Two months after Trump's funding cuts, a nonprofit struggles to support refugees and itself

Yahoo

16-04-2025

Bulonza Chishamara (standing) and Muganga Akilimali (center) left the Democratic Republic of Congo 10 years ago. The family was approved for refugee resettlement in Tennessee last year. Credit: Arielle Weenonia Gray for ProPublica
This story was originally published by ProPublica.
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Broken Promises: A Trump administration freeze of funds designated to help new refugees is causing chaos for families and forcing nonprofits to cut promised services.
Frustrated Families: Immigrants receiving less help from caseworkers are struggling to find work and navigate health care systems.
Overwhelmed Volunteers: Church members and other volunteers are filling some gaps, but they don't have the same resources as the aid agencies that used to do this work.
These highlights were written by the reporters and editors who worked on this story. Were they helpful?
When Max Rykov started reading a Jan. 24 letter sent to the leaders of the country's 10 refugee resettlement agencies, he found the wording vague but ominous. The agencies were ordered to 'stop all work' funded by the Department of State and 'not incur any new costs.'
At first, he wondered if the order from the Trump administration was only targeting refugee work in other countries. Rykov, then the director of development and communications at a refugee resettlement partner in Nashville, began texting colleagues at other agencies. 'What does it mean?' he asked.
By Monday, three days after the memo, it became clear. The Nashville International Center for Empowerment, along with similar nonprofits across the country, would not have access to the money the government had promised to refugees for their first three months in the United States. That day, NICE laid off 12 of its 56 resettlement staff members and scrambled to free up funds to pay for the basic needs of nearly 170 people dependent on the frozen grants.
Rykov knew exactly what was at stake, and that delivered an additional dose of dread. Born in the former USSR, he and his family arrived in the U.S. as refugees in 1993, fleeing the collapse of the Soviet Union, the economic devastation and discrimination against Soviet Jews. He was 4 years old, and it was bewildering. Though his family was part of one of the largest waves of refugee resettlement in U.S. history, they ended up in a place with few Russian immigrants.
Life in Birmingham, Alabama, a post-industrial city shaped by the Civil Rights movement and white flight, revolved around Saturday college football games and Sunday church. Rykov said his family felt 'barren' in the U.S. away from their culture. Birmingham's Jewish community was small and the Russian population tiny.
But a local Jewish organization sponsored the Rykovs and paired them with a 'friendship family.' The group rented them an apartment and furnished it. Then the organization helped Rykov's parents find work. And Birmingham's Jewish community banded together to fund scholarships for Rykov and other Soviet refugee children to attend a private Jewish school, where Rykov felt less isolated.
He went on to attend the University of Alabama and overcame his feeling of otherness. After graduation, he found purpose in bringing people together through his work organizing cultural events, including arts festivals and an adult spelling bee, doing social media outreach for the Birmingham mayor and, in 2021, finding a dream job at a Nashville nonprofit devoted to the very efforts that he believes helped define him.
When Rykov heard that President Donald Trump's second administration had ordered cuts to the refugee program, his thoughts raced to the Venezuelan refugee family his organization was assisting, an older woman in poor health, her daughter who cared for her and the daughter's two children, one not yet kindergarten age. None of them spoke English, and there was no plan for how they would cover the rent, which was due in four days.
'This is a promise that we made to these people that we have reneged on,' he said. 'Is that really what's happening? Yeah, that's exactly what's happening.'
As the realization of what lay ahead set in, Rykov started to cry.
Over the next two months, the Trump administration carried out and defended its destabilizing cuts to the refugee program. The moves brought wave after wave of uncertainty and chaos to the lives of refugees and those who work to help resettle them.
One of the largest nonprofit agencies that carry out this work, the U.S. Conference of Catholic Bishops, laid off a third of its staff in February and said Monday that it would end all of its refugee efforts with the federal government. A Jewish resettlement organization, HIAS, cut 40% of its staff. As the groups fight legal battles to recoup the millions of dollars the government owes them, some have been forced to close resettlement offices entirely.
The Nashville International Center for Empowerment is still struggling to keep its own afloat. Although NICE staff members had anticipated some cuts to refugee programs under Trump, they said they were caught off guard when reimbursements for money already spent failed to appear and by the dwindling opportunities to seek recourse.
After a judge ordered the Trump administration to restart refugee admissions, the administration responded by canceling contracts with existing resettlement agencies and announcing plans to find new partners. And the administration has indicated it will remain resistant, refusing to spend millions appropriated by Congress for refugees.
'Many have lost faith and trust in the American system because of this,' said Wooksoo Kim, director of the Immigrant and Refugee Research Institute at the University of Buffalo. 'For many refugees, it may start to feel like it's no different from where they came from.'
In court documents, lawyers for the Department of Justice argued the U.S. does not have the capacity to support large numbers of refugees.
'The President lawfully exercised his authority to suspend the admission of refugees pending a determination that 'further entry into the United States of refugees aligns with the interests of the United States,'' the motion said.
In Nashville, that anxiety has been playing out week after week in tear-filled offices and in apartment complexes teeming with families who fled war and oppression.
Rykov couldn't help but feel overwhelmed by the extreme shift in attitudes about immigrants in just a few years. In 2022, when Russia invaded Ukraine, his family's dormant fears about Russia were reawakened — but they felt a surge of pride for the U.S. when it stepped up to help Ukraine and welcome its refugees.
Months after the invasion, Ukrainian athletes came to Birmingham for the World Games, which is similar to the Olympics. When they entered the stadium waving the Ukrainian flag, the crowd gave them a standing ovation. His parents, who'd never felt quite at home in the U.S., loudly joined in the 'U-S-A' chant that followed.
But now, three years later, was all of America now ready to abandon refugees? Rykov was starting to see the signs, but he refused to believe it and instead recommitted himself to the work.
He and his colleagues reached out to every donor in their network and called an online meeting with local churches who might be able to help with rent payments, food, job searches and transportation.
Agencies would struggle without the help of the churches. And churches don't have the resources, training or bandwidth to carry out the work of the agencies.
But Rykov knew that for the time being, he'd need more help than ever from church volunteers.
'Without your intervention here, this is gonna be a humanitarian disaster in Nashville,' he told them in the online meeting held about a week after the cuts. 'And in every community, obviously, but we were focusing on ours. We're not gonna be in a position to help in the same way much longer, and this is a stark reality that we're facing.'
Then he went on the local news, warning that 'this immediate funding freeze puts those recently arrived refugees really at risk of homelessness.' The responses on social media reflected the hate and intolerance that had polluted the national conversation about immigration.
'The common theme was, 'Refugees? Do you mean 'illegal invaders'?'' Rykov recalled. 'People are so completely misinformed, clearly not reading the article or watching the story, and it's very disappointing to see that. And I guess it's sad too that I expect it.'
In late February, church volunteer Abdul Makembe and a program manager from NICE squeezed into the cramped apartment of a family of five from the Democratic Republic of Congo.
Both Makembe and NICE had been working with the family for months, but with the loss of funding, NICE could no longer offer support and had asked Makembe to be more involved.
A native of Tanzania, Makembe moved to Tennessee in the late 1970s. After working in infectious disease research and nonprofit management, which involved several trips to Africa, he retired in 2015 and began volunteering to help newly arrived African families. Rykov came to know him as a fixture of the refugee community, always eager to help.
In the apartment, Makembe perched on the edge of a couch and Mungaga Akilimali sat across from him on the floor.
'So, the situation has improved a little bit?' Makembe asked.
The Congolese man ran his hands over his head.
'The situation, so far, not yet,' Akilimali said. 'I'm just trying to apply and reapply and reapply, but so far nothing.'
Akilimali and his family fled the Democratic Republic of Congo more than 10 years ago. Since 1996, soldiers and militias have killed 6 million people there and committed atrocities against countless civilians. War, political instability and widespread poverty have displaced millions of others.
Akilimali and his wife settled for a time in South Africa, where they encountered xenophobia and anti-immigrant violence. Immigrants and refugees have become political scapegoats there, spawning a rash of attacks and even murders. His wife, Bulonza Chishamara, nearly died there in 2018 after an ambush by an anti-immigrant mob.
Doctors gave her eight units of blood and Chishamara spent days paralyzed in a hospital bed, Akilimali said. She still walks with a limp.
The family had rejoiced when they got approved for refugee resettlement in 2024 in Tennessee. Their new life in Nashville began with promise. Akilimali, who speaks fluent English and trained as a mechanic, got a driver's license and a job at Nissan.
However, he lost the job before his probationary period ended due to layoffs, and he hasn't been able to find another one. NICE used to have a robust staff of employment specialists. But the cuts forced the organization to reassign them.
That left fewer resources for people like Akilimali, who had been in the U.S. longer than the three months during which new refugees were eligible for state department aid but who still needed help finding work.
For Rykov, the work of spreading awareness about the cuts and raising funds to offset them intensified throughout February. He and others working with refugees across the country were hoping that the courts might force the administration to release the federal money — that if they could keep things afloat in the short term, relief would come.
Then, on Feb. 25, a federal judge in Washington ruled in favor of the agencies. He ordered the administration to restore payments and restart refugee admissions.
The relief was short-lived. A day later, the administration canceled contracts with resettlement agencies, and lawyers for the administration have appealed the order. Their argument: The gutted refugee agencies no longer have capacity to restart resettlement, making it impossible to comply with court orders.
Rykov said some of the diminished number of remaining staff members began to look for new jobs.
After that, Rykov and his team kicked into emergency mode. They worked long hours making phone calls and arranging meetings with potential volunteers and donors.
'It was a cocktail of emotions,' he said. The generosity of donors and volunteers filled him with gratitude. But he couldn't escape the sense of foreboding that consumed the office, where many desks sat empty and remaining employees voiced deepening concerns about the fates of their clients.
Rykov likened the urgent energy at NICE to the aftermath of a natural disaster. 'There's no time to screw around.'
At the same time, staffers worried about the cratering budget and the future of the organization. And it was hard not to notice how much the mood in Tennessee and around the country was shifting. In an order suspending refugee admissions, Trump described immigrants as a 'burden' who have 'inundated' American towns and cities.NICE had always felt protected, powered by an idealistic and diverse staff who chose to work in refugee resettlement despite the long hours and low pay. The cuts and the discourse eroded that sense of safety, Rykov said.
In February, a tech company offered him a job in Birmingham. It was a chance to be closer to his parents and back in the city where he'd come of age — a reminder of an era that felt kinder than the current one. He took the job.
'Working at NICE, it's the best job I ever had and the most meaningful job I ever had,' he said.
Rykov packed up a few things from NICE. A Ukrainian flag lapel pin. A signed photograph of him and his coworkers. In his Birmingham apartment, he placed the picture on a bookshelf next to one of him and his parents at his high school graduation.
By the time he left, NICE's refugee resettlement team was down to 30 employees; it had been 56 before the cuts. For its part, NICE has vowed to carry on. The organization has paired 24 families with volunteer mentors since the funding cuts.
Church volunteers, who were accustomed to helping furnish and decorate apartments for new arrivals, now had to help prevent evictions. They had to track down documents and help complete paperwork lost in the confusion of the nonprofit's layoffs. And the group of mostly retired professionals now had to assist with the daunting task of finding unskilled jobs for refugees who didn't speak much English.
On a mid-March morning, Makembe woke at 6 a.m. to begin tackling his volunteer work for NICE. Despite the long hours he clocks volunteering, the 74-year-old has kept his energy level and his spirits up. As he left the garage apartment he shares with his wife in a rough north Nashville neighborhood, he made sure to double-check the locks.
On this day, he was working not with the Akilimali family but with a family of four who recently arrived from Africa. The child needs to see a specialist at the Children's Hospital at Vanderbilt.
It was Vanderbilt that brought Makembe to Nashville decades ago, for his master's degree in economic planning. He followed that with a doctorate in health policy and research at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. Over the years that followed, he made repeated trips back to Tanzania to do research on malaria and parasitic infections.
All that took a toll on Makembe's marriage, and he and his first wife divorced when his two children were very young. They are now grown and successful. His son is an accountant and his daughter recently finished law school and works at a firm in New York. That leaves him more time to spend with refugees.
But the volunteer work does bring some financial stress. He is trying to save $5,000 to apply for a green card for his wife, which is tough. Because he spent much of his career working outside the U.S., Makembe receives less than $1,000 a month from Social Security. He drives a 2004 Toyota that was donated to his church to aid the congregation's work with refugees, but he pays out of pocket for gas and car insurance. The costs can add up. It's not uncommon for him to burn a quarter tank of gas a day when he is volunteering.
Makembe's church, Woodmont Hills Church, is a significant contributor to the city's refugee resettlement work — an ethos shared by its current congregants but that has led to the loss of members over the years. Though it had a congregation nearing 3,000 members in the late '90s, attendance shrank as the church's ideology grew more progressive and Tennessee's grew more conservative. It's now down to 800 members.
Yet the church remained steadfast in its commitment to helping refugees. Its leaders invited NICE to hold classes in its empty meeting rooms and made space to house a Swahili church and a Baptist church formed by refugees from Myanmar. And when NICE lost funding, Woodmont Hills members donated their time and money.
Makembe has helped dozens of refugees over the years but was particularly worried for the family he had to take to the Children's Hospital that March morning, serving as both driver and translator. They arrived right before Trump cut off funding, and they had struggled to get medical care for their 5-year-old's persistent seizures. A doctor at a local clinic had prescribed antiseizure medication, but it didn't work, and the child experienced episodes where his muscles tensed and froze for minutes at a time.
Nashville has world-class medical facilities, but NICE no longer had staff available to help the family understand and navigate that care, leaving them frustrated.
It took months for the family to get in to see a specialist. During the long wait, Makembe said, the boy's father began to lose hope. His son's seizures had become longer and more frequent. Makembe stepped in to help them get a referral from a doctor at the local clinic.
The child's father had to miss the doctor's appointment that March morning so that he could go to an interview at a company that packages computer parts. Both he and his wife had been searching for jobs and striking out. Makembe has tried to help but has run into barriers. He does not have the same connections with labor agencies that NICE staffers did.
Makembe said he wants to get the child enrolled in a special school for the fall and find a wheelchair so his mom won't have to carry him.
And that's just this family. Makembe said new refugees have been waiting for months to get job interviews. When he visits the five families he mentors, their neighbors approach him asking for help. Many of their requests are for the assistance NICE and other refugee agencies once offered.
'I'm very much worried,' he said. 'I mean, they have no idea of what to do.'