The Limits of Solidarity: The Sam Cobb Debate

February 4, 2026

A reflection on how the Sam Cobb debate/controversy exposes the ethical limits of racial solidarity for Black Muslims—especially when representation, religious privilege, and political power collide on the eve of Ramadan.

In January 2024, Sapelo Square—a leading Black Muslim digital platform—spotlighted Sam Cobb as a rare and affirming example of Black agricultural entrepreneurship and economic self-determination. That feature stayed with many of us, especially as Ramadan planning cycles back around and community conversations turn, once again, to where we spend, give, and source our ifṭār staples.

“Ramadan is upon us. Alhamdulillah. What’s the Black date farmer’s info again?”

A sister posed this question to a Black American Muslim Facebook group just last week.

I responded honestly: I was torn. The previous Ramadan, I had come across Sam Cobb praising Trump in videos he shared to social media—framing him as one of the best presidents in U.S. history. I wrote that, heartbroken, I would rather buy from Muslim-owned and Palestinian-owned small farms when possible.

That single comment triggered an avalanche—shock, anger, disbelief, ambivalence. As I read the responses, I realized how many people were unaware of Cobb’s stated political stance and how imminent Ramadan made the stakes feel even sharper. So I followed up with a separate post to the wider community. I wrote, in part, that in April 2025 Cobb posted a video titled “Why I Support President Trump’s America First Tariffs,” and I quoted his closing words (4:35min mark) praising Trump as “absolutely the BEST president we’ve ever had,” and expressing eagerness to participate in what he called a “golden age.” I acknowledged what many of us felt: that this information hurt to share. But I also felt compelled to say it plainly: with Ramadan weeks away, our community deserved the information needed to make informed ethical choices—especially given the deeper questions this raises about representation, Christian privilege, politics, economics, and solidarity.

Ethical Consumption, Trust, and the Weight of Muslim Solidarity

Sam Cobb at his date orchard in Desert Springs, California

What makes this moment especially painful is not only what Sam Cobb has said politically, but how explicitly his business benefited from Black Muslim ethical commitments and political solidarity—particularly around Palestine.

As reported by MuslimMatters in March 2024, Cobb’s dates surged in popularity after being recommended by Muslim customers seeking alternatives “untainted by the touch of Israeli occupation.” Among those who amplified his farm was Atlanta Imam Sulaimaan Hamed, who publicly urged Muslims to redirect their Ramadan spending away from Zionist-controlled supply chains, writing on social media in February 2024: “To hell with Zionists and their stealing of Palestinian orchards… not giving them your money is resistance… Palestine still!!”

That call to action worked.

In the weeks that followed demand for Cobb’s dates skyrocketed beyond anything he had previously experienced. In a message later shared by Imam Sulaimaan, Cobb expressed gratitude to the community for their support of his farm:

“Thank you for all the word-of-mouth promotion which you initiated on behalf of Sam Cobb Farms… the response to your call to action to purchase dates… during this Ramadan season has been nothing short of amazing! We have been graciously overwhelmed with orders for our dates… there are more orders than we have ever seen before! Again, thank you! Thank you very much!”

Cobb went on to acknowledge that Muslim communities had discovered his farm in a way that fundamentally transformed his business trajectory, noting that nothing could have prepared him for the scale of Ramadan demand.

This context matters.

Black Muslims did not merely consume Cobb’s product; we mobilized around it—framing our purchases as acts of resistance, religious fidelity, and political conscience. We were animated by an explicitly Muslim ethical framework rooted in opposition to occupation, concern for Palestinian livelihoods, and the spiritual significance of Ramadan itself.

It is precisely this history that sharpens the sense of rupture. When a business elevated through Muslim solidarity is later revealed to be led by someone who publicly praises a political figure deeply aligned with Christian nationalism, anti-Muslim policy, and unwavering support for Israeli state violence, the issue is no longer abstract or hypothetical. The question becomes unavoidable: what does it mean when Muslim ethics are welcomed for profit, but Muslim vulnerability is treated as incidental?

This is not simply about dates.

Given the context of Black Muslim mobilization and support, the revelation that Sam Cobb—widely celebrated as the only Black date farmer in the United States—has publicly praised Donald Trump as “the best president we’ve ever had” landed like a gut punch in Black Muslim spaces. The reaction has ranged from disbelief to grief, from rationalization to resignation. This is not simply about dates.This moment has exposed a deeper crisis than a single business decision. It is about betrayal, religious power, political ethics, and the limits of solidarity in a context shaped by Christian dominance and Black Muslim marginalization.

The First Response: Denial as a Form of Grief

The most immediate responses were telling:

What if he only supports tariffs, not Trump?
If we don’t support him, aren’t we just supporting Arab or Israeli-owned companies anyway?
Should we really boycott someone over political beliefs?
What does this have to do with us as Black Muslims?

These questions are not naïve. They reflect an initial denial born of loss. For many Black Muslims, Sam Cobb symbolized something rare: a Black-owned, U.S.-based alternative to global supply chains often tied to Muslim exploitation, settler colonial economies, or opaque labor practices. Discovering that this symbol is politically aligned with a movement openly hostile to Muslims, immigrants, Palestinians, and democratic norms creates an existential rupture. From my perspective as a psychologist and community leader, denial in this case is not ignorance—it is grief.

Beyond “Just Politics”: Christian Privilege in Plain Sight

The insistence that Cobb’s stance is “just politics” misses a crucial point: politics are never neutral for religiously minoritized communities. Donald Trump’s political project is inseparable from Christian nationalism—an ideology that frames the United States as a Christian nation and renders Muslims perpetual outsiders. Support for that project, (that “golden age” Cobb refers to) cannot be abstracted into a single policy preference when it is articulated through explicit praise for Trump as a moral, intellectual, and national exemplar.

This is where Christian privilege becomes visible.

Christian privilege allows one to support authoritarian politics without existential risk. Muslims do not have that luxury. Our civil rights, bodily safety, and global kinship ties are always implicated. My own research on Black Christian views of American Muslims demonstrates that many Black Christians—often unintentionally—fail to recognize this privilege precisely because anti-Black racism is so pervasive that it obscures other forms of power they hold. Cobb’s stance is not merely personal. It reflects how Christian normativity continues to operate even within Black communities, often at the expense of Black Muslims.

Boycott or Boundary?

The language of “boycott” and "cancellation" has also clouded the conversation. What many Black Muslims are doing is not punitive—it is boundary-setting.

We are allowed to decide:

where our money goes,
which values we materially sustain,
and whose political visions we underwrite.

Refusing to financially support someone is not coercion, it is agency.

And importantly, no one is being forced to comply. The diversity of responses—from continued patronage to principled refusal—actually reflects a healthy community grappling honestly with complexity.

Responding to the “No Direct Harm” Argument

Some have argued that unless there is a clear, traceable link between a purchase and demonstrable harm—money flowing to a specific policy, organization, or act of violence—there is no ethical reason to reconsider support. This view treats consumption as morally neutral until proven otherwise. But for religiously minoritized communities, harm rarely arrives so cleanly or conveniently.

Political power does not only operate through direct transactions; it operates through legitimation. Public praise of an authoritarian, Christian nationalist project—especially by a figure positioned as a symbol of Black self-determination—helps normalize a political worldview that has already produced tangible harm for Muslims: expanded surveillance, travel bans, emboldened harassment, and the erosion of civil protections. These outcomes did not require every dollar to be earmarked for harm in order to be harmful.

Others note that many Black Muslims support Trump, or that one’s own business may have been affected differently by tariffs. That may be true—and it is beside the point. The issue is not whether individuals are entitled to their political beliefs. They are. The question is whether communities are obligated to finance and amplify those beliefs simply because they are held by someone who shares our race or occupies a symbolic role.

Ethical consumption is not about proving intent or measuring intelligence; it is about alignment. It asks us to consider whether our spending reinforces political projects that make our communities more vulnerable, even when that reinforcement is indirect. For many Black Muslims, the threshold is not a spreadsheet tracing dollars to damage, but a sober assessment of what is being publicly endorsed in our name—and what it costs us to look away. Disagreement on where to draw that line is inevitable. What is not inevitable is pretending that the line does not exist at all.

The Deeper Wound: Intraracial Religious Marginalization

At its core, this controversy reveals something more painful: how isolated Black Muslims often feel within Black America. Many of us hoped that racial solidarity would translate into ethical alignment. When it doesn’t, the disappointment is sharper because the expectation was rooted in shared struggle. And when that solidarity falters—when the political choices of a Black Christian entrepreneur are treated as morally neutral despite their consequences for Muslims—the disappointment cuts deeper precisely because the expectation was rooted in kinship.

My lived experience AND 20+ years of research and organizing around race, religion, identity, and well-being consistently shows that Black Muslims experience a unique form of intersectional invisibility—marginalized within Muslim communities for being Black, and within Black communities for being Muslim. We are simultaneously hypervisible and invisible. We are often hypervisible when Islam is framed as foreign, deviant, or threatening, yet invisible when Black religious diversity challenges the assumption that Blackness is synonymous with Christianity. Within Muslim communities, Black Muslims are frequently marginalized through anti-Blackness, erasure of African American Muslim history, and disproportionate access to resources. Within Black communities, our Muslim identity is often treated as incidental, disruptive, or something to be politely ignored in the name of racial unity.

Sam Cobb did not create this reality. But his unapologetic embrace of Trumpism has forced it into the open. His case has surfaced the unspoken assumption that Black Muslims will absorb discomfort quietly, subordinate our religious concerns to racial optics, and continue to offer economic support in the name of representation—even when that representation undermines our safety or values.

What makes this moment so raw is a sense of betrayal AND the recognition that for many Black Muslims, racial solidarity is often conditional, while religious marginalization remains an unresolved wound. The controversy has named what is usually left unsaid—that we are expected to show up, spend money, and stay silent, even when the political alignments being celebrated make our lives more precarious.

That is the deeper wound this moment has revealed.

Sam Cobb Debate 2026

A Closing Reflection on Discernment and Realignment

Sam Cobb Debate 2026

Lastly, I want to again name why this conversation may have felt so charged for so many of us. It is now Black History Month, and Ramadan is approaching. These are seasons when Black Muslims are especially attuned to questions of identity, belonging, solidarity, and the moral weight of our choices. In moments like this, it is tempting to hold tightly to representation—because it is rare, because it is affirming, because we are tired of being overlooked. But one of the lessons here is that we cannot sacrifice discernment for optics. We cannot confuse visibility with alignment, or assume that shared Blackness automatically guarantees shared ethics.

Discernment is not a one-time decision; it is an ongoing practice. Sometimes it requires the humility to say: I didn’t know then what I know now. And integrity requires that when new information comes to light, we reassess, shift, and realign—without shame, without defensiveness, without doubling down simply to save face.

I was moved by the response of Imam Sulaimaan Hamed who had previously encouraged the community to support Sam Cobb’s business. He acknowledged that he was unaware of Cobb’s political views, clarified that he does not support Trump (or Trump supporters), apologized for promoting the company without fuller knowledge, and stated his intention to speak directly with Cobb to let him know that he has lost business and about the impact of publicly endorsing unethical leadership. Imam Sulaimaan also offered guidance rooted in communal care: for businesses that had already purchased Cobb’s products, don’t punish them—support them—so that they are not left holding the loss for someone else’s decisions. That, to me, is what ethical leadership looks like: communicating directly and transparently; acknowledging the need to shift given what has come to light.

Sam Cobb Debate 2026

What This Moment Demands

To be clear, this is not about retroactive purity tests or rescinding generosity. This must be about recognizing that ethical consumption is a form of trust—and that trust carries moral weight. When that weight is ignored, dismissed, or reframed as “just politics,” it reinforces the deeper wound many Black Muslims already carry: the expectation that we will show up fully, while our concerns remain negotiable. For many this conversation may still feel fraught, messy, infuriating ("dang, and those Cobb Black Gold dates were delicious too!"). We SHOULD make space for the way this news impacts us. And, this moment also calls for more than reaction. It demands:

Honest acknowledgment of Christian privilege in Black spaces, even when uncomfortable.
A more mature framework for ethical consumption—one that considers power, harm, and solidarity rather than symbolic representation alone.
Grace for grief, without silencing critique.
Commitment to Black Muslim self-determination, including the right to choose differently without being dismissed as divisive or irrational or accused of engaging in hysterical “cancel culture”.

As we enter Ramadan—a month that calls us to discipline, sincerity, and moral clarity—I pray we will meet moments like this with the courage to discern, the humility to change, and the commitment to align our values with our actions, even when it costs us something.

We must keep in mind that the question is not whether Sam Cobb deserves redemption, dialogue, or damnation. The real question is whether Black Muslims are allowed to take ourselves seriously—politically, ethically, and spiritually—without apology.

For many of us, that answer is already clear.

Sam Cobb Debate 2026