Iowa, the State That Forgot Its Own Story
Immigration, Humanity, and the Heart of the Heartland
Iowa was built by immigrants. My grandparents were among them – Danish farmers who crossed the ocean with faith, grit, and a dream. They built a life from scratch on a small Iowa farm, plowing soil they would eventually call their own.
Their story is not unique; it is Iowa’s story. From the Germans, Norwegians, and Czechs who turned prairie into prosperity to the Laotian refugees who found safety here in the 1970s, this state has long been a refuge for those seeking peace, purpose, and a fair chance.
So how did we get from there – from welcome – to here, when our governor sends National Guard troops to Texas to patrol a border a thousand miles away, and our congressional delegation cheers on a plan to round up millions of immigrants, many of whom have lived here for decades, worked, and raised families here?
It’s as if Iowa has forgotten its own reflection.
The Land That Immigrants Built
Walk through any small town in Iowa and you’ll see immigrant fingerprints everywhere. Danish windmills in Elk Horn. Czech bakeries in Cedar Rapids. Laotian groceries in Storm Lake. Mexican restaurants in almost every rural county. Iowa’s backbone has always been labor, and much of that labor has always come from beyond our borders.
Immigrants pick our crops, process our meat, milk our cows, and fill the pews of our churches. In some rural schools, their children make up half the student body – the reason those schools, and by extension those towns, still exist.
During the pandemic, these same workers were declared essential. They showed up when others could not, risking their health so that our grocery shelves stayed stocked and our economy didn’t collapse. Some died for their efforts.
And now? They are vilified, hunted, and deported.
If we truly valued their essential labor, their courage, and their humanity, we would not send ICE to their doorsteps. We would send them green cards – and medals.
Political Theater and Manufactured Fear
Iowa’s leaders tell us this is about “law and order.” They say the border is open and that dangerous criminals are flooding in. None of that is true. Venezuela did not “empty its prisons.” There is no army of violent migrants invading America. What there is – is political theater: the deployment of Iowa’s resources to play a part in a national show of cruelty.
Every time Iowa’s governor sends soldiers to Texas, she does it not to keep Iowans safe, but to keep Iowa fearful. Fear is the currency of the Golden Triad – populism stoking outrage, Christian nationalism sanctifying it, and the Project 2025 machine converting it into political power.
This is not leadership. It is manipulation. And Iowans deserve better than to be used as props in a national cult of resentment.
The Economics of Hypocrisy
Even the loudest anti-immigrant voices in Iowa know a truth they won’t say aloud: without immigrants, the state’s economy would collapse.
More than 40 percent of Iowa’s meatpacking workers are foreign-born. So are about a quarter of its dairy laborers. Iowa’s farms depend on migrant hands, its small towns depend on immigrant families, and its churches depend on their faith.
That’s why, even as ICE raids sweep through Iowa, you won’t see them storming Tyson or JBS. Too much corporate power, too much political influence. Trump’s billionaire backers – and Iowa’s governor herself – know exactly where their donations come from. They’ll talk tough about immigration, but not where the money is.
So, the raids hit the powerless, not the powerful. They tear families apart, not monopolies. They perform justice but never deliver it.
Humanity vs. the Triad
At the root of all this lies something deeper than politics: a war for the soul of Iowa.
The Golden Triad – that fusion of populist anger, Christian nationalist self-righteousness, and Project 2025 authoritarian discipline – thrives on division. It must convince good people to see their neighbors as threats, not allies; to see empathy as weakness; and to see cruelty as virtue.
Most Iowans are not hateful. They’ve been hypnotized by a system that tells them to distrust compassion, to mistake vengeance for strength, and to follow leaders who thrive on outrage.
But Iowa’s true faith – the quiet, grounded decency of its people – is stronger than that. I’ve seen it in the way neighbors help during floods, in how towns rally for a sick child, in the humility of a farmer who still greets you with a handshake and a smile.
That spirit – not fear – is Iowa’s inheritance.
The Choice Before Us
We are being asked to decide what kind of state we want to be.
Do we want to be the Iowa of my grandparents – hardworking, generous, and unafraid of difference? Or the Iowa of fear – where soldiers chase shadows, and good people are turned against their own better angels?
The choice isn’t between open borders and closed hearts. It’s between humanity and hate.
And I still believe – deep down – that Iowa will choose humanity.