Dear Editor,
Being an immigrant or refugee in the United States right now means carrying two worlds inside your chest at all times. One is the world we left behind, full of laughs, dreams, people we love, languages that shaped us and memories that still feel close enough to touch. The other is the world we are trying to build here, in a country where the political climate can make you feel both urgently needed and painfully unwelcome in the same breath.
This tension is constant — at work, at home and everywhere in between. In health care settings, like the one where I work, it can become overwhelming for those who are struggling with this daily reality while also navigating their own health concerns and a complex, often-bewildering system.
But community can be built anywhere. For me and for others, one such place is the Multilingual Council, part of the Patient Family Advisory Council at the University of Vermont Medical Center. This council, which I’m proud to help lead, is a cohort of individuals who speak a number of different languages and come together to help advance health access at the medical center for immigrants, refugees and, ultimately, everyone else.
Each month, we on the council are surrounded by people who understand what it means to translate not just words, but entire lives. There is quiet courage in showing up to these meetings, where we know our voices carry the weight of communities who are often spoken about but rarely spoken with.
We know what it feels like to navigate a hospital system in a language that is not your own, to interpret for a family member while hiding your fear and to feel invisible in moments when you most need to be seen. We are helping shape a system that once overwhelmed us. That transformation is its own kind of power.
Still, the pains of the moment weigh on us. National conversations about immigration can feel sharp and personal, even when framed as abstract debates. We hear leaders talk about people like us as if we are a problem to be solved rather than human beings trying to live, heal and belong — as if our very presence is up for public negotiation. Yet we continue to show up, because our story is not a political talking point: It is lived reality, and it matters.
In the council, we find a rare space where multilingualism is not a barrier but a strength. Where cultural knowledge is not an afterthought, but a necessity. Where our experiences — painful, complicated, hopeful or difficult — become tools for building better care for others who walk the same path.
We are not just advocating for language access; we are advocating for dignity. There is pride in that. There is grief in that. There is resilience in that.
And there is a quiet truth that anchors us: Being an immigrant or refugee has taught us how to survive uncertainty, how to adapt, how to listen deeply and how to hold compassion even when the world feels divided.
In a time when the national conversation can feel heavy, the council is a reminder that change often begins in rooms like this — rooms where people who have lived the struggle are shaping the solutions. We belong here. Our voice matters here. And every time we speak, we carry forward not just our own story, but the stories of countless others who are still finding their way.
We can all play a role in fostering more spaces like this. If we want strong, healthy and prosperous communities, we must build structures that intentionally include immigrant perspectives. If we want systems that work, we must invite and empower immigrants to help design them. If we want belonging, we have to create it together.
Mohamed Jafar,
Shelburne, Vt.
