As an organization based in the United States that advocates for the rights and freedoms of the people of the Middle East and North Africa, we have been shaken to see the U.S. government implementing cruel and repressive policies against individuals exercising their right to free expression, reminiscent of the authoritarian regimes our community fled — including arbitrary arrests, enforced disappearances, deportations, and the criminalization of dissent.

Although U.S. courts have freed some of the unjustly detained, such as Mohsen Mahdawi and Rumeysa Ozturk, the threat of persecution remains real. In fact, on May 20 in front of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee, Secretary of State Marco Rubio defended the administration’s policy and promised more was coming.

To understand the personal impact of these developments, we spoke to human rights defenders, lawyers, academics, journalists, and other members of civil society who were forced to flee their homes from countries in the Middle East and North Africa after facing unjust persecution for their work. These individuals sought safety in the United States, a country that once symbolized freedom and refuge from authoritarianism. Now, as a result of the Trump administration’s policies, they fear being forcibly returned to the regimes they once fled. We have worked with and advocated for these people; they are our friends, colleagues, and partners. They are all of us.

We asked each of them to respond anonymously to a simple question:

“What parallels do you see between the repression you fled in your home country and what you’re witnessing in the United States today?” 

Their responses, which have been anonymized out of concern for their safety and presented here with minor edits to protect their identities, reveal disturbing similarities.

 

 

Legal Scholar:

When I fled my home country, I sought freedom of speech and liberties I couldn’t have there, fearing arrest simply for holding political opinions. While no country is perfect, I came to the United States for safety and freedom. Back home, people had to delete social media apps and contacts to avoid persecution, and now in the United States, the conversation revolves around deleting your social media presence to avoid arrest or searches at airports or on the street. It feels eerily similar to the oppressive environment I fled. I see parallels between the repression I faced and what I witness in the United States today, especially the fear of expressing peaceful opinions or activism. We constantly self-censor, just as we did back home, even though the First Amendment is supposed to protect such freedoms. 

Recent U.S. policies, especially the close ties to the dictators we fled from, make me more fearful. The possibility of facing made-up charges or even “extradition” to oppressive regimes feels real. The Trump administration’s targeting of pro-Palestinian voices is particularly troubling, as it signals that communities like mine could be next. Once any political opinion is targeted and suppressed, it opens the door for the persecution of all dissidents. Once one group is targeted, others are at risk of becoming the next targets, and no one is truly safe from repression.

 

 

Pro-Democracy Activist:

When I chose to live in the United States over my home country, I chose my freedom of speech, assembly, and choice. The freedoms I would have been stripped of had I gone back home. Today, living under the Trump administration, the United States has started to resemble the authoritarian state I ran from. In Trump’s America, a human’s unalienable rights have become only a citizen’s right, and merely expressing your opinion can get you taken to an ICE detention center without any legal due process. To gather around a humane cause like Palestinian rights can be a detrimental choice in America now! The American dream of opportunity, equality, and the pursuit of happiness, has regressed or even diminished for some people in today’s America. I sometimes wonder if democracy and separation of powers are real concepts in the United States or if they are just beautiful paintings that do not reflect any reality! I wonder if I escaped an authoritarian regime just to be trapped under another one!

 

 

Political Commentator:

I was hoping to find true freedom of expression in the United States. Honestly, I was aware that there are many constraints on freedoms in the United States and that certain issues and topics are still considered taboo, despite the media machine portraying a different picture. Repression exists almost everywhere, although it manifests in different levels and forms. More recently, U.S. policies against freedom of speech specifically have become more brazen and aggressive. Many of us in the refugee resettlement process, including myself, feared an escalation of harsh policies that could result in forced departure from the United States. I was contacted by lawyers who offered help during these difficult times. The current administration’s policies make it evident that, when it comes to certain issues, freedom of expression is little more than ink on paper. As is the case in many countries around the world, terrorism is the label used in an attempt to legalize the process of silencing people.

 

 

Human Rights Defender:

When I fled my home country, I came to the United States hoping to find safety, freedom of expression, and a place where human rights were truly respected—a stark contrast to the fear and repression I left behind. While I do enjoy greater freedoms here, the reality has been more complex and, in many ways, disheartening. I’ve encountered new forms of fear—of surveillance, of being labeled or targeted for my political beliefs, especially when those beliefs include solidarity with Palestine. This sense of insecurity feels disturbingly familiar, echoing the repression I thought I had escaped. The criminalization of dissent, intimidation of activists, and portrayal of political speech as dangerous, all mirror patterns I witnessed back home, though in different forms.

Recent U.S. policies and rhetoric, particularly those equating pro-Palestinian advocacy with extremism, have only deepened that fear, creating a chilling effect that makes even simple acts of expression feel risky. For someone who sought refuge here because of political persecution, watching the Trump administration—and others—target voices like mine is deeply painful. It feels like a betrayal of the values I believed the United States stood for, and a stark reminder that no country is immune to authoritarian tendencies. The fight for justice and freedom of expression, I’ve learned, doesn’t end at the border—it must continue, even here. 

 

 

Lawyer:

When I left my home country, I was mainly searching for safety and trying to escape the constant feeling of being under security surveillance. When I arrived in the United States, I finally felt that sense of safety—especially living in a diverse area where I could have friends and a supportive community. What I’m experiencing now, though, is that I’ve started to feel unsafe again, like I could be threatened just because of a post I wrote or a stance I took. I’m not just seeing similarities to before; I’m seeing a pattern that’s even more intense and dangerous. When the U.S. government—and the president himself—deports refugees, persecutes the LGBTQ+ community, or suppresses student movements, it doesn’t just impact America. It sends shockwaves across the world and creates major obstacles and challenges for human rights organizations and activists everywhere. It’s made me feel the same fear I felt in my home country: that I’m not safe, that I have to constantly monitor myself and what I write, and even consider changing my career because it now feels threatened—not just by Trump’s policies, but also by targeted attacks from Zionist lobbying groups. The U.S. administration’s targeting of refugees and asylum seekers—whether because of their support for Palestine or their immigration status—reflects a shift toward human rights abuses similar to those committed by dictatorships in the Middle East and Africa, the same behaviors the U.S. State Department once condemned as violations of human rights.

 

 

Social Worker:

Like anyone seeking refuge, I came here hoping for safety—first and foremost—and for the freedom to speak openly without putting myself or the people I love in danger. But after years of living here, it’s hard not to see the unsettling similarities between what I fled and what’s unfolding now. The United States today feels, in many ways, like a rebranded version of the repression in my home country—marked by rising authoritarianism and a nationalism that grows louder by the day. These aren’t just parallels—they’re repetitions: the surveillance, political arrests, legal immunity of those in power—even the way struggling communities are turned against one another over political differences while the real harm caused by the state goes unchecked. These tactics are deliberate and they are the same ones I witnessed back home.

I was diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder months after a loved one was incarcerated. Therapy helped me manage the trauma and slowly reclaim some sense of safety. But recently—especially after seeing a video of someone I know personally from a U.S. university being detained—those same symptoms came flooding back. The panic attacks, the paranoia, the survivor’s guilt . . . I had spent years trying to breathe again, trying to believe I was safe. Now, I often find myself just trying to exist quietly, reminding myself that survival is enough for now. Every night, I wonder what the next morning will bring, what new policy might jeopardize my safety.

When a European international student shared their fear of having their visa cancelled, I validated their fears, but I also had to say that being sent home to safety is not the same as being sent back into danger because for some of us “home” is where the worst can begin. It means two things: it’s heartbreaking to watch Palestinians and pro-Palestinian voices being silenced, doxxed, detained, deported, and retraumatized in the very country they thought might protect them.

At the same time, it shows just how powerful collective resistance can be. When people stand together, double down, and speak truth to power, those in control will do everything they can to suppress it. Their fear of accountability is what drives their aggression. Although I’ve stepped back from public advocacy regarding Palestine for now, witnessing the courage and bravery of others who continue to speak out has been the only hope I’m holding onto. Even the countries that preach “freedom of speech” are the first to abandon it when it no longer serves their white-man agenda. When I started as a student in the United States, we spent hours in orientation being told how essential decolonization was—not just of land, but of every system that has caused suffering. Every conference, every commencement, opened with an acknowledgment that we still stand on Native American land. We were asked to sit in silence for Ukraine in classes—and the hypocrisy kept building until the genocide in Gaza. That’s when professors were threatened into silence about Palestine. That’s when students were warned to stay quiet. And since then, it has been getting worse as we all can see. That’s when each student realized that these institutions had taught us well about decolonization, advocacy, and resilience. What they didn’t expect was that those lessons would turn against them. What they didn’t expect was that students would keep fighting, even if it would cost them arrest, deportation, or getting their visas and green cards revoked or cancelled.

 

 

Researcher:

After years of living under dictatorship in my home country—where journalism and human rights work are criminalized if deemed critical of the regime—I believed that coming to the United States would help me reclaim my voice. I thought it would offer a space not only to speak freely but also to imagine the U.S. as a platform for advocating for democracy and human rights in my home country. But the war on Gaza shattered that hope. With the unfolding horrors in Palestine, I’ve witnessed a different America—one where student protests are silenced, and where the government proudly aligns itself with a war many around the world are calling a genocide. In this new reality, America’s moral authority as a global defender of free expression has crumbled. I find myself wondering if this administration is unmoved by the daily killing of Palestinian journalists, will it ever stand up for any journalist languishing in prison?

Now, under a Trump administration once again in power—already arresting foreign nationals critical of its policies—I feel the old, familiar weight of fear. The same self-censorship tactics I once used to survive back home have crept back in. I find myself second-guessing every word I write, not because I’ve done anything wrong, but because I dared to stand for human rights and freedom. Writing—once a source of purpose—has become a burden, shadowed by constant questions: Will this affect my immigration status? Will it jeopardize my safety, my future, my family? I once thought exile would only take away my home. But now, in exile, I am losing both my home and my voice.

 

 

Political Scientist:

When I fled my home, I came to the United States not just seeking safety, but something far more fragile and rare—dignity. The dignity of being able to speak my mind without fear, to contribute to public life without being surveilled, silenced, or punished. I hoped to find a democracy that lived up to the values it so confidently exports. In some ways, I did—there’s room to breathe, to build, to study, to speak. But in other ways, the reality is sobering. The sense of precarity never quite leaves. The threat here may not wear a military uniform, but it wears a suit, drafts legislation, manipulates public fear, and fuels selective outrage. I’ve found refuge, yes—but not certainty. I still live with the knowledge that safety here is conditional, and justice here is often uneven.

Unfortunately, what disturbs me is how familiar the mechanisms feel—how dissent is reframed as danger, how certain voices are criminalized while others are protected by the same laws. I’ve lived through a system that equated criticism with betrayal, and it’s alarming to see echoes of that here, especially in the treatment of pro-Palestinian advocates. The tools may differ, but the tactic is the same: isolate, discredit, intimidate. And once you’ve lived through repression, you can sense its early signals—even when others insist it’s just “policy” or “national interest.”

It’s made me feel exposed in ways I wasn’t prepared for. There’s an irony in surviving a dictatorship only to feel vulnerable again in the heart of what’s supposed to be the free world. When political leaders speak of immigrants, Arabs, Muslims, or protesters in ways that frame us as threats, it sends a clear message: your belonging here is fragile. Your voice comes with risk. It forces a choice between silence and danger—a choice I hoped I had left behind. And for someone who has already paid a high price for speaking truth to power, that’s a cruel reminder of how easily freedom can erode, even here.

It feels deeply personal. It’s not just a political stance—it’s a red flag that the same machinery of repression I once fled is gaining traction here. When a government begins punishing speech it disagrees with—especially speech advocating for human rights—it’s no longer protecting democracy, it’s betraying it. What the Trump administration is doing isn’t just a crackdown on a specific group; it’s a warning shot to all who believe in justice, solidarity, and accountability. I see in it the same fear-driven authoritarian impulse I’ve fought against my entire life. And it reminds me that exile is not always a one-time event—sometimes, you have to keep resisting, even in the places you once believed were safe.

 

 

Humanitarian Aid Worker:

Thirteen years ago, I fled my home country fearing for my life and the safety of my family. I was being targeted by the regime simply for doing humanitarian work and supporting displaced families affected by violence. Though our efforts were purely humanitarian and not political, offering assistance in areas labeled as “opposition” made us criminals in the eyes of the state. Speaking up for rights—even peacefully—was dangerous. I watched as colleagues were arrested, tortured, and disappeared. I left before the same fate reached me. For years, I found safety and a sense of stability here in the United States. But lately, that sense has begun to crack. I feel the same fear I once fled—through new restrictions on free speech, on media, on basic rights. The erosion of due process and fairness feels hauntingly familiar. It’s as if the cycle is repeating. What once felt like a distant past is now uncomfortably close again. I never imagined I would feel this way in a place I considered a refuge. The fear of not being able to speak, act, or serve the vulnerable freely is resurfacing, and the parallels to my past are too clear to ignore.

 

 

Human Rights Advocate:

When I was forced to flee my country, I moved to the United States in the hope of a safer and more secure life where I continue doing the work I love and expanding it to support other causes. I was not naive about how the United States is, or who is under attack in the United States. I never thought of it as a perfect place or a perfect democracy as it is publicized, yet I knew that I could do my work safely and that personal freedoms were a big thing. My heart is shattered with how everything has been in the last couple of years, and more every day with the current administration and the soulless attacks on activists, immigrants, and people who dare to defend the causes they care for. It is not the life I imagined, it is not the life I aspired to. The parallels between repression in the United States today and my home country are deeply terrifying. It feels so similar, it sounds so similar, and the fear is so similar. The use of fear and constantly asking what could happen is so similar, which is an effective tool of authoritarianism to deter people from speaking up or daring to dissent. I find myself feeling unsafe leaving my house, not being able to fully fall asleep, fearing kidnapping or detention, finding myself preparing my go bag, and finding myself preferring not to do one of my favorite activities, which is walking down the street.

 

 

Lawyer:

When I fled my home country, I wasn’t just escaping a regime. I was escaping a suffocating certainty that my voice, my work, and even my thoughts could land me in prison. As a human rights lawyer, I had witnessed firsthand how the state weaponized the law to silence dissent. Coming to the United States, I hoped for space to breathe, to rebuild my life in a place where I thought justice wasn’t selective and speech wasn’t criminalized. For a time, I found that. But recently, that fragile sense of safety has started to fracture.

The fear I lived with back home, the constant self-censorship, the quiet surveillance, the knowledge that simply standing for justice makes you a target has followed me here in different forms. I see student protesters arrested, immigrants silenced, and pro-Palestinian voices labeled as threats. It echoes the very repression I escaped.

Trump’s return and the targeting of those expressing solidarity with Palestine is more than a policy shift. It’s a chilling reminder that the line between democracy and authoritarianism can be thinner than we think. I never thought I would again fear that my work, my words, or my existence could be used against me. Yet here I am, weighing every public act against the risk of exile, again!

I fled to survive, but also to continue fighting for freedom. That fight didn’t end in exile, it just found a new battlefield, one where I must still watch over my shoulder.

 

 

Writer:

I left my home country after spending time in prison—just because I wrote about sex, gender, and language. I came legally to the United States, where I’ve been living for the past seven years. America has been good to me. It gave me the freedom to speak, to learn, to grow. The generosity I received from American people restored my belief in solidarity. But exile comes with a price. I lost the language I lived in, the one that carried my jokes, curses, and prayers. I lost my family, friends, and the rhythm of my old world. I started from scratch. I found love, built friendships, began crafting a new identity—as an American immigrant who chose to force himself into believing in the American Dream, because people like me don’t have the luxury of dreaming otherwise.

Still, I began to question that dream. I remember watching Biden declare war on Russia and freeze their assets. A year later, after his visit to Israel, he declared war on Gaza—sending bombs to kill children. That’s when I realized this country wasn’t just drifting into militarism—it was plunging headfirst. Not the performative “Operation Freedom” of Iraq, but something colder, detached from even post-WWII ethics.

What struck me most wasn’t just the policy, but the absurd American reaction to it. People treated it like a yoga retreat—”Peace and love for everyone”—as if it had no cost. I kept warning them: first they’ll come for the students. Then they’ll build a xenophobic atmosphere. Then they’ll quietly rearrange the military and security structures. Then crush the judiciary. And finally, they’ll take what’s left—freedom, institutions, wealth. I say this not as a prophecy, but from experience.

Now, my trans friend in Utah can’t renew her passport. Another friend, a white union organizer, was told to wipe his social media and use a burner phone just to visit Canada. Meanwhile, there’s no counter-narrative. Just stunned silence. This intellectual neutering—this quiet surrender by American academics—is what shocks me the most.

In Egypt, during the 2014 coup, students and faculty occupied the streets for months demanding academic freedom. More than 20 students were killed. Many were imprisoned or exiled. But here? Trump sends a letter, and the universities give up student data faster than an Amazon return. I’m not afraid of Trump or his policies. I’m ashamed of the institutions and intellectuals who folded without a fight. That’s the part that breaks me: Even if I wanted to resist, there’s no movement to join.

So yes, I’m rethinking everything. That’s why I’m now looking for job opportunities in Qatar or Dubai. Not just to save myself, but maybe to help my American friends, too. You just have to learn to shut up. But don’t worry—you’ve already been practicing that under Trump.