By Yankuba Jallow with New Narratives
- U.S. considers visa ban on The Gambia over deportations
- Gambian families abroad fear separation and hardship
- Banjul under pressure to respond to U.S. demands
The first whispers of trouble began circulating on community WhatsApp groups in late May. By early June, alarm bells were ringing across government offices and diaspora families alike: the United States had issued a 60-day warning that The Gambia, along with 35 other nations, could face new visa restrictions and travel bans if it failed to meet stringent identity verification and immigration control benchmarks.
The internal U.S. State Department memo, first reported by The Washington Post, and signed by Secretary of State Marco Rubio, set the clock ticking. Unless The Gambia upgrades its civil registry systems, cooperates more fully with U.S. deportation orders, and reduces visa overstays by mid-August, its citizens may find themselves barred from entering the United States—regardless of intent, status, or circumstance.
For many Gambians, the threat feels not only sudden but existential. Despite its size, The Gambia has a global presence. With an estimated 100,000 Gambians living abroad—many of them in the United States—its diaspora is deeply woven into the economic and social fabric of the nation. In 2024 alone, Gambians abroad sent home $775 million in remittances, a sum that accounted for over 31 percent of the national GDP.
The diaspora supports families, pays school fees, builds homes, and even underwrites political campaigns and civil society initiatives. The prospect of a travel ban thus looms like a thundercloud, threatening not only individual mobility but a core pillar of the country’s resilience.
“The U.S. has every right to manage its borders,” said Ebrima Sanneh, a political analyst in Banjul. “But to target an entire nation with a blanket travel ban because of administrative shortcomings feels disproportionate and cruel.”
The U.S. has laid out a demanding list of requirements. Countries must demonstrate that they have robust biometric identification systems, a centralized civil registry, and strong cooperation with U.S. authorities on deportation and data-sharing. They must also reduce the number of their nationals who overstay U.S. visas.
For a low-income country still rebuilding from decades of autocratic rule and institutional fragility, these are difficult tasks—made more daunting by the two-month deadline.
“We’re trying to comply, but the infrastructure and resources are just not there,” said a senior official at The Gambia Immigration Department, speaking anonymously because the only person authorized to speak to the media is the spokesman. “We’ve made progress, but the timeline is unrealistic. We need support, not sanctions.”
The proposed ban has thrown thousands of Gambians—both at home and abroad—into a state of anxiety and limbo. The U.S Embassy in Gambia has reduced, if not stopped, allocating time for visa interviews. Many Gambians are now travelling to Dakar, Senegal for interviews.
For some, it means canceled travel plans or postponed family reunions. For others, it’s the fear of not being able to return to the U.S. after a short visit.
“My visa appointment was scheduled for August,” said Fatou Jallow, a nurse hoping to join her husband in New York. “Now I don’t know if it will go through. I feel like I have lost everything before I have even started.”
“This is not about national security—it’s about punishing poor nations for not having digital systems the U.S. itself took decades to build,” said Modou Touray, a Gambian based in the U.S. “Our families are being held hostage by a bureaucratic checklist.”
The Gambian government, caught off guard by the U.S. directive, initially scrambled to respond. The Ministry of Foreign Affairs was said to have launched high-level engagements with American diplomats and reached out to regional allies for support. But since June 16, the Ministry has gone completely silent.
Repeated follow-ups by this reporter with the office of the Permanent Secretary of the Ministry have yielded no substantive response. The Permanent Secretary himself acknowledged that he did not have enough information regarding the matter. It is understood he was in the United States for discussions related to the issue at the time.
An official letter addressed to his office on 16 June—seeking clarity on The Gambia’s diplomatic position and response to the U.S. ultimatum—has gone unanswered. Several follow-up calls and visits to his office were made until this Monday, when the Personal Secretary to the Permanent Secretary said, once again, that the office “did not have information about the issue you have requested. He needs time to find out and get back to you.”
“This is an emergency and the silence is not going to help,” said Modou Ceesay, a civil society activist. “We need transparency, not silence from the government because we will all feel the pain.”
The Gambia is not alone. The travel-ban list includes 36 nations, most of them in Africa, Asia, and Latin America. Critics say the policy resembles earlier Trump-era moves to limit immigration under the guise of national security, with little transparency about how countries are selected or removed from the list.
“This is travel-ban 2.0,” said Lamin Ceesay, a US-Gambian citizen. “It creates a dangerous precedent where the United States leverages its visa power to pressure developing countries without offering the resources to help them comply.”
For families already living on the margins, the policy risks creating not just administrative delays but emotional devastation.
Binta Ceesay, a 60-year-old widow in Farafenni, relies on her daughter in Minnesota to send money every month for her medication and food.
“She was planning to visit this December,” Ceesay said, clutching her prayer beads. “Now she says maybe she can’t come. Maybe never again.”
Many Gambians see this as part of a growing pattern of exclusion from the global system. Between the new remittance tax targeting non-citizens and the threatened travel ban, America—long seen as a place of opportunity—is increasingly viewed with suspicion and dread.
“I used to dream of studying in the U.S,” said Buba Ndow, a 19-year-old student at the University of The Gambia. “Now it feels like they don’t want people like me.”
As the August deadline approaches, for a country that has long depended on the strength and success of its diaspora, the threat of a U.S. travel ban is more than a political decision—it’s a potential rupture of identity, economy, and hope.
“America is not just a destination,” said Lamin Sanyang, a Gambian staying in the U.S. “It is a bridge for our people. If you burn that bridge, you’re not just isolating us. You are breaking families apart.”
The American embassy in Banjul is yet to respond to our request for comment on the matter.
This story was a collaboration with New Narratives as part of the West Africa Justice Reporting Project.
