By now, the reality of Donald Trump's entry ban, which affects refugees and nationals from seven majority-Muslim countries, has sunk in. And now the news comes that even valid visas belonging to nationals from those seven countries may be revoked.

The ban, which covers Somalia, Sudan, Syria, Iran, Iraq, Libya, and Yemen, is an unnecessarily harsh dragnet that will not make anyone safer but will put a lot more people in danger. My own family members were refugees from Somalia, so the executive order feels like a slap in the face, which I'm sure was the intention. But those affected and those appalled by the ban have drawn a small measure of comfort from the massive protests against Trump's openly Islamophobic promise for America. Here we've collected responses from women in America, most of whom are Muslim and all of whom the ban directly affects. We should listen to them and learn from their testimonies. When we know each other's stories, it makes it easier to resist together. —Muna Mire

Idil Ibrahim, Somali-American filmmaker

Andreia Matay Sanchez

When the civil war in Somalia began, we welcomed relatives here in America with open arms as they entered with their newfound refugee or political asylum status. I could see their bones, the flesh and weight stripped by the horrors of war, their eyes glistening from the pain inside. I remember the quiet resilience and strength they demonstrated as they worked to rebuild their lives, step by step, to eventually make America their home.

In the wake of Donald Trump's executive order, many people I love now feel threatened and unwelcome. My heart breaks for refugees from around the world seeking safety, refuge, and asylum who are now considered a threat, simply because of their religion and the country they come from. One of the most beautiful aspects of my life in America is the simple fact that I've always felt I was comfortably accepted as a multidimensional, complex, hyphenated person: Black, Muslim, Somali, American woman. My loved ones and friends are dynamic, diverse, and hyphenated individuals. They represent the world. They are Sudanese, Iranian, Egyptian, Vietnamese, Cambodian, Mexican, French, Irish, Spanish, Kenyan, Indian, Russian, South Sudanese, Senegalese, English, Guatemalan, and Colombian—and together we are all beautifully American. And we will not be silent. We will stand together in the face of injustice as one. This is our home.

Ifrah Ahmed, law student and cofounder of Araweelo Abroad

The executive order issued by Trump had an immediate impact on my community. Those with green cards are now afraid to leave the United States and many are isolated from their loved ones as a result. Even those with American citizenship feel afraid that their citizenship will not protect them because the United States has officially associated Somali-ness with criminality and terrorism.

Many innocent refugees fleeing violence have been hopefully waiting for the opportunity to restart their lives. Now they are being told they are not welcome in the U.S. The Somali refugees I work with have experienced some of the most heartbreaking violence imaginable. Trump wants to ban refugees, but many of us are refugees because of the United States and its violent foreign policy. It's evil to cause people to become refugees and then deny them safety while you call them terrorists. We are not the terrorists here.

Tasbeeh Herwees, associate editor at Good magazine

If you google Libya, most of the news results that populate the top search rankings are about destruction and despair, about war and political instability. But I remember a different Libya, one that calls to mind mango gelato and the warm embrace of my grandmother. I think about my cousins, who talked frequently about summer trips to my home in California that never came to fruition. I worry for them, and the opportunities lost to them by this ban. But I also worry, selfishly, about myself. I'm a dual citizen, both Libyan and American. And it forces to me to wonder whether my U.S. passport is enough to protect me from the threat of my faith and skin tone. I am of both Libya and America, but in both places I am both alien and citizen.

Rajaa Elidrissi, freelance writer and producer

Facebook

I think the travel ban on these countries is disrespectful to Muslims who live in the U.S. because it sends us a message saying the United States does not want any more of you. It's only seven countries now, but President Trump is impulsive, so I definitely see the list expanding—and, of course, there shouldn't be a list at all.

The U.S. has a moral obligation to take in victims of terrorism, and Muslims are the most likely victims. This ban is also damaging discourse and putting all Muslims in even more danger by actively encouraging hateful attitudes, like we saw in the Quebec mosque shooting. My family is Moroccan and I also work across the street from Fox News, and seeing their version of what happened on the ticker on my way home was truly disappointing. It had been hours since the identity of the real terrorist was revealed and it took far too long for the ticker to stop misidentifying the suspect as Moroccan.

Nasteha Mohamed, student

Growing up as the daughter of a Somali immigrant in post-9/11 America, life has always felt different. Trump's campaign made me feel hypervisible in a way I haven't felt for a long time and the little girl inside me again feared retaliation for simply being who I am.

I also felt something I never felt as a young girl, and that is pride in my Muslim identity. My American identity. My Somali identity. My identity as a Black woman. I take pride in who I am, and this time, those who oppose me have quite a storm heading their way. Resistance is the theme for the next four years. We must not become weary. The ban affects my maternal family still living in East Africa, whom my mom hasn't seen in almost 25 years. That dream of reunification seems impossible now, with the ban. The important thing to remember is that we will be okay. Admitting our fears makes room for us to see our goals more clearly.

Isra Jamil, student

I spent all of Saturday protesting and fighting to put an end to this ban. I am a proud Muslim, Iraqi-American immigrant. I was born in Baghdad, and my family and I immigrated to North Carolina when I was one. Most of my mother's side lives back in Iraq and the majority of my father's family is here in the U.S.

This ban has already affected my family. My mother's father lives in Iraq, and he's not doing very well. He has Alzheimer's and he's at the point where he can't even feed himself. Iraq in general is very bad for his health because of the poor health care system, and the lack of electricity and clean water. He had an interview to come here and it was canceled yesterday because of the ban. I've been waiting for my grandpa to have the opportunity to come here since I was six. We finally got our citizenship and applied for him to come and they just took it away from us. I will say, I've received so much love from people and it's brought some Americans closer—that itself is beautiful.

Ladin Awad, multimedia producer

As a Black Muslim woman, I've always felt invisible in the discourse around Islamophobia. I think that's why I had a delayed reaction to the executive order—it didn't settle in for me until a few days after. Attending the protest at Washington Square Park, I didn't see any Black Muslim immigrant representation, so it was invigorating but also disheartening. My whole life, me and my family have had to prove our Muslim-ness to our direct communities.

The common narrative was this feeling of persecution in the States in the last 15 years, as though the disenfranchisement of our communities began after 9/11—as though Sudanese people and people from the other banned countries haven't experienced trouble traveling before this performative hatred of Trump began.

I've cycled through different emotional states of rage, exhaustion, anxiety, and fear, but the overarching feeling has been one of defeat. That all changed when I saw an image of my mother and aunt at SFO airport pop up on my newsfeed in an Al Jazeera article. Here were two Black Muslim immigrant sisters resisting and refusing this order with every fiber of their beings. To come from a country that's suffered under a dictatorship for over 25 years, that's suffered extreme sanctions from the U.S. for over 20 years, that to this day continues to persecute its people on the grounds of their political beliefs—there was no way in hell they were going to accept this new "fate" in a country they've fought so hard to call home.

My mother works in immigration law; her life's work is helping refugees seek asylum. I've spent countless nights editing declarations with her, practicing with her clients to prepare them for interviews, clients that have been both friends and family members. So this has all affected my family and me on every level. To see the women of my bloodline show up so unapologetically despite so much just goes to show that resistance runs in my blood. Every day since has been different, but I try to maintain a continued effort to show up more unapologetically in every facet of my identity and resist this fascist, violent, colonialist state.

Shok Robertson, teacher

I made it to the U.S. from Iraq by way of Kuwait, Iran, and Turkey at age 22. My family are Kurdish survivors of the Gulf War uprisings and the retaliation that followed. After lawyers' fees, being refused, my case getting reopened, and a lot of heartache, I received my refugee status in the U.S.

I studied, worked for major corporations, and eventually went back to the Middle East and Afghanistan to work in humanitarian aid with U.S. agencies. When I became a naturalized citizen in 2001, I finally reached freedom. Eventually I settled in New York and got married. I sponsored my mother for a green card. She came and established a wonderful life in New York. She is my only family here in New York. We are extremely close. She visits our family in Kurdistan in Iraq sometimes. She is there now with a flight back booked for February 28. This ban has been vague in regards to green-card holders, though they now say the ban will not apply. She is Kurdish with an Iraqi passport.

It is ironic and devastating at the same time that after so many years of working to leave tyranny behind, I am experiencing this. The whole idea is that I left that region—I left the mess so my child would never experience the horrific things that I experienced growing up in the Middle East. I wanted to make sure my child would grow up away from all of that, but now I am not sure. I mean, where else can I go to seek freedom from fear? The moon? No. I am going to stay because so many people, friends, even ones I haven't talked to in years, showed up to help and support however they can. I always believed and still believe that America is the best place on this planet.

Muna Mire Muna Mire is a writer and fact checker.

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