Vietnam

Hanna began with Vietnam, the war that perhaps most durably shaped the Americans’ pessimistic view of war and later the demographic map of cities across the U.S. “First, you have the justification, which was to stop the spread of communism,” Jack said. “Then you have escalation, and then came the overwhelming military deployments.” Millions of soldiers and civilians died. The Khmer Rouge’s rise and the resulting killing fields became a catastrophe in itself, claiming two million Cambodian lives. This produced its own wave of refugees in the years that followed.

“Once you go into a country that is not your own to fight a war, you have to develop alliances and relationships with the people in the community there,” Hanna said. “And if you lose the war and retreat, those people are at risk.” The obligation to those allies was real, he argued, but the plan to honor it was almost entirely absent. “We had no specific plan how to assist them thereafter.”

What emerged from that failure of planning was the U.S. Refugee Act of 1980 and the creation of the Office of Refugee Resettlement, the modern framework for absorbing displaced populations, built not from foresight but from a moral reckoning after the fact. “That began the system, so to speak, of how we have these immigrants come to the United States and be absorbed and acclimated,” The system has improved over the decades, he acknowledged, but it remains far short of what a best-case response would look like.

Somalia

Somalia, Hanna said, represented a somewhat different kind of intervention, one driven as much by humanitarian crisis as by ideology. A devastating famine and a civil war had torn the country apart by the early 1990s, and the United States entered in 1992 ostensibly to stabilize the situation. But he was careful not to reduce it to simple altruism. “Many times there are other factors involved that are above and beyond just ideological political matters, including corruption, including famine, and other countries’ ulterior motives for their own political and economic purposes.”

The result was nearly 98,000 Somali immigrants eventually making their way to the United States, with the largest concentration settling in Minnesota, a fact that would loom over the broader discussion of the ICE incursions (the topic that AAUC upcoming summit in Minneapolis plans to address). What distinguished the Somali community, he argued, was the degree to which it had organized itself. “There was a high rate of naturalization that occurred for them, and that is very, very unique, and I think a reflection of the strength of the self-organization that the community has gone through.” It was a point that would echo later, when Kim Sin held up the Somali community as a model his own Cambodian community was still striving to emulate.

Iraq and Afghanistan

Hanna grouped the post-9/11 wars in Iraq and Afghanistan together, not because they were identical, but because they shared a common origin point and a common pattern of consequences. Both were launched in the wake of September 11, 2001, though the justifications diverged sharply.

The Iraq War, he said, was sold to the American public and to Congress on the claim that Saddam Hussein possessed weapons of mass destruction. “Did not exist,” Hanna said flatly. “A complete failure as far as the justification is concerned.” The humanitarian consequences were staggering: over 600,000 Iraqis killed, millions more displaced. American forces withdrew in 2011, only to return in 2013 and 2014 when the vacuum they left was filled by ISIS. “We still have about 2,000 troops there,” he noted, a presence that continues without a clear endgame, two decades after the original invasion.

Afghanistan presented what Hanna called a more defensible justification, given Al-Qaeda’s operational presence there following 9/11. But the outcome was similarly grim. Over 100,000 Afghan civilians died, along with 2,400 Americans. And the withdrawal, when it finally came in August 2021, was chaotic. The Taliban moved swiftly to consolidate power, and the Afghans who had spent years cooperating with American forces — translators, administrators, soldiers, civil society leaders — were left acutely exposed. “The consequence was disastrous,” Hanna said. “And we still suffer the consequences of that political, economic, and military defeat.”

More than 190,000 Afghans eventually immigrated to the United States on the grounds that they had assisted American efforts and that the U.S. bore a moral and legal obligation to protect them from Taliban retribution. But Hanna argued that obligation has since been abandoned. “Sadly, in my opinion, America has failed with regard to the obligations it has to the Afghans,” he said. “And now is not letting any of them in, and just this past week has decided to send them to the Congo.”

Syria

Hanna saved Syria for last, describing it as personal as it is the country of his own heritage. A civil war that ground on from 2011 to 2025 produced what he called one of the largest refugee crises in recent history: 13 million people displaced, 7 million of them driven across international borders. “It was one of the largest groups of refugees since WWII,” he said. The United States absorbed approximately 50,000 of those community members, a fraction of the total, and a number that has now effectively been reduced to zero under the current administration. “That has been practically completely terminated,” Hanna said, “as it is with the Afghans, since the new administration has come into power.”

Taken together, he argued, these four cases, and the dozens of other interventions that Fong would display in a closing slide, reveal something important about the relationship between American foreign policy and American demographics. “These are just some of the examples of what’s occurred in the past,” Hanna said. “There are common experiences. America goes into these wars, and what are the consequences of us leaving — and in many instances having failed military efforts — and the refugees and immigrants it creates? The lessons are there, if we choose to learn from them.”

Kim Sin’s Story

After Jack provided the historical context, the town hall’s guest speaker offered the human story behind it. Kim Sin is the co-founder of the Cambodian American Partnership of Minnesota and a longtime community advocate based in Rochester. He was three years old when his family fled Cambodia.

Describing his earliest memories of the camp on the Thai-Cambodian border, he said, “I thought that was my home. Then I got very curious, wanting to know why I could not leave the barbed wire fence.” His mother’s answer came slowly and heavily, Cambodia was under the Khmer Rouge, and because his father had been a soldier, the entire family would have been executed had they stayed. “My family had to take a risk and escape,” Sin said. “All the educated, all the wealthy, all the people with knowledge were executed because they were considered a risk and a rebellion against the new government. That’s why we are here.”

Sin spent three years moving between camps before being flown to the Philippines for six months of medical screening and processing. The camps were orderly in their way, governed by permission slips and barbed wire, rationed food and routine uncertainty. “Me and my sister would have to line up, holding the same bowl, and we would get a rice porridge,” he recalled. “My mom would sit in the sun, waiting for food distribution.” There was no school. There was no stability. There was only the next camp, and then the next.

Aid workers showed refugees American films, glimpses of a country that seemed almost fantastical. “It showed, like, it was heaven on earth,” Sin said with a laugh. “Big houses, mansions, luxury cars. I was just praying to come to the U.S.” He paused. “When I got to the U.S., the perspective that Hollywood portrayed was not the way that I imagined.”

Arriving in America

Kim was six years old when he landed in Rochester, Minnesota, speaking not a word of English. The support systems of the early 1980s were, by his account, almost nonexistent. “We didn’t have a really supported system in place back in the early 80s,” he said. “It was new to the U.S. government, they didn’t even have any structure.”

Families were required to report to government offices every three months to maintain healthcare and cash assistance, with little guidance on how to navigate those bureaucracies. Transportation was a constant problem. “We didn’t know how to use a taxi. We didn’t know how to use the transportation that a city offers. There was no one to help and guide our community.” Grocery stores were out of reach. The housing they were placed in was cheap, but it was also isolated. “They kind of threw us into a community,” Sin said. “They put us in the worst of the worst.”

Those who needed help getting to a doctor’s appointment had to pay out of pocket for assistance, a crushing burden. “If you had six people in your family, you’d have to pay more. The most would be $100, the least $40. But back in the 80s, that was a lot of money.” Even small costs added up to impossible math for families with no income, no language, and no map of the system they’d landed in.

And then there was the matter of who Sin was at home versus who he was expected to become at school. “I had to live in two cultures,” he said. “My parents were trying to pull me not to stray away from Cambodian culture, but at school, my peers, the environment — it was pulling me to live and be an American. It was very, very tough.”

The Weight That Carries Forward

Fong asked Sin to explain intergenerational trauma, which comes up in a lot of conversations he has with the Southeast Asian American community.

“A lot of the parents and grandparents were experiencing the Khmer Rouge War,” he said. “They saw people getting killed in front of them, family members executed in front of them. So coming to a new country, even though the kids are growing up here or born here, there’s a lot of restrictions.” The fear that had kept parents alive in Cambodia, including hypervigilance, secrecy, distrust, followed them into American living rooms and didn’t know how to stop. “The trauma of their past experience during the Khmer Rouge War carried on with them.”

When children pushed back, as American children do, parents often couldn’t distinguish normal adolescent independence from genuine danger. “They fear of losing their kid. They hear about kidnapping, people getting murdered in America. So the trauma just keeps going.” The result was a growing distance between generations, and within that distance, damage. “There’s a gap that keeps on pushing and pushing, and there’s tension, and there’s abuse in that, where the father feels the kid is not giving them respect. And when they come to a new country, the respect is gone.”

Fathers who had been engineers, lawyers, or government officials in Cambodia arrived in America to find that none of it transferred. “Doctors, lawyers, engineers — when they come here, they end up cleaning toilets, doing housekeeping work, because their status in Cambodia did not carry over,” Sin said. “Knowing that their status as a toilet cleaner is an embarrassment for them, it was tough. They feel degraded.” Without professional standing, without language, without a pathway back to the life they had known, some turned to alcohol, gambling, or worse. Their children watched. “Parents become alcoholic, they have gambling issues, and that makes it harder for the younger generation — they’re being pulled and prevented from moving on.”

Yen Marshall, the AAUC’s board president, joined the conversation. She and her family fled Vietnam by boat. “Depending on how we left that situation, we have a different view on how to kind of move forward,” she said. But she also described a dynamic that played out in households across every immigrant community on the call: children who learned English faster than their parents suddenly found the family’s power structure quietly, uncomfortably reversed. “In a short time, your kids know more than you, they’d be your translator when you go and ask for help. With that table turned around, the frustration builds, and when they’re not doing things the way that you feel they should, the conflict inside the house is huge.” Her father, who had run his own business in Vietnam and employed multiple people, arrived in America washing dishes in a restaurant. The shame and disorientation of that fall, she said, had nowhere to go. “There’s no way for them to communicate it out.”

The consequences showed up in statistics that still trouble Sin today. “In the 80s and 90s, there was a high number of suicides. We see a lot of young generation, they shot themselves, they couldn’t deal with the issues at home.” Girls dropped out of school, became pregnant in junior high. Boys joined gangs. “They were using a high number of drugs that was causing them to be suicidal, and some of them overdosed. Some of them died in their cars, sleeping in the car.” He paused. “That was a big issue within our community.”

Fong asked about the comparison to other Southeast Asian immigrant communities and whether Cambodians had fared differently than Vietnamese or Hmong Americans. Sin didn’t soften his answer. “We are considered the lowest and least educated community. The last time I got the report, 58% of Cambodians are failing in school.” He attributed part of this to a wound that is uniquely Cambodian.

Michael Siv, a Sacramento-based advocate and filmmaker whose own family fled Cambodia, joined the conversation, offering this grim distinction, “The Khmer Rouge is our own people. A quarter of the population massacred. There’s not a lot of dialogue about when your own kind just massacred your whole country.” He drew a pointed contrast with other refugee communities. “The Hmong can blame America, they can blame Laos or the Vietnamese government. But for Cambodians, nobody really talks about it. Your own people pretty much just massacred your whole country. So, there’s a mistrust in creating that conversation.” That silence, he argued, has made the communal reckoning necessary for healing almost impossible to begin, and has contributed to a fragmentation that distinguishes the Cambodian American experience from that of other Southeast Asian communities. Sin agreed: “It’s very hard and emotional for the elderly to share. A lot of tears. A lot of complication. We try, slowly, to get them to share their feeling about their past.”

What Healing Looks Like

Fong turned the conversation toward recovery, asking what communities and organizations are doing to address the psychological burden carried across generations. The responses from around the call converged on a single word: community.

Charlene Reyes, 19, a Sacramento member of the youth organization Young and Rooted and the daughter of immigrant parents said, “I can’t say much about what the older generation is doing to find healing,” she said. “But I know that even in the younger generation, kids my age, kids younger than me, they are affected by our parents’ past and the trauma they went through. It’ll always be with us, throughout the generations.” What has helped, she said, is simply not being alone in it. “A lot of kids of immigrants — I’m first generation, my mom was an immigrant, my dad’s an immigrant — it shows that there’s a lot of people, a lot of kids, that have parents that are like that. I’ve seen it help a lot of these kids. I’ve seen it help myself. To know that we all have the same sort of struggles, similar enough that we can understand each other without even talking about it.”

Yen Marshall echoed that, drawing on her own experience as a boat refugee from Vietnam. She described a particular burden that many first-generation immigrants carry but rarely name: survivor’s guilt. “A lot of people died on that journey leaving,” she said. “Being the survivors, we felt very lucky already. But what about all those who died and couldn’t make it?” That guilt, she argued, became a kind of fuel. “Part of the immigrants, the generation that came here, felt that it was their responsibility to make a difference, not just in their own lives, their family, but the community surrounding them.” Building up the community, she said, was how many first-generation immigrants processed what they had survived. But communication remained the great obstacle. The trauma left people frustrated and inarticulate, unable to express what they carried. “There’s no way for them to communicate it out.”

What she came back to, ultimately, was the same thing Charlene had said, and the same thing Kim Sin had said: the need for places where people can simply be together without explaining themselves. “Community is a place to unwind, to reconnect, to take a breather — even from your own family,” Marshall said. “Building a strong community where new immigrants, or even older immigrants who’ve been here for a while, can reach out and lean on you — I think that’s one of the best ways to move forward.”

Building the Basket Back

Sin closed the meeting with a message that was honest about the scale of the problem and clear-eyed about what it will take. The Cambodian community, he said, is like “a broken basket, we’re trying to weave that basket back together, but it’s just hard to pull that bamboo string back. It’s going to take many, many generations.”

His own model of leadership, he explained, is rooted in this: “I don’t need your money, but I need your participation. That’s the difference.” Through the Rochester Cultural Center, which he helped found, and through his work connecting with Somali, Vietnamese, and Hmong leaders across Minnesota, he has been studying what makes other communities resilient. “I see why they are so successful. It’s because they know how to support each other. And that’s what our Cambodian community needs.”

He saved his most direct words for the broader audience — for the non-immigrants and policymakers and fellow advocates on the call. “It’s hard to live in a situation where your family’s not educated, where your family doesn’t have the resources. We need to help them in a way that lets them move forward and be able to live the American dream.” He thanked AAUC for reaching out and asking the simple question: what can we do to help your community? “Coming together is so important,” Sin said. “I’m just one person. But how do I build new leadership. That is the challenge I see.”

In closing, Fong reinforced a broader argument that America has never fully accounted for the human cost of its foreign wars. A slide he shared at the close of the session catalogued dozens of military interventions over the past 60 years, from the Dominican Republic in 1965 to the current conflict in Iran. He called it, with sarcasm, “the U.S. military resume.” “We don’t really factor in the cost of refugee displacement when we enter these wars,” he said. “Each of these has produced displaced populations, people with varied stories and circumstances, coming to America.”

SEAFN UNITI Fest was a three-day retreat held March 10–12, 2026, at the Jose Rizal Community Center in Sacramento. More than 100 community leaders, organizers, artists, and advocates attended from across the United States, representing Cambodian, Hmong, Laotian, and Vietnamese communities. Many came from small, grassroots organizations that had never before been in the same room together. They were welcome by Co-Executive Directors of SEAFN, Chhaya Chhoum and Pheng Thao.

UNITI stands for “Unite, Nourish, Inspire, Transform, and Ignite.” The event was organized by SEAFN, the Southeast Asian Freedom Network. The agenda covered many topics including movement strategy, gender justice, and creating “healing space” for people grappling with their family’s journey to American and now doing frontline community work. An outdoor screening of “Taking Root,” a documentary series about Southeast Asian refugee communities rebuilding in America, capped one of the evenings.

The timing of UNITI Fest marked the 50th year anniversary of the end of the Wars in Southeast Asia. The fall of Saigon, the end of the Khmer Rouge’s rise to power, and the conclusion of the Secret War in Laos are conflicts that displaced millions and sent waves of refugees to the United States. SEAFN framed the anniversary as a strategic inflection point for the attendees.

Who Came and Why Sacramento

Attendees traveled from Maine, Florida, Texas, Wisconsin, Minnesota, and California. Most represented organizations less than five years old.

Chhaya Chhoum said the Sacramento location was chosen in part because of what she and a colleague heard while touring the Central Valley ahead of the event. “When we were having conversations with folks in the Central Valley, particularly in Sacramento, Southeast Asian organizations who were saying, ‘This is the first time we’re in a room with each other,'” Chhoum said. “So, for us, it was an opening, an opportunity, an invitation to come to Sacramento.”

Chhoum said the goal of the gathering was not to respond to immediate crises like deportation fights, immigration enforcement, daily political pressures, but to step back from them.” All of our folks are urgently surviving, making decisions around who do we fight for around deportation, detention, all that stuff,” she said. “We really want to curate a space that allowed for people to dream and imagine what the next 50 years and beyond look like to Southeast Asian people in this country.”

Inside the Sessions

The program was built around sessions that moved from reflection to action The opening session, “Many Struggles, One Fight,” brought together speakers to discuss what connects communities whose histories (Cambodian genocide, the Vietnam War, the Laotian Secret War) are distinct but intertwined. Another session, “From Silos to Systems,” had attendees map their organizational ecosystems by region and affinity group, identifying gaps, overlaps, and potential collaborators.

The most discussed session was “The Horizon,” facilitated by Emil Sao of Collective Acceleration, a learning community focused on long-term systems change. Sao asked participants to envision what Southeast Asian communities would look like not in five or ten years, but seven generations, or roughly 150 years, into the future.

The exercise, he acknowledged, runs counter to how most advocacy organizations operate. “We’re so focused on reactivity and triage and thinking about what we need right now,” Sao said. “Actually, the best way to move towards a thriving world is to envision and strategize much further beyond.”

He pushed participants toward specificity, away from policy abstractions. Instead of “food sovereignty,” he asked: what does it mean to farm the exact seeds you want, in the garden you want? The framing came from indigenous traditions, he noted. Seven generations is a timeframe used by many indigenous cultures worldwide as a planning horizon.

Another session was “The Future Is Ours,” used a rotating chair format to let attendees share what they were taking away and what actions they intended to take.

What Young People Said They Were Fighting For

A notable feature of the gathering was the number of young attendees, people in their 20s and early 30s who are a generation or more removed from the refugee experience but still navigating its consequences. Chhoum said a clear theme emerged when she asked young participants what they were fighting for.

“They’re fighting for belonging,” she said. “And they’re fighting for the accountability of the harm that was caused to their parents and their grandparents. Part of belonging is also understanding how you got here, how your people got here, how your family survived.”

TK Le, SEAFN’s Communications Coordinator, said the question of whether young Southeast Asians are focused on their own present-day struggles or their parents’ and grandparents’ histories may be a false choice. “We’re always all looking to the past, the present, and the future all at the same time,” Le said. “The past never goes away — the genocides, the wars, the immigration. We carry all that with us.”

Le pointed to a hand-lettered piece on the event’s community quilt wall, a collaborative art installation where attendees contributed writing and images throughout the weekend. The text read: “We struggle from different forms of colonial violence imposed by the same colonial capitalist hands. The system cannot protect you from violence. We protect us.”

“Our oppressions are related,” Le said. “We have to remind ourselves that our liberations are also connected.”

What Attendees Envisioned

The written reflections produced during the Horizon session formed a sprawling, unfiltered record of what participants said they were working toward. Taken together, they described a world without borders, a criminal justice system replaced by community-based accountability, free and universal healthcare, multilingual education, rights for ecosystems, queer Southeast Asian people living openly and safely, and an end to billionaire wealth accumulation.

The writing was sometimes lyrical, sometimes blunt. One participant described the work ahead this way: “I see horizon work as us, in a boat, on the shore of collapse, making the decision that we have a direction of where we want to go. We have some, not all, of the supplies. But despite that uncertainty, we move towards the horizon.”

Another wrote: “There are people not yet born, or even a concept yet, who will experience turmoil, strife, struggle that may not even exist in this world yet, who I am dedicating my life, my time on Earth to.”

What Organizers Said They Wanted Attendees to Take Home

SEAFN’s stated goals for the gathering included building a shared policy and advocacy platform across racial, gender, and economic justice lines, and strengthening collaboration among Southeast Asian organizations that have historically operated independently of one another.

Chhoum was direct about her expectations for what happens after people leave Sacramento. “We hope they continue to do community work,” she said. “Doesn’t have to be through a nonprofit. They can become farmers, healers, business people, social media influencers. But that they do it all towards this horizon that we create collectively together, that wherever they are, they do all of their work towards that horizon.”

On January 19, 2026, our nation commemorates the day of service in memory of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., honoring his profound influence on the nation. Dr. King exemplified how moral fortitude and the practice of nonviolence could catalyze transformative societal transformation. His philosophy was deeply rooted in Christian principles and further enriched by Mahatma Gandhi’s doctrine of nonviolence, which itself draws inspiration from the Hindu ‘Sanatana’ philosophy centered on the soul’s aspiration for peaceful existence.

I am also witnessing daily the images of unrest, anger, and profound division that permeate our society. Dr. King’s words resound with renewed urgency. His dream was not nurtured in comfort or tranquility; it emerged during a time of profound injustice, fear, and resistance. Recalling this context reminds me that today’s unrest, while distressing, also reflects unresolved wounds that still demand moral courage and forthright accountability. Numerous families in Iran, Bangladesh, and other global regions are grappling with political upheaval. Additionally, there is unrest in various parts of the world where natural calamities and poverty have wreaked havoc, resulting in people living under challenging circumstances. We also encounter unrest within our own country, where citizens are troubled, and their daily activities are significantly impacted by the presence of federal forces in pursuit of individuals from other nations who were escaping from poverty and residing in this country without proper documentation and legal status. It is widely believed that our systems are strained due to the influx of individuals without legal status, who are depleting our resources.

All these situations, consistently depicted by American Networks, serve as poignant reminders of the enduring principles of Martin Luther King Jr.’s compassion and kindness. This is particularly evident when considering the peace walk undertaken by a group of Buddhist monks and their canine companion, Aloka. Their journey, spanning an impressive 2,300 miles from Texas to Washington, D.C., has garnered widespread media attention and has inspired countless individuals.

Throughout their trek, individuals have joined the monks for specific segments, providing sustenance and support to their noble cause. The monks’ silent walk for peace, compassion, and unity has also captivated the attention of photographers and journalists, who have documented their progress and the profound spirit of their endeavor.

This journey underscores the profound significance of cultivating compassion, fostering unity, and engaging in peaceful actions within our daily lives.

Martin Luther King Jr. firmly believed that nonviolence was not synonymous with passivity, but rather a potent force for transformative change. In moments when frustration spirals into chaos, his example urges us to respond not with silence or anger, but with disciplined compassion and purposeful action. He recognized that justice delayed engenders unrest, yet he insisted that the path forward must preserve our shared humanity. This delicate balance feels particularly challenging in the current context, characterized by fragile dialogue and diminished trust.

I vividly recall reading about his dream, his words resounding with clarity: “I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: ‘We hold these truths to be self-evident: that all men are created equal.’” This aspiration resonates with many, as we aspire to collaborate peacefully and reap the rewards of our collective efforts with dignity, honesty, and civic engagement. This is a call for working together for common good and prosperity.

Editor’s Note: AAUC encourages you to get involved in commemorating the 250th Anniversary of the Declaration of Independence by submitting a story or hosting a local event. For more information and to join the mailing list visit DOI250AA.

Celebrating Social Progress Since the Founding

In 1776, when the founders of the thirteen North American colonies resolved to separate from the British Empire, they confronted the unprecedented challenge of designing a nation grounded in reason rather than inherited monarchy or religious dogma. The drafting committee of the Declaration of Independence had to articulate the origin of political authority and define the relationship between the people and their government. Thomas Jefferson, as the principal drafter, with contributions from Benjamin Franklin and John Adams, crafted the sentence often called “the greatest ever written”:

“We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness.”

This formulation asserts that rights arise naturally at birth and that individuals delegate limited authority to their elected representatives to form a government. This arrangement constitutes a social contract that holds public officials and governmental institutions accountable. On this basis, the Declaration maintains that whenever a government becomes destructive of these ends, “it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government.” Abraham Lincoln later distilled this principle as “government of the people, by the people, and for the people.”

This philosophical framework represented a major milestone in the history of political thought. However, the realization of its ideals has been an ongoing process. At the time of the Declaration’s signing, “all men” applied only to white male property owners, excluding women, enslaved people, and Native Americans. Although discrimination persists, a central dimension of American social progress over the past 250 years has been the gradual expansion of equal rights to all people.

Finding Common Ground in Twenty-First-Century America

The principles articulated in the Declaration unified a diverse population of colonists, immigrants, and pilgrims by defining a shared foundation and common aspirations. Today, the United States confronts a transformed global economic order, an AI-driven technological revolution, and demographic changes that are leading toward a minority-majority society. Meeting these challenges and developing solutions that benefit all Americans is a matter of collective interest.

The question, therefore, is whether the same principles—now understood to include all individuals—can once again help Americans find common purpose and renewed aspirations.

We commemorate the 250th anniversary of the Declaration because of its self-evident truths, its affirmation of human equality and unalienable rights, the Constitution that safeguards those rights, and the democratic institutions based on checks and balances together provide a durable framework capable of guiding a diverse population through peaceful evolution. The collective wisdom derived from multiple civilizations and cultural traditions surpasses that of any single source. Embracing a pluralistic society and strengthening a multiethnic democracy offer a path through which the American people can create a brighter future for generations to come.

AAPI Contributions to the American Story

Long mischaracterized as “economic threats” or “perpetual foreigners,” Asian Americans and Pacific Islanders (AAPI) have been integral contributors to the American story. We, too, affirm the truths expressed in the Declaration of Independence.

Commemorating the Declaration’s 250th anniversary offers the AAPI community an opportunity to deepen our understanding of the “American DNA” embodied in its founding principles. For many first-generation immigrants, this understanding helps bridge the psychological gap between feeling like outsiders and embracing an American identity. For future generations, it reinforces both love of country and pride in their ancestral heritage.

In an immigrant nation, the status of any minority group is shaped by its contributions and leadership. The 25 million AAPI Americans—constituting 7.2 percent of the population—have already made, and will continue to make, distinctive contributions as the United States enters an AI-empowered, pluralistic era. AAPI communities must participate fully in the America250 commemoration as stakeholders and storytellers. As heirs to ancient civilizations, AAPI Americans can bring the essence of their cultural traditions into American economic, social, and political life, thereby enriching the national fabric and advancing democratic leadership.

While the AAPI community shares certain interests, it is equally an inseparable part of a broader community of shared destiny with all Americans.

Achieving Our Shared American Dream

The assertion that “all humans are created equal” lays the foundation for the United States as a land of opportunity. This principle is the core of the shared American Dream. In his 1931 work The Epic of America, James Truslow Adams described this dream not as one of material wealth, but as:
“a dream of social order in which each man and each woman shall be able to attain to the fullest stature of which they are innately capable, and be recognized by others for what they are, regardless of the fortuitous circumstances of birth or position.”

Martin Luther King Jr. further refined this vision by calling for a society in which individuals are judged solely by “the content of their character.”

Achieving this shared dream requires both sociological and biological processes. Social progress often emerges through negotiation, conflict resolution, and legislation enacted through democratic institutions. Such progress occurs gradually, but it transforms society on a broad scale. Interracial marriage accelerates integration at the individual and family levels. According to the U.S. Census Bureau, the multiracial population grew from 9 million in 2010 to 33.8 million in 2020—a 276 percent increase.

Recognizing that humanity is ultimately one, we must strive for a society in which every person can achieve their full potential and live a fulfilling life. Communication and interaction across different backgrounds foster understanding and appreciation. Appreciation cultivates respect, and respect builds the trust necessary for collaboration.

As we commemorate the 250th anniversary of the Declaration of Independence, it is up to all of us to work together toward realizing our shared American Dream.

Get Involved

AAUC encourages you to get involved in commemorating the 250th Anniversary of the Declaration of Independence by submitting a story or hosting a local event. For more information and to join the mailing list visit DOI250AA.

DOI250AA is a national, community-guided initiative of the Chinese American Community Action Planning Council. We are an independent effort shaped by Asian American leaders, educators, bridge-builders, and supporters across the United States. For more information, visit doi250aa.net.

The video has racked up 1.2 million views on YouTube since it was posted in October 2025.

The journey begins with conversations on the streets, where residents push back against common stereotypes. Many emphasize gratitude toward the United States, the safety and familiarity of their neighborhood, and the tight-knit network of mosques, youth programs, and local businesses that anchor daily life. One resident reflects on arriving as a refugee and building a life, while also sharing how misinformation once harmed his reputation—an example of how quickly narratives about Somali Americans can distort reality.

Cedar-Riverside, once a Scandinavian hub, has evolved into what locals call the “Somali capital” of the U.S. Longtime property managers describe the area’s transformation as an evolution driven by new immigrant families seeking community and opportunity. Young people echo this sentiment: while they acknowledge concerns about crime, they describe their neighborhood as lively, supportive, and far more ordinary than online portrayals suggest.

A visit to the sprawling Karmel Somali Mall reveals a vibrant commercial center filled with small businesses, many run by women. For newcomers and longtime residents alike, the mall is both an economic engine and a cultural touchstone. Interviews with Somali entrepreneurs highlight themes of cultural pride, resilience, and the challenges of navigating American racial categories and expectations.

The video ends with insight from a Somali parliamentarian living in Minnesota, who stresses the deep historical ties between the U.S. and Somalia and affirms Somali Americans’ commitment to the “American dream.” Ultimately, the filmmakers pose a question: Are Somali Minnesotans simply the newest immigrant community facing old stereotypes?

This video and the public reaction expressed in the comments invite viewers to decide for themselves.

Recommended Reading

The History of Somalis in Minnesota, by Anduin Wilhide, Minnesota Historical Society, April 17, 2025

Texas State Representative Gene Wu’s fiery address at the 2025 Unity Summit illuminates the intense political battles he’s waged in Texas. On September 17, at the Rayburn House Office Building, in Washington, D.C., he delivered a powerful call to action for Asian-Americans and other minority groups nationwide.

Confronting Power in Texas

Representative Wu’s leadership in a state where one party controls nearly all levers of power, from the Governor’s office to majorities in the House and Senate, is a monumental effort. He’s had to confront a deeply entrenched political establishment. A prime example of this struggle was the legislative attempt to implement anti-alien laws, measures reminiscent of discriminatory laws from a century ago. Wu recounted how he initially led a charge, organizing the Asian-American community in a truly empowering and effective way that successfully prevented the legislation’s passage for an entire year.

However, the opposition ultimately prevailed this recent year, showcasing the overwhelming power of the opposing side. As Wu noted, Republicans poured four times more effort into passing the law, with the President himself getting involved. Even politicians who privately admitted the laws were wrong felt compelled to vote for them.

This legislative success has had immediate real-world consequences. Wu, whose law firm represents many businesses, mentioned that several clients—Chinese, Korean, and others with significant investments—are now questioning whether to pull up roots and leave Texas, demonstrating the law’s chilling effect on economic activity. The ultimate fear, Wu warned, is that these state laws will be replicated at the national level, threatening the rights of immigrants across the country.

Gene Wu also addressed his state’s most recent controversy involving redistricting. He mentioned that this fight is part of the larger effort to suppress the power of rising minority groups, specifically Black and Latino communities, because the opposing party doesn’t see Asians as a threat politically since they don’t vote as much.

He gave two specific examples of how the redistricting effort worked to dilute political power:

Black Communities: In Houston, they took two powerful Black communities, CD8 and CD9, and smashed them together, effectively ensuring that these two distinct communities could only elect one leader instead of two.

Latino Communities: They chopped up previously Latino-majority communities that controlled their primaries and who got elected. These parts were then stuck with other white communities, ensuring that while they might technically be Latino-majority, they are designed never to elect a Latino representative.

The Historical Playbook of Division

Wu argues that the current political attacks on Asian-Americans are not new. They are simply the latest iteration of a historical playbook used to suppress rising minority groups. He drew a stark parallel between the historical targeting of African Americans and Latinos and the modern strategy directed at Asians.

When African Americans and Latinos achieve positions of power, they are often dismissed with labels like “affirmative action” or “DEI”. For Asian-Americans, who often outperform in metrics like education, the attack shifts: they are instead labeled as “spies,” “traitors,” or culturally incompatible with American life. Wu stressed, “At the end of the day, it is about race.”

This strategy is a revival of practices like the original Alien Land Laws, which were repealed after the Civil Rights Act only to be put back into place today. He highlighted the terrifying similarity in the justifications used: that Asians are “dangerous,” “not to be trusted,” and should be feared based on how they look, a rhetoric tragically familiar from the COVID-19 pandemic.

Wu urged the community to overcome their historical ignorance, noting that the Chinese Exclusion Act of 1882 didn’t just ban Chinese people, but was part of a larger system that only allowed 105 Asians into the country per year until the policies were fully repealed in 1965.

He also addressed the root of current elite anger: the rise of Asian-American success, particularly in education. With Asian-American enrollment at top schools like UC Berkeley nearing 45%, Wu argued, “Who are we pushing out? It’s not just white families. It’s powerful white families, rich white families.” This competition, he asserts, fuels the rising resentment and the desire to curb the community’s growth.

A Call for Unity and Action

Wu’s message is a clear-eyed rejection of apathy. He challenges the community to move past the belief that “This is America. Nothing ever bad happens here.” He outlined a simple, powerful, three-step strategy for every grassroots organization and individual:

Educate: Learn the “brutal, terrifying, and horrific” history of how Asian-Americans and other minorities have been treated.

Organize: Create communication channels to keep communities informed on political attacks and hate incidents.

Take Action: Engage in any civic activity, from writing letters to protesting.

His most powerful appeal, however, is for unity. Asian-Americans, despite being the fastest-growing population in the nation, do not have the political power to fight this battle alone. The path to victory, he insists, is recognizing that “it is the same boot on all of our necks,” whether that of the African American, Latino, or Asian community.

“This is a fight for our lives,” Wu concluded, urging everyone to “get off their ass” and engage, before the country moves to a “two-tier system where immigrants and minorities live in one level and everyone else lives in another.” The urgency is now.