I’m a U.S. Citizen, But I Don’t Feel Safe. Here’s Why.
by “Ella” (name has been changed to protect the author’s identity)
My journey from Eritrea was not as tumultuous as those faced by so many others, but it was nonetheless traumatic. My father came to America first, and my mother and I were scheduled to follow in his footsteps, a year after I was born.
Plans quickly changed when my mother attempted to flee, but I was ripped from her arms by the military, forced to stay behind as human collateral. I remained in Eritrea until the age of five, when I was sponsored by a volunteer organization and resettled in a small city in New Jersey. I traveled to the U.S. with my 14-year-old half-sister.
Reunited with my parents, we then initiated a process that would take over a decade and thousands of dollars in legal fees. Since my father came to the U.S. on an employment visa, we were identified as asylum seekers. Asylum seekers are refugees whose stories have not been evaluated and verified yet by immigration authorities.
With that title, my family and I had to show proof of the persecution we suffered in Eritrea in order to obtain refugee status. My father, being the wise man he is, documented proof of his illegal detention in Eritrea on false charges of treason. He was able to get former government officials who defected to confirm his story. My father’s case was approved, but several obstacles arose when it came time for my mother to confirm her story.
My mother claimed religious persecution by the Eritrean government, but due to her limited English skills and the lack of Tigrinya translators in the area, the judge found her claims of suffering unfit, and she was ordered to leave the U.S. within 60 days. To appeal this ruling, my father searched for a trusted Tigrinya interpreter who could translate and reflect my mother’s experiences in Eritrea. The second attempt was a success, and my mother was granted refugee status. After 12 years of navigating the incomprehensible rules of bureaucracy, we were finally given a green card and eventually obtained citizenship.
Those 12 years in limbo proved crucial in building my identity as a young Eritrean in the diaspora. What started out as a very personal connection to the needs of refugees and the issues that plague them has become a cause to which I decided to dedicate my life, professionally and personally.
As a refugee, you struggle through treacherous conditions only to beg for acceptance as you wash up on foreign shores. Regardless of where you come from, refugees face stereotypes and fear from their new neighbors. Even though refugees are in the international spotlight, Eritreans’ voices are still drowned out.
Although I earned my citizenship and was promised freedom, I still grasped for a sense of security. Eritrea is a constitution-less state that prosecutes critics of the ruler with threats to the critics and their families. Eritreans — both in and out of the country — don’t know what it’s like to enjoy the freedom of speech, a sense of paranoia leaving many of us silent. This is the greatest deficit felt by an Eritrean — the poverty of words.
By comparison, lacking food or water seems worse, but its ramifications eternally stunt our development. The ruler of Eritrea and his supporters have been able to build a culture of fear, banning all forms of expression. So as Eritreans battle their way across borders, they walk barefoot with sealed lips, losing their stories with every step. The restriction on expression and speech is our greatest poverty, for it denies us ownership of our truth and freedom.
As a U.S. citizen, I still live with violence and silence as constants in my life. This sense of paranoia that most Eritreans deal with seems normal for us. That is, until you are able to find strength in your story. For me, I found that strength in the power of words. Big words, small words, strong words, whispered words: these words gave me freedom. Though I’m not writer or poet, I will use my experiences to help other refugees find strength in their stories.
For an educated Eritrean in the diaspora, my love of words can be dangerous. Like other Eritreans abroad under the protective cloak of a foreign nation, often we’re tempted by itching tongues and fluttering fingers to tell our stories. But members of the diaspora are tracked by the government officials who often threaten families of Eritreans who are still back home. Growing up, I was always reminded that speaking against the government would take away my right to return to Eritrea and to reunite with my family there.
Now, as a young adult, I still struggle to find a space for my story as an Eritrean. I have to carve my story and the story of Eritrea wherever I go, through refugee work and human rights advocacy. Regretfully, due to the political nature of Eritrea, this means I may not be able to return to the country where I was born. This means I must end the love affair between me and the magically captivating Eritrea I dream about, and breathe life into the commitment that is between me and my people.
This essay is part of the My Time in Line series, in which immigrants are sharing their experiences of what it’s really like to get legal status.
