In New York City, over 50,000 people, i.e., 4% of the 8.38 million residents, identify as non-binary and transgender people. We do not know precisely the number of immigrants among this population. Alex Trifonov, a community health representative and patient navigator at NYU Langone Health, on May 11, 2022, presented on the issue of health equity at an event at RUSA LGBTQ+. What is known is that stress caused by minority status and stigma leads to chronic stress and cardiovascular problems. Chronic stress, in turn, can cause substance use and abuse, addiction, and mental health issues.

Mr.Trifonov specifically spoke about health inequity among LGBTQ+ people regarding cancer. He talked about very low levels, lower than immigrant populations, of preventative healthcare utilization among LGBTQ+ patients due to the abovementioned minority stress and consequent avoidance of medical care. At the same time, across the United States, over 80,000 LGBTQ+ people receive a cancer diagnosis every year. Lesbians and bisexual people have a double risk of acquiring cancer diagnoses. Transgender and nonbinary patients have double the chance of getting cancers caused by infectious diseases. Gay men are diagnosed with anal and prostate cancers and cancers caused by HIV younger than other patients.

Being an asylum seeker means being in constant mental pain. Is there a solution?

When I came to the US, I felt l like I'd been handed a new life. Everything seemed so new and fresh, full of opportunities I never had before. And also, everything seemed so safe.

A group of teenage girls sat silently at three tables in the dining room. The girls wore identical gray sweatpants and sweaters but had different hairstyles. It was shortly before 9 am. They had eaten breakfast and were waiting to walk over to their classroom. The girls were small in height, had brown skin, and didn’t look very excited to head to school. Pretty much like other typical teenage girls. As I made my way through the dining room, I said, “Buenos Dias Chicas!” A few girls responded with “Buenos Dias”, some smiled back, and others remained silent. 

It took a while for the girls to become familiar with seeing me three times a week. The “clients” of this department were unaccompanied children waiting to reunite with their families.  Teenagers from different countries, some spoke more than one language. For the first few weeks, I’ve only listened to their stories and learned why these adolescents chose to leave their homes, how they arrived at the U.S/Mexico border, and how they were adjusting  to the program. Some  departed their countries for better educational opportunities; some left to search for work to support their families, and others were looking to escape violence or abuse. Many of these child migrants, however, traveled alone. And carried their traumas, alone.

It is hard to be the newcomer, the new person, or the one who is so unfamiliar with a different and foreign environment.  Anyone around the world experiences anxiety stepping into a new place within a group of new people.  We usually rely on our acquaintances and friends to introduce and make this transition smoother.  But what happens when we are forced out of our familiar surroundings and need to leave our hometowns, homes, and states to flee from some disaster to a place that we know no one?

Stepping into to unknown is already hard.  When we add the multitudes of losses we experience to the existing fear and anxiety of the unfamiliar and unknown, it is even more challenging.  A migrant who had to leave their home without the guarantee of going back had to leave more than just their home behind. Sometimes, people leave behind their parents, and sometimes, they have to leave their kids, spouses, lovers, and pets. Sometimes they even need to leave behind the familiar sounds of their mother tongue.  Songs of the local birds, the taste of the usual morning cup, the sounds of the local streets, the sights of their neighborhood, the aroma of the meals shared with the dear faces of loved ones, the way the sun lays its rays before it sets in their bedroom, and all those comfortably familiar details are left behind.  The layers and layers of losses are there in every migrant's story.

Across the globe, 1 in 3 women–an estimated 736 million–are subjected to physical or sexual violence perpetrated by an intimate partner, or sexual violence from a non-partner-–a number that has remained largely unchanged over the past decade (WHO, 2021). 

Unfortunately, this alarming statistic is likely to be significantly lower than the true figure, given the high levels of stigma and under-reporting of abuse. Gender-Based Violence Against Women (GBVAW) disproportionality affects low and lower-middle-income countries and regions, with twenty-two percent of women living in ‘least developed countries’ subjected to Intimate Partner Violence (IPV) in the past 12 months (WHO, 2021). The intersecting and compounding nature of violence against forced migrant women prevails across temporal and geographical contexts. GBVAW is rampant around the world and an impending cause for migration, forcing countless women and children to flee abuse at home and attempt to seek safety in a new country. 

I invite you to participate in a quick exercise with me: Open a new tab on your internet browser and go to Google. Type in “social services for asylum seekers.” Once you scroll past the ads, you will likely see a Google Maps search of nearby social service organizations. What are they? Who do they serve? Now, keep scrolling. What else comes up? 

For me, living in one of the five boroughs of New York City, the top three organizations that come up on Google Maps all have the terms “refugee” or “refugees” in their title. And, when I keep scrolling, I see links to organizations and programs that specifically cater to refugees and asylees (people who have already been granted asylum). But what about asylum seekers?