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At a Utah debate tournament, teen refugees find their voices and build their confidence
12-15-2025 By Elle Crossley
Developing the skills to argue intelligently allows refugee students to ‘leave the label to the side,’ an organizer said.
11-05-2025 By Vanessa Hudson
From photojournalist to public servant: Bruin alum Jesse Valdez aims for mayoral seat
10-21-2025 By Pearl Ashton
'I think we deserve to start telling our own narrative rather than let others do it for us.'
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Bom and Anna took their seats in front of a judges’ panel in an auditorium, adjusted their handwritten notes, and watched as the clock was about to start.
After hours of debates, and besting 13 other competitors, Bom, 17, from North Korea, and Anna, 15, from Ukraine, had made it to the final round of a debate competition for refugee teens, held at the University of Utah. (Organizers asked student debaters only to be identified by first name and that their faces not be shown in photographs, due to privacy concerns.)
The debate topic in the final round: Establishing a carbon tax in the United States.
“Here’s the biggest point,” Bom said, arguing in favor of the tax. “No companies or anyone will try to take the responsibility or volunteer to stop the emissions without any policy or government interactions.”
Anna pushed back, arguing such a tax would create global tariffs and destabilize the economy.
It was a moment the students had been working toward for the last 10 weeks. So had Khadija Kele, youth coordinator of the Department of Workforce Service’s Refugee Services Office, who has seen students, many of whom arrived in Utah as refugees, “come alive” as they’ve discovered the power of their voice.
“They’re the ones that are wanting to have these challenging conversations,” Kele said. “They’re pushing others to have these conversations.”
Those voices filled classrooms and auditoriums at the U. on Dec. 4, during the fall tournament of the Refugee Community Debate League, a program that teaches debate and argumentation to middle and high schoolers who are refugees in Utah.
The University of Utah Department of Communication and John R. Park Debate Society, in partnership with the state’s Refugee Services Office, established the program in 2022. Averie Vockel, assistant director of forensics at the U. and the debate society’s outreach coordinator, said it was created to expand the department’s community outreach.
“We wanted something that was offering debate in a new space,” Vockel said.
(Leo LeBohec | Amplify Utah) Jeremy Curry-Young, a panel judge, listens to a student present an argument about how lower-income populations may be affected by a carbon tax, at a debate organized by the Refugee Community Debate League at the University of Utah on Dec. 4, 2025. A panel judge, Jeremy Curry-Young, listens to a student speech about how the lower class could be impacted by a carbon emissions tax. (Leo LeBohec)
More than 21,500 refugees have resettled in Utah over the past 27 years, according to data from the Health Resources and Services Administration. Since 2015, more than half have been children.
Vockel oversees the league, which has run in both the spring and fall semesters. She works with students for more than two months, building from debate basics to research skills, case building and presentation.
Each new group of students chooses a topic area for policy-oriented debate, Vockel said. In past semesters, they have tackled education, health care and gun control. This year’s debates centered around capitalism, with participants making arguments for and against universal basic income and a carbon tax.
“They never [try] to avoid anything controversial,” Vockel said. “Debate is a space where you have those hard conversations, and it’s structured in a way that’s meant to be productive.”
Research supports the effects Vockel has seen the program make. A 2019 study in the journal Educational Research and Reviews found high schoolers who participated in debate were 28% more likely to enroll in a four-year university than those who did not. In 2021, research from the University of Michigan found debate students had an .66 point higher average GPA, as well as higher math, reading and writing scores on the SAT.
Alya Al Mashhadani’s 14-year-old daughter, Basma, took part in the debate league this fall. The program strengthened her communication skills and self-esteem, Al Mashhadani said.
Al Mashhadani’s family moved to the United States from Iraq in 2013, which she said makes opportunities like these even more significant.
“People see refugees like they don’t have enough knowledge or underestimate them,” Al Mashhadani added. “Maybe because of the language barrier, but that doesn’t mean we are not capable.”
Kele said the students’ experiences as refugees help them see more perspectives in their debates. She noticed many of the kids struggled with self-doubt at first. But as the weeks went on, she said she watched them recognize their abilities and potential.
“A lot of times, people only see [refugee kids] as, ‘Oh, the poor refugees,’ but this gives them an opportunity to just put themselves out there and leave the label to the side,” she said. “It’s given them an opportunity to show themselves in a different light.”
Vockel added that building arguments helps students look at the world through a critical lens and form their own opinions, fostering a sense of political efficacy, advocacy and belonging.
The program also works to bridge higher education gaps by offering free college credit to students in ninth grade and higher, Vockel said. Making education more accessible is important, she added, since a refugee family’s immediate needs can overshadow college.
“Higher education resources should be put in places where they’re needed,” Vockel said. “Education is good, access to spaces is good, and having more voices, I think, makes policy better always.”
Students who make it to the final round get $1,500 scholarships to the University of Utah, Vockel said, and the winner gets a new laptop.
The tournament brought together students from countries like North Korea, Ukraine, Somalia and Afghanistan.
Bom, from North Korea, ultimately bested her Ukrainian opponent, Anna, with her argument in favor of a carbon tax, and left the U. as champion.
For Bom, Anna and the other participants Kele watched that day, the tournament was more than a competition. It was a marker of the group’s hard work and growth.
“A lot of these kids … entered in shy,” Kele said, “and they’re coming out empowered.”
Elle Crossley, a recent journalism graduate from the University of Utah, wrote this article as part of a collaborative including nonprofits Amplify Utah and The Salt Lake Tribune.
Now that he’s 21, Finn Reilly said he’s thrilled to use his ID.
Reilly doesn’t drink, so the allure of tequila shots and cheap beer doesn’t do much for him. But music and entertainment does, and, for his birthday, he wanted to get into Why Kiki to finally join his friends for a night of fun.
“We were able to get a table at the front for their nightly drag show, and it was so special,” he said. “I felt like the belle of the ball.”
Reilly, who loves live shows, said young music fans like him often feel shut out from experiencing Utah arts and culture because of the state’s liquor laws.
“A lot of smaller artists I wanted to see only play in bars,” he said, “and when friends would go up to the 21-plus areas, I didn’t have anyone else to hang out with.”
Reilly said he never had a fake ID when he was under 21 — he hit that milestone birthday on April 3 — but he knows many underage music fans will use them to see their favorite bands.
Kylie Fitch — who’s the marketing director of The State Room Presents, the booking agency that operates The State Room and The Commonwealth Room —said that although “21+” is prominently displayed on the company’s website, ticket stubs, social media and buildings, people still miss the disclaimer and are turned away.
“When we pull in talent that has a younger fan base, sometimes people will miss that and buy a ticket anyways,” Fitch said. “They get angry at us, and we’re like, ‘There’s just nothing we can do.’ We’re doing our best in the state of Utah.”
Whether a venue is all-ages or 21-and-over can divide Utah’s music community along age lines rather than musical taste. Greta Sommerfeld, who is in her 30s, said she appreciates age-restricted venues whenever she goes out for a night in Salt Lake City.
“It’s not about the alcohol for me,” she said. “[Unrestricted venues] remind me of an all-ages nightclub or school dance.”
(The State Room Presents) A line of music fans outside The State Room at 638 S. State St. in Salt Lake City. It's a popular music venue, but is a 21-or-older venue because it serves liquor.
Now that he’s 21, Reilly said he can attend events and venues that were previously inaccessible. He said he appreciates Utah’s strict regulations, which make it easier for him to “feel normal being sober,” while still enjoying the entertainment and social aspect bars provide.
“Having something to do on a weekend can keep a lot of kids ultimately out of trouble,” he said.
Some underage fans say they turn to fake IDs to access shows they’d otherwise miss. A few students, who requested anonymity because they use fake IDs, said they agreed with Reilly that venues should welcome fans of all ages.
“The fact that minors aren’t allowed in some venues just because they serve alcohol is ridiculous,” said one student who uses a fake ID to attend concerts.
Utah’s liquor laws, these students said, shut out an “entire demographic” from the music scene. Though they understand the serious consequences associated with using fake IDs, they said they decided the risk is worthwhile to see their favorite artists perform.
“It goes against what music is,” they said, referring to the exclusive nature of 21-plus venues.
Fitch, who grew up on the East Coast, said she sympathizes with younger fans. “When I was a college student and I was under 21, if I had been shut out of concerts at that age, I would be royally pissed,” she added.
Moriah Glazier books events for S&S Presents, which manages Salt Lake City venues like The Depot, Kilby Court and The Urban Lounge. Kilby Court stands out among those as one that consistently accommodates fans of all ages.
“We try our best to match artists with the venue that will allow the majority of their Utah fanbase to attend,” she said. “Due to the availability of venues at any given time, this isn’t always possible.”
Glazier said she hopes younger fans who miss shows will have opportunities to see their favorite artists when they return to Salt Lake City. Glazier’s boss, S&S Presents owner Lance Saunders, acknowledged it’s a challenge to book acts in Utah and comply with the state’s liquor laws, no matter the effect on young fans.
(Francisco Kjolseth | The Salt Lake Tribune) The door into the main stage area of Kilby Court, one of Salt Lake City's most beloved all-ages music venues.
Utah’s Department of Alcoholic Beverage Services started in 1935, two years after the repeal of Prohibition — the constitutional amendment that banned the sale of alcohol across the United States. (The Utah Legislature clinched ratification of the 21st amendment, by being the 36th state to vote to repeal.)
The agency’s purpose, according to its website, is “to make liquor available to those adults who choose to drink responsibly — but not to promote the sale of liquor.”
Being a control state, the agency said, removes the economic incentive “to maximize sales, open more liquor stores or sell to underage persons.” Utah is not unique as a control state; 17 other states and a county in Maryland have similar policies.
The agency carries out the state’s alcohol policy, but doesn’t make it — the Utah Legislature decides that.
Both older and younger generations agree that the 2002 Olympics brought changes to Utah’s liquor laws that made venues more accessible. According to the article, one of these included Bud World, which took the Gallivan Center and “featured concerts” and created a “festive atmosphere” including lots of beer, of course.
Venue staff, like Fitch, said they believe more relaxed regulations would boost Salt Lake’s economy.
“Salt Lake is just getting more and more liberal,” she said. “If the city and the state know what’s best in terms of a positive economic impact, they will continue to reshape the laws around alcohol that will keep them from being so stifling for businesses.”
Sommerfeld said she agrees Utah should modernize its approach.
“Surely, there is a way to get the best of both worlds, like making sure underage people don’t get access to alcohol, but also catering to the 21-plus crowd,” she said.
Reilly said he believes there’s potential for places like Area 51, The Beehive and the Granary District as potential models. These spaces host events for mixed-age crowds, serving alcohol to adults with designated wristbands while welcoming younger patrons.
Other states offer a different model, Fitch said, where venues welcome all ages while maintaining connected bars. Fitch said she finds Utah’s split-room approach problematic, describing the user experience as “not great.”
Saunders emphasized that music, not alcohol, remains central to the experience.
“Obviously, it’s nice to have the option of a drink or a snack while you watch the show, but it doesn’t seem like a deal-breaker for most concert attendees these days,” he said.
For Reilly, however, access to 21-plus events provides community.
“A lot of bars here have live music, drag shows and other bigger music events. And it’s nice to have somewhere to go out and dance,” he said. “It’s a third place I usually feel welcome in.”
And that’s why Saunders said this emphasizes Kilby Court’s importance in a restrictive landscape. It’s a space that welcomes any fan or artist, no matter their age.
“In the past, many touring artists have played in rooms that are generally 21-plus,” he said. “That is why we love Kilby Court so much. It’s not just an all-ages venue, it’s a social network with a heartbeat of its own.”
Laney Hansen wrote this story as a journalism student at the University of Utah. It is published as part of a collaborative including nonprofits Amplify Utah and The Salt Lake Tribune.
A documentary focused on Indigenous stewardship of Great Salt Lake is the latest work of art centering on the declining levels of the lake and a cry, filmmakers say, for state leaders to listen to Indigenous voices who believe the issue has been “scienced to death.”
“Diverted: Indigenous Stewardship and Saving Great Salt Lake” has been two years in the making, despite reshoots and the personal struggles of balancing work, families and daily life. Now, it's ready for two screenings this month: Nov. 6 at Fisher Brewing and Nov. 20 at the Utah Film Center.
Director and producer Valene Peratrovich said she initially got involved with the project after co-producers McCaulee Blackburn and Cristian Martinez asked her to do voice-over work for the documentary, which was still in pre-production, and later invited her to attend planning meetings. At first, Peratrovich said, the amateur crew had no idea what they were doing.
“We just knew what we cared about, and that really taught us that you don't need perfect and you don't need to be an expert,” Peratrovich said. “If the intention is true, and the heart is there, everything else will grow from that.”
The documentary centers Indigenous voices and focuses on traditional connections and their ecological knowledge to save the lake, Peratrovich said. Interviews with Darren Parry, former Northwestern Shoshone Nation chairman; Carl Moore, a member of the Hopi, Chemehuevi, and Colorado River Indian Tribes; and Elizabeth Kronk Warner, dean of the University of Utah’s law school, bring the threads of the story together on screen.
“I was super passionate about it because I am Indigenous myself,” said Peratrovich, who is Tlingit (Eagle Clan), Unangan and Athabascan, from the Anchorage, Alaska area. “I was raised really to believe in my people, in my culture, understanding all the positive and negative things that have impacted us as people, and really using it to push the culture forward, advocate for my people and really amplify our voices.”
Peratrovich led the crew of two producers, Blackburn and Martinez, whom she met in 2022 while studying journalism at Salt Lake Community College. They initially worked on the documentary as a passion project outside of the classroom, but they later pitched it for a documentary class at the college and premiered a first cut of the film through the school in December 2023.
In 2024, “Diverted” received a Rocky Mountain Student Emmy and a Bloomberg Philanthropies grant from the Salt Lake City Arts Council.
Andrew Shaw, special projects coordinator for the Salt Lake City Arts Council, runs Wake the Great Salt Lake, a temporary public art project funded by Bloomberg Philanthropies to educate and inspire people about saving Utah’s capital-city namesake. Salt Lake City was one of eight cities to receive the $1 million grant from Bloomberg Philanthropies. The money was divided amongst several art projects and artists and funded murals, photo exhibitions and performance art.
Shaw said he believes the documentary has the potential to be seen and make an impact at film festivals across the country and the world.
“I think this film has such great potential … as a good depiction of a community caring about the water and the natural resources around them,” he said.
Peratrovich said their $10,000 portion of the grant was really helpful.
“We're going to be able to afford to enter into film festivals,” she said, though they’re not sure which festivals yet. “It's not free, it ain't cheap, so we're very lucky for their support.”
Shaw said he’s been impressed by the crew’s approach to the film, finding the right people to interview and showcasing how communities can find solutions together. The upcoming screenings, he added, mark the beginning of something great for added awareness about the lake and its connection to some of Utah’s Indigenous communities.
“Artists have a way of touching people's hearts in a way that the data doesn't,” he said. “Data shows us what's going wrong and helps us really get into the weeds, but art can show a much bigger picture and can be much more accessible to a wider audience.”
Still, as a grassroots project, the documentary faced several obstacles – from the technical to new laws – during shooting and post-production, Peratrovich said.
“I looked at it as each barrier or obstacle or hurdle was presented in getting this film done and completed,” she added. “It really was always a checkpoint: are you dedicated to the story?”
The first iteration of the documentary wrapped while the crew were still students at SLCC, giving them access to classrooms and other filming resources. Peratrovich said she took specific classes just to be able to use certain equipment, like drones, to keep moving the project forward.
The crew took a blow in 2024, when the Utah Legislature passed HB 249, banning governmental entities from granting personhood to bodies of water. The idea of giving a body of water or a natural resource personhood, or granting the same legal rights as a human, comes from Indigenous practices and an environmental personhood movement across the world.
In 2014, New Zealand’s Te Urewera Act gave a forested area a legal identity to protect its natural and cultural value. New Zealand’s bill acknowledges Te Urewera as an ancient, spiritual and living forest with distinct Indigenous history and importance. It hit hard for Peratrovich, she said, because other natural resources with personhood allows people to sue on behalf of that resource if it is believed its rights are being violated.
“It was a punch in the gut,” she said. “That was hard in our documentary when we saw that happen, because we were so hopeful about that idea [of granting personhood to Great Salt Lake].”
The crew persisted and updated the film following the personhood ban, making sure the new information was included in a written note at the end.
Earlier this year, the crew screened the film at a “work in progress” session through the Utah Documentary Association. One thing that shocked Peratrovich and her crew, she said, included reactions from some viewers who expressed the film didn’t appear to feature enough Indigenous voices in its mix of interviews.
“I think many people see Indigenous folks as people that are in traditional regalia [or] elders,” Peratrovich said. “As a director and an Indigenous woman, I'm very much right here right now, and I may not look the way you think a native person should look. And that's an interesting thing, too.”
The crew, Peratroovich said, realized they needed to go back and help people understand what it means to be Indigenous and to help break long-standing stereotypes. They went back through their footage of interviewees explaining their Indigenous experience, and made sure to ask other participants on film to share their definition of what it means to be Indigenous.
“In order to make this conversation and help it go along, we'll go to wherever we need to and grow and develop that part of the film,” Peratrovich said.
But, she added, it’s motivating to know people are “thirsty” to hear from Indigenous voices.
“People are excited to hear indigenous voices,” she said, “and they really helped wake us up to what we need to shine a light on … when it comes to sharing Indigenous stories, Indigenous ecological knowledge, and Indigenous issues and challenges.”
And that’s the hope, she added – that people see and hear different perspectives so the whole community can work together to find ways to save the lake. It won’t be just one entity or a single person with a solution.
“I hope this plant seeds, seeds of understanding, seeds of hope and bridges,” Peratrovich said. “Seeds to build bridges and communities so that we reach out to each other and consider each other's perspective and how we can work together.”
Vanessa Hudson, a recent journalism graduate from the University of Utah, wrote this article through a collaboration with Amplify Utah and the Great Salt Lake Collaborative.
When Jesse Valdez graduated from Salt Lake Community College, he never imagined he would be running for mayor of his hometown.
But for Valdez, the leap from photojournalism to public service isn’t as far as it seems. Both, he says, are about telling the stories of the community.
“As a photojournalist, I was really telling the stories of the community and really getting engaged to uplift the voices that may be unheard or neglected,” Valdez said. “I’ve always been that person that wanted to tell the story of others without knowing it.”
Valdez studied TV/Video Production at SLCC and credits the hands-on environment and faculty at the South City campus for shaping his career.
“I love SLCC, specifically South City,” Valdez said. “You’re not going to find any other place like it for communications, at least in Utah.”
During his time at the college, Valdez noticed something was missing. He created the club Sports Rally, brought intramural activities to campus and ran for Student Body President. He also helped revamp the SLCC sports show called “End of the Bench.”
“My duty [as a leader] is to get people to engage and connect, just like I was doing with the club at SLCC,” said Valdez. “Even if it was something as simple as sports, it fulfilled what it needed to do, and that was to connect the SLCC community together.”
Jesse Valdez graduated from SLCC in 2016. (Courtesy of Jesse Valdez)
Looking back on his college years, Valdez admits he didn’t have a clear direction when he started. He encouraged students to get out of their comfort zones and not stress about not having everything figured out.
“I think getting uncomfortable is a good thing,” said Valdez. “Getting uncomfortable and just sticking up [for] and doing what’s right is the best thing you can do.”
When talking about majors, Valdez suggested exploration.
“Don’t be set in stone like you’re signing a contract, just put whatever [idea] down and see where it takes you,” he said. “As long as you’re putting in work, it will find you.”
He also stressed the value of involvement and networking — lessons he learned firsthand at SLCC.
“I did it with people who had that same passion to do it with me. I think that’s just as important as networking, finding people that … you kind of connect with, in a sense,” said Valdez. “It’s not about just finishing the work and making sure you get a good grade on it. I honestly almost feel like the networking part is just as important, if not more important.”
Jesse Valdez while working as a photojournalist for ABC4. (Courtesy of Jesse Valdez)
After graduating, Valdez joined KTVX ABC4 News as a photojournalist, where he spent nearly a decade filming, lighting and editing for the station’s newscast.
“All the stuff you see behind the scenes, that when it hits air on TV and the reporter’s standing there looking good, that was all me,” said Valdez.
Valdez said his favorite part of the job was not knowing what his day was going to look like.
“I was always out and about. My office was wherever it took me,” said Valdez. “There were tragic times as well. But I think that’s what I enjoyed a lot is just the unknown kept it interesting.”
Valdez said he didn’t imagine becoming a photojournalist.
“I think all of us will look at life and be like, ‘we never became what we wanted to be or thought we wanted to be, but it all worked out how it should have,’” said Valdez. “I don’t think I necessarily ever had the dream to become a photojournalist, but I do love what I do and the fact that I get to tell stories and create those stories, and it means something to me, right? So, it’s more of finding your niche of where you belong.”
Jesse Valdez on the set of ABC4 where Valdez worked for nearly a decade. (Courtesy of Jesse Valdez)
After years in journalism, Valdez felt called back to his roots in Kearns, where he grew up. Before he and his family had even fully moved in, he joined the Kearns Community Council.
“I always kept the idea since I was 10 years old that, you know, one day when I can buy my own house and have my own family, we’re going to move back to Kearns,” said Valdez.
Valdez also created the Facebook page K-town, one of the “most popular community pages in the valley.” The page has almost 40,000 members.
“The whole reason why I even created that [page] to begin with was because I really felt like at the time when I moved in, I was looking for direction. I wanted to know how to get involved. I just didn’t know how, and I thought maybe other people feel this way,” Valdez said. “I created that page so people could kind of find that direction and kind of find a purpose of, you know, how they can help be involved in Kearns.”
Valdez created the Facebook page with the hope of getting people actively engaged in their community.
“I think that’s the biggest thing; it’s not that the community doesn’t want to be engaged, they just don’t know how,” said Valdez. “So as a leader … that’s my duty is to get people to engage and connect. Just like I was doing with the [Sports Rally] club at SLCC.”
Now, Valdez is running in Kearns’ first modern-era mayoral election, aiming to bring transparency and accessibility to local government. Valdez says he wants to listen and understand what the community wants.
According to his campaign website, his focus as mayor will be “on neighborhood safety, a thriving town center and a transparent, responsive city hall that treats every resident with respect.”
As ballots begin to go out for the election, Valdez says his motivation remains simple: to help his community tell its own story.
“Kearns has just been neglected for so long,” Valdez said. “I just want to see it thrive. I want to see it be at its best because I think at the end of the day, the community really deserves that. And I think we deserve to start telling our own narrative rather than let others do it for us.”
Jesse Valdez, far right, stands with colleagues after receiving an award for his work in photojournalism. After moving back to Kearns, Valdez joined the Kearns Community Council. (Courtesy of Jesse Valdez)
