When I entered high school in Concord, I wanted what every other student wanted. I wanted to learn, earn good grades, stay out of trouble and build a future I could be proud of. I joined clubs whenever I could, worked hard in class and dreamed of competing in track and field. Like many young people, I believed that if I respected others and gave my best effort, opportunities would follow.
Instead, I learned that sometimes the greatest barriers are not created by a lack of ability, but by systems that fail to understand people’s lives.
As a freshman, I was told I could not compete in track and field because I could not provide a birth certificate. I had legal documents proving who I was. I had identification and every record I had after arriving in the United States. Still, one document became the difference between belonging and being excluded. I finally competed during my senior year, but those lost years left a lasting mark.
For many people, a birth certificate is an ordinary document. For families escaping war, genocide and persecution, it may never have existed or may have been lost forever. I grew up in the eastern Democratic Republic of the Congo, where armed conflict has displaced millions of people over the past three decades. Communities have experienced violence, forced displacement and widespread destruction. In many rural areas affected by conflict, government services, including birth registration, have been unreliable or inaccessible. When survival becomes the priority, paperwork is often impossible to preserve.
That reality followed me long after I reached safety.
Being asked for a document I never had was more than an administrative requirement. It reminded me that, despite finally living in freedom, I was still viewed differently. It quietly communicated that my experiences did not fit the system and that I would have to prove my worth in ways many of my classmates never imagined.
Martin Luther King Jr. once said, “Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.” Those words remind us that discrimination does not always appear as open hostility. Sometimes it exists within policies that seem neutral but create unequal outcomes for people with different life experiences.
Many refugee and immigrant students carry invisible burdens into classrooms every day. Some have survived war, persecution or years in refugee camps. Others have experienced interrupted education or family separation. Yet these students often hesitate to speak about their struggles because they fear being misunderstood, labeled or excluded. Too often, they learn to stay silent simply to fit in.
That silence comes with a cost.
Small moments of exclusion during childhood can accumulate into larger challenges later in life. Researchers have consistently found that experiences of discrimination are associated with increased stress, anxiety, depression and reduced educational engagement among young people. When students repeatedly receive messages that they do not fully belong, their confidence, participation and future opportunities can suffer.
This is why conversations about equity must move beyond good intentions. We must examine whether our systems unintentionally exclude people whose lives do not follow traditional expectations.
My journey did not end with those disappointments. I graduated from high school with a strong GPA, attended NHTI – Concord’s Community College, and later transferred to Southern New Hampshire University, where I am currently pursuing my bachelor’s degree. Along the way, I became deeply involved in community service and youth leadership. Becoming a U.S. citizen inspired me to run for an at-large seat on the Concord City Council, and although I lost by a small margin, it strengthened my commitment to serving my community.
Yet one issue continues to concern me.
Even after becoming an American citizen, I am often described as a “refugee” or a “New American.” While those terms may be intended respectfully, they can unintentionally suggest that people like me never fully become Americans. Refugee is part of my history, not my identity today. I am a former refugee. I am now a citizen of the U.S.
Words matter because they shape expectations and influence how institutions treat people. Inclusion means recognizing both where someone has come from and who they have become.
Former South African President Nelson Mandela said, “No one is born hating another person because of the color of his skin, or his background, or his religion.” Those words remind us that prejudice is learned, which also means acceptance can be learned.
America has always been strongest when it expands opportunity rather than limiting it. Schools, athletic associations, government agencies and community organizations should regularly review policies that unintentionally disadvantage people from conflict-affected countries. When documentation requirements create barriers, reasonable alternatives should exist. When labels no longer reflect a person’s legal status or identity, institutions should respect that change. Most importantly, people with lived experience should have meaningful voices in shaping the policies that affect them.
I still believe in the American dream because I have lived it. I escaped war, found safety, graduated, became a citizen and now serve my community. My story is not about asking for special treatment. It is about ensuring that future students are judged by their character, their effort and their potential rather than by documents they never had the chance to possess.
Belonging should never depend on where someone was born. It should depend on whether we are willing to recognize each other’s humanity. That is the America I believe in, and it is the America worth building together.
Fisto Ndayishimiye is a refugee, community organizer and youth leader based in Concord. He is the co-founder and executive director of the Young Adults Development Network, founder and director of Importance Leadership, and founder of One Concord.