Four years ago, as I stood in line as a freshly naturalized U.S. citizen, I was overwhelmed with emotion. The nervousness coursing through me felt as though my very existence was at stake, which, in some ways, is how it feels for many immigrants. My deepest desire was to live here, to feel safe and to be truly welcome. But more than anything, I wanted a voice—and the best way to achieve that was to vote.
I think back to 2019, sitting across from a U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services (USCIS) officer. My nerves made it feel like I was about to take a college final exam. I had spent the previous week awake, practicing English and memorizing civics questions, all to pass the test required to become a naturalized citizen. In that small room in South Portland, Maine, I was asked questions like, “What is the supreme law of the land?” and “Who is the current governor of Maine?” The civics portion was followed by an English reading and writing test. I was asked to write a sentence about Maine’s geography: “Maine is a state within the U.S. bordered by Canada.” The whole process lasted just ten minutes, but those ten minutes changed my life forever. “Congratulations,” the officer said. “You’ve passed.”
Two months later, on a chilly day in January 2020, I stood alongside over twenty other people, all representing different nations, as we took the oath to become U.S. citizens together by reading the following: “I hereby declare, on oath, that I absolutely and entirely renounce and abjure all allegiance and fidelity to any foreign prince, potentate, state or sovereignty, of whom or which I have heretofore been a subject or citizen; that I will support and defend the Constitution and laws of the United States of America against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that I will bear arms on behalf of the United States when required by the law; that I will perform noncombatant service in the Armed Forces of the United States when required by the law; that I will perform work of national importance under civilian direction when required by the law; and that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; so help me God.”
I wore my best blue suit and a stars-and-stripes tie, shaking hands with a U.S. Senator and the Governor of Maine. The moment felt surreal—I was empowered, transformed and ready to take on my new responsibilities as a U.S. citizen. Right there at the ceremony by Portland’s Gateway Ocean, I registered to vote at a table set up by the League of Women Voters. It took just two minutes, but it marked the beginning of my journey as an engaged citizen.
Leaving that ceremony, my life had changed. Growing up in war-torn Somalia, I had never held official documents; I was stateless. Later, as a refugee in Kenya, I lived under the protection of the United Nations, carrying a refugee mandate that restricted my movements, kept me from schools and prevented me from traveling freely. It was a document that recognized me but did not promise me citizenship or stability. For six years, I carried that paper—my only form of identity. Becoming a U.S. citizen brought tears of freedom and joy. For the first time, I had full rights and responsibilities, something I had never experienced.
Fast forward to my first time voting. I stood in line alongside native-born Americans at the high school parking lot in my small town, each of us eager to exercise our rights; for me, my earned right. Standing at the voting booth, pencil in hand, I felt a wave of pride as I marked my ballot. There, on the list of issues and candidates—presidential, congressional and local—I realized: I did it! I had cast my first vote. That night, I celebrated with cake, music and a gathering of friends. It was a moment I will never forget and one I’m not sure many native-born Americans can fully grasp.
Now, as we approach another election year, that same energy from four years ago is back. This will be my second time voting in a presidential election. So much has changed since then. In the five years since I became a citizen, I’ve traveled the world as an American, completed my college education in Boston and volunteered to help other immigrants with their naturalization paperwork. I’ve shared my story as a keynote speaker for newly naturalized citizens, and now, I’m ready to vote again—not just for myself, but for my community, for refugees around the world and for the future of our country.
In this upcoming election, I hope to see the United States reclaim its position as a beacon of hope—a place that people dream of calling home. And as I prepare to stand in line once again, I’m reminded that voting is not just a right; it’s the most powerful way I can contribute to the democracy of this great nation.
Abdi Iftin is the Senior Program Communications Specialist with CWS. Learn how you can get involved in civic engagement here.