Authored by Mitzi Perdue via RealClearPolitics,

When news broke of the massive child nutrition fraud in Minnesota, many Americans reacted with disbelief. During the pandemic, roughly $250 million intended to feed hungry children was siphoned off, prosecutors say, and spent on luxury cars, real estate, and other indulgences. To most people, it appeared to be a shocking betrayal of public trust.

To me, it felt unsettlingly familiar.

Decades ago, long before Minnesota became synonymous with one of the largest fraud cases in U.S. history, I had an experience in Somalia that permanently altered my perspective on aid, trust, and good intentions. It is why I read the indictments differently, not with surprise so much as recognition.

What struck me most about the Minnesota case was not only the scale of the theft but the silence surrounding it. The fraud appears to have operated in plain sight within tightly knit circles, yet few people spoke out.  

More than 40 years ago, when I was a rice farmer in California, American rice growers learned of famine conditions in Somalia. Competitors set aside their rivalry and donated an entire shipload of rice for humanitarian relief. I later traveled to Somalia, expecting to see that food had reached people on the brink of starvation.

It had not.

A powerful clan had taken control of the shipment. Once its own members’ needs were met, the remaining rice did not go to feed other Somalis. Instead, it was used to feed animals, while those outside the clan continued to go hungry.

At the time, I tried to explain what I had seen by blaming corruption, weak oversight, or a few bad actors. None of those explanations captured the deeper pattern. The behavior made sense only when I began to understand how differently trust and obligation were organized.

That realization came rushing back as I read about the Minnesota fraud.

According to federal indictments, the stolen money flowed through networks bound by kinship and loyalty. The theft was large, coordinated, and sustained. What stood out was not only who took the money, but who stayed silent. In societies with strong civic norms, whistleblowing is often praised, or at least protected. In tightly bound clan systems, speaking out can mean punishment.

Over time, I found language for what I had observed: the Prisoner’s Dilemma, a concept from game theory that explains how cooperation and trust either compound or collapse. When two parties cooperate, both benefit and trust grows. When one cheats while the other cooperates, the cheater prospers and the cooperator becomes the loser. When both are defective, everyone loses.

High-trust societies solve this dilemma by extending cooperation beyond family and tribe. Laws, institutions, and norms reinforce the idea that cheating ultimately harms everyone, including oneself. Low-trust societies work differently. Trust is reserved for kin. Outsiders are assumed to cheat. In that environment, cheating is not necessarily immoral. It is often rational, expected, and even applauded.

Seen through this lens, both my experience in Somalia and the Minnesota scandal follow the same pattern. Institutions cooperated in good faith. Clan-based networks exploited that trust. Children and taxpayers paid the price.

Somalia represents the most destructive version of this equilibrium. When trust does not extend beyond blood ties, cooperation cannot scale. Investment dries up. Contracts mean little without enforcement beyond kinship. When everyone expects everyone else to cheat, no one can afford to cooperate.

In that context, Somalia’s ranking of 213th out of 215 countries in per-capita income is not shocking. It is almost inevitable. This is not an indictment of individual Somalis. We know that many, many Somalis live honest, productive lives, raise families, and contribute positively wherever they reside. Individuals can transcend the cultures they are born into. Social systems, however, change slowly and are likely to shape behavior.

Somalia sits at the end of a continuum, but the underlying dynamic is not unique to it. Whenever loyalty to the group eclipses loyalty to shared rules, corruption flourishes. The Minnesota scandal was not an aberration so much as a warning: When institutions assume trust without enforcing it, low-trust behavior fills the vacuum. Somalia shows what happens when that low-trust approach is entrenched.

Mitzi Perdue is a fellow at the Institute of World Politics and the co-founder of Mental Help Global, a philanthropy that uses AI to support mental health.