By Rebecca Wells

I’ve spent this entire week carrying a heavy weight in my chest, struggling to process my feelings about the arrival and swift acceptance of a group of white South African “refugees.” What I feel most is heartbreak. Bewilderment. And a deep, aching sorrow for what this says about who we’ve become. 

For years, I’ve watched countless refugees — desperate, displaced, terrified — wait endlessly for the smallest chance at safety. People who have fled bombings, ethnic cleansing, famine and political persecution. People who’ve done everything right, endured invasive screenings, exhaustive background checks and years of bureaucratic limbo. And now, many of them are simply turned away. Their paths to safety blocked. Their lives left in uncertainty. 

Humanitarian programs have been quietly gutted. Funding slashed. Resettlement pipelines slowed to a near standstill. Families from Syria, Sudan, Afghanistan and Ukraine are left in limbo. Students and scholars are sent home with barely a warning. Thousands are deported without due process, without legal counsel, without even a chance to be heard. 

And then, just like that, nearly 60 white South African (Afrikaner) refugees are flown in on private charters. Welcomed. Fast-tracked. Granted a new beginning in a matter of weeks, under a February executive order designed specifically for them. No long waits. No years in camps. No fear of rejection. Just a warm reception and the benefit of the doubt. 

How did we get here? 

What message are we sending, when whiteness and wealth seem to be the fastest tickets to refuge, while the world’s most vulnerable are left begging for scraps of compassion? 

It breaks my heart because I believed we were better than this. That our country stood for something more just, more fair, more deeply rooted in the dignity of every human life. Refugee status shouldn’t be a prize handed out based on race, connections or political favor. It should be a reflection of need and our shared humanity. 

But today, I can’t shake the feeling that something sacred has been lost. Our credibility. Our moral compass. Our promise of fairness. 

If we continue down this path, picking and choosing who “deserves” safety based on appearance or politics, we are dismantling everything our refugee system was meant to protect. And the cost will not only be paid by those left outside our gates, but by all of us who once believed in a more compassionate America. 

We need to find our way back. Before this sadness becomes permanent. Before the damage becomes irreparable.

Rebecca Wells lives in Salisbury.