Al Jazeera, referring to the argument that migrants accused of violent offences should be deported for the safety of Americans.
Other immigration lawyers representing Somalis in the US have also voiced concerns, saying many of their clients are “terrified”, including exiled Somali journalists. One lawyer in Minnesota said in December that dozens of Somali asylum seekers have fled into neighbouring Canada over fears of an ICE clampdown.
Meanwhile, Human Rights Watch has cautioned that Temporary Protected Status – which protects foreign nationals from “unsafe” countries from deportation – may not be renewed for Somalis under the new Trump administration.
‘I saw the lifeless bodies of my friends’
Like Mukhtar, Anwar also fled Somalia during the civil war in the 1990s. His childhood memories of the country are bleak, he tells Al Jazeera, recounting one day that stands out in his mind.
“I was playing outside [in Mogadishu] with a couple friends, then we found an oval-shaped object on the ground. That’s when my mother called me in for Asr [afternoon Muslim] prayer,” Anwar recounts. “And then I heard a large explosion.
“Everyone from our neighbourhood came rushing outside, including me. I then saw the lifeless bodies of my three friends strewn on the dirt road … They died from the oval object they were playing with.
“Years later, when I matured, then did I only realise it was a grenade we were playing with and my mother’s call to prayer is what saved me,” he says.
Not long after that day, Anwar’s older brother was murdered by armed fighters. That was the last straw for his family, he says. His mother sent him to Kenya in 1997, before he and his older sister moved to the US as refugees.
But in the US, Anwar got involved in crime and violence, ultimately being jailed for 10 years for robbery in a state prison in Missouri.
Soon after he was released, he once again found himself in handcuffs – this time on a deportation flight to Somalia in April 2018.
Anwar fled Somalia for the US as a child, but was deported back there in 2018
Returning to Mogadishu after decades, he found himself in unfamiliar terrain.
“When I had the chains removed after arriving [in Mogadishu] is when it hit me: I was free but I really wasn’t free,” Anwar says, feeling like he was still imprisoned by his traumatic childhood memories.
Anwar started having flashbacks of past experiences in Somalia. To make matters worse, Mogadishu was still in a protracted state of conflict, and he felt death was a daily reality.
When he made his way to his father’s house to reconnect with relatives he hadn’t seen in more than 20 years, he saw his siblings shaking hands and laughing with armed soldiers sitting on top of a pick-up truck mounted with an anti-aircraft gun.
“As a child [in Somalia] during the civil war, these kinds of people [armed men] were feared,” he says, “but now many of them wear uniforms, have allegiances to the state and are tasked with security.
“The same thing [guns] my mother was shielding me from when she sent me away to the refugee camps in Kenya as a child have become a part of everyday life.”
‘Every road I take can lead to death’
In March 2018, when Mukhtar’s plane landed in Mogadishu, he also found a society he couldn’t understand and a language he knew little of.
“It felt like starting life from scratch all over again,” he says.
Many Somali deportees from the US don’t have family members to return to because they’ve either been killed in the continuing three-decade-long conflict or fled the country and never returned, Mukhtar says.
“When you don’t have no one to come home to or a place to go, it leaves many deportees vulnerable and might force some to resort to crime as a means of survival.”
“With every step you think you’re going to die,” Mukhtar says
Upon returning to the city, Mukhtar saw tall apartment buildings, condominiums and paved roads in Mogadishu. It was different from the bullet-riddled buildings and bombed-out infrastructure he saw on television, he thought. But the realities of the war were around him in other ways, as he would soon find out.
“In Mogadishu, explosions are reality and can happen any moment … You can be walking down the street and an explosion can take your life. In this city, there aren’t warnings before bombings, only screams and cries that come after,” he says.
At first, Mukhtar settled in an old family home in the Waberi district – an upscale area home to government employees, security officials, diaspora returnees and locals working for international NGOs. But even areas that are deemed safe are not, he says.
One sweltering day, Mukhtar looked out of his window as a group of men played dominos, labourers trekked through a construction site, and young women sold tea outside.
“I was thinking of walking down the street to get cigarettes but I felt kind of lazy and decided to stay home,” Mukhtar says, “[then] I heard a very loud explosion.”
He later learned that the blast took place on the same road he always walked down.
“I could have died if I didn’t choose to stay home that day. I was lucky but you never know when you’ll meet the same fate as those caught up in that explosion,” he says.
“Every road I take can lead to death, and with every step, you think you’re going to die.”
‘No opportunities’
Added to the precarious security situation in Somalia is a lack of opportunities, deportees say.
Youth make up an estimated 70 percent of Somalia’s population, yet the country has a nearly 40 percent youth unemployment rate.
“There are no opportunities here and we don’t have a stable country,” says Mukhtar, who is unemployed. “If you’re a deportee, it’s much worse.”
Several deportees from the US now living in Mogadishu have joined the police or army
Some deportees who speak both English and Somali have found work as interpreters, but most do not as they have lost their mother tongue in the years abroad.
Meanwhile, several have joined the police force or national army upon returning to Somalia.
“Many of these guys being deported from the US are coming to Somalia after serving 10 or 15-year prison terms,” Mukhtar says.
When they join the police or army, “they get $200 a month as a salary”.
Mukhtar has, at times, contemplated joining the police or the army, but decided against it.
“When you’re wearing a uniform and carrying a gun, you don’t know who or when someone is going to take your life,” he says.
Aside from threats to their physical safety, the cultural chasm between deportees and their countrymen also weighs on them.
Mukhtar says stigma from members of the community is something he still faces, despite having been back for several years.
“The tattoos I got at a young age also came back to haunt me,” he adds, saying that tattooing is viewed as alien or taboo by many in the deeply conservative Somali Muslim society, and that he’s even been verbally abused at a mosque when he pulled up his sleeves to perform ablution before prayers.
‘The card I’ve been dealt’
Anwar has also faced stigma.
Anwar now drives a rickshaw to make a living in Mogadishu
“When I first came here, I stuck out,” he says, also mentioning his tattoos, which he has started to cover up.
“Everything from the way I walked to the way I spoke Somali. Everyone knew I wasn’t a local and when they found out I was deported from the US, they looked at me as if I was the guy who dropped the ball at the finish line.”
Being away in the US and far from Somali customs, culture and language all contributed to difficulties readjusting to life in Somalia.
“I didn’t adapt to this environment by choice. It was forced upon me, the day I arrived in chains,” he says.
He has even found himself stopped by intelligence officials and cross-questioned about where he’s from and what he’s doing here, he says.
“I asked myself how long is this going to go on,” he laments.
Still, he is determined to adjust to his new life.
“I changed my ways, got married and [now] drive a rickshaw to get by. I try my best, but the hostility from some members of my community … makes living in an already hostile environment even more hostile,” he says.
“But I don’t blame them for their ignorance,” Anwar adds. “This is the card I’ve been dealt and I have to make the best of it.”
Berlin deports Somali criminals amid rising far-right pressure, triggering fear and fury in Europe’s largest Somali diaspora.
Germany has deported eight Somali nationals convicted of violent crimes as Berlin toughens migration policy post-election. Is this justice—or the start of a racist purge?
Eight Somali men landed in Mogadishu last week, not by choice—but by force. Deported from Germany under a hardline crackdown, they are the first wave of what could become a sweeping purge of Somali migrants across Europe’s new far-right frontier.
Their crimes were serious—attempted murder, rape, manslaughter—but the political message behind the deportations is even more brutal: Germany is shifting, and fast. With the far-right AfD surging to second place in the 2025 elections and the Christian Democrats reclaiming power under Friedrich Merz, the age of tolerance is officially over.
Bavarian officials say this is about law and order. But Somali families in Frankfurt, Berlin, and Munich are terrified. The deportation agreement signed last year between Chancellor Scholz and President Hassan Sheikh Mohamud was supposed to be narrow—just 20 convicts, not a signal to demonize 65,000 Somali migrants.
But Germany’s political tide doesn’t wait. The February elections shattered the liberal consensus. Border controls are back. Deportation flights are rising. And Somalia is caught in the middle—diplomatically accepting criminals back while watching its working diaspora get scapegoated.
The real heartbreak? Many Somalis in Germany are model residents: students, engineers, nurses. But one man’s crime has now become the community’s stain. As one migrant, Baaba Jeey, put it: “We came for safety. Now we live in fear.”
And don’t expect this to stop at Germany. Across Europe, far-right parties are demanding copycat deportations. France’s National Rally is already calling for Somali repatriations. Sweden is debating migrant DNA checks. Italy wants to reroute asylum seekers to warzones.
Germany’s move may be legal. But is it just? The world will be watching the next flight to Mogadishu—and wondering who’s really on trial.
Nigeria’s ex-president dies in exile, leaving behind a broken legacy of repression, corruption, and shattered unity.
Muhammadu Buhari, Nigeria’s twice-serving president, is dead at 82. But what he leaves behind is a legacy of failure—on security, economy, unity, and democracy. Here’s a brutal autopsy of his reign.
Muhammadu Buhari is gone—but Nigeria’s wounds remain wide open. Dying in London, the city he often fled to for “rest” while millions languished in broken hospitals at home, the former general’s final act mirrors the very essence of his rule: absence, privilege, and detachment from reality.
Once heralded as a corruption-busting reformer and security hawk, Buhari’s presidency sank into chaos. His iron-fisted war on Boko Haram turned into a media charade; while he declared the terrorists “defeated,” suicide bombings and mass kidnappings intensified under his watch. Nigeria’s northeast collapsed into a humanitarian hellscape, with aid workers murdered and civilians forgotten.
His economic “vision” was equally grim. By clinging to obsolete monetary policies and defending a dying naira, Buhari drove Nigeria into recession—twice. Inflation soared, foreign reserves dried up, and foreign investors fled. All the while, the man himself remained in London, racking up secretive medical bills at taxpayer expense.
But what truly undid him was his inability—or unwillingness—to unite Nigeria’s fractured soul. From the 2020 #EndSARS bloodbath to his silence on northern banditry and ethnic massacres, Buhari appeared not as a statesman but as a sectarian relic. His authoritarian instincts returned in full force: jailing dissidents, censoring social media, and militarizing civilian protest zones.
Even his brief triumph—negotiating the return of some Chibok girls—fizzled out as hundreds more citizens vanished into jihadist captivity. The military he once commanded became a symbol of failure, not strength.
In the end, Buhari’s life is a cautionary tale: that nostalgia for military “discipline” often breeds democratic decay. He ruled Nigeria twice—once with fear, once with hope. He left both times with disappointment.
For a man who promised to fight corruption, insecurity, and disunity—his legacy is defined by all three.
The African Union (AU) has approved an additional $10 million in Peace Fund support for Somalia, doubling its 2025 allocation to $20 million as it prepares to hand over responsibilities from the African Union Transition Mission in Somalia (ATMIS) to the newly formed African Union Support and Stabilization Mission in Somalia (AUSSOM).
The decision was announced during the 47th Ordinary Session of the AU Executive Council held this week in Malabo, Equatorial Guinea. The funds, drawn from the AU’s Crisis Reserve Facility, are intended to close critical financial gaps and ensure continuity in operations during the sensitive mission transition period at the end of 2024.
AUSSOM, which officially launched in January 2025, is a non-combat stabilization mission designed to support Somali-led security efforts and capacity building as ATMIS draws down. AU officials say the additional funding will help prevent operational disruptions and support the new joint command structure agreed upon with the Somali government in June.
Despite the AU’s increased commitment, uncertainty clouds the financial sustainability of AUSSOM. The mission’s annual cost is projected at $166.5 million. While the United Nations has pledged to cover up to 75% of this amount, the United States—once a key donor—has declined to contribute directly, citing concerns over transparency, long-term viability, and donor burden-sharing.
This shift marks a significant departure from the U.S.’s earlier support, which included more than €2 billion in funding to AU missions in Somalia from 2007 to 2020.
The AU and Somalia have consistently warned of the risks posed by erratic funding. Past delays in ATMIS troop payments—particularly affecting Ugandan forces—highlighted the fragility of relying heavily on external donors. In response, the AU restructured its Peace Fund in 2016 to increase self-reliance, with a target of $400 million in member contributions. Progress, however, remains slow.
As the end of ATMIS approaches, pressure is mounting on the AU and its partners to secure predictable and diversified funding streams. For Somalia, AUSSOM’s success is not just a matter of security—it is a test of the region’s ability to support African-led peacekeeping beyond donor dependence.
Former President Barack Obama’s return to frontline political fundraising in New Jersey represents a pivotal moment for the Democratic Party, currently reeling from significant setbacks and internal divisions after the bruising 2024 election cycle.
Obama’s participation in the Red Bank event, hosted by outgoing Governor Phil Murphy and featuring Rep. Mikie Sherrill, underscores a strategic recalibration as Democrats eye crucial upcoming elections.
Obama’s reemergence signals a deliberate effort by party leadership to leverage his enduring popularity and influence among voters. As Democrats seek to rebuild momentum and morale ahead of the pivotal 2026 midterm elections, Obama’s presence is intended not only to energize the party’s base but also to attract critical independent and swing voters disillusioned by recent GOP policies, notably Trump’s controversial “Big, Beautiful” spending bill.
The timing is crucial, as the New Jersey gubernatorial race between Mikie Sherrill and Jack Ciattarelli is widely regarded as an early referendum on voter sentiment towards both parties post-2024. Democratic strategists likely view a victory here as a vital step towards reversing the narrative of decline and setting a strong precedent for national recovery efforts.
Additionally, Obama’s active involvement highlights a broader struggle within the Democratic Party regarding generational leadership shifts. With recent high-profile deaths among aging Democratic lawmakers underscoring the party’s vulnerability, Obama’s support may implicitly advocate for renewal and transition toward younger, dynamic candidates capable of invigorating the party’s platform.
Critically, the former president’s engagement is not merely symbolic; it is an acknowledgment of Democrats’ urgent need to counteract Trump’s dominance of the political landscape. Obama’s vocal opposition to Trump’s legislative agenda, particularly the contentious spending bill potentially impacting millions of Americans’ healthcare coverage, provides Democrats with a potent narrative to mobilize opposition and regain lost ground.
In summary, Obama’s fundraising return is a calculated maneuver aiming to galvanize Democratic unity, challenge Republican momentum, and underscore the stakes in upcoming elections. His intervention could prove instrumental in reshaping Democratic fortunes, setting the stage for a robust challenge to Trump’s agenda in the crucial 2026 midterms.
Tensions in Kenya escalated on Friday as opposition leaders demanded President William Ruto’s resignation following his controversial remarks authorizing police to shoot protesters involved in looting or property destruction.
Speaking at the funeral of Boniface Kariuki—an unarmed civilian shot dead by police during a June 17 protest—opposition leader Kalonzo Musyoka called Ruto’s statement “unconstitutional” and urged for his resignation or impeachment.
President Ruto, addressing the nation earlier in the week, warned against what he called “anarchy disguised as peaceful protests” and ordered police to “shoot and break the legs” of offenders during demonstrations. Human rights groups and civil society organizations have condemned the remarks as incitement to extrajudicial killings.
The protests were sparked by the death of blogger Albert Ojwang in police custody last month and intensified following Kariuki’s killing. Footage showed Kariuki being shot in the head at close range as he walked away from police during a demonstration.
Thousands marched on June 25 to mark the anniversary of last year’s anti-tax protests, with demonstrators demanding justice and an end to police brutality. According to the Kenya National Commission on Human Rights, over 50 people have died in recent protest crackdowns, with more than 100 deaths linked to demonstrations since 2023.
At Kariuki’s burial in Murang’a County, mourners carried Kenyan flags and photos of his final moments. The absence of uniformed police at the venue was notable, though anti-riot units remained on standby nearby.
Murang’a Governor Irungu Kang’ata declared that “the government must take responsibility” for the killings and pledged justice for the victims.
So far, four police officers face murder charges over recent deaths, including those of Kariuki and blogger Ojwang. A fifth officer, Klinzy Barasa, has been charged with murder and is set to enter a plea on July 28.
As political pressure mounts, Kenya finds itself at a crossroads—between public outrage over state violence and a government under fire for its harsh response to dissent.
Donald Trump’s shocking revelation: He warned Putin and Xi he’d bomb Moscow and Beijing if they dared invade. The bombshell quote exposes how Trump flexed “crazy” deterrence to keep global powers in check.
Donald Trump isn’t mincing words in his post-victory glow. A new book reveals the former—and now re-elected—President told Vladimir Putin outright: invade Ukraine, and Moscow gets bombed to rubble. “I told him, ‘Vladimir, if you do it, we’re going to bomb the s— out of Moscow,’” Trump reportedly said during a 2024 donor dinner, according to leaked audio.
Trump didn’t stop there. He said he gave China’s Xi Jinping the same ultimatum over Taiwan—total annihilation. “He thought I was crazy,” Trump said. “But 10 percent belief is all you need.” It’s classic Trump: deterrence through fear, chaos as leverage.
The Biden White House was quick to distance the timeline, noting Putin only invaded Ukraine after Trump left office. But Trump’s team flipped the script, claiming his strongman rhetoric kept global tyrants in check—until Biden showed weakness. Now, with war still raging and Trump back in command, he’s doubling down on sanctions and saber-rattling.
This isn’t diplomacy. It’s shock-and-awe politics, and Trump wants the world to know that under him, American threats are not metaphors—they’re missile codes. Whether bluff or doctrine, one thing is clear: Trump’s foreign policy is back, and it’s locked and loaded.
Isra Hirsi, suspended for anti-Israel protest at Columbia, now unemployed and reselling used outfits as elite-degree fallout grows.
Isra Hirsi, daughter of Rep. Ilhan Omar and once a fiery campus activist, has entered the real world—and it hit back hard. Fifteen months after her headline-grabbing arrest at Columbia’s anti-Israel encampment, Hirsi now finds herself unemployed, peddling used cardigans and boots on Depop to stay afloat.
The keffiyeh-wearing Barnard graduate, who once led chants against the Jewish state and decried genocide, now sells striped sweaters to pay bills.
The irony is suffocating. The same hyper-woke crowd that staged their “resistance” in ivy-covered courtyards is now learning that the job market isn’t impressed by performance activism. With major law firms and CEOs blacklisting protest-linked graduates, Hirsi’s descent into online resale hustle might be less about fashion and more about consequences.
Despite her mother’s public pride and lofty praise—painting Hirsi as a brave justice warrior—America’s employers are sending a clear message: you can’t build a career on slogans and sit-ins.
The escalating feud between tech billionaire Elon Musk and former President Donald Trump has Senate Republicans increasingly anxious about its potential fallout on the 2026 midterm elections. Musk’s threat to launch an “America Party” has sent shockwaves through GOP ranks, raising legitimate fears that a well-funded third-party initiative could fracture the Republican vote, ultimately benefiting Democrats.
Historically, third-party candidacies have proven to be potent spoilers rather than serious contenders for majority control. From Ross Perot in 1992 to Libertarians impacting Senate races in Montana and Wisconsin, these candidates typically siphon votes predominantly from Republicans. Musk’s intentions appear to echo this historical pattern, with his outspoken criticism of Trump’s “One Big Beautiful Bill Act” resonating deeply with conservative fiscal hawks who feel betrayed by recent Republican spending decisions.
Senator Ron Johnson (R-Wis.) has bluntly warned his colleagues that Musk’s new party could seriously undermine Republican electoral prospects by splitting conservative votes. Johnson’s caution is supported by polling data indicating Musk’s significantly higher popularity among Republicans (62%) compared to independents (29%) and Democrats (3%), underscoring the real threat Musk poses in peeling away conservative support.
Adding to GOP anxieties is Musk’s immense financial clout. Having spent over $290 million during the 2024 election cycle, Musk’s potential to bankroll candidates capable of mounting formidable challenges is undeniable. Strategists suggest Musk’s deep pockets and widespread public influence mean his third-party contenders could become instantly competitive, even decisive, in pivotal races.
Senators such as Thom Tillis (R-N.C.) and John Thune (R-S.D.) express cautious concern about Musk’s impact, recognizing that even a modest voter shift could swing tightly contested elections. Musk’s aggressive stance, including threats to primary GOP lawmakers who supported Trump’s controversial legislation, illustrates a deeper rift within the party that Democrats could readily exploit.
Yet, Republicans hold out hope that Musk’s third-party ambitions might also appeal to disenchanted moderate Democrats unhappy with their party’s progressive tilt. Senate Majority Leader Thune notes a potential silver lining, suggesting Musk could attract votes across the political spectrum, although history suggests otherwise.
Ultimately, Musk’s “America Party” threatens to become the wild-card Republicans dread, capable of reshaping the political landscape simply through targeted spending in key battlegrounds. Democrats, recognizing an opportunity, watch with cautious optimism, prepared to capitalize on any GOP disarray.
In the highly polarized climate leading up to the 2026 midterms, Musk’s gamble could become a defining factor in determining whether Republicans maintain unified control or surrender their fragile Senate majority—shaking the foundations of American politics in the process.
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