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On a cold rainy morning last October, I sat in a tent in a crowded displacement camp in northern Ethiopia. The tarpaulin tent operated as an improvised clinic for the Center for Victims of Torture (CVT), an international nonprofit based in St. Paul. Our clients started arriving one by one, careful not to traipse more mud inside. They had all fled from western Tigray during the recent civil war. Many had lost their families, their land and their hope.
The group counseling session was about depression and suicide prevention. A number of these grieving and displaced civilians spoke about people in the camp who had recently killed themselves. Some talked about how they had also contemplated ending their own lives. Traditional Tigrayan bread was passed around as the CVT counselor offered advice on how to process their collective trauma — and how to continue living.
I’ve had similar experiences at other places where CVT works around the world. In Jordan, CVT has helped more than 6,600 Syrian refugees who have experienced torture under the former Assad regime or have survived airstrikes, massacres and other atrocities. At Nguenyyiel refugee camp, on Ethiopia’s remote western border, I met South Sudanese children, some of whom had literally walked alone out of the war zone after having lost their parents. I asked a 12-year-old boy why he came to the therapy sessions. “Because I want to live,” was his heartbreaking answer.
Then, without warning on Jan. 24, just days after President Donald Trump’s inauguration, the U.S. government ordered us to immediately cease work on all these programs. Offices were shuttered. Doors were locked. The tent clinic in Tigray, which was funded by USAID, was closed. Then on Feb. 26 — without being able to participate in any review — our federal grants were abruptly terminated via a short email that ended with “God bless America.”
Those who are impacted the most by these closures are people who have already suffered at the hands of some of the world’s worst human rights abusers. I don’t know what is going to happen to that young South Sudanese boy who just wants to live, or to the people in that tent in Tigray, or those Syrian refugees. But I know that the world is now a darker place for them.
CVT was born in a small house on the campus of the University of Minnesota 40 years ago. We grew to become the largest torture rehabilitation organization in the world, extending care to some of the world’s most vulnerable people. Those who come to our clinics include people who have suffered unspeakable horrors and lost everything, often simply because they opposed tyranny and injustice. We also serve exiled human rights defenders and provide resilience training to humanitarian workers.