Johanna: In the Silence of a Courtroom, a Child Trembles

“If anyone kills a person—it is as if he had slain all mankind. And if anyone saves a life—it is as if he had saved all mankind.” (Qur’an 5:32)

A COLUMN By Johanna Elattar

Recently, the Trump administration made a decision that quietly strips away one of the few remaining protections for some of the most vulnerable people on our soil: unaccompanied migrant children. These children—some as young as eight months old—have arrived in the U.S. without a parent or guardian, often after fleeing violence, war, or extreme poverty. Many are escaping lives most of us couldn’t begin to imagine. And now, thanks to this new policy, they are expected to face immigration court completely alone.

No attorney. No translator. No understanding of the process. Just a child—frightened, confused, and vulnerable—standing before a judge in a courtroom built for adults.

I want to ask you—really ask you—to pause and imagine something.

Picture your own child. Picture your five-year-old, or maybe your grandchild, niece, or nephew. Now imagine them alone in a cold, unfamiliar courtroom. No familiar faces. No one to hold their hand or explain what’s happening. They’re being asked questions in a language they don’t speak, about a country they don’t understand, with their entire future hanging in the balance. Can you feel the fear in their little body? Can you hear their voice trembling as they try to answer?

Now imagine the judge issuing a deportation order. Just like that, your child is sent back to a country where they have no one waiting, no safety, no stability—only danger. That’s the reality thousands of migrant children are now facing.

According to the American Immigration Council, around 75% of unrepresented children are deported. For those with legal counsel, that number drops to under 15%. Legal aid isn’t a luxury—it’s often the only shield these children have.

But what truly breaks my heart—perhaps even more than the policy itself—is the reaction I’ve seen from some people. In comment sections and online conversations, there’s one word I keep seeing:

“Good.”

Good?

What exactly is “good” about sending a child into danger with no one by their side? What is good about denying a terrified, traumatized child the basic human right of a fair hearing?

Some people have said, “Send them back. Let their governments deal with them.” But where exactly are they supposed to go? Many are fleeing countries where their own governments are the threat—or too broken to offer help. Deportation doesn’t mean “home.” It often means abandonment. It means being left alone in an airport or at a border crossing, surrounded by strangers, with no one coming for them.

Can you imagine the trauma? The fear that doesn’t end with the flight, but begins all over again on foreign soil? These aren’t just passing moments—these are deep, lasting wounds that will shape their lives forever.

As a Muslim Arab-American woman, I know what it’s like to have your voice drowned out, your identity judged, your humanity questioned. But this moment—this shameful, calculated cruelty—goes beyond religion, beyond politics, beyond nationality. This is about who we are.

My faith teaches:
“If anyone kills a person—it is as if he had slain all mankind. And if anyone saves a life—it is as if he had saved all mankind.” (Qur’an 5:32)

The Bible echoes this truth:
“Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.” (Matthew 25:40)

And from the Torah:
“You shall not wrong or oppress a stranger, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt.” (Exodus 22:21)

These aren’t just ancient verses. They’re timeless reminders that how we treat the most vulnerable among us defines who we are.

So I ask again: What are we doing?

Children—babies—are being left to defend themselves in courtrooms without a voice. And we, the adults in the room, are failing them.

History will remember this moment. And one day, those children will remember too.

Let’s make sure they remember that someone stood up.

There is still time to choose compassion.

There is still time to be better than this.

Cruelty does not protect borders, it only breaks a child.