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Bhutan tried to erase us. Now, Trump’s America is helping | Lok Darjee

In mid-March 2025, I sat quietly in the back of a small, crowded room at the Asian Refugees United center in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, surrounded by members of the Bhutanese diaspora. The silence was heavy, thick with fear and uncertainty. This modest office, once a vibrant hub for refugee youth, cultural celebrations, and literary competitions, had become an impromptu crisis center, where community leaders scrambled to make sense of the Trump administration’s escalating immigration crackdown on Bhutanese refugees across the country.

Robin Gurung, the organization’s executive director, briefly outlined our legal rights. Another organizer then read aloud the names of those detained, awaiting deportation – or worse, already deported to Bhutan, the very country that once expelled them.

As their names echoed through the room, an elderly man, a former student activist who had protested Bhutan’s repressive monarchy decades ago, stood. His voice trembled as he asked: “Where are we supposed to go?”

This question of belonging has haunted my entire life. I was born stateless in a refugee camp in eastern Nepal after Bhutan forcibly expelled more than 100,000 Nepali-speaking Bhutanese citizens in the late 1980s and early 1990s. Our language was banned, our citizenship revoked, and our books burned in an ethnic cleansing campaign Bhutan still denies. Nepal refused us citizenship, asserting children born behind barbed wire weren’t its responsibility. Even now, Bhutan maintains its pristine global image, recently praised by 60 Minutes for “zero-carbon cities”, with no mention of the atrocities that cleared land for these “mindfulness cities”.

My childhood unfolded behind fences and military checkpoints, in a hut occasionally set on fire by local mobs who viewed refugees as threats to their livelihood. I was a child no country wanted. For years, I lived in limbo – stateless, invisible, expendable. I believed I had finally found a home in 2011, when, after rigorous vetting, my family was resettled in a small town in Idaho.

Since then, I’ve navigated the complexities of belonging as a former refugee turned new American. My work at the non-profit Refugee Civic Action now focuses on empowering former refugees through civic education and engagement, echoing Frederick Douglass’s belief that voting rights carry an obligation to build an inclusive democracy for “unborn and unnumbered generations”.

Yet no moment revealed the fragility of American citizenship more starkly than the first hundred days of the Trump presidency. What unfolded was not merely a shift in policy, but the emergence of a constitutional crisis – one in which due process, equal protection, and the rule of law became contingent upon a person’s immigration status, background or national origin. Refugee communities, legal immigrants and even naturalized citizens suddenly found their rights precarious and their sense of belonging under threat.

This crisis, while alarming, is hardly unprecedented. It echoes America’s historical pattern – visible in the failure of Reconstruction after the American civil war, when the nation struggled over defining citizenship, often through violence and exclusion. It is the same logic that incarcerated Japanese Americans during the second world war, denied Black Americans civil rights for generations, and justified the surveillance of Muslim communities after September 11. Today, cloaked in the language of national security, that same impulse returns, driven by a politics intent on reshaping US identity through exclusion rather than constitutional principles.

For my Bhutanese community, these recent crackdowns on legal residents have felt like a haunting repetition of history. Trauma we thought we had left behind in Bhutan now replays in Harrisburg, Cincinnati, Rochester, and so many other towns, including relatively quiet suburbs of Boise, Idaho. Ice raids targeting legally resettled Bhutanese refugees have rekindled deep, collective fear. More than two dozen refugees have been deported back to Bhutan, the very country that violently expelled us. While some deportees had minor offenses from years ago, their punishments – exile to a regime that once tortured them – are grotesquely disproportionate. Raids have reopened wounds we spent decades healing. These are legal residents, thoroughly vetted through one of the world’s strictest refugee resettlement programs. Yet their deportation has shattered the fragile sense of safety we once believed America guaranteed.

America is not Bhutan; their histories, cultures and institutions differ profoundly. Yet I see troubling echoes emerging here. In Bhutan, exclusion began subtly with slogans promoting national unity – “One nation, one language, one people” – initially appearing patriotic, even benign. Soon, our Nepali language was banned, books burned and cultural practices outlawed. Families like mine were categorized arbitrarily to divide and destabilize. People were disappeared, tortured and jailed. Citizenship became conditional, a prize easily revoked. I see shadows of this pattern now emerging in the US as the president erodes checks and balances, attacks public institutions, and scapegoats vulnerable immigrant communities.

But when it comes to Bhutanese refugees, Democratic leaders have remained troublingly silent.

While Pennsylvania’s senator John Fetterman and governor Josh Shapiro have acknowledged the concerns of Bhutanese refugees through public statements and tweets, their engagement has fallen short. What’s needed now is not just words, but action: oversight, hearings and direct intervention. Democrats must speak up for the likes of Santosh Darji, a Bhutanese refugee quietly deported to a regime that once tried to erase him. Failing to do so risks eroding public trust in the party’s moral commitments.

The Republican party, once a vocal supporter of refugee resettlement, has largely aligned itself with Trumpism – a politics rooted in fear, exclusion and racial hierarchy. During Trump’s first term, a few Republican governors resisted efforts to suspend refugee admissions by calling for more legal refugees. Today, that resistance is utterly gone; no single Republican governor resists nor demands that the president reverse his decision on refugee admission. The party that once embraced Reagan and Bush can no longer credibly claim their legacies. Those presidents, whatever their flaws, understood that America’s greatness was built on its openness to refugees and immigrants.

The Trump administration’s actions aren’t merely cruel; they may violate international law. Deporting refugees back to the country that ethnically cleansed them breaches the principle of non-refoulement – enshrined in the 1951 Refugee Convention – which prohibits returning refugees to countries where their lives or freedoms are threatened. Now, some deportees find themselves stateless once again, rejected by Bhutan, detained by Nepal police and trapped in legal limbo.

America’s moral and constitutional credibility hinges on defending not just those who command headlines or electoral power but precisely those who do not. If legal refugees can be quietly deported to countries from which they fled persecution, America’s claim as a beacon of freedom is dangerously hollow. The haunting question “Where are we supposed to go?” must be answered by American institutions, unequivocally affirming that due process and human dignity apply universally.