My father emigrated from India to the US in 1987 with $20 and dreams of a better life. His parents, who had little education, laboured long hours in a field to put food on the table.

My father was the first in his family to go to university. It wasn’t easy: as a boy he earned 10 cents a day carrying heavy scrap metal on his back for long stretches, barefoot. His two older brothers worked long hours in odd jobs to pay for his education. He ultimately earned a doctorate in Physics, before moving to Alaska for a postdoctoral fellowship.

He became an immigrant, in search of the American dream. The idea was that, no matter where you came from, success was within reach if you were willing to work hard – or at least until this election.

As long ago as 1999, Trump made his stance on immigration clear: no new people. “I’m opposed to new people coming in. We have to take care of the people who are here,” he quipped.

Immigrants have long been viewed as a drain on the American economic system, contributing little but taking a lot in welfare benefits. When my parents and sister emigrated to the US, they weren’t putting much into the system. They were savers: with my father’s $20,000 postdoctoral salary, he purchased three flight tickets from India to the US and still managed to save $10,000.

Over their 30 years in the US, my parents would go on to contribute to the economy in countless ways. They purchased a couple of houses, put three kids through university, donated to charities, and bought cars. They contributed in non-monetary ways as well. My dad’s been instrumental to the continued development of Detroit’s major research university. They’ve donated much of their time to church, helping with the local foodbank and homeless shelter.

This election has thrown me into an existential crisis. I am left wondering: would any of it have happened if Trump had risen three decades earlier?

In his book, Trump argues that foreign students who come to study in the US should be able to stay and use their skills to in the US, rather than take them back home. He deems this form of immigration “acceptable”. My dad’s older brother, who worked as a store clerk to support my dad’s education, never earned even one per cent of the wages needed to send my dad to university in the US. My dad would likely never have met Trump’s qualifications for entry.

My views on refugees, skilled migrants and illegal immigrants were upended last year, when I worked in the refugee camps in Calais. Until then, I believed the myth portrayed by the American media, that refugees were uneducated and poor. But as I distributed supplies in the camp’s Afghan Square, I found myself chatting to professors, doctors, lawyers, and teachers – all refugees.

One man reminded me of my father. He was a middle-aged man, once a university law professor in Kabul. He, too, had come from a poor, rural farming background and gone on to earn a PhD. He told me how his family fled in the middle of the night and that the idea of being a professor again was a mere pipe dream. If driving taxis and washing bathrooms every day for the rest of his life would guarantee opportunities for his children, he would do it.

It felt like déjà vu. My dad was a lecturer at Texas A&M during the 1990s. He dealt with immense racism during his time there. Despite being far more published than most of his colleagues, he was refused tenure repeatedly and ultimately laid off. With three kids under the age of 13, he felt the weight of the world on his shoulders. My dad once told me something I’ll never forget: “If I have to push carts at Walmart or carry potatoes in Idaho to help you guys, that’s what I’ll do. As immigrants, we will always have to work harder to stay afloat.”

White women have turned their back on women of colour

Was the professor-turned-refugee I met in Calais any different from my father? Not at all. Yet because of Trump’s immigrant-phobia, my new friend may never have the opportunity to create a new life; his kids may never have the opportunity to chase their dreams and change the world. Instead, he’ll spend his days in a cold, wet tent, hoping for asylum status, preferably in an English-speaking country so that his kids can continue their education without further disruption. My father? He wasn’t a natural at English, but he persevered. Today, he’s a fully-tenured professor, among the most published in his field, with over 125 articles and two books to his name (all in English). His kids are all on track to do better than he did.

The only difference between these two men – my father and the Afghan refugee? The political landscape during their hour of need. I woke at 5:46am in Brussels, the morning after the US election, in a complete state of shock. As I dragged my feet to the European Parliament to serve as Secretary General and represent the United States at the Young European Leadership delegation meeting, a painful reality set it. My grandparents, two illiterate field labourers in rural India, couldn’t have dreamt of a world where, thanks to their hard manual labour, their grandkids would go on to work as a Wall Street executive or do a PhD at Cambridge. I am a product of the American Dream.

On Tuesday, that became a mere pipe dream