Adopted from Iran at age two, she takes great pride in her quintessential American upbringing.
The woman was raised on a small farm in the Midwest. She attended church every Sunday. And she loved listening to her late father's stories from when he was in the Air Force during World War II.
But in the eyes of the U.S. government, the woman, who's now in her 50s and lives in California, is not American. Instead, she's an immigrant who overstayed her visa since she was a toddler and therefore, subject to deportation. She spoke to NPR on condition of anonymity because she fears speaking publicly will complicate her immigration case.
"How could this happen?" she said. "I'm American. I've never had any other identity besides that."
Most international adoptees receive automatic citizenship thanks to the 2000 Child Citizenship Act. But the law excludes those who were already adults when the legislation passed or adoptees who entered the U.S. on the wrong type of visa, which is what happened to the California woman.
Earlier this month, she received a letter from the Department of Homeland Security saying removal proceedings have begun. The woman, who has no criminal record, has no idea what prompted the letter.
She's terrified to be deported to Iran given her father's military service and her Christian faith. Open Doors, which tracks Christian persecution, ranks Iran among the top 10 most dangerous countries for Christians. The woman also has no family there nor does she speak Farsi. And the prospect of deportation comes amid great upheaval in Iran, from anti-government protests to looming threats of a U.S. military strike.
"The sheer possibility of the daughter of an American WWII hero being sent overseas, through no fault of her own, epitomizes a broken system," her attorney Emily Howe said in a statement.
It's unclear exactly how many adoptees are in the same vulnerable position as the California woman. Many don't realize their situation until adulthood, when obtaining citizenship becomes far more difficult. Others live in limbo because of lost paperwork and the sheer difficulty locating it decades later — which is also a layer of the woman's case.
Adoptees have been deported in the past, often because a crime triggered their removal. But with President Trump's historic mass deportations, noncitizen adoptees are more fearful than ever of being sent to countries they barely remember.
A bill to close the gaps in the 2000 law has bipartisan support but failed several times in Congress, partly because of its tie to immigration, NPR reported last year.
The Department of Homeland Security would not respond to a request for comment unless provided the woman's name, which NPR declined to do. In a statement, DHS said immigrants facing deportation "receive full due process and asylum seekers have their fear claims heard."
'I don't understand this. How could this happen?'
Born in Iran in the 1970s, the woman doesn't know what happened to her birth parents or why she was placed in an orphanage. At the time of her adoption, she said her American father was working in Iran as a U.S. government contractor.
Fast forward, three decades later, the woman had finished paying off her student loans and wanted to travel outside the country. But when she applied for a passport, she realized something was wrong.
Pretty soon into the application process, the woman received a letter saying her parents did not complete her naturalization when she was a child. She recalled reaching out to an immigration attorney, who told her point blank, " You're deportable to Iran."
"I couldn't stop crying," she said. "I just, through my tears, kept asking like, I don't understand this. How could this happen?"
The California woman was brought to the U.S. on a tourist visa, which was fairly common to use when adopting from countries that did not have formal intercountry adoption systems in place, according to Joy Alessi, a Korean adoptee who is with the Adoptee Rights Campaign.
"These nonimmigrant statuses routinely expired before state adoption proceedings could conclude," she said. "The status lapse required a formal adjustment to permanent residency."
The California woman firmly believes that her parents took the necessary steps to naturalize her. She points to a local newspaper article in which her parents mentioned working toward her citizenship, which NPR reviewed. Among her father's belongings, the woman said she found a document requesting lost citizenship paperwork. She added that her mother repeatedly insisted she was indeed a citizen.
Over the years, the woman said she has spent tens of thousands of dollars and sought help from several lawyers to track down missing documents and rectify what she believes is a clerical error.
"There was just paperwork and a paper trail letting me know and I'm grateful for that," she said. "And I stand by the fact that my dad loved me and he made sure that he did his part to make me an American in this country."
'I fight for myself, but at the same time, I fight for my dad's legacy'
Up until her passport debacle, the woman said she never thought of herself as an immigrant.
"I didn't know what a green card was, alien number, I had no clue," she said. "But obviously now through this journey, I know it really well."
Now, she winces every time she turns on the news and hears about Trump's crackdown on immigration. Since she received the DHS letter, the woman has kept a low profile — switching to remote work and rarely leaving her house or driving her car. The woman also shares her location with her friends in case she is detained by ICE.
"It used to be that, before some of the laws were changed, that you were safe in hospital spaces, churches, schools," she said. "Some of those places that I should be able to come and go are not safe havens for me anymore."
Her case is scheduled before an immigration judge next month, which she does not have to appear in-person for. Although she's terrified, part of her has always wanted to resolve her legal status and put an end to the fear she has been carrying.
"I welcome fixing this. I've always wanted to fix this," she said. "I feel like I haven't been able to freely embrace my life."
As painful as this time has been, the woman attributes her strength to her father, a retired Air Force officer who was a prisoner of war in Germany during World War II. She imagines that if her father was alive today, he'd be angry on her behalf.
"I fight for myself, but at the same time, I fight for my dad's legacy and what my dad wanted for me and how he prepared me for this life," she said. "And I'm not gonna let somebody take it from me."
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