On Dakota prairie, home of Trump's DHS pick, immigration crackdown threatens way of life, economy

PIERRE, S.D. — On a face-numbingly frigid afternoon last week, Gov. Kristi Noem used a farewell address to South Dakotans to warn of an ''invasion'' far away from the state's windswept prairies and freedom-loving farmers.

The ''illegal aliens'' and ''got-aways'' crossing the southern border, the governor said, pose an existential threat to the U.S. economy and national security, spreading cartel violence and deadly drugs.

''We see the consequences of Washington's inaction here,'' said Noem, President Donald Trump's pick to lead the Department of Homeland Security, a job that would put her at the forefront of the administration's promised immigration crackdown. ''Even known terrorists have crossed the border amongst the illegals – and they could be anywhere.''

But Noem's heated rhetoric belies a stark reality: With unemployment at 1.9% — the lowest in the country — her state faces an acute labor shortage and has grown increasingly dependent on the same migrants she may be tasked with deporting.

It's those migrants, many in the U.S. illegally, who provide the low-paid labor powering the booming slaughterhouses, dairy farms and construction sites in South Dakota. And any immigration actions spearheaded by Noem, who is expected to be confirmed by the Senate in coming days, could have crippling consequences for businesses in her own backyard.

That disconnect reflects a broader clash with fellow Republicans here who say she's put her own ambition for higher office ahead of local needs.

The tension is most apparent in her embrace of Trump's hardline stance on immigration. Whether it's expressing support for a ''Muslim ban'' during Trump's first administration, or dispatching South Dakota's national guard to the southern border ''war zone'' more than 1,000 miles away, Noem has left little doubt she will follow Trump's orders.

''If strict enforcement comes into play, we're going to drown in our own red meat,'' said Ray Epp, a hog farmer and former Yankton County commissioner, who noted the unparalleled work ethic — and growing presence — of migrant laborers in the state's pork industry. ''There'd be a crash.''

Nitza Rubenstein, a community activist who works closely with migrants, was even more blunt: ''Who's going to milk the cows? If the Latinos don't, nobody will.''

Freedom fighter brand of politics

In Noem's telling, her father's death in a farming accident in 1994 produced a political awakening that would come to define her small government, freedom fighter brand of politics.

Pregnant at the time, she dropped out of college to take the reins of the family business — soon feuding with bureaucrats over what she called a ''death tax'' that nearly bankrupted the ranch.

Twelve years later, at the urging of Tom Daschle, then the top Democrat in the U.S. Senate, Noem ran for the state Legislature — as a Republican. An unbeaten string of eight electoral victories followed on her way to Congress and then the top office in the Mount Rushmore State.

Noem won those races thanks to a homespun and hard-knuckled approach to politics. As if to emphasize her reputation for bashing opponents, she ended her State of the State address last week handing her longtime lieutenant governor a signed baseball bat.

''This used to be an old men's club,'' said Jim Smith, the Capitol's longtime sergeant at arms, who remembers when lawmakers kept whisky bottles on their desk and filled the chambers with cigar smoke. ''You need sharp elbows to survive.''

Wooing Trump

She catapulted to national prominence in 2020 as South Dakota rejected COVID-19 restrictions and remained open for business during the pandemic. That year she also wooed Trump to Mount Rushmore for a Fourth of July fireworks display over the objection of federal bureaucrats concerned about potential wildfires.

''Valuable time has been wasted on one person's political aspirations while life-changing issues have gone on the back burner,'' said Steven Haugaard, a former speaker of the South Dakota House of Representatives who challenged Noem in 2022 for the Republican nomination for governor, garnering 24% of the vote.

As her political ambition outgrew the newly fenced-in governor's residence in Pierre, Noem increasingly has turned her attention to immigration, though her record was not always as harsh as her rhetoric.

In 2019, for example, Noem rejected an offer by the first Trump administration to stop South Dakota's cooperation with a U.S. State Department program to resettle refugees. It's not clear how she feels about that program now. In her address last week, she criticized programs that have allowed ''many thousands who caught a free plane ride over our borders courtesy of the federal government.''

At her Senate confirmation hearing last week, Democrats questioned Noem's qualifications for the job. As DHS secretary, she'll be charged with managing the third-largest federal agency, with 240,000 employees and a budget of $108 billion — more than 15 times the spending of South Dakota, with just 13,000 workers.

The sprawling department is not only responsible for running immigration and border policy but oversees agencies investigating terrorism and cybersecurity threats as well as the U.S. Coast Guard, the Federal Emergency Management Agency and the U.S. Secret Service.

The number of migrants encountered trying to enter the U.S. skyrocketed under President Joe Biden, peaking in December 2023, when officials reported 301,000 encounters at the border. But they've since ebbed to less than a third that amount.

''Migrants who come here want to work,'' said Taneeza Islam, a lawyer and co-founder of South Dakota Voices for Peace, an advocacy group. ''Noem knows that.''

Noem, 53, didn't respond to repeated interview requests but has left little doubt on how she will run DHS.

''We will ensure that our borders are secure,'' she told the committee, ''and we're addressing all threats that may come in from any direction.''

Migrants, business owners are anxious about crackdown

Yoni and Petrona fell in love in South Dakota after each handed over their life's savings to human smugglers, known as coyotes, to guide them across the U.S. border during the pandemic.

Like many migrants interviewed by the AP, the two lack health insurance, a driver's license and can't open a bank account. But that hasn't stopped them from finding work.

Within two weeks of arriving, Yoni, just 15 at the time, landed a job at the local egg farm for $12 an hour with a fake green card he bought for $150. He now earns double that in construction and says he's able to wire more remittances to family in Guatemala than friends who settled in California because rent in his state is cheap.

The couple's dream is to gain legal status — or save enough to return home and provide their 18-month-old daughter, who was born in the U.S., a better upbringing than the one they had. The Associated Press agreed not to disclose the couple's last names because they are afraid of being arrested and deported.

''Things are a little bit better here,'' Yoni said in Spanish on a rare day off because his employer suspended work due to the extreme cold. ''At least I know that if I work hard here I'll get paid.''

''I've heard that they're only going to deport the mothers and the kids will stay here,'' said Petrona. ''Imagine that.''

But those fears, stoked by Trump and Noem, don't match the warm welcome migrants described in nearby Huron, where on a recent evening a red wolf moon flooded the desolate plains surrounding the town's turkey plant.

A co-op of ethnic German Hutterite farmers, who arrived in the 19th century, own the Dakota Provisions plant. But migrants from Venezuela, Thailand and other countries, earning around $14 per hour, perform the dangerous, back-breaking work.

Huron, population 14,000, flourished with the arrival of the railroad in the 1880s, attracting migrants from all over Europe. But when the rail depot fell into disuse in the 1960s, the city began a long decline: a college closed, businesses shuttered and families uprooted.

Migrants are now fueling something of a rural renaissance.

All the while, the town's high school soccer team has become competitive. A half-dozen Latin bodegas sell exotic foods. And once-abandoned parks are brimming with families.

''It's not an invasion — it's an invitation,'' said Todd Manolis, owner of Manolis Grocery on Main Street. ''There were lots of growing pains at first. But without a doubt they saved us.''

On a recent afternoon, as Manolis waited on customers who chewed the fat and bought goods on store credit, the owner pointed to the store's license hanging from a wall. It showed the business had been started a century ago — by Manolis' grandfather, shortly after his arrival as an immigrant from Greece.

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