(Photo by Getty Images)
This Fourth of July, I bought an American flag. As a refugee, I bought this flag not because America is perfect, but because of its promise.
The first time I saw the American flag, I was nine years old. My family and I were at the Pakistan–Afghanistan border, preparing to return to Afghanistan after years of fleeing the Taliban and living in exile.
We waited to be vaccinated and processed for return, and the American flag was attached to the back of a U.S. Army vehicle. My uncle, pointing at the flag, said, “Look, now we will be safe.” At that moment, the American flag felt like a promise.
Since then, the flag’s meaning has shifted, but I refuse to let hate define it.
Years later, I was granted a student visa and arrived in the United States as an international student. In the airport, I stood again in front of the American flag, where it waved its thirteen red and white stripes and fifty stars. It was a profound moment when I felt welcomed. I knew then, deep in my heart, that I was safe and my life was full of possibilities.
As I experienced America and life in it, that sense of safety changed. Slowly, I began to fear the flag that once gave me hope.
I saw the American flag in the hands of people shouting vulgar things about immigrants. I saw it on t-shirts worn by those who looked at me with hate. I started to believe that when an American flag was hanging on someone’s porch or painted on their truck, it meant I wasn’t welcome. The flag that once symbolized safety and freedom slowly started to feel like a warning.
But, a few days ago, I found myself revisiting the most joyful moments of my life in this country: arriving in the U.S. for the first time, the day I became a U.S. citizen, my siblings making it to America safely, and my mother stepping off a plane onto American soil.
In every photo from those moments, we are smiling — some of us crying — with the American flag waving in the background. Despite everything, that flag was always there, not just in fear, but in celebration of survival and homecoming.
This Independence Day, I bought an American flag.
I do not believe this country is perfect, but I believe we belong in it. I know we are part of America’s flawed, painful, and beautiful story. I bought the flag because we, too, arrived here with teary eyes and hopeful hearts. Like that little girl at the border all those years ago, I still choose to believe in the promise of safety, dignity, and a better life.
But belief alone is not enough. We must act.
When you turn on the news or scroll through social media, the stories are grim. The Trump administration continues to sow fear and division. In states like Maine, where refugees are revitalizing communities, federal policies are stripping refugee resettlement while programs have been indefinitely paused. Funding cuts have gutted resettlement and legal support systems. Fundamental rights, such as asylum and due process, are under constant attack. Families are being separated. People from entire countries are once again banned from entering America. Refugee and immigrant rights organizations are being systematically targeted.
Last year, 625 refugees found safety in Maine, bringing their resilience, vibrancy, and skills to a state facing an aging population and labor shortages. Maine’s essential refugee agencies are now grappling with how to preserve basic services after federal funding cuts gutted their support systems. These actions are a cowardly way to treat people who have crossed continents and oceans, left everything behind, and risked it all to come home.
For many of us, America was not our first choice. However, it is our last hope. And still, we love this country not because it’s easy, but because we’ve invested our futures in its promises and potential. Refugees know that we are not just part of America — we help make it whole.
As we step into a new chapter of American history, the flag belongs to us all. The flag, and the country for which it stands, belong to those who believe in something better, kinder, and in the promise of liberty and justice for all. It belongs to everyone who dares to hope, who fights for compassion, and who still — despite everything — believes in its promise. This flag is our flag.