I Was a Young Refugee, and My Heart Breaks for Children Walking the Same Path

home insemination Kit

As we stepped out of the secured area at Dulles Airport, my exhaustion hit me like a ton of bricks. It wasn’t the travel itself that drained me, but rather the chaotic energy of juggling two little ones.

My kids, bursting with excitement, took off toward a large family waiting at the exit. Cheers erupted as a teenager sprinted toward them, laughter and joyful shouts echoing around the terminal. It felt like any other day at an airport—until I spotted it: THE BAG.

The young man behind us clutched a thin white plastic bag emblazoned with the letters IOM. For those in the know, IOM stands for the International Organization for Migration, which helps refugees find their footing in a new country. That bag he held contained crucial paperwork—visas and passports—essential for starting a new life in the United States.

I recognized that bag all too well. Thirty years ago, as a hopeful 12-year-old refugee, I was thrilled to carry it myself. I remember begging my parents to let me hold it, and they finally relented, keeping a watchful eye on me to ensure I didn’t lose it. To me, that bag was a treasure, and it was the same one my brother clutched when he finally joined us after two long years apart.

Those memories are etched in my mind, and they haven’t faded, even after all this time. As a refugee, I felt the joy of that family, and now, as a parent, I also understood the tears of happiness and relief pouring down the mother’s face as she embraced her son once again.

During my work with Oxfam, I’ve encountered countless bags like that one. Each time, they bring a smile to my face as I envision the mix of nerves and excitement in those who hold them—keys to new beginnings in their adopted homes. However, standing there at Dulles, my heart sank. I felt tears prick my eyes, thinking about how my new home seems to be closing its doors to refugees, making such reunions increasingly rare.

Refugees are some of the world’s most vulnerable individuals—women, children, and young men like the one I saw—seeking safety after fleeing unimaginable violence and loss. Instead of extending a helping hand, our leaders seem intent on slamming the door shut. This isn’t the America that welcomed me 30 years ago, and it shouldn’t be our America.

For decades, the U.S. has provided refuge to people from all over the globe. I arrived here from Communist Romania during the Cold War, and today, many Syrians are seeking safety after enduring horrific violence and waiting in refugee camps, navigating a complex security process. Yet, once they arrive, refugees work tirelessly to rebuild their lives, weaving themselves into the very fabric of our society.

As the legal battles over the administration’s executive order unfold, it’s crucial that we raise our voices. These challenging times reveal our true character. The America I know would respond to crises by expanding its compassion, not restricting it; by reaching for its ideals, not succumbing to fear. We must keep alive the spirit of the Statue of Liberty, which has welcomed millions yearning for a fresh start in this country.

While I could speculate about the young man’s background, I won’t. His journey, like mine, is a testament to resilience, and he’s on his way to becoming just as American as any of us.

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Summary:

Mia Sullivan reflects on her experience as a child refugee, drawing parallels between her past and the struggles faced by current refugees. She emphasizes the importance of compassion and welcoming those in need, urging a return to the values that have historically defined America.