Recently, a dear friend called me, her voice trembling. She said she had an interaction with law enforcement and was met with hostility, seemingly for no reason other than her origin. Born in a conflict-ridden country, she fled violence, found refuge in the United States, earned both undergraduate and master’s degrees at the University of Utah, and now works hard to support her family. Her “crime?” Being a refugee striving for a better life.
Her son, born here in the U.S., faces similar struggles. At recess, she said, his classmates ask how he feels about soon being sent “back to Africa.” The weight of exclusion is heavy for both mother and son. Daily, their dignity and humanity are being stripped from them.
For the past decade, I have worked closely with Utah’s refugee community, attempting to create pathways to success for those who have been displaced. As the executive director of Utah Refugee Connection, I have learned firsthand that the narrative portraying refugees as a security risk or as unwilling to assimilate is simply untrue. The people I work with are dedicated to rebuilding their lives, contributing to our community and finding the same safety and opportunity some of our ancestors once sought when they fled religious persecution and hardship.
Utah has long been known for its welcoming spirit. Many of our state’s early settlers were themselves refugees — fleeing danger and seeking a place to belong. The idea of offering refuge is woven into our history. And yet, today, that spirit of welcome is under serious threat.
Since January, I have been asked almost daily how many of the refugees I serve are here legally. The people asking this question often lack important information and understanding. Refugees undergo rigorous vetting before arriving in the U.S., passing multiple security screenings. Once here, they have legal status and are expected to contribute to society immediately. These are law-abiding individuals seeking safety and stability after fleeing war and persecution.
Yet, on Jan. 27, all refugee arrivals were halted, and funding for those already here was cut. Thousands are now stranded in perilous situations. The justification? National interest and security concerns — despite the extensive vetting already in place. By cutting off federal funding, the government is reneging on commitments and jeopardizing the lives of some of the most vulnerable people in the world.
Imagine your neighbor’s house catches fire. You see the flames and desperate attempts to escape. Meanwhile, your own house has minor issues — a leaky pipe, a broken fence. Would you stand by and say, “I can’t help until my house is perfect?” Of course not. You’d call for help, offer shelter, do whatever you could — because their situation is urgent, and human decency compels us to act.
This is our responsibility on a national scale. Yes, the U.S. has its own challenges, but that doesn’t mean we ignore people whose lives are in immediate danger. We can address our struggles while extending a hand to those in crisis.
So, what can we do?
Author Michael Lewis once said, “Above all, recognize that if you have had success, you have also had luck — and with luck comes obligation. You owe a debt, and not just to your gods. You owe a debt to the unlucky.”
We are among the luckiest people in the world. With that fortune comes responsibility — to help the “unlucky.” Refugees are some of the unluckiest people I know simply because of where they were born. It could easily be me or you. Through collective action, we can return to my friend — and to all our refugee neighbors — the dignity and humanity they deserve.
(Amy Dott Harmer) Amy Dott Harmer is the executive director for Utah Refugee Connection.
Amy Dott Harmer is the executive director for Utah Refugee Connection. She loves anything creative, connection with others in meaningful ways, mountain biking and time with her husband and kids.
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