By DNYUZ
Butch Robinson is done. After dedicating most of his 77 years to growing sod, he just wants to sell his sprawl of green and ease his aching back into the lounge chair of a hard-earned retirement.
That is why Mr. Robinson and the two sons who run the family farm with him, both with nagging backs, were delighted when a developer put down a nonrefundable retainer for 156 of their acres on the fast-growing fringe of the Twin Cities exurb of Lino Lakes, Minn.
The builder’s ambitious plan called for a housing development for 434 homes. It would include shops, restaurants, tennis courts, soccer fields, a park with a pavilion — and a 40,000-square-foot mosque.
So began a conflagration over a small emerald swath of the American dream, fueled by colliding hopes and mutual distrust. At the dispute’s core: clashing interpretations of what inclusion looks like.
It culminated last month with a packed City Council hearing on a proposal to pause development in the precise corner of Lino Lakes that features the Robinson sod farm. Butch Robinson was present, his white hair tucked under a U.S.A. baseball cap. So was the developer. So was the local resident leading the opposition.
The mayor and the four other council members, all white men, sat at a curved table with an American flag drooping behind them. Scowling like a principal anticipating school-assembly misbehavior, the mayor expressed hope for a “good positive session.”
Then everyone stood to pledge allegiance to one nation, under God, with liberty and justice for all.
HAROLD ROBINSON isn’t sure how he became “Butch,” but the nickname has stuck for decades, just as he’s been stuck in pretty much the only place he’s ever known.
His father and an uncle bought the land in the 1940s and turned the wiregrass fields into a farm for vegetables and, eventually, sod. For many years, Butch Robinson lived here with his parents and three siblings in a small home with an outhouse and an unobstructed view. “No neighbors at all,” he said.
He helped out with the crop, lost part of a thumb in the process, built a house on adjacent land with his wife, Marge, and worked at the Ford plant in St. Paul. Then his cancer-stricken father died, and Mr. Robinson took over the farm with his brother, who eventually cashed out.
That left Mr. Robinson and two of his sons, Brian and Brad, to run the 260-acre sod operation. They worked together to fertilize, water, spray, mow and harvest the grass, year after year after year, as time redefined the horizon beyond the edge of the sod. The rural Lino Lakes village that Butch Robinson remembered from his childhood — offering little more than a tavern, a store and a schoolhouse — was now a sprawling, Republican-leaning city of 22,000.
In 2006, a developer planning a gated community in the area offered to buy the land. The elder Robinson was beat up from the hard labor, and his sons were not far behind. “So why not move on to the next chapter?” Brad Robinson recalled thinking.
But the plan fell apart amid a calamitous recession that stalled housing construction and killed demand for sod. The Robinsons set aside some of their land for corn and soybeans, and the property remained on the market, attracting occasional attention.
Then, in February, another developer appeared at the farm. He said his name was Faraaz Yussuf, and he saw opportunity.
IN RECENT YEARS, the vibrant Muslim communities of Minnesota have grown, with refugees finding Twin Cities sanctuary from civil strife in Ethiopia, Sudan, Somalia and other countries. Like so many families before them, Muslims are moving up and out, often gravitating to the northern suburbs.
Mr. Yussuf, 36, is a case in point. He moved to Minneapolis-St. Paul from Chicago with his Indian immigrant parents when he was a toddler, attended local public schools and graduated from the University of Minnesota. Recently married, he and his wife, Sarah, live in Blaine, a city with a growing Muslim community that borders Lino Lakes.
Since joining the buildings trade a decade ago, Mr. Yussuf said, he has done remodeling, renovation and roofing. But he has never tackled anything as grand as the development of an entire neighborhood.
“You’ve got to start somewhere,” he said.
Mr. Yussuf started by establishing a company, Zikar Holdings, with a man named Jameel Ahmed, self-described online as a “recognized leader in the Islamic financing mortgage and real estate industry.” Their search for an appropriate development site eventually led them to the Robinson sod farm.
The name of their project, Madinah Lakes, evokes an Islamic pilgrimage site in Saudi Arabia. The development, which Mr. Yussuf said would have about 1,500 residents, would include what he called the “full life-cycle of homeownership,” from starter homes to senior condominiums, laid out amid trees, lakes and gardens. There would be day-care and banquet facilities, restaurants and cafes, all anchored by a mosque with a 10-acre footprint.
Mr. Yussuf emphasized that the development would abide by fair-housing laws. It would be “Muslim-friendly,” he said, but not exclusively Muslim — “just like a hotel is family-friendly or L.G.B.T.Q.-friendly.”
“Much of America was founded on communities built around religious organizations,” Mr. Yussuf said. “That’s how neighborhoods were built.”
In mid-March, Zikar Holdings created a website for Madinah Lakes that included a general concept for the development and a short video. The company, which had been in discussions with city officials but had yet to submit formal plans, also said it would be accepting refundable $10,000 deposits on lots…
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