Marrying a Syrian means breaking up with America, writes Anna Lekas Miller on CNN. Read on:
I start fiddling with the diamond ring that still isn't quite accustomed to its new place on my ring finger -- one of the few pieces of evidence of my relationship status -- and sneak a peek at my phone.
"Tisba7 3la khayer, habibti," my fiancé, Salem, has written to me from London, exactly 5,318 miles away and seven hours ahead of me. For some reason, the Arabic script makes me smile, a loving reminder of my other home.
Goodnight, my love.
Even though Salem and I have been dating for almost three years (and engaged for one of them), he still hasn't been able to join me for my family traditions in the United States. He is from Syria, one of the seven countries impacted by President Donald Trump's travel ban -- which, as of this week, has been deemed legal and legitimate by the Supreme Court of the United States. (While the list of banned countries has changed slightly over time, Syria has remained on every iteration of it.)
Due to the numerous iterations of this ban, Salem hasn't even had a chance to apply for a US visa, much less make a visit. I'm afraid that with the most recent news, it might be a few years before he can make it to our Christmas dinner.
Salem and I never particularly wanted to immigrate (in my case, return) to the United States, but it was nice to know that it was an option. We first fell in love in Istanbul -- and by default, with Istanbul. It felt like the perfect place for two journalists with a sense of adventure, and fascination with the changing world around them to create their home. To date, it is still one of the only places on earth where a Syrian and an American could meet one another logistically -- most other countries have too many visa restrictions in place.
Still, there were signs that our Istanbul chapter would not last forever. A few months after we moved in together, an attempted coup shook the country, sending it into a whirlwind of political chaos. As conflict reporters, we were used to staying above the fray -- but this time soon proved that it would be different.
Just a few months later, Salem was flying home from an assignment in Northern Iraq, when he was stopped at the border, and told he was no longer allowed to enter Turkey. The border officer ordered that he be deported back to Northern Iraq -- a place that he has no personal connection to whatsoever, besides it being his most recent point of departure.
Later that month, Trump signed the first executive order banning citizens from Iraq, Syria, Iran, Libya, Somalia, Sudan and Yemen from entering the United States. In short, in one stroke of a pen, he chucked our last option out the window.
I closely followed the news from Iraq, where I had since re-located, religiously keeping up with updates regarding visa waivers, and whether there were any exceptions being made for fiancé or spouse visas, in between covering the battle for Mosul. Lawyers told me to wait until the situation was more predictable, but I went to the consulate to see about the visa -- if we were going to be stuck here anyway, why not be proactive and use the time to process a visa and have a way out of here?
I was quickly told that we could only apply for a fiancé or spouse visa at the US Embassy in Baghdad, which, as our visas only permitted us to be in the Kurdish-controlled areas of Iraq, meant that this route was yet another dead end. Once again, I felt the door closing on us, along with my "romantic" dream of being married inside the militarized walls of the consular complex.
A few months later, Salem was able to travel to the United Kingdom for work -- where he immediately applied for asylum. We no longer had the privilege of time, something that applying for a US visa necessitates. We needed a home, and we needed to accept that the United States was not going to be it. Within three months, Salem got his UK asylum -- I went in and out on a tourist visa, and eventually applied for grad school, which will allow me to live in the United Kingdom on a student visa.
For the first time, Salem and I have a place that we can call home. I just wish that the United States could have given us the same.
I start fiddling with the diamond ring that still isn't quite accustomed to its new place on my ring finger -- one of the few pieces of evidence of my relationship status -- and sneak a peek at my phone.
"Tisba7 3la khayer, habibti," my fiancé, Salem, has written to me from London, exactly 5,318 miles away and seven hours ahead of me. For some reason, the Arabic script makes me smile, a loving reminder of my other home.
Goodnight, my love.
Even though Salem and I have been dating for almost three years (and engaged for one of them), he still hasn't been able to join me for my family traditions in the United States. He is from Syria, one of the seven countries impacted by President Donald Trump's travel ban -- which, as of this week, has been deemed legal and legitimate by the Supreme Court of the United States. (While the list of banned countries has changed slightly over time, Syria has remained on every iteration of it.)
Due to the numerous iterations of this ban, Salem hasn't even had a chance to apply for a US visa, much less make a visit. I'm afraid that with the most recent news, it might be a few years before he can make it to our Christmas dinner.
Salem and I never particularly wanted to immigrate (in my case, return) to the United States, but it was nice to know that it was an option. We first fell in love in Istanbul -- and by default, with Istanbul. It felt like the perfect place for two journalists with a sense of adventure, and fascination with the changing world around them to create their home. To date, it is still one of the only places on earth where a Syrian and an American could meet one another logistically -- most other countries have too many visa restrictions in place.
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| Anna Lekas Miller and her fiancé Salem |
Just a few months later, Salem was flying home from an assignment in Northern Iraq, when he was stopped at the border, and told he was no longer allowed to enter Turkey. The border officer ordered that he be deported back to Northern Iraq -- a place that he has no personal connection to whatsoever, besides it being his most recent point of departure.
Later that month, Trump signed the first executive order banning citizens from Iraq, Syria, Iran, Libya, Somalia, Sudan and Yemen from entering the United States. In short, in one stroke of a pen, he chucked our last option out the window.
I closely followed the news from Iraq, where I had since re-located, religiously keeping up with updates regarding visa waivers, and whether there were any exceptions being made for fiancé or spouse visas, in between covering the battle for Mosul. Lawyers told me to wait until the situation was more predictable, but I went to the consulate to see about the visa -- if we were going to be stuck here anyway, why not be proactive and use the time to process a visa and have a way out of here?
I was quickly told that we could only apply for a fiancé or spouse visa at the US Embassy in Baghdad, which, as our visas only permitted us to be in the Kurdish-controlled areas of Iraq, meant that this route was yet another dead end. Once again, I felt the door closing on us, along with my "romantic" dream of being married inside the militarized walls of the consular complex.
A few months later, Salem was able to travel to the United Kingdom for work -- where he immediately applied for asylum. We no longer had the privilege of time, something that applying for a US visa necessitates. We needed a home, and we needed to accept that the United States was not going to be it. Within three months, Salem got his UK asylum -- I went in and out on a tourist visa, and eventually applied for grad school, which will allow me to live in the United Kingdom on a student visa.
For the first time, Salem and I have a place that we can call home. I just wish that the United States could have given us the same.
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