My earliest memories of Liberia are wholesome and unadulterated. It was where I learned to horseback ride along the shores of the Atlantic Ocean; where I rescued stray dogs (or kaykay’s, as we call them in Liberian Pidgin English) in my backyard until my mother forced me to let them go; and where my people were never the minority.

But in time, my childhood experiences became tainted with memories of being reprimanded for standing near the windows of my home during one of several coup attempts; of gunfire piercing the nighttime silence; and of being whisked away in the middle of the night to a safer location.

My last recollection of Liberia is from 1990, six months after the start of the now 14-year-old civil war. My father packed my sister and me up, one suitcase each, and sent us ahead to the States, where we could remain in safety for the summer and return home once the dust settled. I have not been back since.

Thirteen years and one American-born child later, life continues to show promise for me in the United States, although nothing has changed for the better in Liberia, where hundreds of thousands have lost their lives to conflict; where basic necessities, such as running water, electricity and medicines, are often in short supply; where disease runs rampant; and, where, currently, half of the population is displaced.

I still consider myself a refugee, and my remembrances of a country I love grow more distant each year—with even my dreams struggling to recall places I once knew well. Sadness overwhelms me when I realize my son will never know the place that gave me confidence in who I was and who I have become, that exposed me to so many cultures. It still hurts to know that he’ll never frolic on the same beaches I once played on, beaches that have now become makeshift graveyards for countless victims.

With Liberia sharing the media spotlight with Afghanistan and Iraq, the plight of my people weighs even more heavily as I live freely as an American.

Like many Liberians, I have both indigenous Liberian and old American blood running through my veins. For many Liberians, then and today, America is a place where "the streets are made of gold," where most of us as children yearned to visit, live and attend university. Many eventually did, just as many Americans chose to invest in and enjoy vacations in Liberia and raise children who also spoke our Pidgin English and acquired a taste for our spicy dishes.

There are countless arguments for and against sending American troops to Liberia, a republic founded in 1847 by freed American slaves (initially settled by the American Colonization Society 25 years earlier), with a flag and constitution modeled after the United States’. But beyond the historical ties between the two countries, or their diplomatic alliances during pivotal events of the 20th century, is the humanitarian crisis that has made Liberia one of the worst case scenarios in Africa today.

CRS President Ken Hackett has publicly addressed the importance of U.S. support to secure Liberia immediately, to prevent further violence and bloodshed, enable displaced Liberians to return to their homes and aid agencies to provide relief to those in need. Mr. Hackett called for a "commitment that encourages Liberia’s return to economic and political viability; helps to usher in a fruitful Liberian peace process; and fosters regional stability."

In recent weeks, CRS has distributed emergency food aid to thousands of displaced Liberian families. And CRS is prepared to return to full operations in the country to provide for the immediate needs of the most vulnerable, particularly the displaced.

But right now, with security conditions as they are, that’s not possible. So, as an employee of CRS, I do what I can to help. And I do what I can as a Liberian living in America, as well, to make my voice heard and spread hope. I can only imagine that all many Liberians have left is hope.

At a rally for Liberia last month in Washington, I read a poem for my country, which included the following lines:

I refuse to believe hope isn’t alive and well somewhere,

Just preparing for her return.

A resurrection that dusts away the cobwebs of denial,

Condemns the disregard for humanity,

And cleanses misery from souls.