As we stepped out of the secure area at Dulles Airport to retrieve our luggage, I felt a wave of exhaustion wash over me. It wasn’t the travel itself that drained me, but rather the challenge of navigating the airport with two young children.
My kids, bursting with excitement, darted toward a large family gathered near the exit. Cheers erupted as a young man rushed into their arms, eliciting laughter and joyous shouts — a scene that is all too familiar in airports everywhere.
And then, I noticed it: THE BAG. The young man clutched a thin white plastic bag emblazoned with the letters IOM, struggling to keep his balance amidst the fervent embraces from family members. IOM stands for the International Organization for Migration, which assists refugees in resettling in their new countries. This bag, a simple yet vital accessory, holds critical documents like visas and passports for those embarking on a new life in the United States.
I recognized that bag well. Thirty years ago, I held one just like it while making my own journey as a refugee. As an eager 12-year-old, I would often plead with my parents to let me carry it myself. They eventually relented, keeping a watchful eye to ensure it didn’t slip from my grasp. That bag was my lifeline, the same one my brother clutched when he finally reunited with us after a two-year separation.
The memories of that journey linger, even after three decades. As I witnessed the young man’s joyful reunion, my heart ached for him and his family. I understood the tears that followed his mother’s exuberance — tears of relief and joy at being reunited after such a long separation.
During my work with Oxfam, I’ve seen many such bags, each one evoking fond memories of the exhilaration and anxiety of those who carry them — keys to new futures in foreign lands. However, standing at Dulles that night, my heart was heavy. I felt tears welling up as I considered the closing doors for refugees in my adopted country, making such reunions increasingly rare.
Refugees are among the most vulnerable individuals in the world, including women, children, and young men like the one I saw. They are seeking safety after fleeing unimaginable violence and loss. Yet, instead of extending compassion to these innocent souls, recent political actions have threatened to shut them out. This is not the America that welcomed me three decades ago.
Historically, the United States has provided refuge to individuals from diverse nations — from Afghanistan to Zimbabwe. My own story began as a refugee from Communist Romania during the Cold War. Today, many Syrians seek safety after enduring years of violence and waiting in refugee camps, navigating complex security processes before even arriving in America. Upon their arrival, refugees strive to rebuild their lives and integrate into the fabric of society.
As the current administration faces legal challenges over its policies, it’s crucial that we raise our voices for those in need. In difficult times, we reveal our true selves. The America I know expands its arms to those in need rather than narrowing its focus. We should strive for compassion, living up to our ideals rather than succumbing to fear. We must preserve the legacy of the Statue of Liberty, a beacon of hope for countless individuals yearning to start anew.
Though I could speculate about the young man’s origins, I won’t. He is on the path to becoming as American as anyone else.
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In summary, as we reflect on the struggles of refugees and the hope they embody, let us remember that compassion knows no borders. We must advocate for those seeking safety and a chance to build a new life, just as many of us have been fortunate enough to do.
Keyphrase: Refugee experiences and compassion
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