Trump Demonized Muslims. He’s Winning Some of Them Over
On Oct. 5, 2024, Mayor Amer Ghalib convened a modest crowd in Hamtramck, Michigan, a densely populated enclave of metro Detroit, known as the only Muslim-majority city in America and home to a large Yemeni community. In footage live-streamed on YouTube, around 40 people gathered, some snapping selfies, others standing and chatting. Children sat with signs reading, “Yemeni Americans are with Donald Trump.”
Wearing a red tie to match Trump’s — a nod to their alliance — Ghalib rallied the crowd, urging everyone to bring another person or two. “If we get enough people, I will go live and show President Trump how many people have shown up to the opening of his campaign office!”
On a large screen, they watched the Republican nominee’s rally in Pennsylvania. Trump’s speech played on and by minute 38, he mentioned Yemen, claiming the country is sending “known terrorists” to America. “They’re coming out of Yemen. A lot of people are coming out of Yemen,” he said. “We’ll stop it immediately… We’re going to deport these people. We’re going to get them out of our country, or we won’t have a country.” Yet the largely Yemeni crowd’s enthusiasm barely wavered, attendees say, showing just how deep and surreal this new alliance had become. Or perhaps what Trump said wasn’t strange at all; perhaps it was a rhetoric that, by now, felt all too familiar.
During his 2016 presidential campaign, Trump labeled Muslims terrorists and described refugees as “Trojan horses” sent to sabotage the country. Once elected, he enacted a travel ban, blocking entry from several predominantly Muslim countries, including Yemen. The impact wasn’t confined to visa rejections or borders; it shook the Muslim community here at home. According to a report by the Council on American-Islamic Relations (CAIR), anti-Muslim hate incidents surged by 57 percent from 2015 to 2016, marking a sharp rise in bias across the nation. Mosque windows were shattered, racial slurs appeared on community walls overnight, and Muslim Americans found themselves marked as outsiders in the only country they called home.
In the days following Trump’s Oct. 5 speech, as anger simmered within the broader Yemeni community, Mayor Ghalib was quick to step in. On Facebook, he wrote that Trump had privately apologized to him — though he admitted he couldn’t secure a public apology — and promised never to label Yemenis as terrorists again. Later that week, Ghalib doubled down on what he framed as a diplomatic success, posting that Trump had since only mentioned threats from South America when discussing terrorism, omitting Yemen. He reiterated that Trump was the right candidate for their community, someone who aligned with their values. And most importantly, he’d listened to them.
In the 2020 election, Michigan’s Arab American voters were pivotal; President Joe Biden’s narrow victory by roughly 154,000 votes leaned heavily on support from areas like Dearborn and Hamtramck. Back then, many Arab and Muslim voters saw their support for Biden as a stand against Trump’s rhetoric and policies that they felt perpetuated anti-Muslim sentiment.
Today, the dynamic appears to be shifting, and many Arab Americans are re-evaluating their loyalty to a party they feel has taken their support for granted while sidelining issues close to them. For the 2024 election, their ballots — whether filled or left blank — represent a voice of frustration with the Biden-Harris Administration’s financial support of Israel during the war on Gaza, a silence that feels like betrayal. The real twist, perhaps unfathomable just a few years ago, is that these communities are now actively turning toward Trump.
A split over LGBTQ+ issues
In the small city of Hamtrack, divisions between conservative Muslim residents and progressive voices had been simmering well before Oct. 7, 2023.
In 2021, then-Mayor Karen Majewski had cast the decisive vote to fly a pride flag outside city hall. Later that year, Amer Ghalib, a 45-year-old Yemeni American medical office worker, unknown in the local power circles, announced his bid for mayor. In a mayoral debate, Ghalib explained that he decided to run after observing a deep chasm between the city’s leadership and its residents, whom he described as feeling “disconnected, ignored, and misunderstood.”
That November, Ghalib unseated Majewski, ending her 16-year tenure and making national headlines as Hamtramck elected its first Yemeni-American mayor and America’s first all-Muslim city councill. However, by June 2023, this newly celebrated council stirred controversy, voting to ban the display of Pride flags on city property, a decision they said reflected the cultural and moral beliefs of the city’s Muslim residents.
In a video of the meeting later uploaded to YouTube, a transgender person approached the podium to speak against the ban. As soon as they began, their identity becoming apparent through their voice, a man in the audience quickly covered the ears of a child standing beside him. It was a small moment, but it captured something larger: a belief that LGBTQ+ symbols were not simply expressions of identity but, as someone had remarked earlier in the same meeting, “invasive and unnatural forces” from which children needed to be protected.
The decision to ban the Pride flag from city property was not the end of the backlash. Security footage, shared with Rolling Stone and captured by cameras installed at the entrance of a private residence, show kids pass by casually, seemingly indifferent — until a Pride flag catches their eye. Then, in a sudden gesture, they tear it down. Other clips show a more organized approach: Cars pull up for only a few moments, just enough time for a teenager to jump out, tear down a flag, and speed away.
Despite growing concerns, some in the community dismiss the vandalism as harmless child’s play — even meaningless. “They are just kids,” says Habeb Al-Jawfi, a Yemeni journalist based in Hamtramck who regularly provides commentary on local issues. But the footage tells a different story. In one video, a mother walks beside a child, slowing her pace to give him time to tear down the flag. In another, an older man approaches the children after they’ve dismantled what the resident described as “complicated knots” used to secure the flag, shaking their hands. These were not random acts of play; they were deliberate acts encouraged by adults.
This sense of cultural threat has not been isolated to Hamtramck. Across the U.S., communities were, and still are, wrestling with similar fears — as a conservative campaign to demonize LGBTQ+ Americans hums on across the country, down to the local level. On Aug. 4, 2023, Grace Christian Church in Sterling Heights, Michigan, organized an event titled “Protect Our Children, Protect Our Future.” This gathering brought together muslim community leaders, local activists, and conservative voices from across the country. In attendance was Mayor Ghalib, as well as Michael Flynn, Trump’s former national security advisor and a Christian nationalist who had once compared Islam to a vicious cancer. When asked later about their first meeting, Ghalib described it as a “constructive dialogue” focused on shared concerns about family values.
The following month, Flynn — who had admitted to lying to the FBI but was later pardoned by Trump — traveled to Hamtramck to meet with community leaders, a visit Ghalib described as “the fruit of our communication.”
The event aimed to build bridges between Republican leaders and Muslim community members, emphasizing shared values. As attendees sat shoulder-to-shoulder, Flynn took the podium and recalled his first impression of Ghalib. “I saw something in this young man,” Flynn told the crowd. “He’s sharp. He is a leader.” Flynn then spoke for over an hour, emphasizing that the purpose of his visit was to foster unity between Republicans and Muslim community leaders. He railed against ‘woke culture’ and claimed, without evidence, that schools were providing hormone blockers to children without parental consent.
During the Q&A, when a community member asked him how this alliance could be trusted — how they could bridge the gap after years of being labeled as threats? — Flynn was ready. “We live and breathe for our families,” he told them, saying that whatever disagreements they had in the past should be put aside. “We need to focus on what unites us. We don’t want to see our children mutilated.”
In many Muslim communities, homosexuality is traditionally viewed as incompatible with Islamic teachings, though interpretations and acceptance vary widely. Some groups have adopted a more nuanced approach in recent years. However, for more conservative communities, the threat of American attitudes around gender and sexuality seeping into their community felt serious enough to team up with people who had staked their careers on Islamophobia.
“There’s a level of coercion when we’re expected to align with ideas imposed by people outside the fold of Islam,” explains Imran Salha, the Imam of Islamic Center of Detroit. “It’s not just about differing views; it feels like a challenge to the integrity of our cultural and religious identity.”
This clash between maintaining tradition and confronting modern social issues is one Yaffa, a queer and trans Palestinian poet and the executive director of the Muslim Alliance for Sexual and Gender Diversity, understands well. “Addressing homophobia within conservative Muslim communities is thorny,” they explain, not just because it risks feeding Islamophobic stereotypes, but also because it is extremely painful to navigate.
Working with trans Muslims across the nation, Yaffa sees firsthand how, for many queer Muslims who remain tied to conservative communities, confronting homophobia feels like splitting themselves in two. “To address the issue almost feels like killing one side of yourself, like you can’t be both queer and Muslim,” Yaffa says, yet, they emphasize the importance of speaking openly about hostility toward LGBTQ+ identities within Muslim communities. “These are realities within our communities,” Yafa insists. “And it’s not about raising them to create division; it’s so we can find ways to work together long-term.”
Yaffa emphasizes that homophobia among Muslim conservatives shouldn’t be seen as an isolated issue but rather as a dynamic the Christian nationalist movement has seized upon, exploiting anxieties within Muslim communities to build political alliances. With these deep-rooted fears and cultural anxieties, all compounded by the misinformation spread by right-wing media, “It’s the entry point,” they say.
Oct. 7 changes the conversation
A cohort of progressive representatives, notably members of the “Squad” — Jamaal Bowman, Ilhan Omar, Summer Lee, and Cori Bush — have emerged as rare voices in Congress calling for an end to Israel’s offensive in Gaza. Their calls for a cease-fire and push to halt U.S. military aid to Israel have placed them squarely against the Democratic establishment. In response, pro-Israel lobbying groups like AIPAC have made clear the costs of dissent. Millions of dollars have been funneled into defeating progressive representatives in Democratic primaries, and Bowman and Bush both lost their reelection bids this year. But for each statement of defiance, the silence from the Biden administration grows more pronounced.
This silence, though, is calculated. For two decades, Republicans have weaponized the notion of Democrats sympathizing with America’s enemies, especially in the context of Palestine. Since 9/11 and well into the Obama era, any expression of support for Palestinian rights became political quicksand. In Washington, to speak too openly was to risk alienating middle-ground voters, an easy mark for attack ads framing Democrats as “soft” on terrorism. For Biden and Vice President Kamala Harris, stepping forward on this issue now would mean handing ammunition to their opponents in an election year. For them, the stakes are higher than one crisis abroad; the stakes are the presidency itself.
For many Americans, the conflict in the Middle East may feel distant. But in Michigan with its large Arab population, it feels as if the entire state is cloaked in mourning. Since Oct. 7, when Hamas killed 1,200 Israelis and took 251 hostages, Israel has led a brutal siege on Gaza, killing more than 42,000 Palestinians. The Israeli war has now spread to Lebanon.
Countless Michigan residents have lost friends, family members, properties, and childhood homes in the Middle East. Places of worship have turned into spaces of condolence, hosting endless lines of mourners. Here, calls for a cease-fire or to get aid into Gaza aren’t simply items on a political agenda; they are pleas for lifelines for loved ones — family members struggling to survive, in desperate need of help.
In 2020, Biden’s campaign offered a glimmer of hope that the issues facing Muslim and Arab communities would finally be addressed, especially after years of feeling marginalized by Trump’s inflammatory policies. But now, in 2024, the hope that led them to the polls has soured. As Gaza faces a worsening humanitarian crisis, these communities feel that the Democratic Party has turned a deaf ear. To them, Biden’s administration has done little to rein in military aid to Israel, and the silence from Democratic leaders on the mounting casualties has felt like a profound betrayal. Campaigns like the “Uncommitted Movement” and “Abandon Harris” are gaining momentum. Their message is clear: If Democratic leaders don’t take serious steps to address the suffering in Gaza, many voters will withhold their support or redirect it entirely.
Day after day, as the death toll climbed and requests as basic as asking a Palestinian American state representative to address the Democratic National Committee were denied, many in the Muslim community felt dismissed, as if these voices were unworthy of the party’s platform. Then came the administration’s statement following Israel’s assassination of Hassan Nasrallah, Hezbollah’s leader, in Lebanon. The statement, which called the Israeli airstrike “a measure of justice for his many victims,” didn’t even mention the civilians who had died alongside him. For those with family still overseas, it was as if their lives were irrelevant, written out of the story entirely.
If Israel’s war in the Middle East had given conservative Muslims the final push to abandon the party altogether, it also offered non-conservatives an opening — a reason to start questioning their loyalty. And as frustrations with the Democrats mounted, Trump was observing every misstep, looking to fill the void they left behind.
Trump’s move into Muslim communities
Trump has always had a few Arabs on his team, but Massad Boulos was different. Two years ago, Michael Boulos, Massad’s son, married Tiffany Trump, establishing a family link Trump could leverage. Massad Boulos, a Lebanese-born businessman who moved to Texas and earned a degree in jurisprudence from the University of Houston, brought with him deep ties to Arab American communities — connections Trump hoped to activate to sway disenchanted voters in Michigan and beyond.
Unlike Trump’s previous Middle Eastern surrogates, Boulos brought sharp wit, seasoned eloquence, and native fluency that made him a regular on Arabic media channels, where he reshaped Trump’s policies for an Arab American audience — positioning them not as xenophobic but as security-minded. The Muslim ban? Boulos labeled it a misrepresentation by anti-Trump media. “These weren’t bans,” he argued on air, “but restrictions on visas from war-torn countries where thorough background checks were nearly impossible.”
When asked about Trump’s history of racist remarks against Muslims, Boulos would dismiss it: “Right, Trump is so racist his daughter married one of us.” Boulos positioned himself as a bridge, speaking directly to Arab Americans in their own language and addressing their frustrations with the current administration.
As figures like Boulos worked to reframe Trump’s blunt approach within the Arab American community, some Arab and Muslim leaders found an appeal in Trump’s unfiltered approach, contrasting it with what they saw as insincere promises from the Democratic Party. For leaders like Imran Salha, a Detroit-based imam who recently endorsed Trump, the appeal lay in this bluntness, however unsettling it might be.
“For our survival, if we can find the nuance to engage with a genocidal administration, why hesitate to work with one that, yes, is bigoted and racist, but at least doesn’t pretend otherwise?” Salha asks. To him, Trump’s brutal honesty was almost a relief, however uncomfortable. He felt deceived by the Democrats, whose promises on Palestine were endless but empty, leaving the community caught in a cycle of hope and betrayal.
“I’d rather deal with the wolf than the fox,” Salha says, his words heavy with irony. “Democrats keep offering us access, trying to rebuild bridges they burned long ago. But what good is this access if the access and relationships we already have with them can’t stop a single bullet in Palestine or deliver a water bottle to Gaza?”
When pressed on Trump’s praise of Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu, Salha shrugs. “The worst is already happening,” he said, “Harris won’t change her approach. At least with Trump, he might offer something different. We have nothing left to lose.”
Wael Al-Zayat, director of Emgage, a prominent Muslim advocacy organization, remains a strong advocate for Kamala Harris, urging Muslim and Arab American communities to continue supporting her despite mounting frustrations. “Harris is the only one of the two who supports a ceasefire,” Al-Zayat said in a recent interview. “I understand the pain and anguish with the Democratic Party, but supporting a third-party candidate in a place like Michigan is essentially a vote for Donald Trump, which will be bad for everyone.”
Al-Zayat warns that a Trump victory could have serious repercussions, not only for the people of Palestine but also for anyone who has advocated, marched, or protested for Palestine within the United States. If Trump wins, he believes they will be fighting to defend their communities both domestically and overseas.
In September 2024, Hamtramck made the news again. After a decades-long history of being a Democratic stronghold, Mayor Amer Ghalib endorsed Trump, calling him “a man of principles” and “the right choice.” In return, Trump did what he does best: He created the illusion of intimacy. He praised Ghalib as “greatest mayor in the whole world” and shared the mayor’s posts on his Truth Social platform.
For many Yemeni immigrants in Hamtramck, this moment was not just about party politics; it was about belonging. In a community that often feels sidelined, Trump’s recognition of one of their own — a man who shared their roots and culture — felt like a direct line to power, a validation that their voices might finally be heard.
“I bet everyone in Hamtramck is saying, ‘Bro, we will be rolling with Trump. we’ve got an in,’” joked Salha. “And I can’t blame them. Trump has a way of making people feel they’re in his inner circle, even if they aren’t.”
In mid-October, in an interview on Al Arabiya, Trump struggled to outline any specific plans for the Middle East, resorting to the broad and ambiguous promise that he would “make peace.” The lack of clear policies seemed almost beside the point, as the appearance itself held symbolic weight for viewers. To appear on a widely watched Arabic-speaking news channel, despite the lack of concrete messaging, suggested a recognition of the Arab community’s growing political voice in the U.S.
For those who have long felt overlooked by the Democratic establishment, Trump’s approach offered something that felt unexpectedly inclusive. His outreach cultivated an aura of accessibility — he seemed to understand the “forgotten” segments of the population. He wasn’t just speaking to them; he was appearing on their channels, interacting with their social media posts.
It was a strategy that worked — well enough that when Trump referred to Yemeni people as “terrorists” during the Pennsylvania rally on Oct. 5, it barely rippled the loyalty of his supporters in Hamtramck. By the time I arrived days later, his popularity was palpable. Locals, many of them Yemeni, lit up at the mention of Trump’s campaign office, insisting he might even make a personal stop in town. They spoke of his visit like fans anticipating a celebrity sighting, as though discussing Taylor Swift rather than a divisive politician.
And their excitement wasn’t misplaced. Trump delivered on his promise, visiting Hamtramck. At the end of his stop there, those who had emigrated from a country Trump recently labeled as a source of “known terrorists” now stood beside him, presenting a certificate of appreciation, as if welcoming back a long-lost friend.
Harris loses ground
Meanwhile, the Harris campaign seems to have resigned themselves to losing segments of the Muslim vote. Harris’ recent alignment with former Rep. Liz Cheney — a conservative Republican whose father, former Vice President Dick Cheney, helped orchestrate the U.S. invasion of Iraq — spoke volumes to many Arab Americans. To them, this connection was more than just a bid to sway moderate Republicans; it felt like a calculated distancing from a community that has long questioned American foreign policy in the Middle East.
On Oct. 21, Ahmed Ghanim, an activist and former congressional candidate from Michigan, was escorted out of a campaign event featuring Harris and Liz Cheney. Outside the venue, he went live on Facebook, with a police car visible behind him. “I was escorted out without any explanation. I was threatened with detention if I didn’t leave immediately.” He continued, recalling how in 2016, “we used to get kicked out of Trump rallies because we were Muslims. Now, we are being kicked out of Kamala’s rallies because we are Muslims.” The video was later shared by Mayor Ghalib, with nothing in the caption but a few exclamation marks.
Chris Wyant, Michigan’s senior adviser for the Harris campaign, acknowledged the incident, stating that “the vice president’s team regrets this action and its impact on Dr. Ghanim and the community,” and adding that Ghanim “remains welcome at future events.” Despite the apology, Ghanim said in an interview that he felt deeply unsettled by the incident, which only reinforced his feeling that “there is not much respect or appreciation for the Muslim community” within the party. While Ghanim remained open to supporting Harris and rallying for her despite his concerns over the administration’s stance on Palestine, this event made him question his place within the Democratic Party.
On Democracy Now, Ghanim revealed that Trump’s campaign had approached him to record an ad against Harris, promising extensive visibility, including on networks like CNN. “They told me this ad would be everywhere,” he said. “But I told them, no, I can’t do that.”
Days later, Trump invited Muslim leaders to his stage in Michigan, calling them “great people.” He gave a shout-out to Mayor Ghalib, the man who, as Trump said, got the movement of Muslim endorsements for Trump rolling.
For those prioritizing cultural and religious values, the choice is challenging. On one side is a party seen as deaf to their voices, and on the other, a party with a history of viewing Muslims with suspicion — a party that now appears willing to listen to their concerns. This shift underscores that voting blocs are not monolithic, and alliances are moving in ways that cut across typical lines. It’s a moment that highlights the fluid, nuanced nature of American political identity, especially among marginalized groups finding a voice in unexpected places.
Imam Salha views aligning with Trump, despite the former president’s past anti-Muslim rhetoric, as a necessary compromise. With both parties increasingly aware of the influence of the Arab and Muslim vote, Salha sees an opportunity if Trump wins.
“If Muslim leaders help him clinch Michigan — a pivotal swing state — it could mean having his attention for the next four years,” he says. “We’d be remembered as the ones who shifted the tide.”
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