Why the door closed on those huddled masses; THE AMERICAN COLLAPSE

For years, America has been one of the world's most committed havens for refugees, annually accepting hundreds of thousands of Vietnamese anti-communists, Soviet Jews, Iranian Christians and Africans fleeing ethnic strife. But that reputation is fading uncomfortably.

Murmurs in Washington speak of the US refugee programme entering a critical stage of decline as the security-conscious US continues its struggles with Iraq and Afghanistan and squares up to a potentially growing number of military conflicts.

Last year the US admitted 28,000 refugees, a sum less than half of a 70,000 ceiling set by the Bush administration. In the period from October 2002 until May 2003 it admitted just 8864. It is feared fewer than 20,000 refugees will be admitted this year.

"Collapse is not too strong a word to describe the state of the programme," said Kathleen Newland, head of the Washington-based Migration Policy Institute, an independent organisation that monitors refugees. "There's a sense of enormous frustration."

Thousands of people worldwide have found themselves ensnared in precarious conditions overseas as the refugee programme has ground to a halt. Now, countless refugees wait in the US for good news about reunions with lost relatives that drizzles in - if it comes at all.

Historically, the US admitted an average of 1% of the world's refugees annually and led the world in the number of refugees admitted to a nation per population. This year, said Newland, the US is expected to receive a 10th of that amount.

"The fact that the United States, which resettles more refugees than any country in the world, is being faced with this crisis is a human tragedy," said Ellen Mercer, senior programme officer with the Immigration and Refugee Services of America. "The whole image of the United States as being a safe haven for those who have suffered around the world is going to change."

Government officials blame the drop in refugees in part on security measures. Male refugees from many Muslim or Arab countries must pass a review conducted by the FBI and CIA known as a Security Advisory Opinion (SAO). It is a process already heavily bogged down by applications for tourist, student and immigration visas.

Thirty-three nationalities require security checks. Layer after layer of checks and cases of what the State Department deems "widespread fraud in Africa" are also forcing an already slowed programme to a limp, said a senior State Department official.

"The numbers we did in the past are virtually impossible," added the official, speaking on condition of anonymity. "We don't have the resources. We don't have the people. We cannot process the tens of thousands of SAO checks that would restore the programme to 70,000 - this administration doesn't speak with one voice. There are people in Homeland Security that want the programme to go away altogether. We can't get the INS (Immigration and Naturalisation Service) to do interviews in southern Africa. This is a very tricky business."

Across the US, refugees wait for news that relatives who were approved to resettle before September 11, 2001, are going to be given permission to fly in. "Families have essentially been torn apart," said Newland.

Living alone in the upstate New York city of Syracuse, Sudanese refugee John Dau has been waiting for his family for more than a year. His story began 15 years ago when, in the middle of a terrifying November night, invaders pillaged his village. In a haze of bullets and flames, he became one of Sudan's thousands of "lost boys" - a name taken from the motherless band of children in JM Barrie's Peter Pan.

Dau grew up in refugee camps and believed he was an orphan. In 2000, he was airlifted to the US as part of a mission to resettle 3000 lost boys. "I believed my greatest dream had come true," he says. Now he is not so sure. After more than a decade of loneliness, grief and anguish Dau has learned that the family he lost during that fearful night has been found living in Uganda.

"I thought, 'Did I dream it? How can this be true?'" A smile illuminates his face as he describes receiving a handwritten letter in October 2001 that assured him of his family's survival. "I said: 'It's like a miracle.' I called my caseworker in Uganda and said I will do anything for you to bring them today to the United States. Anything."

In March, responding to growing threats of terrorism abroad, the INS halted all interviews in Africa and dashed Dau's hopes of being reunited with his family. In the past six months, interview after interview has been cancelled and Dau has lost hope of ever seeing his kin again.

"I'm torn apart. I have come so far. I'm not certain of their safety," he says. "How horrible it would be to have survived all this and lose them again?"

Kual lives around the corner from Dau in an apartment he shares with three other lost boys. The four of them grew up together in Kenya's Kakuma refugee camp. All lost parents and siblings in the Sudanese civil war that tore Dau from his family.

For three years, Kual has been waiting for his cousin to be given permission to find sanctuary in the United States. His cousin is the only member of his family to survive.

As Kual waits, he knows life at Kakuma is plagued by famine and violence. Deadly invasions from neighbouring tribes make living in the refugee camp more perilous.

"Life is so bad there," Kual said. "I did not want to leave him alone, as we are each other's only family. If he is alone, I am alone."

Three years later, he is still waiting.

Copyright 2003 SMG Sunday Newspapers Ltd.
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