As I stepped out of the secured area at Dulles Airport, the weight of exhaustion settled in, not from the travel itself, but from the challenge of navigating an airport with two young children. My little ones were bursting with excitement, darting toward a large family gathered at the exit. Cheers erupted as a teenager rushed into their embrace, laughter and joy filling the air—an all-too-familiar scene in any airport.
Then my gaze fell upon it: THE BAG. A young man behind us clutched a thin white plastic bag marked with IOM, desperately balancing himself amid the joyful chaos of hugs and cheers. IOM stands for the International Organization for Migration, which assists refugees in resettling in their new homes. That bag contained vital documents, including visas and passports, a lifeline for those starting anew in the United States.
I recognized that bag well—it was a treasured item during my own journey to America as a refugee 30 years ago. At 12, I begged my parents to let me hold it, and they eventually relented, keeping a watchful eye over me. My brother also held a similar bag when he finally reunited with us after two years apart.
The memories of that challenging journey are indelible, even decades later. I felt the joy of the family embracing their son, yet as a mother now, I also understood the bittersweet tears of relief from his mother. Those tears of happiness spoke volumes.
Throughout my work with Oxfam, I have encountered many of these bags, each one a symbol of hope and resilience. They remind me of the nervous anticipation of those clutching them—a key to a new life. However, standing in Dulles that evening, a wave of sadness washed over me. I couldn’t help but think about how my adopted country has begun to close its doors to refugees, making such reunions increasingly rare.
Refugees, including the young man I saw, represent some of the most vulnerable populations—individuals fleeing unimaginable violence and loss, simply seeking safety. Yet, instead of upholding the values of compassion and protection that the United States once embodied, recent policies, like the executive order from President Trump, threaten to shut the door on those in need. This isn’t the America I came to know three decades ago; it’s not the America I wish to see.
For years, the U.S. has welcomed refugees from all around the globe. In my case, I fled Communist Romania during the Cold War. Nowadays, many Syrians are escaping harrowing violence and enduring long waits in refugee camps, navigating complex security processes. Upon arriving in America, refugees work tirelessly to rebuild their lives and weave themselves into the fabric of society.
Though the current executive order is being challenged in courts, it’s crucial for us to amplify our voices. In challenging times, we must reveal our true character. The America I cherish would extend its hand in compassion, not withdraw. It would strive to fulfill its ideals rather than succumb to fear. We must keep the spirit of the Statue of Liberty alive, continuously welcoming those yearning for a fresh start.
I may have an inkling about the young man’s origins, but I won’t speculate. He is on a path to becoming just as American as anyone else.
If you’re interested in topics surrounding pregnancy and family planning, check out our other blog posts, such as those on home insemination kits and donor insemination.
In summary, my heart aches for today’s child refugees, as I remember my own journey. As we navigate the complexities of immigration and refugee policies, we must remember our shared humanity and the hope that comes with new beginnings.