
Rasha, AWE’s Policy, Advocacy, and Health Specialist, in front of an AWE housing unit
As a Black, Muslim woman originally from Sudan who came to this country 16 years ago – and now raising a 15-year-old son in today’s America – I live with a fear that never fully goes away.
The fear of not being safe. The fear of being judged. The fear that no matter how hard I work or how long I’ve lived here, I will never fully belong.
I came to this country seeking safety and a future for me and my child. I believed in the promise of America – that if you contribute and follow the rules, you can live in peace and build a life. But that promise feels increasingly fragile.
What do I tell my son when he asks me why I always carry my naturalization certificate in my purse? How do I explain that even though I’ve been a US citizen for seven years, I still need to be ready to prove it anytime, every day, just in case?
I earned two degrees in the US, and I’m raising a smart, gifted son - an engineer in the making - who was born here. Yet we still face the heavy burden of being seen as outsiders.
That’s a privilege many Americans don’t even realize they have - walking freely without thinking twice about proof of immigration status, assuming safety in encounters with authority, trusting that their rights will be respected. For me and millions of other immigrants, that sense of security has never fully existed. And now it feels further away than ever.
At Asylee Women Enterprise (AWE), I work with families and individuals from all walks of life, who have fled war, persecution, domestic violence, and unimaginable hardships. They arrive thinking they’ve finally found relief, only to be met with more fear, more instability, and a system that seems designed to exhaust and exclude them.
Recently, a client asked if it was safe for her to join a peaceful protest in Washington, DC. She wanted to raise her voice for her rights. But we warned her not to, because if she were stopped or detained, she could be deported. That is the painful reality so many immigrants live with today. Even protesting peacefully has become a risk. But she went anyway. Despite everything, she chose courage.
They can scare us. They can try to silence us. They can even deport us. But they will never take away our agency, our dignity, or our will to fight for a better life.
What do I tell my son, when I see doubt in his eyes? When I know that despite being born here and doing everything right, he may still be denied opportunities because of his name, his heritage, or the color of his skin? It breaks my heart, but it also strengthens my resolve.
Because this country was not built by the privileged few who write laws they’ll never have to live under. It was built by workers, by families — by people like me who came here with hope and stayed with determination.
And we will not be silent. We will not be invisible. We will not let fear define our lives or our future.
Because this country was built for all of us. And we’re not going anywhere.
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