Trump’s refugee admission pause fractures what it means to be American

It was mid-February, just a week after my family arrived in Twin Falls, Idaho. I stood by the window of our worn-down apartment, shivering from the cold and nervous excitement. It was my first day of school, and I watched the door, waiting, dreading, hoping. When the white van from the local refugee center pulled up, a woman called our names: “Day-Reh, Eedward, Lock …” — mispronouncing mine, as many Americans did. I climbed in, my feet bare in flimsy slippers. She glanced down and said: “You can’t go to school dressed like that, Lock. Go get real shoes.” Embarrassed, I ran back inside, grabbed my older brother’s boots — without socks — and rushed back.

Inside the van, two refugee boys from Iraq and a girl from Afghanistan in a hijab sat quietly, bundled in oversized jackets, our outfits mismatched like our new lives. We exchanged hesitant glances and a few broken English words, but even in silence, we understood one another. We had all come from places where home was a distant memory, where each night held more questions than answers. Yet, despite everything, we carried the one thing no one could take from us: hope.

At school, we joined other newcomers — children of seasonal Mexican farmworkers, recent arrivals from Asia, the Middle East, and Eastern Europe. Mr. May, an immigrant from South Africa, greeted us with a warm smile. As the first bell rang, everyone stood to recite the Pledge of Allegiance. I hurriedly placed my right hand over my heart, stumbling over the words but feeling something stir inside me: “… one nation under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.”

In that moment, something shifted. For the first time, I felt like I belonged somewhere, like I was part of the American dream. Born and raised in a cramped refugee camp, I had never felt such a sense of possibility or patriotism. To me, Idaho felt like home — a first, real home.

Over a decade has passed since that snowy February day. I’ve earned a bachelor’s degree and a master’s in international affairs from an Ivy League institution. I’ve published articles on global policy and worked with multilateral organizations helping refugees integrate into American life. I am living proof that those who arrive with nothing can become active citizens and contributors to society.

Yet, the warmth and optimism I felt then stand in stark contrast to the hostility many refugees face today. In the 14 years since I arrived, I have never felt my American identity so deeply questioned as after the recent executive orders from Donald Trump that shut the door to refugees and threatened birthright citizenship.

The debate over “Who is American?” is not new. From the 1790 Naturalization Act — which limited citizenship to “free white persons” — to the Chinese Exclusion Act of 1882, America has often drawn exclusionary lines around who “truly” belongs. These exclusions, grounded in race, have fractured our national identity and threatened the ideals of refuge and inclusion that define us at our best.

The Trump administration’s clampdown on refugee admissions and threats to end birthright citizenship resurrect this exclusionary impulse that has undermined the foundation this nation built on. Had these policies been in place when I was a child, my family and I would likely still be in a refugee camp, with little hope for our future.

Welcoming refugees is not just an act of generosity, it’s an investment in our nation’s future. According to a 2017 study by the National Bureau of Economic Research, refugees pay $21,324 more in taxes than they receive in benefits over their first 20 years in the U.S. In the town where I grew up — Twin Falls — almost 30% of the workforce at the Chobani yogurt plant are refugees, and countless others sustain the dairy farms that underpin the local economy.

These stories are not exceptions; across the nation, immigrants fill critical roles and revive struggling communities.

The push to revoke birthright citizenship is equally dangerous. It sends a message that belonging in America is conditional, subject to political whims rather than shared ideals. If we undermine this principle, we risk creating a permanent underclass, fracturing the very idea of what it means to be American.

I share my story not for sympathy, but to remind us that America’s greatness lies in its willingness to extend hope to those who seek freedom. As Ronald Reagan said in 1989: “We lead the world because, unique among nations, we draw our people — our strength — from every country and every corner of the world. And by doing so we continuously renew and enrich our nation. While other countries cling to the stale past, here in America we breathe life into dreams.”

Reagan continued, “If we ever closed the door to new Americans, our leadership in the world would soon be lost.”

To my fellow immigrants and refugees who live in the nation’s swing states: Upcoming elections will be our defining moment. The policies being debated today could determine whether families like ours ever get the chance we were given. Vote. Speak up. Call your representatives.

But let’s be clear: While Republicans have embraced exclusionary policies, the Democratic Party has often failed immigrants and refugee communities, too, treating them as a campaign talking point rather than a priority. Despite controlling Congress at various points, Democrats have repeatedly failed to pass meaningful immigration reform. In 2021, they let protections for Dreamers stall. They promise to fight for immigrants, but when the moment comes, they walk away.

America is at a crossroads. We can either embrace the promise that has always defined us — a nation committed to liberty and justice for all — or we can turn away, shutting our doors and questioning even the citizenship of our children. The more troubling question is: Who will be next?

I know what it is like to have no country, to be forced out, and then welcomed with open arms. A single chance — an open door, a compassionate policy — can transform a life, a family, and an entire community.

Let us remember the words we recite in classrooms every day: “with liberty and justice for all.” May they light our path forward, just as they once lit mine on a snowy February morning in Idaho.

Lok Darjee is a former Bhutanese refugee from Nepal, a fellow at Foreign Policy for America, and the founder of Refugee Civic Action, a Harrisburg-based initiative dedicated to increasing civic engagement among former refugees in the U.S. He holds a master’s degree in international affairs from Columbia University and has written extensively on immigration, policy, and identity.