The Unheard, Unhealed Trauma of Immigration, by Maysa Akbar, PhD, ABPP (Cohort 14)

contributed photo

Immigration issues in the United States have been debated for centuries. Who belongs, and under what circumstances, is a controversial topic of conversation. Dialogue related to immigration is again ranking especially high among other provocative debates that we tend to stay away from (e.g., politics, race, religion).

But discuss it – and understand it – we must. Because the impact and legacy of U.S. immigration for people of color and refugees is connected to the same principles and experience of urban trauma.

The U.S. has become a natural place for immigrants to resettle today, because its history was built on that very notion. The first group of people indigenous to the U.S., of course, were the Native Americans. By force, European settlers (immigrants) took hold of Native land and claimed it as their own. Between the 17th and 19th centuries, the largest group of immigrants came from Northern, Southern, and Eastern Europe. Initially they came as indentured servants, not slaves. By the late 20th century, there was an influx of Asian and Latin American migration patterns into the U.S. In recent decades, there have been many more from around the globe seeking refugee status to enter into the U.S., adding to our immigrant diversity. In fact, most of us here are immigrants, whether recent or farther back in time.

But we often don’t remember or appreciate how traumatizing the arrival to the United States can be – particularly if done so without legal status.

I once encountered a woman who shared her “immigration story” (some of the details are changed to protect her anonymity). Julie was from one of the countries in Latin America. She used a migrant smuggler (also called ‘Cayotaje‘) to get her across the border. In her journey to the U.S., she decided to leave her children in their country of origin. Julie knew it was too risky to bring them along, so they stayed with her mother and other family members. She gathered all the money she saved for years to pay the Cayotaje’s asking price. She understood the risk of entering the U.S. in this manner, but in her mind, the alternative of staying in her country was worse.

She walked for miles, was in a dark van for miles, crossed rivers and other masses of water for miles. Along the way, some of the others sharing the arduous journey died. As she told me the story, tears rolled, the pain in her soul was clear. She quivered recalling those horrific days, which got even worse when she was sexually assaulted. Julie was raped repeatedly, often gang-raped. No one to help her, rescue her, and all for the sake of a “better life.”

As she finished her story, she glazed over – settling into the sobering reality that she had just shared one of the most horrific periods in her life. I could see the shame, humiliation, fear, and sadness washing over her, as she reflected on whether it was all worth it.

Even when refugees or immigrants – documented or undocumented – are able to avoid the traumatic experience of entering the United States through the border crossing, there is plenty of trauma to endure in their day-to-day life in the “land of the free.”

Emmanuel is a doctorate student in psychology who I work closely with. He shared his experience as an undocumented immigrant and Dreamer’s Act (DACA) recipient (and shares it again here with permission), including all the barriers and trauma he’s been through as a result of the choice his parents made for him in an attempt to secure a safer, more hopeful life.

Emmanuel’s parents left Venezuela to escape an unsafe, dictatorship regime – which has only deteriorated since their forced decision to abandon their home country. His parents kept his undocumented immigration status from him until he was old enough to process what it meant. But they also warned him to be careful with what he did because he was not granted the same rights as everyone else. Upon being told that he was undocumented, Emmanuel began to be fearful of what was going to happen to him and his family, should anybody find out what and who he was. He described feeling as though he could never truly tell anyone for fear of being deported and thus remembered being distant from most of his friends growing up, not being able to fully disclose, be transparent or vulnerable.

This chronic uncertainty created a complicated identity that made it hard to connect with others, and made it difficult for him to reach out for help. It affected his performance at school, his relationships, and even his sense of self-worth. He disclosed feeling different than everyone around him because he could not make mistakes for fear of getting deported. He could not participate in trips outside the country like his peers. The stigma of being “illegal,” the term being thrown around in his school, was substantially harming and part of why he did not seek emotional support.

Towards his senior year in high school, the Dreamer’s Act was enacted. This granted him permission to begin working legally and alleviated some of the fear surrounding being deported. He was accepted to a state university and was able to attend. However, as a DACA student, he was ineligible for federal assistance. Coming from a low-income household, he had to resort to extremes in order to afford his education beyond the meager scholarships he was awarded. He begged family friends to loan him money, traded work for payments towards college, and put his senior year tuition on a credit card. Now a graduate student, he faces all the same obstacles with even fewer resources as most scholarships are geared towards undergraduates. Although he has continued to move forward past his trauma, there is still no way for him to become a legal citizen of the place he calls home, the only place he has ever known, the country he was raised in.

These stories highlight that “freedom” to enter into this country is rarely free – in particular for people of color. Whether refugee or undocumented, there is a price that many have paid by the deeply distressing and disturbing experiences they have endured. This trauma is rarely addressed; it goes unnoticed and untreated. Then, add to that existing trauma, the fear of persecution.

Immigrant trauma looks and feels very similar to urban trauma. Both groups witness community violence and are often marginalized because of the color of their skin, religious beliefs, or poverty status. Policies that are enforced by the U.S. government often cause re-traumatization. Members of both groups begin to experience paranoid thoughts, hyper-vigilance, shock, denial, confusion, irritability, mood swings, hopelessness, sadness, and a host of physical symptoms that are often mistaken for other medical conditions.

My message here is two-fold. First, in order to help those who are struggling with their immigration status, understand the reality of their fear and where it comes from (or, if you are an immigrant, your own fear). It is real and valid; they (you) are are not making it up. Seek help from a mental health professional who is culturally competent and can help work through trauma. As much as we would all like to hide our pain, we generally will not be able to heal all alone. Get connected to advocates for immigration services and reform, whether CT agencies such as JUNTA or IRIS or national agencies such as the APA. Second, for immigrant allies, know the signs and be a cultural broker. Encourage and support access to therapy (La Clinica Hispana, my own Integrated Wellness Group), advocacy groups (Immigration & Advocacy Support Center, CT Institute for Refugees & Immigrants), legal and other resources (National Immigration Legal Services Directory).