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The New York Times reported on June 16 that Zimbabwe, the country I live in, is one of the potential new additions to his travel ban list, which would likely include as many as 36 other African nations.

A proclamation barring citizens from 12 nations from entering the US had been passed by Trump a day prior. Seven of them are African, including Sudan, Equatorial Guinea, Eritrea, Libya, Somalia, and Chad.

Additionally, he placed some travel restrictions on people from Venezuela, Burundi, Cuba, Laos, Sierra Leone, Togo, Turkmenistan, and Burundi rather than a complete ban. Citizens from these countries are prohibited from permanently relocating to the US or from obtaining tourist or student visas.

Trump is retaliating against immigration, as promised on the campaign trail.

For the first time in my life, I now have to deal with the extraordinary prospect of being denied entry to the US, which many of my friends and family members call home.

For instance, my cousin, Dr. Anna Mhaka, completed her medical studies and only practiced in the US. Former classmate Spencer Matare is a US citizen who has resided in Indianapolis for more than 20 years.

Anna and Spencer are diligent, law-abiding members of US society, just like millions of others, despite the Trump administration’s political grandstanding and denigration of illegal and legal immigrants.

Many people in Africa, I know, are hoping to follow their footsteps, and Trump’s construction of more migration barriers alarms them.

I’m not one of them, though.

I have never felt the need to travel to America, let alone live there, since graduating from the University of Cape Town in 1997.

I am aware that this makes me somewhat peculiar.

I come from a time and place where the West was romanticized through the lens of an Anglicized upbringing. The lasting legacy of French, Portuguese, Spanish, and British colonial rule shaped the desire that I had all across the African continent. It was never my invention.

Afrobarometer released a report based on data from 24 African nations on December 18, 2024, in honor of International Migrants Day. According to the study, 49% of Africans had considered immigrating, with the top destinations North America and Europe, but a significant number preferred relocation within Africa.

Nearly 49 percent of people cited the desire to immigrate because they were looking for better employment opportunities, and 29 percent cited poverty and economic hardship.

I don’t condone the “American dream” or its connotation in Europe, which many Africans still hold. Africans have excelled in business, academia, and sport across the US. A prime example of this is the Democratic Republic of the Congo (DRC) star Dikembe Mutombo, who passed away from NBA fame.

In honor of his mother, who passed away in 1997 after not receiving timely care, Mutombo donated $15 million of his estate to establish the $29 million medical and research center in Kinshasa.

Her tragic, if common, tale reflects the deep-rooted socioeconomic issues that drive migration, including corruption, unemployment, and poverty. The US, in contrast, frequently appears as a refuge.

African-born Black immigrants are among the most recent arrivals, according to a report released in January 2022 by the Pew Research Center on Black immigrants in the US: 43 percent of them arrived between 2010 and 2019.

Africa has contributed a significant portion of recent growth, despite the Caribbean still being the main source region. Between 2000 and 2019, there were 246 more Black African immigrants, or about 600,000 to 2 million. The US’s foreign-born Black population now accounts for 42 percent of the country’s population, up from 23 percent in 2000.

I was deeply disappointed when I first learned about Trump’s proposed visa bans. His infamous “shithole countries” comment from January 11, 2018, another instance of racial profiling directed at Africans, was unavoidable.

However, after examining his divisive, closed-off policies, I have come to see them differently.

He frozen US aid to Africa on January 20.

He is currently close to denying many of us visas, including those for Cameroon and the Ivory Coast.

Unintentionally, Trump is urging African countries to increase their independence and to confront the restless populations’ unmet needs.

He is not the only one who practices “anti-African” politics.

The political spectrum in the US has become more anti-immigration rhetoric. Even getting a student visa has become more difficult for Africans. The highest US visa refusal rates were 57 percent on average in sub-Saharan Africa in 2023. The rate increases across other regions to 61 percent, with the exception of Southern Africa, where rejection is currently at about 19%.

I’m not affected by these declining approvals because I don’t want to travel or settle in the United States.

A deep-seated fear that the world will become yet another victim of American police brutality, as the world saw with the murder of George Floyd in Minneapolis on May 25, 2020, drives my reluctance to travel to the so-called “land of the free.” Regardless of their immigration status, I am aware that Black people, whether African or not, are far too frequently subject to racism, violence, and discrimination in the US.

However, I don’t want to be a victim of racist police brutality. An African should never consider settling there for many more reasons.

Africans across the continent share the same, deep-rooted issues that many Americans experience. According to the West Health-Gallup healthcare indices, roughly 29 million Americans struggle to access affordable healthcare, which is a problem that is as well known in Kinshasa as it is in many other parts of the country. According to the US Census Bureau, 36.8 million Americans were in poverty by 2023.

Hollywood’s film industry’s lofty image aside, the United States is not utopia.

Although Anna and Spencer have succeeded in that area, the majority of Africans do not have a path to the “American dream.” They must seek their futures in their own countries or elsewhere in Africa.

It requires a significant change.

China, after all, underwent extensive economic reforms in 40 years.

Similar changes are possible in Africa thanks to its vast mineral wealth and young, educated population. Industrial growth, job creation, and a higher gross domestic product could be attributed to a focus on domestic processing of raw materials.

However, good governance and peace must always come first. And we must alter our investment priorities. African governments should concentrate on artificial intelligence, healthcare, and scientific research rather than investing in defense and security.

We as Africans must stop defining ourselves through Western encouragement, validation, or instruction.

I’ll stay in the motherland whatever comes.

Keep your America, Mr. Trump, and keep your Africa.

You have to take comfort in having so little control over your choices when you endure so long of conflict. The front line is now only 20 kilometers (12 miles) away from my city in northwest Ukraine.

In recent months, we all know that the front line has gotten closer. One village, another village, and a third village are reported to have been occupied every two or three days.

The city center has already been directly struck by cluster munitions. Sirens are constantly sounding, some lasting as long as two days. Because people’s minds get used to them over time, we don’t spend time in basements. Knowing that this coffee might be the last one, we stay outside and continue to live. We are aware that we are putting our lives on the line.

The key decision for many families in Sumy, including mine, is whether to relocate to a safer area. When it comes to choosing your home, your roots, your loved ones, and everything you’ve built, especially if your family isn’t leaving, the decision becomes very difficult. Even though she has been sleeping in the hallway for a while, my daughter and I are staying put because we feel safer there than in her window next door. However, some families have the option of leaving the city for a summer camp or a grandparents’ home before reevaluating the situation now that the school year is over. Some have permanently relocated and packed up.

I notice that the children aren’t taking the classes I teach through the Save the Children-supported League of Modern Women. A child will enjoy the lessons one day. They vanish the following day. Children continue to experience joy in these classes, giving them a sense of normality, joy-filled moments, and a glimpse of a true childhood. The only way for kids to interact with others in person is for them, who have been given months, even years, to learn online. And they are working together to improve resilience.

Children’s art and painting classes for young children encourage them to draw, express feelings, feelings, and dreams. They practice mindfulness and breathing techniques to remain calm during crises as well as playing team sports and sports. We encourage teenagers to collaborate on projects that aim to improve their local communities. For instance, one girl wants to start a drama club, and the other wants to have a Japanese manga comics library. We provide them with advice on how to write a project proposal, budget, and get a mentor. Children should be able to escape and develop their imaginations beyond the realities of war, which is refreshing and necessary.

Childhoods are being eroded by this reality. A good night’s sleep, which is crucial to children’s health and development, has faded because of the constant sirens.

Due to this fact, children have been separated from their fathers. One of the girls in my class had a long period of bad mood. She finally stated, “I want to see Dad. He has a military career.

Parents around the world will recall this fact from the COVID-19 pandemic, which has prevented children from socializing. My classes began with a boy struggling to communicate with others because his only interaction with other children was for a while long a computer screen. He has finally come out of his shell. Numerous children have repeatedly had to say goodbye to friends while traveling.

A boy and his friend wanted to sing the ukulele in a class, but everyone else did. We replied, “Of course, proceed!” These were ninth- and 10-year-olds in the fourth grade. Their classmates turned off the lights and lit up their phone flashlights while they stood up and began playing and singing. For five minutes, they transformed our shelter classroom into a concert hall. Even for a brief moment in a city under attack, it was wonderful to see them enjoying life.

That makes sense for me to choose to remain in Sumy. The families and children in this place cannot be left alone. Our classes provide that our children need. Something could occur somewhere else if you left Sumy. Moving to Ukraine is like winning the lottery, regardless of whether it’s a border city or the capital. Safety cannot be guaranteed.

Every day, the significance of that choice becomes clearer for those of us who have chosen to stay. There would be no Sumy and no one to protect if we all left.

It was a normal Teams meeting at the end of a busy week. Colleagues were discussing the hospital weekend plans. I was there too, nodding, half-present. My mind was elsewhere – on a message I’d sent earlier that morning to a friend in Gaza.

I glanced at my phone.

One tick.

WhatsApp users know the signs: one tick means the message was sent. Two ticks mean it was received. Two blue ticks, it was read.

For most people, it’s a minor delay. But when you’re texting a Palestinian friend in Gaza during a war, one tick carries a sense of dread.

Maybe his phone’s out of charge – normal in a place where power was cut off 20 months ago. Maybe there’s no service – Israel often cuts communication during attacks. But there’s a third possibility I don’t allow myself to think about, even though it’s the most likely outcome if you are living through a genocide.

Still one tick.

Back in the meeting. We wrap up. Plans are made and people start to think about their own weekend plans.

I glance again. Still one tick.

This is the curse of being Palestinian. Carrying the weight of your homeland, its pain, its people – while being expected to function normally, politely, professionally.

Then, I was told my Teams background was “potentially anti-Semitic. ”

It was a still-life image: figs, olives, grapes, oranges, watermelon, and a few glass bottles. A quiet nod to my culture and roots. But in today’s climate, even fruit is political. Any symbol of Palestinian identity can now be interpreted as a threat.

Suddenly, I was being questioned, accused, and possibly facing disciplinary action. For a background. For being Palestinian.

Still one tick.

I felt silenced, humiliated, and exposed. How was my love for my culture, for art, for my people being twisted into something hateful? Why is my choice of virtual background more controversial than the devastating violence unfolding in real time?

This is not isolated. Many of us – Palestinians, or anyone else who cares about Palestine – are being challenged on our humanity across organisations, all driven by external pressure.

And then it happened. Two blue ticks.

My friend was alive. He messaged: they fled their home in the early hours of the morning. He carried his children, walked for hours, left everything behind. No food, no shelter. But alive.

How could I explain to him what had happened to me that day? That while he ran for his life, I was threatened with disciplinary action about a painting of fruit? That I was accused of racism for an image, while he was witnessing the destruction of entire families?

This is what it means to be Palestinian today. To constantly navigate a world that erases your humanity, silences your voice, distorts your identity. To be told your pain is political. Your joy is provocation. Your symbols are offensive.

I’ve worked in the NHS for 25 years. It’s more than a job – it’s part of who I am. And now, along with two colleagues, I’m taking legal action. Not for ourselves, but to protect the NHS from external political lobbying. To say, firmly and clearly, that our National Health Service should belong to its patients and its staff – not to those who seek to silence, intimidate or twist it into serving a toxic agenda.

What happened to me is not just unjust – it is unlawful. Speaking up against genocide is not only my moral responsibility as a human being, but also my right as a British citizen in a democratic society.

I don’t write this to compare my experience with my friend’s suffering. I write it to expose the absurdity, the cruelty, of how Palestinians are treated across the world. Whether under bombs or under suspicion, we are made to justify our existence.

It shouldn’t be this way.

Being Palestinian is not a crime. But too often, it feels like the world treats it as one.

The author is currently pursuing legal action, alongside two NHS colleagues, challenging, among other things, allegations of antisemitism.