As the Trump administration doubles down on sweeping, highly exclusionary immigration bans, it risks repeating the least enlightened chapters of U.S. history without learning an important lesson. There have been times when immigration policy was used not just to keep people out, but also to strengthen America’s security, moral standing and global influence.
Today’s blanket bans, pitched as a simple fix for complex border challenges, lack the nuance and strategic foresight that once made immigration an integral part of U.S. foreign policy. They shut the door indiscriminately — on the persecuted, the skilled and the allies we may need tomorrow — while failing to address the root causes of migration or harness its potential benefits.
A century ago, restrictive immigration quotas favored Northern and Western Europeans and excluded millions of Jews, Catholics, Asians and other groups deemed undesirable. Although the rhetoric has shifted, the reflex of slamming the door shut whenever fear rises remains stubbornly familiar.
Yet after World War II, America chose a different path — one worth revisiting now.
As Communism tightened its grip across Eastern Europe, the U.S. responded not only with military alliances and containment but by welcoming political exiles as strategic partners in a global ideological struggle. These immigrants became part of a larger U.S. effort to challenge totalitarian regimes through information campaigns, civic organization and cultural preservation.
Thousands were resettled in the U.S., carefully vetted and supported by organizations such as the National Committee for a Free Europe — a quasi-nonprofit quietly backed by the U.S. government — as well as Catholic Charities and the World Council of Churches.
Among them were approximately 10,000 Albanian families, mostly Muslim, who had fled Communist repression with assistance from the Free Albanian Committee and these faith-based organizations. My own family, Albanian and Catholic, was among those who found refuge and the chance to begin anew.
These newcomers were not treated as burdens to be managed or hidden. They were seen, and funded, as assets in the ideological fight against totalitarianism.
Under the State Department’s umbrella and with the financial support of diaspora communities, private foundations and businesses, these “Free Committees” launched targeted propaganda campaigns, published anti-Communist literature, educated refugee youth and strengthened America’s moral credibility. The Free Committees operated at arm’s length from the government to maintain international legitimacy, but with enough backing to be effective. They helped émigré leaders find work, sustain their cultural identities and serve as bridges between the U.S. and politically sensitive communities abroad.
The result was a kind of soft-power infrastructure that helped strengthen America’s moral position in the world while offering displaced people not just shelter, but purpose.
This approach — treating immigration as a tool of national strategy — deserves serious reconsideration. Today’s immigration debate is often reduced to a binary: openness vs. security. But history shows there is a third way of viewing immigrants not only as people to protect but as partners in protecting us.
The U.S. is home to growing diasporas from countries facing authoritarian regression: Russia, Venezuela, Afghanistan, Iran and more. Many of these newcomers are civic leaders, educators, journalists and human rights advocates. They bring language fluency, cultural knowledge, transnational networks — and a deep commitment to democratic values.
What if, instead of sidelining them, we engaged them as strategic allies?
There is a longstanding precedent. After 9/11, the U.S. quietly turned to the Afghan and Iraqi diasporas for help with translation, cultural outreach and intelligence. During the Cold War, émigrés led public diplomacy campaigns. Today’s threats — disinformation, transnational repression, democratic backsliding — call for similarly agile tools of soft power.
Latin America offers a clear example. In the 1970s and ’80s, as military dictatorships spread across the region, the U.S. granted asylum to thousands of Chilean, Argentine and Brazilian dissidents. Many — journalists, academics, artists — resettled in cities like Los Angeles and New York, where they launched independent media, documented human rights abuses and forged ties with American civil society. With modest support from U.S. institutions, these exiles kept global attention on authoritarian regimes long after the headlines faded.
That model is just as relevant today. Investing in training for Venezuelan and Nicaraguan activists — on digital security, media production or navigating asylum systems — would empower them to support their communities and expose authoritarian abuses. The same applies to Iranian and Ukrainian exiles working to safeguard dissident networks and share uncensored information.
These efforts would cost a fraction of what the U.S. spends on border enforcement and would strengthen both national security and democratic credibility.
Skeptics may argue that leveraging immigrants in this way politicizes their presence or places them at risk. But the alternative — ignoring their insights, skills and commitment — is a missed opportunity. The Free Committees of the 1950s were far from perfect, but they proved an enduring truth: Those who have fled repression often have the moral clarity and courage needed to confront it.
Immigration policy need not stand apart from foreign policy or national security. When thoughtfully aligned, it can amplify U.S. values and advance national interests. It is time to rediscover that strategic vision and trust once again those who, against all odds, still believe in the promise of America.
Fron Nahzi is the author of the forthcoming book “Ethnic Interest Groups and U.S. Foreign Policy: The Albanian-American Movements,” published by Routledge in October 2025.
