For many immigrants and refugees, the United States has long represented a beacon of hope and opportunity—a place to rebuild after fleeing violence, persecution, or poverty. But in the summer of 2025, the landscape for newcomers has shifted dramatically, as U.S. policy levers once used to welcome and support are now being wielded as tools of pressure, restriction, and, critics say, intimidation.
The most striking changes have come in two forms: the weaponization of U.S. visas as a diplomatic cudgel and the sweeping removal of food assistance for most refugees and asylees under a new federal law. Both moves, implemented under the Trump administration, have left thousands—if not millions—of vulnerable people in precarious positions, and sparked fierce debate about America’s moral obligations and foreign policy priorities.
On August 28, 2025, Grenada confirmed that its finance minister, Dennis Cornwall, had all his U.S. visas revoked, including his coveted diplomatic A1 visa. The move didn’t stop with him: even Cornwall’s estranged wife lost her visas, a sign that Washington’s punishment can spill well beyond the political arena into private lives. The official justification? Grenada’s ongoing support for Cuba’s medical brigades, which the U.S. has branded as “forced labor.” But for Cornwall, who studied in Cuba during the revolutionary 1980s, the stand was about principle. “I would rather lose my U.S. visa than abandon Cuba,” he told Parliament earlier this year, according to NewsAmericasNow.com.
This episode is far from isolated. Under the direction of Cuban American Senator Marco Rubio, the U.S. State Department has rolled out new visa restriction policies targeting not just Grenadian officials, but also African leaders, immigration officers, and their families if they’re deemed complicit in “facilitating illegal immigration” or supporting Cuba’s medical program. The legal authority for these actions comes from Section 243(d) of the Immigration and Nationality Act—a provision that allows the U.S. to suspend visas to countries that refuse to accept deported nationals, but which is now being used for broader geopolitical aims.
Visa revocations have also landed on Brazilian judicial officials and their immediate family members, following what the U.S. perceived as a political witch-hunt against former President Jair Bolsonaro. The message is clear: those who resist Washington’s geopolitical priorities can find themselves grounded, unable to travel, and publicly shamed. Family members with no political role are often swept up as collateral damage, blurring the line between targeted diplomacy and outright intimidation.
Critics argue that these moves expose a deep hypocrisy. The U.S. invokes “human rights” as a guiding principle, yet punishes small, often poor countries that rely on foreign-trained doctors to keep their health systems afloat. “Stripping visas from officials—and even their relatives—is not a policy of principle. It is coercion dressed in the language of freedom,” wrote Felicia J. Persaud, publisher of NewsAmericasNow.com. For small nations like Grenada, the stakes are high: comply with U.S. demands or risk diplomatic and personal hardship. Cornwall’s choice, at least, was unambiguous—some leaders, he signaled, will not trade sovereignty or solidarity for the ability to shop in Miami or vacation in Orlando.
While America’s “big stick” diplomacy may have echoes of the Roosevelt era, the modern twist is the use of visas as a political leash. The more Washington employs this approach, the more it exposes the fragility—and, some say, the hypocrisy—of its foreign policy. Visas, once gateways of opportunity, are now instruments of control.
But it’s not just the corridors of power where U.S. policy is making waves. On July 4, 2025, President Donald Trump signed into law the One Big Beautiful Bill Act, a sweeping domestic policy measure that, among its many provisions, stripped most refugees and asylees of eligibility for the Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program (SNAP), commonly known as food stamps. The law carves out exceptions for Cubans and Haitians, but for the vast majority, the safety net is gone.
B., a 39-year-old refugee from Cameroon who asked to be identified only by his initial, knows firsthand what’s at stake. After being imprisoned in his home country because of his sexual orientation, B. fled to the United States nine years ago. He spent years scraping by—cleaning homes, delivering food, doing odd jobs—before finally winning his asylum case in late 2024. SNAP benefits, he said, were a lifeline, especially after a car accident left him unable to work. “I think it’s unfair. I understand that there are some people who abuse the system,” B. told Stateline, a States Newsroom publication. “There are also people who are in need. And cutting help for families like mine—not being able to get the help—it will be very difficult.”
SNAP, funded by the federal government but administered by the states, serves an average of 42 million people a month. Refugees and asylees, who arrive with little or nothing and face long waits for work permits and green cards, have long relied on the program as a bridge to self-sufficiency. “SNAP is an incredibly fundamental program for this population that comes to the United States, really, with very little, if anything,” Nicolas Palazzo of HIAS, a global refugee advocacy group, told Stateline. “Stripping critical food assistance forces refugees and asylees into the shadows of informal work, labor exploitation and hunger that weakens our workforce and denigrates our moral obligations.”
Supporters of the new law, however, insist that refugees and asylees have other options. “It’s not like they have been dropped off in this country with no support system,” Jessica Vaughan of the Center for Immigration Studies told Stateline. “They have sponsoring organizations that are helping them get settled and they have work authorization. So they really should be moving forward towards self-sufficiency with support right out of the starting gate.”
Yet critics point out that the journey to stability is anything but straightforward. According to a November 2024 report from the U.S. Department of Homeland Security, 60,050 refugees were admitted to the U.S. in 2023, many from countries like the Democratic Republic of Congo, Syria, and Afghanistan. In the same year, the U.S. received at least 747,000 asylum applications—up from 68,000 in 2013. As of July 2025, more than 2.2 million immigrants are awaiting asylum hearings or decisions, according to Syracuse University’s Transactional Records Access Clearinghouse.
The impact of the new law is already rippling across states. In New York, about 41,000 people receiving SNAP benefits are not lawful permanent residents, including refugees and asylees, according to Barbara Guinn, commissioner of the state’s Office of Temporary and Disability Assistance. Texas had roughly 24,600 refugees or asylees among its 3.5 million SNAP recipients as of July 2025. California projects that 74,000 noncitizens—including refugees and asylees—will lose eligibility under the new law. Food banks, already stretched thin, warn they cannot make up for the loss.
Another wrinkle: starting in fiscal year 2028, states will have to pay between 5% and 15% of their SNAP costs, depending on how accurately they distribute benefits. While some, like Robert Rector of The Heritage Foundation, argue that states can continue to provide aid if they pick up the tab, state officials say budgets are already tight and additional strain could leave even more people without support.
For B. and thousands like him, the new reality is stark. “There are people who are in need. I think ignoring that—it’s not human,” he said. His story, echoed by many, is a reminder that policy decisions made in Washington have profound consequences for those seeking safety and dignity on America’s shores.
As the U.S. redefines its approach to immigration—wielding visas as leverage abroad and withdrawing support at home—the world is watching. The choices made now will shape not only the lives of newcomers, but also the country’s reputation as a land of refuge and opportunity.
