If I had told myself that this would be my story without living through it, I wouldn't have believed it. We all worry too much about the future, wanting to ensure that we understand what lies ahead and what our life's outcome will look like. Here is a story of someone with great expectations but was met with even greater surprises that exceeded his expectations and predictions for his own future.
I took a leap of faith, embarking on a journey to leave the familiar place of my home country, Nigeria, for the unknown United States. At the port of entry, I was arrested, and I thought my dream of a life in America had come to an end. I was informed that I would be returned to Nigeria, the very place I had fled due to persecution. While I could have chosen to return and face the potential consequences of my courage, I knew it wasn't a safe or wise decision. I had no other option but to persevere. Standing at the airport, facing a moment of doubt on my stressed feet, I made the decision to stay and fight for the opportunity to live the American dream.
That is why you are now reading a story I am writing; it was born out of resilience and determination. On November 8th, 2023, I was sworn in as a United States citizen, having written my story of seeking safety here. I knew it would be too simplistic to just announce my citizenship without sharing some of the in-between.
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Let me retell the story you may think you know about me. On October 26th, 2016, I purchased a one-way plane ticket to travel to the United States, not knowing it might be the last time I returned to my homeland, Nigeria.
As I sat on the plane traveling from Abuja, there was a sigh of relief knowing where I was headed, to the United States of America, the land of the brave and the home of the free. Yet, I couldn't shake the anxiety about what my life's outcome would be, not just moving to a new country, but starting an entirely new life.
Upon arriving at JFK, I felt a sense of accomplishment. I had made it to America, a place where I could live free from persecution. Little did I know that seeking protection at the border would lead to being handcuffed, hands and feet, and transported to a detention center in New Jersey, where I would call my first home in America for five months and fourteen days, all while still seeking safety.
A few days before the 2016 presidential election between Hillary Clinton and the newly elected President Trump, I didn't know much about Mr. Trump at the time. But people at the detention center were afraid because he had led chants at his political campaigns, calling for a wall to keep immigrants out. None of us could have foreseen that this was a sign of the anti-immigrant sentiments that would come to define the current climate.
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As I grapple with the complexities of our ever-changing world, one thing remains abundantly clear: the pressing need for compassion, accountability, and a complete reimagining of our approach to refugee protection. In an era when millions of people are forced to flee their homes, the urgency to address the root causes of migration and provide sustainable solutions has never been more evident.
In 2019, the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR) reported a staggering 79.5 million individuals forcibly displaced worldwide, including refugees, internally displaced persons (IDPs), and asylum-seekers. Fast forward to 2023, and that number has grown even larger, fueled by conflicts, global crises, and the looming threat of climate change. Human displacement is on the rise, and it's clear that traditional support systems are no longer adequate.
I am Edafe Okporo, a refugee activist who has recently become a citizen of the United States. My journey to citizenship required personal advocacy and a forceful reimagining of protection systems, not just for myself but also for my community.
My story is not unique. Like many who have experienced the hardships of forced displacement, I didn't want to leave my home. None of us do. Yet, we are compelled to flee, leaving behind our childhood homes, communities, and lives. My heart-wrenching separation is a narrative mirrored countless time across the globe. For me and countless others, the quest for safety often leads to distant shores, places that offer refuge yet make us feel like we don't quite belong.
Consider the plight of 69 gay Nigerians recently arrested on suspicion of organizing a same-sex wedding. Their ordeal epitomizes the cruel paradox of seeking safety. How can safety equate to leaving behind the familiar and embracing a foreign refuge? It's here that the stark realities of our broken humanitarian landscape become painfully apparent.
The existing charity-based model, though well-intentioned, often feels like a band-aid on a gaping wound. Billionaires may contribute a few thousand dollars, hoping it can absolve their consciences, but it's simply not enough. The world is in dire need of a more substantial, forward-thinking solution that combines global perspectives with localized implementations.
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In the eloquent words of Jonathan Larsson, "The opposite of war isn't peace; it's creation." We must embark on a new path, one that respects the humanity and dignity of those who are forcibly displaced. This implies a complete reevaluation of our protection systems, viewing them not as mere acts of charity but as a fundamental necessity for addressing the root causes of migration.
We must confront the undeniable fact that our humanitarian system is fractured, and we must actively strive to mend it. My journey toward U.S. citizenship stands as a testament to the indomitable spirit and resilience of those who seek refuge. It serves as a resounding call to action, urging us to craft a more compassionate, accountable, and sustainable approach to help them rebuild their lives.
It's time to unveil a new path—one that guides us toward safety, dignity, and a brighter, more inclusive future for all while also taking stock and ensuring accountability for the root causes of migration.
In 2023, there will be over 100 million people displaced due to war, global crises, and, most recently, climate change. More people will be forced to flee their homes, and we cannot continue to provide support alone. We need to develop a system of checks and balances to reduce the burden on countries receiving refugees and create a sustainable solution for people to live in their homes.
We are stuck in a never-ending cycle of displacement, and the solution lies not only where we came from or where we are traveling to but in a combination of both and more.
The 1951 Convention primarily focused on refugees in Europe and those displaced by World War II and its aftermath. It did not provide the same level of protection for refugees from other parts of the world.
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We need a new form of protection, but the world order is now fragmented. We lack a singular voice of reason, as the U.S., China, and Russia disagree, and Britain has separated from the European Union. We do not have a singular voice that can bring these countries to the table to discuss ways to protect and uphold the dignity of human lives.
We have a choice: to continue supporting the few 120,000 we choose to protect, leaving behind the rest of the 100 million to suffer, or to protect everyone. Obviously, no country can take in 100 million refugees, so we must address the root causes and prevent people from having to choose between the mouth of the shark at home and the cheetah's speed in the wild.
I continue to work for change in the United States and around the world, striving for a better future for refugees and other minority communities. To learn more and participate in the conversation, please visit www.refugeamerica.org.