This week, I hugged a mother as she told me she was leaving the United States and returning to Kenya with several of her young children. This refugee mother had done everything right: She had come to the U.S. as a refugee, followed all the rules and was vetted through the official refugee process. She has spent the last few years building her life here.
Unfortunately, two of her teenage sons were not able to join her when she was first resettled. One died last year while waiting for his final clearance to come. Now, with the suspension of the refugee program and major delays, her remaining son may never be allowed to come. So, she is leaving. Not because she doesn’t love the United States, but because she cannot bear to live without her son.
As we stood there holding each other, both feeling the tears begin to fall, my heart ached for her pain. I wondered if I would see her again.
I had a similar experience with a Ukrainian family a few months ago. They too had done everything right. They were working at a care center for seniors they loved and who loved them. They were rebuilding.
However, their confidence in their ability to rebuild started to fracture when many Ukrainian refugees received letters that their legal status was being changed and that they needed to self-deport. A few days later, many received another letter stating that the first message had been sent in error. The emotional whiplash of those contrasting letters ignited anxiety. How do you rebuild a life if you are unsure if your work status will be renewed and you are receiving letters like this?
The United States invited them here and offered them safety, but policies that keep shifting and continuing delays are making it difficult for families to rebuild with certainty. Many of these families have already lost everything and worked to get on their feet, only to be told what they are doing is not enough.
These are not isolated experiences.
This is not the country I thought I knew, or the one I still believe we can have.
I have worked with refugees for over 10 years. Over this decade, I have carefully watched them rebuild their lives and navigate the systems that have been put in place to help them on the path to self-sufficiency.
We are experiencing a rapid dismantling of the processes and systems set up to lift and encourage. Those who came here with refugee status, humanitarian parole status, temporary protected status and special immigrant visas are now being burdened by repetitive paperwork and growing suspicion by the country that once welcomed them here. It is difficult to witness.
Families who are working hard to build stable, meaningful lives are increasingly being treated not as neighbors but as outsiders, viewed with doubt rather than trust. And too often they are seen as a problem instead of a contribution.
For decades, refugees have been fully vetted before even stepping foot in the United States. Refugee status is a legal status. These families are working, learning English and raising children in new and complex systems. In recent months, they have been mischaracterized and given more unnecessary barriers to navigate.
What is happening?
I think there are a few critical things happening right now. We are seeing political and economic strains, as well as an increase in fear. The pressure that has built up needs somewhere to go, and I believe it is directed toward those who are unfamiliar.
Understanding refugees and the environments that create them is complex, difficult stories and not simple narratives to capture. Our current world loves simple headlines, and the stories of refugees and refugee resettlement are complex. The quick and easy narratives of us versus them are easier to capture and spread.
We have seen cuts to programs and support networks. When these systems are strained, compassion can take a secondary role. We are asking refugees to prove their worth in a place meant to provide safety. Many have already endured the unimaginable by being forced to flee physical and emotional persecution.
It is impossible for us to meet every need for everyone, but we can make meaningful progress in addressing challenges like homelessness, immigration and poverty. Holding back compassion until every issue at home is resolved before extending compassion beyond our borders is not realistic. Our lives are more connected than we often realize.
A widening gap is emerging between what we believe and what we are seeing. We need laws for order and a careful use of resources. We need an immigration system that works with our capacity and our needs. Currently, those systems aren’t working well and we need to ask ourselves what we are willing to accept.
There are challenges within any community — including refugees. Judging an entire group based on a few is neither fair nor accurate. Too often, many make assumptions about the lives of refugees and believe that they are responsible for the circumstances they were born into. In truth, most of us are lucky enough to be born into stability and opportunity. Refugees — especially children — are not afforded the same privilege. It could very easily be you or me.
A dear friend from the refugee community recently spoke about leadership. She reminded the group of over 150 women that a true leader steps forward with humility and compassion. She reminded us that each of us is no better than another one.
I believe that we are facing policies that contradict our moral code. In a state where many are guided by faith and a belief that we are all God’s children, that creates a difficult divide. I was raised to care for the poor and needy, and to help others become the best version of themselves. The refugee families I love and serve are not abstract. They are real people seeking a safe home, work and a place to belong and contribute.
The systems around them are being unraveled and disassembled. Now, programs and policies are barriers inhibiting them from progress.
I believe we are at a turning point. We can choose what kind of people we want to be.
Every day, I witness the best and worst in humanity. Most days I see tender mercies and quiet miracles. Yet increasingly, I also see hate and the tendency to “other” those who are different from us.
I believe we are at a turning point. We can choose what kind of people we want to be. We can allow fear to distance us from others, or we can stay rooted in something deeper and kinder.
My heart breaks when I hug families now leaving a country that was meant to be a safe place of refuge from hatred and war.
Mothers should not have to choose between safety and their children — but they are.
I wonder how many of my friends who leave the U.S. I will ever see again.
How many more stories like this will be accepted as too many?
What will history say about how we responded?