The auditorium glowed under stage lights, a low hum of anticipation in the air. Rows of graduates sat in their black caps and gowns. In the audience, families whispered, some holding up phones to record.
Near the edge of the stage, Duaa smoothed her pink dress. The notecards in her hands were slightly crumpled from being held too tightly, though she barely needed them anymore.
The principal introduced her and the two classmates she’d speak alongside during the June 2023 graduation ceremony. Duaa stepped up to the podium. A hundred faces stared back at her, waiting. She took a breath, steadying herself. Then she began.
Her voice rang clear in Arabic and English as she spoke of beginnings, challenges, and the future ahead. When the three students finished their speeches, a hush stretched through the room, holding for just a beat before raucous applause.
Later, when her name was called again to receive her diploma, Duaa, who is using a pseudonym for safety reasons, walked toward her teacher, Sunisa Nuonsy, who handed her the certificate, then pulled her into a hug. That embrace held every lesson, every word of encouragement, every moment Nuonsy pushed Duaa to believe in herself.
Duaa first arrived in New York from Yemen in 2019, navigating a new language and a new school while grappling with everything she had left behind—including her mother. Yet here she was now, standing on stage as the graduation speaker, diploma in hand.
Since 2022, over 200,000 migrants have come to New York City, with nearly 40,000 migrant children enrolling in public schools. The largest share of new arrivals has come from Venezuela, Ecuador, and Colombia, while others have traveled from countries across Africa, Asia, and the Caribbean. Educators and school mental health professionals struggle to provide social and emotional support to these students, especially those from conflict zones such as Yemen. There’s little training for bilingual teachers, a shortage of those who are trained, and only one school social worker for every 465 students. Some school staff members who spoke to Prism said they are burned out and unprepared to handle students’ trauma.
“A whole different person”
While educators across the region struggle to support their immigrant students, especially as the Trump administration’s immigration raids come to New York City, things are different in Nuonsy’s classroom.
Located at International High School at Prospect Heights in Brooklyn, Nuonsy is the daughter of refugees from Laos and teaches 11th- and 12th-grade English language arts. Her classroom is full of movement and color, with visuals and word lists in multiple languages covering the walls. Students don’t quietly wait for instruction in rigid rows. Instead, they work together in small groups, chatting in 15 different languages.
The school, part of the Internationals Network, a national organization serving multilingual and refugee students, embodies a collaborative, project-based learning philosophy.
“It helps them understand their world and lives more naturally than just memorizing and regurgitating,” Nuonsy explained. While teaching, she puts a special focus on recognizing what students already know. “Students aren’t empty vessels or blank slates,” she said.
One of those students was Duaa, who grew up in a Yemeni village amid the civil war that began in 2014 when rebels seized the capital, igniting a conflict with the government. The fighting escalated in 2015 when a Saudi-led coalition intervened, leading to years of airstrikes, ground battles, and a humanitarian crisis that displaced millions.
Around the same time the fighting started, Duaa’s schooling ended. In her village, there was no education for girls after sixth grade. But her mother wanted more for her.
“I don’t want you to end up like me. I want you to be different,” Duaa recalled her mother telling her.
When Duaa turned 14 years old in 2017, her family applied for her to immigrate to the United States, hoping she could escape the war in Yemen and find the education she was denied. Her father, whom she had never met, was already living in New York. Leaving Yemen meant saying goodbye to everything she knew: the warmth of her community, the deep greens of the land, and, most of all, her beloved mother.
In 2019, 16-year-old Duaa arrived in the U.S. determined to continue her education. Her mother shared that dream, but her father was hesitant. He didn’t think girls needed formal education. Eventually, Duaa persuaded him to enroll her at International High School at Prospect Heights. Duaa had gone years without formal schooling, but she was placed in ninth grade due to her age, forcing her to leap several grade levels at once. It was very difficult, she said, especially because she didn’t know much English. Making matters more challenging, the pandemic struck just months after her arrival, leaving her to navigate online learning without experience using a laptop.
When she returned to in-person classes in 11th grade, Nuonsy was her assigned English teacher. The two formed an immediate bond.
“Whenever I felt sad, I could talk to Miss Nisa,” Duaa said.
Nuonsy helped Duaa connect her emotions to class lessons, including themes found in books such as bell hooks’ “All About Love.” Through Nuonsy’s class, Duaa found a way to understand her struggles and put them into words. In an essay, she explored how patriarchy uses culture to control women, and she noted the contradictions she saw between those cultural practices and Islamic teachings.
“It gave me self-confidence,” Duaa said. “By 12th grade, I felt like a whole different person.”
Duaa’s experience reflects a broader reality. More than a third of displaced youth experience post-traumatic stress, with symptoms that can include difficulty concentrating, difficulty sleeping, and ongoing negative emotions such as guilt or fear. For them, education is crucial to recovery. But it’s not just about grades.
Relationships, such as the one between Duaa and Nuonsy, are critical for recovery. Newly arrived children need support that nurtures their growth, self-worth, and sense of agency, said Lesley Koplow, founding director of the Center for Emotionally Responsive Practice, which supports schools in addressing the socioemotional needs of newly arrived students. Without this support, according to Koplow, immigrant children can internalize guilt over global crises, leaving them with feelings of inadequacy that grow into anxiety and depression. In particular, school-based relationships in emotionally responsive environments are important for immigrant children, said Prerna Arora, a professor at Columbia University’s Teachers College.
Duaa’s story illustrates how essential these relationships are for displaced youth, where adequate socioemotional support can make all the difference. When Nuonsy learned that Duaa’s father didn’t want her to take part in off-campus internships or even stay in school much longer, Nuonsy knew she had to act. Along with the school principal, she visited Duaa’s father at his store to talk. They explained how important it was for Yemeni Muslims to be represented in the school community. The conversation resonated with him; he felt proud and allowed Duaa to continue her education.
This was especially significant considering the context. In Yemen, only 24% of girls complete upper secondary school. As of 2015, just two out of 40 Yemeni girls at another international school—the Bronx’s International Community High School—graduated over the previous four years. Many were sent back to Yemen for marriage.
Nuonsy’s teaching style reflects emotionally responsive practice. According to Margaret Blachly, co-director of the Center for Emotionally Responsive Practice, this approach recognizes a child’s full self, encompassing their family, experiences, culture, and personality.
A wide range of educators and school mental health professionals are similarly adopting emotionally responsive practice, using different strategies to support newcomer students.
The students’ journey
In a classroom in El Monte, California, third-grade teacher Joy Healy introduced a new visitor to her students: a teddy bear perched high on a shelf. At first, the bear didn’t move, hesitant to come down, just like the children adjusting to their new classroom.
“How can we help the bear feel safe?” Healy asked, sparking a brainstorming session.
As Healy described at the Emotionally Responsive Schools Conference held in December 2024, her students shared ideas to create a space where the bear—and, by extension, they—can feel comfortable.
The teddy bears aren’t just toys. Blachly explained that the Center for Emotionally Responsive Practice allows children to name the bears and use them to talk about difficult topics without feeling exposed. For immigrant children, the bears take on additional meaning. The “Teddy Bear Journeys” practice invites them to share the adventures of their bears, mirroring their own experiences of crossing borders, seas, or deserts in search of a new life.
Carlos, who is using a pseudonym for safety reasons, is now in eighth grade in the Bronx, New York. He first came to the U.S. from the Dominican Republic in 2019 when he was in second grade. With his father still in the DR and his mother struggling to make ends meet, he felt alone, angry, and defeated because he barely spoke English. His frustration often led him to lash out, and he was at risk of joining a gang, as other family members had before him.
But then Antoine Dolberry, a music teacher at PS 103 in the Wakefield neighborhood, noticed him. Carlos didn’t join the school chorus because he loved singing; he joined because Dolberry took the time to build a relationship with him. That connection quickly made a difference. By fifth grade, Carlos spoke fluent English, his behavior improved, and he discovered a creative outlet in writing his own raps, Dolberry said.
For Dolberry, music is about more than just notes and rhythms. It’s a bridge to languages, relationships, and self-expression. In his class, students hear songs in Spanish, Bengali, and Arabic, and he invites his students to teach him words in their languages. Many immigrant students have told him their fear of being bullied for not speaking English, but when the class learns songs in different languages, the students come to appreciate the cultures of their classmates.
Other educators are finding equally powerful inroads with their students. Ivan, who is using a pseudonym for safety reasons, fled violence in Colombia with his family after gangs destroyed their business. Their journey was grueling: crossing deserts, enduring hardship, and eventually surrendering to Border Patrol. When Juan P. Córdova, a fourth-grade teacher at PS 33 in the Chelsea neighborhood of Manhattan, visited Ivan and his family at home, he listened as they shared their painful story. He understood that their struggles didn’t end at the border.
Córdova doesn’t do home visits the traditional way. He believes in “family connections,” meeting families where they’re comfortable, whether at a shelter, a park, or a school. Born in Ecuador, Córdova spent several years there with his grandparents after his parents immigrated to the United States. He later rejoined his parents in New York, where he was an English as a Second Language (ESL) student. By sharing his immigrant story, Córdova builds trust with families, inviting them to do the same.
Other schools in the region are also prioritizing family support.
Gloria directs a preschool in New York. Her real name and the name of the school have been withheld due to concerns about the Trump administration’s policies. Parents can stay in the classroom as long as they want. Some parents stay the whole year, while others volunteer. The school’s mixed-age setting is intentionally designed to support families who want to stay together, particularly those who may have been traumatized by separation. Hannah, who is using a pseudonym for safety, teaches at the same school. She keeps children’s family photos pasted on the walls at their eye level to make them feel more connected and encourage them to share personal stories.
At International High School at LaGuardia Community College, a boy from Ecuador refused to write. He sat in Zarah Vinola’s global studies classroom, silent, staring at the blank page. He previously told her about the detention center—the metal rails, the school inside—but when it came to putting his journey into words, something held him back. Vinola encouraged him to try, explaining that writing could help him process his experience.
This year, Zarah Vinola reworked her curriculum to focus on government and deportation, giving her students a lens through which to examine their own experiences and the larger systems at play.
Vinola understands the weight of these stories because she carries her own. She shares her migration experience before asking her students to write about theirs. Like many educators with similar journeys, that experience gives her a sensitivity to her students’ identities. It also helps her guide students in connecting their own lives to historical and political realities, something Vinola said is her duty.
“I know it’s heavy,” she once told a student, “but if you don’t talk about it, who would?”
Many of Vinola’s students say they left home because their countries are poor, and Vinola gently challenges their assertions. She weaves history and root causes into the conversation, explaining how migration is shaped by political and economic forces, and how their countries’ struggles are tied to U.S. policies. This year, she’s reworked her curriculum to focus on government and deportation, giving her students a lens through which to examine their own experiences and the larger systems at play.
But storytelling in her classroom isn’t just about words. Students turn their personal narratives into artwork, dioramas, and slideshows. They also explore their identities through poetry: who they are, what makes them happy, what makes them sad, and what dreams they hold onto. Tala, a Palestinian student, wrote about the deep pull of her homeland, the memories that tie her to a place she left behind but never really left.
Andree Thibert-Mey, an ESL teacher at Rochester, New York’s East Irondequoit Central School District, saw something similar in her classroom.
“Their stories were pouring out of them,” she said. “I realized they needed a place to put it all down, to feel like it wasn’t gone.” Thibert-Mey helped her students turn their stories into books, mixing pictures with words, giving them a way to speak even when English was out of their grasp. For example, a student from Afghanistan created a book with pictures of his home and descriptions of his life there, including his passion for soccer.
Despite educators’ efforts to funnel children’s feelings in a therapeutic way, sometimes their trauma still shows up in the classroom.
Anna Lugo experienced classroom disruptions before, but this one was different. In the middle of a fifth-grade lesson at Bronx Community Charter School, a student suddenly started hitting his classmates on the head. Lugo stepped in and removed him from the room.
Later, when they talked, his story surfaced. The student was previously separated from his grandparents on his journey to the U.S. and spent time hiding in a church. The fear he buried was finally breaking through.
Instead of punishing him, Lugo gathered the class for a restorative circle, creating a space for him to explain his actions. Some students forgave him; others weren’t ready. But the goal wasn’t about easy resolutions. It allowed the boy to see the harm he caused and to understand that while his feelings are valid, his actions had consequences. And for his classmates, it was a chance to process their own emotions, to witness repair in action.
Blachly, of the Center for Emotionally Responsive Practice, shared a similar story from the classroom of a teacher she once assisted. A 6-year-old boy from El Salvador had just joined the classroom. No one knew exactly what set him off, but he often bolted out of the room, panic overtaking him. Each time the school security guard tried to bring him back, the boy screamed. Blachly and the teacher eventually recognized the trigger: The security guard’s uniform reminded the student of detention center guards.
“When [the teacher] had a thinking partner, it changed her whole approach and practice,” Blachly said.
Layla McDowell recalled how Blachly visited her classroom, quietly observed, and then debriefed with the teachers afterward, offering advice, acknowledging their challenges, and reassuring them. “Her understanding and support were more important than anything else,” McDowell said.
Overwhelmed teachers, overwhelmed classrooms
When teachers are overwhelmed, their classrooms feel it. Researcher Anja Mayr said educators facing psychological distress see more student outbursts, and they also struggle to provide the emotional support their students need.
Blachly sees the toll of this labor not just on teachers but on school social workers, who absorb stories of trauma often without supervisors or colleagues to turn to. “How many stories can one person hold before it begins affecting their own well-being?” she asked.
Many teachers also feel unprepared to listen to immigrant children’s experiences. One student told Christine Johnson, an ESL teacher in New York, about being forced to return to their home country after arriving by plane, only to make the journey again—this time through “the jungle.” Some students nodded, detailing how they, too, had crossed the Darién Gap. Johnson wasn’t sure what to say, so she redirected the conversation. It wasn’t the first time she felt unprepared.
Another student, a boy who was once in a gang in Panama, often lashed out: picking fights, refusing to write, and generally expressing that he was overwhelmed, frustrated, and homesick. “I try to ignore as much as I can because I want to help the other kids learn,” Johnson said. “If I have 70 students, I’m not focusing on the one who doesn’t care. Another teacher will sit next to him and hold his hand; that patience is not something I have or want.”
Educational experts argue that teachers need more trauma-informed training to better engage families and support multilingual classrooms. Many NYC educators have tried to meet these needs by adapting their lessons to reflect students’ linguistic, cultural, and personal backgrounds. However, in 2023, New York City launched NYC Reads, a two-year literacy initiative aimed at standardizing reading instruction across all public schools. While city officials say the initiative will ensure consistency and equity in reading instruction, Córdova and other educators worry that this uniform approach leaves little room for adaptation. In the past, Córdova regularly revised his teaching based on who was in the classroom. Now, the emphasis on standards and test alignment restricts flexibility, independent reading, and makes lessons “dry and boring,” he said.
Blachly noted that school social workers are also stretched thin, working across multiple schools and often unable to provide the one-on-one attention individual students need. Socioemotionally supporting students requires more than just a quick fix, such as a one-off workshop; it demands ongoing training, coaching, and peer support. Blachly said there should be at least two social workers in every school, with regular sessions to support teachers to prevent student retraumatization.
In contrast to many teachers’ experiences, Duaa’s teacher, Sunisa Nuonsy, had access to a great deal of support. Not only did the school prioritize collaborative, project-based learning and encourage students to bring their own languages and experiences into the classroom, but teachers weren’t left to fend for themselves. They met weekly with the guidance counselor and social worker and participated in educational sessions, including one on navigating threats from Immigration and Customs Enforcement and supporting newly arrived students.
Because Nuonsy was supported, she could support Duaa. Now, Duaa is applying to colleges.
“When I was in Yemen, I saw a lot of unfair things,” she said. “I came here and realized that no one else was doing enough to help my country, so I would, as an immigration lawyer. There are so many girls who don’t have opportunities and who don’t even want to convince their parents anymore. I want them to see me as an example.”
Editorial Team:
Tina Vasquez, Lead Editor
Carolyn Copeland, Top Editor
Stephanie Harris, Copy Editor
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