Until last month, Larysa Atamas did not know where she and her 9-year-old son would go once their time in the U.S. was up in April. What she did know was that going back to the city they once called home—Kharkiv, Ukraine—was not an option.
It's been nearly 14 months since Russia first invaded Ukraine, sparking a refugee crisis and one of the largest mass migrations of the past century. Out of more than 8 million Ukrainians who have fled the country since the war broke out, over 270,000 came to the U.S. For roughly 20,000 of them who, like Atamas, entered the country under the federal government's humanitarian parole program, their time in America is ticking as the one-year limit on their stays nears.
"April is approaching, and we are panicking more and more," Atamas, whose parole expires April 16, told Newsweek, in an interview last month.
Of the three most common ways that Ukrainians fleeing the war came to the U.S., humanitarian parolees are in the most precarious position, with fewer rights and shorter deadlines on their time in America than those granted Temporary Protected Status (TPS) or who are beneficiaries under the Uniting for Ukraine (U4U) program. Arriving after April 11—the cutoff for Ukrainians to get Temporary Protected Status—but before the Biden administration rolled out U4U on April 25, parolees were granted only one year to stay in the U.S. upon their arrival at the U.S.-Mexico border. On the other hand, U4U beneficiaries are allotted two years and TPS beneficiaries 18 months. In addition, the TPS designation also protects individuals from deportation in cases where there is active conflict or unrest in their home countries—a security that parolees do not have.
While parolees do have access to refugee benefits like food stamps, Medicaid, cash assistance and the opportunity to apply for work authorization, parolees critically do not have refugee status, which would create a pathway for citizenship.
On March 13—less than a month before paroles were slated to begin expiring on April 11—the Biden administration's Department of Homeland Security (DHS) did finally address the issue, saying it would start to automatically consider parole extensions "on a case-by-case basis" to align "certain Ukrainians and family members" with the parole provided under U4U. The particulars are still murky, though, and it remains unclear whether every Ukrainian immigrant on parole will be granted an extension.
"We left war, death, explosions. We took our children to safety," Atamas told Newsweek. "Imagine, now, after a year—when our children got used to school, friends appeared, our children began to forget what hunger, overnight stays at train stations and other horrors are—we [might have to] take them into the unknown again."
An Arduous Path to the U.S.
Without an extension, parolees like Atamas will have no viable path to stay in the U.S., even though there is still no end in sight to the war in their homeland. The idea of having to uproot her family again to find safe haven is devastating to Atamas, who says the hardship of traveling in the immediate aftermath of Russia's invasion took a heavy toll; it will be a long time, she says, before she is able to talk about the month and a half that she, her son and an elderly family friend spent wandering around Germany looking for a viable place to settle.
Other refugees, like Maria (who asked to be identified by her first name only), recalled her story through tearful sobs. "We were hoping to stay as close to the Ukrainian border as possible—in case there was any way we would be able to turn around and go back," she said. "But it became increasingly obvious that that wasn't going to happen."
In the early days of the war, Maria and her daughter made their way to Hungary after seeing the long lines at the Polish border. They spent two weeks in Budapest before being advised to leave in the wake of Prime Minister Viktor Orban's re-election. They made their way to Belgium, a small country that was overwhelmed by the influx of Ukrainians.
"It was a wonderful country, very warmly receptive of us," Maria said. "But there was a large Ukrainian diaspora that was already in existence in Belgium." Because of this, she struggled to enroll her daughter in school.
Desperate to find a long-term home, she and her daughter hoped to join Maria's sister in Connecticut, but there was no legal pathway into the U.S. at the time. Their earliest opportunity for a visa interview was September 2023. Considering their limited options, they flew to Spain, then Mexico, where a $10 visa was made available immediately, and crossed the border in Tijuana. Once in the U.S., she flew to New Jersey, then traveled to Greenwich, Connecticut, to reunite with her sister.
"The 10 months that we've been in the U.S. have not been an easy 10 months, but they have not been nearly as psychologically damaging as the two weeks we spent in Hungary," Maria said. Her parole ends April 23, 2023.
Bureaucratic Hurdles
There has been little attention brought to parolees because most Ukrainians who came to the U.S. aren't facing the imminent possibility of being forced to leave. More than half arrived in the U.S. through the Uniting for Ukraine program—a DHS initiative that has been widely applauded as innovative, efficient and game-changing by immigration attorneys and nonprofit leaders alike.
By granting two-year stays under private sponsorships, U4U found an alternative to the narrow, refugee pathway at the State Department, allowing the United States to absorb more than 100,000 Ukrainians who were seeking a new home.
Parolees, those who left Ukraine before U4U was announced, face a more uncertain future largely because of the structure of DHS agencies. Crossing through the southern border means that parolees were processed into the country by U.S. Customs and Border Patrol (CBP), an agency focused more on entry than long-term immigration, something U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services (USCIS) is better suited for.
Without last month's announcement about automatic reviews, parolees would have had to go back to the port of entry that granted the parole originally in order to seek an extension of parole. For Atamas, it would have meant making the trek from Everrett, Massachusetts, back to southern California just to make the case that Ukraine remains an unsafe place to return. DHS data shows that based on sponsorship applications, seven of the eight most popular metros for Ukrainian refugees are in the north: Seattle, Chicago, Detroit, Portland, Cleveland, New York City and Philadelphia.
For Oleksii and Natalia Vashchenko, who have already been forced to travel tirelessly, asking for a parole extension would have involved a trip from Springfield, Massachusetts, to San Diego, California, with their teen son.
Living 70 miles from the Russian border, the Vashchenkos spent the first days of the war watching rockets fly over their house. Hearing stories that Russian soldiers were raiding nearby villages, the Vashchenkos avoided turning on any lights at home and went to bed prepared to escape in the middle of the night.
"The first few weeks we were living in extreme fear," Oleksii said. "We didn't believe the war would last this long. We were hoping that both countries, or somebody, would interfere and things would come to an agreement."
When they received a call from a neighbor that the Russian army was coming to their village, Natalia and their son boarded an overcrowded train that took them to Poland. From Poland, they traveled through Germany to Paris, before leaving Europe for Mexico.
Upon landing in Mexico City, they were taken to Cancun and bussed to the border, where "welcoming" CBP officers processed them through humanitarian parole. But on April 19, Natalia and her son's parole will end.
"If nothing is announced, I would have no choice but to leave," Natalia said prior to the latest DHS directive. "I can't go back to Ukraine. Our home being so close to the Russian border, it's not possible.
"Maybe, if they extend my parole, that year will give Ukraine more time to be safe enough to return," she said.
Both Maria and Natalia's husbands were able to make their way to the U.S.—Maria's joined her in July 2022, Natalia's in August 2022—through the U4U program. But this has left the families with a potentially difficult decision if humanitarian parole isn't extended: Would everyone leave together or will the one family member with the legal right to still be in the U.S. stay behind in America?
Recognizing the complexities of the immigration paths that Ukrainians have used to enter the U.S., the DHS bureaus have already agreed to share authority and transfer jurisdiction when a case warrants. The obstacle is logistical: transferring thousands of immigrants who have only interacted with Customs and Border Patrol into a new U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services system.
"It's not that the DHS didn't recognize the problem," says Anne Smith, executive director and regulatory counsel at the Ukrainian Immigration Task Force. "They didn't really realize the impact of the numbers."
While lawyers recognize that immigration officials and agents can only act within the framework that exists, they stress the deadline is cutting close.
Less than a week before the announcement was made, Melanie Zamenhof, director of legal services at Jewish Family Services (JFS) Greenwich, says she was "shocked and appalled" that parolees were "set to expire starting next month and no one has done anything yet."
Zamenhof had already begun taking matters into her own hands, taking the individual to CBP, then to USCIS if Customs and Border Patrol fails to respond. If no extensions are granted, Zamenhof intends to file asylum applications, which could be tricky given that war is not a basis for asylum.
Looking Toward Broader Reform
Typically, parole is extended in increments of a year with annual revisions. Considering that there is no end in sight to the war and that fighting has lasted much longer than expected, the immigration limbo has raised questions about broader changes in immigration policy that might be needed.
"Allowing Ukrainian refugees to remain in the U.S. is a fundamental piece of our support for Ukraine in defense of their country and their democracy," says Democratic Representative Seth Moulton of Massachusetts. "Experts never guessed that over a year out, Ukraine would still be fighting back. We have to protect those who sought refuge here in order to protect the culture, the spirit, and preserve any chance at rebuilding after this war.
"From Congress' standpoint, we'd need to have enough support for something like adjustment of status or more permanent pathways," Moulton says.
But Evgenia Sorokina, advocacy counsel at the Ukrainian Immigration Task Force, says that amending the immigration system with piecemeal legislation for one specific issue remains an "insurmountable task."
"It's stupid. It's inhumane, but that's how the law is structured here," Sorokina says. "Yet, nobody will be changing the law at this point because it's not feasible. It's not possible."
Before March 13, the administration has relied on TPS to help parolees, allowing those who had come to the U.S. before April 11 to apply for protected status. While it would have given parolees six more months, not everyone qualifies. And now that parolees have longer extensions, it begs the question of what happens to Ukrainians with TPS once October rolls around.
Pointing to President Joe Biden's commitment to Ukrainian solidarity, Representative Zoe Lofgren, a California Democrat who chaired the House Immigration Committee last year, tells Newsweek it wouldn't be "an uphill battle" to get TPS designations extended.
Ukrainian families, like the ones who spoke to Newsweek, have only recently begun to find their footing here in the U.S. Natalia waited four months to receive her work authorization and Maria's daughter, who repeated the seventh grade because of her unfamiliarity with English, is only now connecting with her peers.
Recently, Maria's daughter came home gushing about the idea of going to an American college.
"It was very difficult to stand there, listening to my daughter talk about her hopes and dreams, and wanting that for her, but also knowing that in about a month, I may not be able to give her that," Maria says.
"How do I stand here in front of my daughter and hear her talk about her future when I don't know what our future is?" she asks.
▸ Katherine Fung is a Newsweek reporter covering U.S. and world politics. Follow her on Twitter @katherinekfung.
