Trump bans refugees from entering US. But Americans' compassion gives me hope. | Opinion

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I have worked in refugee resettlement for the Ethiopian Community Development Council for much of the past four years, helping mostly Afghan and Ukrainian refugees find housing in communities in the Washington, D.C., metro area.

It is a tough sell to persuade a landlord to sign a $2,000-per-month lease with a family that has only been in the country for a few days and does not yet have any income, driver’s licenses or Social Security numbers. One day I walked into an apartment complex in Northern Virginia where I approached a woman at the front desk. I reassured this leasing agent that my resettlement agency can help pay rent for a short time until the family takes over payments. She said, “Who is going to help us?”

I immediately knew what she meant by “us.” She questioned my choice to help newcomers from foreign lands at a time when many Americans like her need help, too. She politely told me they did not have any apartments. I thanked her and left.

The next day, my phone rang. That same leasing agent said she persuaded her manager to make units available for my refugee families.

Trump executive order suspends refugee resettlement, leaving 2,000 Afghans in limbo

President Donald Trump's victory in November was owed to a substantial portion of the electorate who want America to enact tougher rules on immigration and close its borders. On Monday, Trump signed an executive order that indefinitely suspended the resettlement of refugees in the United States. Among those affected are about 2,000 Afghan refugees whose entry into the United States could now be blocked.

Yet, as Trump's second administration begins, I have placed my faith in Americans like that reluctant leasing agent who has the dexterity to simultaneously extend a helping hand to others while also looking for someone to do the same for her.  

After all, most of the refugees I resettle have helped America and now look to us to return the favor. Many of them stood shoulder to shoulder with the United States during the two-decade war in Afghanistan or, in the case of Ukrainian refugees, fled advancing Russian invaders. They had worked as local staff in U.S. embassies, the United Nations or with the U.S. military.

For many, coming to the United States was not their Plan A. They enjoyed good lives, held good jobs and lived in nice homes until the Taliban began going door-to-door in the fall of 2021 looking for them by name. I’ve heard many stories of Afghans tossing the evidence of their ties to the United States on the fire (only later to be asked to produce it to qualify for a visa), flipping their house keys to a relative and heading for the nearest border crossing or international airport.

I also have helped dozens of Afghans navigate the labyrinthian U.S. immigration system, which requires several years of filling out forms and undergoing extensive background checks, medical clearances and months in refugee camps before arriving on American soil. A friend whom I had last seen when I was working in Kabul called me out of the blue and said, “Bob, I’m in Virginia. Now what do I do?” I totally forgot that helping people flee persecution and violence is not the end of the story, only the beginning.  

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In recent years, I have picked up dozens of refugee families at Washington Dulles International Airport and reminded them in the car that there is no time to watch Netflix or sleep off jetlag. They must urgently begin to look for an apartment, register their kids in school, open a bank account and find jobs. Once the bills start coming in America, I say, they will never stop.

Every refugee struggles out of the gate, and I sometimes worry they will never make it. But I am usually proven wrong, as many find stability and get comfortable navigating American society more quickly than I thought possible.

I once lay on the floor with a pregnant Afghan woman as we took turns with a screwdriver trying to disassemble a used sofa that we had gotten wedged while carrying it through her front door. A year and a half later, that mother invited me to watch her son graduate from a Virginia middle school with honors. Today, she and her husband are saving for a house with a backyard for her kids to play.

Some of the refugees I once helped are now my colleagues at the resettlement agency, assisting newcomers going through the same struggle.  

In addition to helping immigrants discover the promise of America, the most gratifying aspect of my work in resettlement is witnessing the spontaneous generosity of ordinary Americans.

I once took six Afghan children to a halal market and the person behind me in the checkout line insisted on splitting a $250 grocery bill when she heard that it was the kids’ first day in America.

Last month, a retired scientist in Maryland fished a prayer mat out of his basement for me to give to any Muslim refugee who might need one. He also handed me a generous check to support an emergency fund I created to help pay for unexpected crises − such as an overnight stay for an Afghan mother and four kids stranded at the airport or an elderly Ukrainian man found sleeping in his car.

Each morning, I check the fund’s balance and see new small dollar contributions from ordinary people trying to make a difference in the lives of others.

Refugees' immigration status often is uncertain

Though my Ukrainian and Afghan clients and colleagues are all here legally, their immigration status can still be precarious.

Ukrainians are panicking because their temporary protected status – extended on Jan. 10 by the Biden administration to some but excluding those who arrived after August 2023 – expires next year. It then will be up to the Trump administration to decide their fate. 

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As for the Afghans, they entered the country legally but with temporary humanitarian parole status, and most now have pending applications for asylum in hopes of staying permanently. Their asylum applications may face heightened scrutiny, and their efforts to bring close family members such as parents to the United States from Afghanistan might find a difficult and time-consuming process even more so. 

As Trump carries out his policies, I worry that the immigration status of my friends and colleagues will soon be up to his administration.

Even so, I remain optimistic that nothing he does will shrink the big hearts of the many Americans like the leasing agent who went out of her way to help people who came here in search of the hope and freedom that America has always stood for.

Bob Elston is a grant writer for the Ethiopian Community Development Council, which was launched in 1983 to help Ethiopians displaced by conflict. It is among about 10 U.S. resettlement agencies authorized by the State Department.