Reflections on Refugee Status and Identity in the U.S.

My journey to the United States began on February 9, 2011. I had just a carry-on bag containing everything I owned: my middle school certificate, a few changes of clothes, and a notable white bag marked with the logo of an international immigration organization. A large badge displayed my name and my destination—Twin Falls, Idaho.

At the airport, my six-month-old nephew was crying from hunger. My step-sister, exhausted from her travels and suffering from her hunger, desperately tried to breastfeed him as we waited for hours in JFK International Airport.

We had no money and no guide, and I was barely a teenager with just a few English words at my disposal.

After a long delay of 10 hours in Detroit, we finally arrived in Idaho. There were no grand press conferences or welcoming speeches, no camera crews capturing the moment. A driver from a local refugee center and a Nepali interpreter took us to a small two-bedroom apartment on the outskirts of town.

This new environment was not easy. It was filled with people like us, each with their untold stories—Black, Middle Eastern, and others who didn’t fit the norm. What I observed in most refugees was a sense of quiet, nervousness, and a feeling of invisibility. They weren’t met with celebration, just the indifferent attitude of airport security and bystanders.

I recall how staff would roll their eyes at our questions about directions or gates. The mix of our accents, the UN badges we carried, and the weary smell of travel made us targets for strange looks.

There was no dignity in that experience, only the constant fear of making a mistake and a lingering reminder that we were outsiders. I remember my mother softly suggesting that perhaps it would be better to go back to the refugee camp, where at least she felt some dignity.

On January 20, the Trump administration put a halt to refugee admissions. However, on May 8, it was announced that 54 white South Africans had been granted refugee status.

On May 12, the day these Africans arrived in the U.S., Homeland Security Secretary Kristi Noem announced the end of temporary protected status for Afghans, stripping protection from over 9,000 individuals who had risked their lives supporting U.S. military efforts.

A State Department official made a public speech welcoming these new arrivals, descendants of those who colonized South Africa, and the room erupted in laughter and applause. There was an uncritical celebration of a culture that, until the end of the apartheid era in the 1990s, had perpetuated systemic oppression.

This wasn’t just a refugee resettlement; it felt more like a Hollywood production, meticulously choreographed.

In stark contrast, thousands of refugees, especially from the Global South, who had gone through years of legal scrutiny, were quietly denied entry or had their resettlement plans canceled, leaving them to grapple with uncertainty and fear.

On May 21, as South African President Cyril Ramaphosa arrived at the White House for a bilateral trade conference, serious discussions about economic cooperation and South Africa’s challenges were overshadowed. Instead, Trump pivoted to questionable claims about “white genocide” in South Africa, dismissing Ramaphosa’s explanations and revealing little interest in the issues of crime and inequality affecting all South Africans.

Conversations about poverty and crime were neatly sidestepped, all in a calculated performance aimed at reinforcing an image that casts white people as victims in a diverse democracy.

The grand stage set here wasn’t about protecting refugees or resettling them; it served as a justification for a worldview that sees diversity as a threat.

The handling of African resettlement certainly breaks longstanding conventions around refugee admissions, undermining both the 1951 Refugee Convention and the U.S. Refugee Act of 1980, which were intended to provide fair recognition of those facing political persecution. This history starkly contrasts with the current experiences of many families like mine.

I’ve worked with countless refugees across states like Pennsylvania, Idaho, Utah, and Ohio. As the founder of Refugee Citizen Action, I assist new arrivals daily, believing that naturalized Americans should understand their rights and responsibilities and become active participants in our democracy. Just last election, we engaged over 27,000 new American voters from refugee backgrounds.

Recently, I recalled the story of an Afghan father who risked everything to support U.S. troops. Tragically, he was forced to flee without his two young sons, who remained in Taliban-controlled Kabul.

Historically, the U.S. has opened its doors to refugees for two main reasons: geopolitical concerns during the Cold War and a humanitarian mission to protect those fleeing persecution. My own family found security in the latter. In 2008, the U.S. enabled Bhutanese families like mine to find a path to safety.

At its core, the refugee program exemplified America’s best ideals. Yet, the entry of these white South Africans into this system seems to diverge significantly from those ideals, appearing more like a racial signaling effort.

It feels as though African resettlement has become a strategic provocation, twisting legal and moral frameworks to support a nationalist agenda. By recognizing white South Africans as victims of racial persecution, the Trump administration sends a concerning message that losing white rule in a diverse democracy equates to persecution.

This scenario serves as a warning regarding South Africa. Despite white South Africans still possessing a disproportionate amount of wealth, the U.S. now seems to harbor fears that the rise of political power among Black and non-white Americans could be a threat.

Congress must demand clarity from the Departments of Homeland Security and State regarding the rationale behind offering rapid refugee status to white Africans while ignoring other proven cases of persecution.

Addressing these questions is vital for maintaining the integrity of the refugee system and upholding the principles of a multi-ethnic democracy.