By Almeda T. | legal resident
Special to Amjambo Africa
I never thought I would feel this fear in the United States. Not like this. Not after everything I left behind.
Back home, the police were something to fear. People disappeared. Security forces worked together with militias and political party agents. When you saw a police uniform, it meant danger, not help. But in the U.S., I believed I had found something different.
I still remember the first time I dialed 911 because my car wouldn’t start at home. Someone answered. Someone came. They didn’t ask my name. They just helped. That moment, to me, was the definition of civilization. But today, that feeling is fading.
A different kind of border
I recently traveled outside the country. What I saw on my return shocked me. Fellow airline passengers — even citizens of Western democracies — were deleting social media posts before arriving back in the U.S. I met a Canadian citizen wiping his phone clean before boarding his flight home from Africa. Why? Because he had publicly criticized the Trump administration and feared it might cause problems at immigration.
At the airport, fear was everywhere. I saw it in the eyes of Europeans, Africans, Latin Americans. A French citizen told me he no longer felt safe entering the U.S. “You never know,” he said quietly, “if a border guard decides today, you’re a problem.”
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For the first time since I arrived in America, I couldn’t trust the officer at the border. I smiled, answered politely, but in my heart, I felt the same unease I had known in my country of origin. That wasn’t supposed to happen here.
Families under different papers
The fear extends into our homes. I know families in which one member is a U.S. citizen, another is a permanent resident, and another is still waiting for asylum. In some cultures, when someone is in a stronger legal position, they stay quiet about politics — not because they don’t care, but because they don’t want to hurt their loved ones who are still vulnerable.
It’s a strange, invisible kind of pressure — like walking together but not being able to speak the same truth. And yet, in the houses of these hunted persons, children still say “our country” when referring to the United States. They know no other national anthem but “The Star-Spangled Banner.”
Dictatorship is no longer a distant notion
We used to say, “We fled dictatorship. We came here to be free.” But now, people are whispering again. Afraid to speak. Afraid to be seen. And that whispering is happening in a country that still calls itself the leader of the free world.
A man in his 40s put it best: “We thought we had escaped the foolishness of tyranny, but now we see that no society is immune. No one can say, ‘I’ve reached the level where no one will try to bring it back.’ ”
He added: “None of us can sleep on two pillows anymore”– in other words, we can’t get too comfortable.
Even those with no risk of deportation — including white Americans — are beginning to ask difficult questions. I recently met an elderly white man who told me, without hesitation, that he was considering moving to Canada. “There’s fear everywhere,” he said. “It’s not just about race anymore. It’s about freedom.”
Yet still, people hope
Despite all this, one thing still gives me hope: people are organizing. They’re learning their rights. They’re helping one another. Even those who are not at risk are standing up, speaking out, getting informed.
Trump frightens people, yes. But he has also awakened a kind of resistance — and resilience — that may ultimately strengthen the country.
We comfort ourselves by saying:
“Let’s hope for the best. This country belongs to all of us. It was built by immigrants. And no matter what happens, it still sees in people what they can offer — not just what they are.”
And that’s why I still believe in the American Dream. Not as a slogan, but as a daily act of courage.
