18. THE BAN

WHEN Donald Trump was elected president in 2016, Mersiha was distraught. “I couldn’t sleep all night,” she said. She lay in bed, worrying about the Muslim registry Trump talked about creating—a database of all Muslims in the United States. “Would my family be in it?”

She was frightened by his nationalistic talk: Her mind leaped back to when she was 17, and Muslims started being targeted by Serbs: “My God, do we have to go through this again? Do we have to get our passports, leave the country?”

The next morning, opening her classroom door at the refugee center, she saw a few students crying. She hugged them and told them not to worry, though she felt it was the worst day since she had arrived as a refugee.

“One of my students said, ‘Teacher—I no green card. I go home?’ ”

Later, when Hajrudin came home from work, he comforted her: “Don’t worry, honey, it’s going to go away. It won’t work.”

Oneida County—like much of upstate New York—has long been conservative. In the 2016 presidential election, 56.5 percent voted for Donald J. Trump, and 37.1 percent voted for Hillary Clinton. The county has voted for Republican presidents in every election since it went for Bill Clinton in 1996.

But in 2016, East Utica and Cornhill—where many refugees live—voted Democrat.

Donald Trump’s victory sent ripples through the refugee community. So did his executive order on January 27, 2017, that banned foreign nationals from seven predominately Muslim countries from visiting the United States for 90 days, suspended entry for Syrian refugees, and prohibited other refugees from coming into the country for 120 days.

Some families were crushed when they heard about the ban. They had been expecting relatives from the camps: A 17-year-old Nepali girl had been waiting seven years for her grandfather. He was only days away from boarding a plane when he was told there would be a delay.

A 22-year-old Somali Bantu student at MVCC had hoped her cousins would get refugee status. “They could have come here, made money, and sent it back to their mothers,” she said.

But many refugees—working long hours and focused on their families—had little time to tune into the news. “They’re here legally, so they feel safe for the most part,” said Chris Sunderland, codirector of the Midtown Utica Community Center. “They’re not really worried.”

Refugee status is granted indefinitely once a refugee has arrived in the United States. And there is a path forward: After a year, refugees are required to apply for a green card, giving them permanent resident status. After five years in the country, they may apply for citizenship.

Some older refugees, getting their news from broadcast stations back home, were confused about the recent election: “They don’t really know what Trump represents,” Dr. Stam said. “They have a basic misunderstanding of how American politics works.”

Zahara, for one, follows the news. She felt Trump had no power over her.

She is used to authoritarian leaders; she does not expect much from them. She puts all her faith in God.

“The first time Trump says I will take back immigration, I feel bad,” Zahara told me. She was watching TV in her living room.

“And when he says bad things about Muslims, I feel bad.” Then turning toward me, she said, “Only God decides.”

“Five times a day, I pray,” she explained. “I say, ‘God, I don’t know who is evil or who is good, please protect me. You are my bodyguard.’ ”

“You think a human is going to protect me?” she asked. “Donald Trump is a human being like me. He can’t do nothing to me!”

“When God says go back to my country, I go back to my country.”

Zahara has not yet applied for citizenship, so cannot vote. Mersiha and her husband voted for Hillary Clinton.

Ali voted for Donald Trump.

He was excited when Trump got elected: “I liked most of what he was saying about the economy—new jobs, bringing back jobs from Mexico and China.” He shook his head. “Upstate, most people are struggling.”

Ali had hoped Trump would eliminate terrorism: “I felt this will be a president who will do some real action.”

But then Ali heard Iraq was one of the seven countries banned.

He took this personally; he had risked his life working for Americans. So had thousands of other Iraqis. “It’s a huge slap in the face,” he said, pained. “A big mistake!”

He was glad when the ban was quickly amended to allow emigration by the families of Iraqi interpreters who had worked for the US government and military forces. But it did not take away the sting.

“Iraqis have been fighting against ISIS every minute, every day. How could he include Iraq?”

Three months after Trump’s inauguration, Ali glanced at the TV, which was turned to the local news.

“When Saddam came to power, nobody knew what was going on,” he told Heidi and her daughter, Julia; they were all eating pizza in the dining room. There was a bowl of potato chips and some carrot sticks.

“All we saw was Saddam Hussein—eight hours nonstop on TV—receiving officers, giving medals!”

“During the war with Iran, whenever you’d turn on the TV, you’d see parts of Iranian soldiers torn apart,” Ali said, picking up a slice of pizza.

He held it aloft: “This big!”

Julia, 16, looked at Ali in amazement.

She had only recently started visiting her mom’s apartment when Ali was there. Heidi had wanted Julia to wait until her ex-husband felt less angry about the divorce.

Julia was just coming out of a difficult time; as her parents were battling, she had suffered from depression. She was homeschooled for a while. But she had just started at Proctor; had a best friend, an Indian girl named Kurrine; and was feeling a lot better.

She liked Ali—who was generally quiet—so different from her father, who was loud and impulsive. Her dad worked full time at his family’s meat market.

Ali said he had good news: Trump removed Iraq from the list of banned countries.

“I had a feeling that was going to happen,” he said. “You cannot thank Iraqis by banning them.”

“The wrong was corrected. I don’t think Trump is anti-Muslim. I think he’s anti-terrorist.”

“I’m not buying it,” Heidi said, reaching for some carrot sticks.

“Ali lived through Saddam Hussein,” she told Julia. “So, if you look at Donald Trump through his eyes, he’s just a guy with a big mouth, who says extreme things.”

“And that all the people who got stuck in airports were just inconvenienced,” she added about those stranded because of the ban.

“They weren’t dropped in vats of poison. They weren’t beheaded. But they missed their flights and were sent back home—that’s still horrible!”

She looked at Ali. “I guess when Trump talks about improving the economy and infrastructure—these things seem more important. But I’m saying, don’t you hear it—the racism. Why aren’t you angry?”

Julia, extremely shy, decided to leap in, “I think Trump talks like an old white guy. He sometimes reminds me of my dad. It’s just blunt talk. And at least he’s got people talking—we kind of need that.”

Ali sighed. “He backed out of the ban on Iraqis,” he said. “It was quick. He said, ‘I was wrong.’ That’s a good thing. Hillary was trained to make decisions and stick to them. That’s dangerous.”

Julia chimed in again: “Hillary pandered to too many people. It’s great that she’s pro-gay—I mean I’m gay—but what about the economy?”

Ali and Heidi did not seem to hear Julia’s revelation.

“Look, I’m not a fan,” Ali told them. “I voted for him because I hoped he’d bring jobs here. But I don’t know what he’s going to do. Maybe he’ll start World War III tomorrow. But we can hope for the best.”

Getting up, Heidi started to clear the plates. This was a familiar discussion; she had been an avid Bernie Sanders supporter, but had voted for Hillary Clinton in the election. There was no animosity.

Ali went into the kitchen to make tea, the Iraqi way.

“I boil star anise in water,” he told Julia, “then turn the burner off. I add cardamom tea and boil it again—it gets darker and darker. Then I let it sit.”

He serves it sweet. “I love a little tea in my sugar.”