She'd waited nine years. In 2007, the Iranian woman had been lucky, young enough to secure a United States visa through an uncle's sponsorship. Her older sister was not.

They said goodbye at the Tehran airport. The whole scene felt like a movie, Mania Asadizadeh said: As she boarded the plane, her sister, Mona, cried and pressed her hands against the glass.

"I'll see you soon," Mona yelled.

That was nearly 10 years ago. They spent the next decade working toward a reunion. Mona traveled to Turkey and back for interviews with embassy officials. She filled out reams of paperwork. A few months ago, her application was approved.

On Monday morning, visa in hand, Mona tried to board a plane to Portland.

Iranian airport officials stopped her at the gate. In an executive order President Donald Trump says will keep "bad people" out, the United States had banned Iranians from traveling to the country for three months.

Immigrants and refugees living in Portland say they are in a tailspin after Trump suspended the visas of citizens of seven countries, including Iran. Catholic Charities of Oregon officials say they had made reservations for 30 refugees to travel to the state next month -- most of whom are from Somalia, Sudan and Iraq, countries blocked by the executive order. Other refugees said they have family stuck in Jordan, Kenya and the United Arab Emirates waiting to reunite with those who already made the journey.

Mania Asadizadeh, a Portland State University graduate student, said she has never felt so scared or devastated in her life.

"I was so excited to finally see my sister," Mania said. "She waited nine years to legally come to this country. She has already been vetted. And then at the last minute ..."

Mania's words dissolved into tears.

***

Mania Asadizadeh (right) hasn't seen her sister Mona (left) in nine years. The Iranian sisters were due to be reunited this spring, but President Donald Trump has banned citizens of Iran from traveling to the United States for three months.

Mania and Mona Asadizadeh were born eight years apart, but the years never created distance. They're both creative -- Mona is a poet and a musician who plays two Iranian instruments. Mania is a talented dancer.

"She is my whole life," said Mania, now 27. "I do not remember a single time we ever fought. We were never jealous of each other."

When her sister was down, Mania put on music and danced to cheer her up. It was a frequent occurrence, Mania said: Living in Iran was tough. The girls' father left when they were young, leaving the family to live in a garage. Their mother struggled to support them, but after she developed epilepsy, she could no longer work.

For Mania, the future held no hope. Since she was young, she has always wanted to dance. In Iran, she said, women are forbidden to dance outside their homes.

When Mania was 17, an uncle living in California applied to bring her to the United States. Mona, 25 at the time, was too old for the uncle to sponsor. Mania promised to apply for her sister once she made it to America.

The sisters knew it might take some time for Mona to secure a green card. But they lived their lives as if a reunion were guaranteed.

Mona didn't date anyone long term to avoid getting attached. Mania spent her free time driving around Portland, scoping out jobs her sister might be able to work.

Portland had been good to Mania. This spring, she'll earn a master's degree in counseling. She's a Zumba instructor and choreographer. Last year, she performed a Persian dance at Portland State University's International Night.

The city, Mania figured, would be good to her sister, too. Mona has a master's degree in Persian literature. She could work as a tutor or teach people to play the percussion instruments she enjoyed.

When officials approved Mona's visa application last year, Mania raised money online to pay for the plane ticket. Fourteen people chipped in a total of $660. She went online and ordered a bed for her sister.

"I had this whole thing planned," Mania said.

Originally, her sister was due to arrive March 20, the day before the Iranian New Year.

Persians celebrate for 13 days, Mania said. They build an altar, cook Iranian feasts and spend two weeks just hanging out with family members. For nine years, her sister has had to celebrate alone.

When Trump signed the 90-day travel ban last week, the sisters decided Mona should take her valid visa and come sooner. Mona rushed to pack up her life and spent her savings to change her plane ticket. At the airport, she presented her passport and visa.

"They didn't even let her board the plane," Mania Asadizadeh said.

According to Mona's visa documents, she must arrive in the United States by April 11. Trump's travel ban will still be in place then.

Mania called lawyers at the Oregon branch of the American Civil Liberties Union, but even attorneys don't have clear solutions yet.

"The executive order has created chaos and confusion," ACLU legal director Mat dos Santos said. "People are desperately seeking information about what their rights are."

So far, none of Portland's resettlement organizations is sure how many refugees will be affected. James Howell, a spokesman for

Catholic Charities of Oregon

, said his organization was due to resettle 660 refugees by September, the end of the fiscal year. So far, it has resettled 260 refugees this fiscal year.

Muslim community leaders this week said immigrants and refugees from the seven countries are worried they won't see family members again.

Ammar Abo Nidr, an Iraqi refugee who arrived seven months ago and now works for the Immigrant and Refugee Community Organization helping newcomers find jobs, said his sister is in Jordan awaiting word. The rest of his family is still in Iraq.

Nidr, 27, had planned to visit them this year, but the travel ban now prevents him from leaving, he said.

"I feel very, very bad," Nidr said. "I can't explain how bad I feel. I really, really miss them. I haven't seen them since 2012. I'm just waiting. I don't know what's going to happen to my sister, what's going to happen to me, what's going to happen to my family. All of my family is in danger. Iraq is not a safe place to live."

Nidr said he has talked to his sister on the phone every day since he arrived. She fled Iraq and has been waiting in Jordan since May 2013 for immigration officials to approve her application. His own vetting process took nearly four years.

"I try to make her feel better," he said. "I tell her, 'I am here. I am in America. You're going to come soon.' But she cannot come now."



Mania Asadizadeh said Monday she had barely slept. She knew she needed to rest somehow: She works part time at Lutheran Community Services Northwest as a counselor for other refugees and immigrants. They will need her to be strong.

"As an immigrant, I've taught myself to be resilient," she said. "I've been through so much. I've tried to pull myself up. But this one hit me so hard. I feel so terrified. It's not just my sister. It's my clients."

Monday afternoon, as Mania Asadizadeh toggled between phone calls with her sister and ACLU lawyers, the doorbell rang. It was the delivery man.

A bed she ordered for Mona had arrived. Only now, Mania fears, her sister might never sleep in it.

-- Casey Parks

503-221-8271

cparks@oregonian.com; @caseyparks