PIERRE, S.D. (AP) — 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, she 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 a 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 Noem’s home state. And any immigration actions spearheaded by Noem, likely to be confirmed as soon as this week, 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.

And that is what is terrifying migrants, business owners and advocates alike.

“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. “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.”

As her national profile has risen, South Dakota’s first female governor feuded repeatedly with state Republican lawmakers who said they believe she has been more focused on auditioning for Trump than on the state’s needs.

“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.

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.

When asked how she would protect rural states from work shortages while carrying out Trump’s deportation plans, she offered few details other than to say she’ll focus initially on what she claimed were 425,000 migrants with criminal convictions.

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.

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.”

Among those bracing for the crackdown is a young Guatemalan couple living without legal status in a prairie hamlet about an hour from Noem’s homestead. 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.

Within two weeks of arriving, Yoni, just 15, 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 the 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.

“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.”

The Associated Press agreed not to disclose the couple’s last names because they are afraid of being arrested and deported.

Migrants are now fueling something of a rural renaissance in Huron population 14,000, including refugees fleeing ethnic violence in Myanmar. At the Beadle County courthouse, translation services are now offered in seven languages. A beef processing plant that is about to break ground is expected to attract even more foreign workers.

“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.”

—

AP Writer Stephen Groves contributed to this report from Washington.

News from © The Associated Press, 2025