My dear Iranian friend, Paymaneh Sabet, a journalist and human rights activist, has spent over a decade trapped in Malaysia as a refugee. The UNHCR has failed to relocate her to another host country where she can find hope and freedom. There are hundreds of other Iranian refugees just like her, desperate to leave Malaysia and begin a new life.
In her most recent article, Paymaneh sends a desperate letter to President Trump on behalf of the Iranian refugees, pleading for a solution to their hopeless situation.
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Dear President Trump,
Dear Mr. Elon Musk,
We watch your sons grow with limitless possibilities. They live in a world where education is guaranteed, dreams are encouraged, and futures are built on solid foundations. But what about us? What about the Iranian refugee youth stranded in Malaysia, a place where our lives are suspended in uncertainty, where dreams are a luxury we can't afford.
Some of us were born here. Others arrived so young that we remember nothing
of Iran. We have no memories of walking through the school gates in our
homeland, no recollection of learning the Persian alphabet. We have been here
so long, waiting for the UN to decide our fate, that the idea of a proper
education is almost foreign to us. And now, those of us who have somehow
completed school are left with diplomas that hold no value. They are mere
pieces of paper that lead nowhere—no access to universities, no opportunities
for jobs.
We live in a country where we cannot pursue higher education, where we
cannot work legally, where our talents are trapped behind invisible walls. Even
the one school teaching Persian is off-limits to us because it is attended by
the children of embassy staff, a place we cannot go without risking our safety.
Our parents tell us that the only hope for a better life is a revolution in
Iran so that we can finally go home. But what does “home” mean to us? How can
we return to a country where we don’t know the language, where we have no valid
diplomas, and where the education system is so different that we would be lost?
You see, our fathers will never look at us with pride the way you look at
your son Mr. Trump. There is no light, no hope, no honor in their eyes. How
could there be, when they see us hiding from the police, when they see us
living in fear, poverty, and isolation? How can our fathers be proud of us when
they can’t afford to send us to school or buy us proper clothes? When we
tremble in fear as they argue with our mothers about money and the hopeless
search for a way out of Malaysia?
Mr. Musk, your son sits on your shoulders, smiling, playing without a worry
in the world. We’ve never known that feeling. Our fathers’ shoulders are too
tired, too burdened with worries they cannot share. Worries about how to keep
us fed, how to keep us safe, how to give us a future in a place where we are
not welcome.
There is no pride when you are a refugee. There is only survival. No
education. No job. No opportunity to express our talents or pursue our dreams.
No social life. No chance to learn a skill or prepare for a career. No hope for
a glorious future. Even getting sick is a risk because medical care is too
expensive, and sometimes even humiliating. We can’t even fall in love here.
The only things we have known are poverty, fear, hiding, and the echoes of
our parents’ quarrels about money, divorce, and desperation.
We are trapped between two worlds—one we don’t remember and one that won’t
accept us. Even if Iran becomes a place we can return to, we will face a future
of hardship. Without a valid diploma, without the language, without an
education that prepares us for university entrance exams, what hope is there?
We are a generation lost in transit, waiting for a miracle that may never
come. We have dreams too, but no soil to plant them in. We watch the world move
forward while we stand still.
We need help. We need a chance. We need someone to see us—not just as
refugees but as young people who want to learn, to grow, to contribute to the
world. We need a future.
We are not just asking for a future; we are asking for justice. Why have we
been trapped here for so many years? Who is truly responsible for our lives
being put on hold? Why does the UN keep Iranian refugees in Malaysia
indefinitely while our Afghan friends, who speak the same language, are
resettled in other countries within just four years under much better
conditions? And if our parents chose to stand against their own government to
defend their people or to worship the true God, why must we be punished
alongside them—even though they, too, are being unjustly punished? We deserve
answers. We deserve fairness. We deserve a chance.
And we are asking you, the leaders and visionaries of the world, to hear our
voices and see our struggles. We are asking for a chance to live, not just
survive.
Sincerely,
The Iranian Refugee Youth in Malaysia
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