On the pedestal of the Statue of Liberty, enshrined in bronze, are the immortal lines of Emma Lazarus’s “The New Colossus.” They speak not of conquest or power, but of profound, boundless humanitarianism:
“Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”
These words articulate a vision of America as a sanctuary, a light in the darkness, a “golden door” flung open to the world’s most vulnerable. Lazarus reimagined the colossal figure from a symbol of martial might into a “mother of exiles,” her lamp a beacon of hope for those fleeing poverty, persecution, and despair. She embraced the “wretched refuse,” not as a burden, but as the very people who would enrich the nation, finding their freedom and purpose on its shores. It is a philosophy rooted in compassion, a belief that America’s strength lies in its capacity to absorb and uplift the downtrodden, transforming their desperation into the engine of a new life.
Donald Trump’s attitude towards migrants, however, represents an almost complete antithesis to this founding poetic ideal. Where Lazarus saw “huddled masses yearning to breathe free” as a testament to America’s promise, Trump often framed them as a threat to national security, an economic burden, or an erosion of American identity. His rhetoric consistently emphasised control, exclusion, and securitisation of borders rather than welcome.
Instead of “lifting a lamp beside the golden door,” his administration focussed on building a physical wall, a concrete and steel barrier designed to keep people out. The language he employed – terms like “invasion,” “illegals,” and descriptions of migrants as bringing crime or disease – stands in stark contrast to Lazarus’s empathetic portrayal. The “tired, your poor” were not seen as individuals seeking solace and opportunity, but as an undifferentiated mass to be deterred, detained, or deported. The inherent value and potential that Lazarus saw in the “wretched refuse” was often overshadowed by a narrative of scarcity and threat.
The distinction is not merely one of policy but of fundamental spirit. Lazarus’s poem is an invitation, a promise of refuge extended with open arms. Trump’s approach, conversely, was often a warning, an assertion of exclusive national interest that prioritised the closure of the “golden door” over its illumination. It was a shift from seeing America as a global sanctuary for the “tempest-tost” to a nation that viewed its borders as a primary line of defence against perceived external threats, even those propelled by the very desperation Lazarus so poignantly described.
In essence, while Emma Lazarus envisioned a nation defined by its embrace of the world’s suffering, Donald Trump presented a vision of a nation defined by its guarded borders and selective entry, fundamentally challenging the very inscription that welcomes millions to the land of liberty. This chasm between these two visions continues to define one of the most contentious debates over America’s identity and its place in the world.
Worldwide Temple of Aurora 