It wasn't all that long ago our newspaper featured myriad names and faces of refugees in our community who were willing and/or anxious to share their compelling stories of escape from war and persecution.

Much has changed in the last year. In February 2016 I wrote a column about a Syrian refugee who spoke to a standing-room-only crowd at the Aurora Public Library about the journey he was forced to take after warfare turned his country into a wasteland of death and destruction. The young man also expressed genuine gratitude for the warm reception he and his young family received from this community. People "respect the Syrian newcomers," he said in his then-limited English. "They like to listen to your story."

Since Election 2016, it's much more difficult to hear their words.

When I called World Relief this week to check in with this father and husband again in the wake of President Trump's executive order banning travel from Syria and six other mostly-Muslim countries, I was told the organization didn't feel comfortable putting names and faces out there anymore. While they are more than willing to talk about how Trump's controversial actions "are affecting our clients," said Immigrant Legal Services Director Catherine Norquist, her organization does not want to put them in a situation that may put these refugees personally at risk.

It's a feeling shared by a growing number of people who live among us. An Aurora man who came here from Iraq after working as a driver for the U.S. Army also declined to be interviewed about his feelings, even when I offered anonymity. It didn't matter that the man was legally in this country, or that he was working hard, raising a family and had no travel plans in his future.

" I just want to keep my head down and not attract any attention," he said.

Another Iraqi refugee, now an American citizen living in Oswego, did agree to speak with me but preferred that his name not be used. He, too, has experienced backlash in the last few weeks from a co-worker who has toiled alongside him on a machine assembly line for seven years, and who is now verbally spewing more racism and xenophobia in the wake of Trump's actions, he said.

The 47-year-old family man is also concerned that, even though citizens like him are not affected by Trump's recent orders, "we are afraid that next time, we may be the ones who are told we must leave."

Those who were refugees aren't the only ones trying to stay out of the spotlight.

"It is very dangerous out there, even for those with green cards," said Sister Kathleen Ryan, executive director of the Dominican Literacy Center, whose work with immigrants includes helping them learn the English language and prepare for their citizenship test.

Like World Relief, staff and volunteers at this Aurora center are committed to protecting their clients from the backlash of Trump's new world order. In addition to his controversial travel ban, immigrants expressed concern about his executive order directing the construction of a wall on the U.S.-Mexico border; a well as his campaign promise to end the Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals program.

Getting an undocumented person to talk about their fears or emotions publicly has always been difficult. These days it's nearly impossible.

With the help of an interpreter, 45-year-old Imelda Cepeda, a U.S. citizen, wife and mother who works at Edward Hospital in Naperville, is concerned for her friends who have no papers. Their children, she said, are "also living in fear," worried that "ICE will come for us" at any time.

Even immigrants here legally were reluctant to use their names. A young mother who has been a U.S. citizen for eight years told me she worries about her family – including two brothers and a score of nieces and nephews – still living in Mexico. But she has other concerns, as well: what she sees as an eroding relationship between the two countries will not only have a negative impact on both nations' economies, it will contribute to those from Mexico being labeled "second class citizens."

Not all immigrants were afraid to be named. Again, with the help of an interpreter, Columbian-born Yolanda Fragoso, 40, who has her green card – her husband is a U.S. citizen – spoke passionately about her feelings. While she agrees there's a need for more secure borders, Fragoso is opposed to Trump's wall and the way he's going about doing things that is putting even those here legally on edge.

That plane ticket she bought for Mexico in March, she told me, may not get used as she's worried about getting back home again.

Still Fragoso refuses to live in fear, insisting we "all calm down, get our own affairs in order and wait Trump out." But protesting, she insisted, only does more damage, as it empowers the president and gives his staunchest supporters a reason "to say we are not good people."

Auroran Noura Almasri, a U.S. citizen who came here from Syria in 2000, disagrees, insisting that as more voices are heard, Trump will "have no choice but to listen to us."

While she does not blame these refugees for how they feel about keeping a low profile, she said "they should not be afraid" because this administration is "afraid to touch those who speak up."

"We cannot shy away from this government," said Almasri, operations manager for Syrian Forum USA based in Willowbrook.

Giving in to fear, she added, could mean losing an opportunity to help loved ones. In her case, that includes a younger brother now in Jordan who the family has been trying for over a year now to bring to this country. Her brother, an engineering student, has been through two intense and extensive interviews so far, and the hope they had that he'd eventually join the family have been dashed since Trump's ban.

Whether they arrived here as immigrants or refugees, whether they wish to remain anonymous or not, those I spoke to seem to have one thing in common: It is hard for them to grasp what is happening in this country right now. And it's not just Trump's walls or travel bans that has them concerned. They are afraid his actions will unleash pent-up feelings from extremists that will erupt into violence, perhaps directed at them or those they love. Many "are already living in the shadows," noted Dominican Literacy Center's Ryan. And now they have been pushed further into the dark.

Which is why "we need to be loud and vocal," Almasri insisted. ""We are never going to change anything if we don't speak up now."

Dcrosby@tribpub.com

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