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"No one is forcing Donald Trump to fire the people who make sure students with disabilities can get a good education—he just wants to," said Sen. Patty Murray.
The Trump administration has launched what advocates, parents, and Democratic members of Congress are calling an unlawful and immoral attack on programs that provide education services to millions of children with disabilities across the United States.
Earlier this month, the administration announced mass firings at the Office of Special Education and Rehabilitative Services (OSERS), terminations that would hollow out the agency tasked with administering and overseeing programs that support students with disabilities—part of President Donald Trump's effort to abolish the Education Department without congressional approval.
"This reckless and illegal action is another step toward the administration's goal of dismantling the Department of Education," Kathleen Romig, director of Social Security and disability policy at the Center on Budget and Policy Priorities, wrote Tuesday. "With this latest action, the Trump Administration is effectively shuttering [the Office of Special Education Programs], which distributed $15 billion in federal grants to schools in 2025."
"These grants," Romig noted, "pay for special education teachers and aides, speech and occupational therapists, assistive technology, screening and early intervention for infants and toddlers, and other critical services and supports that millions of families rely upon."
Sen. Patty Murray (D-Wash.) said it is "appalling" that the Trump administration is exploiting the ongoing government shutdown to escalate its destruction of the Education Department.
"No one is forcing Donald Trump to fire the people who make sure students with disabilities can get a good education—he just wants to," said Murray, the top Democrat on the Senate Appropriations Committee.
While a federal judge paused the OSERS firings with a temporary restraining order last week, reports and public comments from Trump officials indicate that the administration's assault on programs that aid students with disabilities is just beginning.
The Washington Post reported Tuesday that the administration is considering placing the Individuals with Disabilities Education (IDEA) Act program under the purview of the Health and Human Services Department, led by Robert F. Kennedy Jr.
More than 15% of students in the US receive special education services. IDEA also provides support to hundreds of thousands of infants and toddlers each year.
Sasha Pudelski, director of advocacy for AASA, the School Superintendents Association, told the Post that "moving special education out of the Department of Education demonstrates a disregard for the educational needs of students with disabilities."
"America's special education students are embedded at every level, in every program that the department oversees," Pudelski added. "It's a step backward for education and for our country."
The National Education Association (NEA), the country's largest teachers union, published an article on Tuesday featuring comments from parents alarmed by the administration's targeting of programs that their kids rely on.
"I'm a proud parent of a neurodivergent student, and I'm heartbroken,” Kim Pinckney, the mother of a child with autism, ADHD, and speech disorders, told NEA Today, the union's news publication. "I am one of those parents with the audacity to love my child and to believe he deserves a free and appropriate education. I am one of millions of parents who have the audacity to believe our children are worthy and that they have their own unique genius that deserves to be unearthed."
This month, skip the slogans. Ask: Who do I know that needs care? Who will I support when the next cut comes? What am I building that lasts beyond this news cycle? Or this election cycle?
Every July, we’re told to smile for the cameras. Show our pride. Celebrate how far we’ve come.
But what if all we feel is rage?
This year, Disability Pride Month arrives under a government that is actively tearing down the few protections we have left. Programs that kept us out of institutions—gone. Jobs focused on accessibility—eliminated. Community care infrastructure—defunded, dismantled, or disappeared entirely. And somehow, no one’s sounding the alarm. Or perhaps there are too many alarms going off at once, and nobody can distinguish them anymore.
There’s no parade for the disabled workers quietly laid off when Diversity, Equity, Inclusion, and Accessibility (DEIA) offices were shuttered. No ribbon cutting for the collapse of the Administration for Community Living. No national reckoning when misinformation about disability spreads on federal letterhead and leads to real-world harm. Harm like the little people I know who were harassed in airports after the Federal Aviation Administration (FAA) became a political target following the D.C plane crash when our president attributed the disaster to our community.
What we’re seeing now is the result of years of bipartisan disinvestment. It’s just happening louder, faster, and crueler than before.
This isn’t bureaucratic drift. It’s intentional. And it’s happening while the rest of the country posts inspirational quotes about inclusion.
I run New Disabled South with the mission of improving the lives of disabled people and building strong disability justice and rights movements in the South, and I can tell you: This moment is not about pride. It’s about survival.
The Trump administration recently directly attacked a federal employment program that helped place disabled people in jobs across agencies like the FAA. Instead of telling the truth, they called it a “diversity hiring” loophole and singled out specific disabilities, including dwarfism. The backlash from right-wing radical folks was immediate and violent. And still, no one covered it.
And yet, the rollback didn’t start this year. It didn’t even start with this administration. President Ronald Reagan, with a Republican Senate from 1981-1987, launched a major campaign to reduce the size of the federal government. Significant cuts to Social Security Disability Insurance (SSDI) and Supplemental Security Income (SSI) led to hundreds of thousands of people losing disability benefits after aggressive reevaluations.
And now, anti-DEI rhetoric has escalated into anti-access policy. Entire programs and research centers have been shuttered under the guise of neutrality. Leaders who run centers for racial and disability justice are currently fighting lawsuits claiming that simply existing in these spaces is discriminatory. The irony would be laughable if it weren’t so destructive.
The people affected by these attacks are the ones making our country more livable, accessible, and just. These aren’t abstract programs. These are lifelines. I know, because I grew up on them.
My parents relied on Medicaid home and community-based services (HCBS) to care for my siblings and me at home. We were triplets, all with cerebral palsy. Doctors encouraged my parents to put us into institutions. But because of HCBS and other programs, we weren’t institutionalized—we were raised in our own home, in our own community, with the people we love. I’m here because of that care. And I’m terrified that families like mine won’t get the same chance.
This is the part where I’m supposed to offer hope. But here’s the truth: We are being failed. And it’s time to name that, without softening it.
Disability justice is not a one-month-a-year conversation. It is not a post. It is not a panel. And it cannot be siloed off from broader fights for racial, gender, and economic equity. Being a part of this community, we are not a niche. We are a movement. This affects us all; more than 1 in 4 adults in the United States have some type of disability, and that’s not counting the number of people who have been and continue to be disabled from Covid-19. And we are all deeply, inextricably linked to every community being attacked right now.
When Black students lose access to equity programs, disabled students lose.
When LGBTQ+ protections are stripped away, disabled people lose.
When DEI offices are dissolved, accessibility gets erased too.
And when we talk about disability, we must also talk about race, poverty, gender, sexuality, and geography. Especially in the South, where I live and organize, policy decisions made in D.C. don’t just ripple—they rupture. The South has the nation’s highest rates of disability, and it’s been made clear with recent cuts to Medicaid and other essential programs that the federal government isn’t coming to save us. No matter who’s in charge, disability is too often treated as an afterthought at best or a political liability at worst. What we’re seeing now is the result of years of bipartisan disinvestment. It’s just happening louder, faster, and crueler than before.
We need care webs—mutual aid rooted in relationships, not rescue. These are informal, hyper-local networks where people look out for one another. Not just with money or donations, but with time, attention, and consistency. Someone to check in. Someone to help navigate a job search or bureaucratic nightmare. Someone to drive you to the doctor when paratransit doesn’t show up. Someone who knows your access needs and shows up anyway.
This isn’t about creating a perfect system. It’s about refusing to let each other fall through the cracks.
Building a care web can be as simple as texting a neighbor, posting in a local group, or organizing around one person’s immediate needs. You don’t have to be disabled to start one. You just have to decide that no one should be left behind because a government decided they didn’t matter.
These may seem like small acts, but they are how we survive. They are how we resist.
So this month, skip the slogans. Ask: Who do I know that needs care? Who will I support when the next cut comes? What am I building that lasts beyond this news cycle? Or this election cycle?
That’s the work. That’s the rage. And that’s how we move forward together.
Our work to ensure that forcibly displaced people with disabilities have equal access to pathways to safety and lasting refuge has never been easy, but since U.S. President Donald Trump took office, it has become nearly impossible.
Hassan’s life was not always confined to a single room. But when he became a refugee, he didn’t just lose his home, he lost his freedom and independence.
Hassan is a young refugee man from Sudan with a physical disability that requires him to use a wheelchair. Before the war in Sudan forced him to flee to Egypt, he lived in an accessible home, which allowed him to move around independently. Now, he is trapped without a wheelchair on the fourth floor of a building with no elevator. His apartment is completely inaccessible, forcing him to spend 24 hours a day in bed.
I learned about Hassan’s journey on a call I convened as part of my role leading the Disability Inclusion and Accessibility Program at the International Refugee Assistance Project (IRAP), a global legal aid and advocacy nonprofit. Our work to ensure that forcibly displaced people with disabilities have equal access to pathways to safety and lasting refuge has never been easy, but since U.S. President Donald Trump took office, it has become nearly impossible. This population is under attack for being refugees, people with disabilities, and beneficiaries of U.S. foreign aid.
“He thinks if only the president knows what he is going through, and that all his resettlement expenses will be taken care of by volunteer sponsors in the U.S., he will change his mind.”
The sheer volume of anti-immigrant policies enacted by the Trump administration risks obscuring the harm each one inflicts on real people. The executive orders issued by the new U.S. administration since January 20 have been devastating for many, but especially for refugees with disabilities and their families. It has also been a loss for the local communities ready to welcome them.
During my meeting with Hassan, I met some of the generous families in Ohio who had come together to support Hassan and his family. When they learned about the Welcome Corps, the private sponsorship program which allows Americans to directly support refugees, the families worked day and night to meet all the requirements to sponsor Hassan’s resettlement to the United States.
“Since then, Hassan has been focused solely on how living in the U.S. will change his life. Without a job and unable to leave his home, he has been spending all of his days following the progress of his sponsors. But the complete ban of the refugee admissions program destroyed all his dreams. It was like a tornado demolishing all we had built with just a few words,” one of Hassan’s sponsors told me.
Hassan is just one of millions of people with disabilities forcibly displaced around the world. While the United Nations doesn’t collect data on the exact number of refugees with disabilities, estimates suggest there may be nearly 18 million people with disabilities in need of resettlement. With the end of programs like the Welcome Corps and the cuts to U.S. foreign aid, their already shaky support system has all but collapsed, leaving refugees with disabilities and their families with zero support.
I have learned in my career as a refugee rights advocate and disability inclusion activist that refugees with disabilities are the last group to be included and the first to be excluded. When challenges arise, refugees with disabilities are on the frontlines.
In nearly every refugee-hosting country, refugees with disabilities are denied access to the services available for citizens. Many of them cannot even obtain disability certificates. As a result, refugees with disabilities and their families solely rely on humanitarian assistance provided by the United Nations or NGOs to access medical support, rehabilitation, assistive devices, and many other needs: a tiny stream of support which is now almost dry with significant cuts to U.S. foreign assistance funds.
It is extremely hard to meet the resettlement eligibility criteria set forth by the U.N. and many destination countries. Having a medical need that can’t be met locally can be a factor in being considered for resettlement, but many refugees with disabilities do not have the information and resources necessary to request this consideration. Those who can access this process often get rejected, and even for those who are accepted, the refugee process is long and complicated. This can mean years, sometimes decades, without life-saving healthcare, accessible homes, or any education or growth opportunities.
That is why innovative programs like the Welcome Corps were a beacon of hope for many refugees with disabilities who were left out of the U.N.-based resettlement. And now, Trump’s refugee ban is pushing them back into a situation where even the inadequate support they used to receive has been demolished due to the foreign aid cuts. Even though federal judges have blocked the government from further implementing the refugee ban and the cuts to USAID, the government has done little to comply with the orders.
The dire situation of people like Hassan requires the Trump administration to take immediate meaningful steps to resume the U.S. Refugee Admissions Program. Such a resumption would be consistent with recent federal court orders and congressional intent. Funding for humanitarian and refugee assistance programs, in particular disability inclusion funding, must also be immediately restored. Those advocating for refugee rights also need to prioritize finding solutions for refugees with disabilities and include their voices in their advocacy.
Hassan’s sponsor told me: “I don’t know how to respond when Hassan asks me about the future. He wishes to speak to the president himself to explain his situation. He thinks if only the president knows what he is going through, and that all his resettlement expenses will be taken care of by volunteer sponsors in the U.S., he will change his mind. Hassan wants the president and the American people to know that when given the opportunity in a more accessible environment, refugees with disabilities can flourish and fulfill their potential.”
I couldn’t say it better myself.