Welcome Home
I recently returned to the US after a brief trip home, it was my first time entering the country since the new administration began and since my visa status had changed. I was really stressed. When I got to border control there was a problem in the system which tracks international students and they had to have 3 guards come over and check things.
There was a heart stopping moment where I thought I wasn’t going to get in. And then, the system rebooted, and my documents were checked, and I was waved through. The border guard said “welcome home” as he handed me my passport and I had to hold back surprised tears. The real worry that I won’t get to stay being juxtaposed with the validation that this is where I belong is what took me aback.
I could wax lyrical about the contributions that immigrants make to the United States in every arena imaginable - we get the job done etc. etc. But I won’t. Firstly, you’ve heard it all before, and crucially, we are more than just the immense and diverse contributions that we make - we are a vibrant and thriving community; we are people, who have lives and have built families and homes here.
It is a terrifying time to be an international student. Tennessee is my home - but I don't feel secure in that fact. It feels like it could be ripped away at any second. As international students (and as a wider immigrant community) we face a new choice, whether to speak up against injustice or to prioritize our personal safety.
This is a choice I’ve struggled with a lot - deciding when and how to speak is a non-stop juggling act. It feels precarious to have even written this statement. And I want to address the absurdity of having to remain anonymous in this blog post. It is absurd, but it feels necessary for my safety. It’s infuriating and stifling and terrifying.
That said, I know that I carry a lot of privilege in this space - the country I would return to if my visa was revoked is a safe one, where most of my family still live. I would be safe, and I could rebuild a happy life eventually. What I stand to lose is the community I have built over the past years living in Nashville. My wonderful friends and partner, my home. It’s hard to give words to the things I have been feeling recently.
Constantly seeing immense injustices and feeling unable to speak. Carrying my feelings of fear with the privileges afforded to me and feeling guilty for not saying more. Feeling lucky that I am relatively privileged compared to some of my friends and then feeling guilty about feeling lucky. Feeling deeply conflicted about making the choice to stay in country which is so obvious in its distaste for me but one which is also filled with people who make me welcome and loved.
It’s a constant churn of deciding who is safe to talk with; where the best place is to lend my voice, where is line for me? What am I willing to risk deportation for?; can I live with myself if I stay silent on this issue?; is it selfish to want to stay here?; making the choice to attend some actions and worrying my loved ones sick; deciding when to carry my travel documents with me; what can I say on this phone call; will my work put me in danger?; am I willing to take that risk.
It is never ending. It is exhausting. And, as heart-breaking as it is I am also one of the ‘lucky ones’. So, I want to take this time to amplify the stories of my friends who wouldn’t be so lucky if they had their visas revoked.
My friends who are desperately applying for asylum in other countries because they know the research they conducted here puts them at risk back home;
my friend who is having to return home, against her wishes, and knows she is at great risk of violence or death if she continues her research - but who knows her research is vital for her community and is making the difficult choice to conduct it in secret;
my friends who have stopped leaving the house in Nashville because they are worried about being traffic stopped and taken by ICE;
my friends who are facing the choice between publishing and potential threat and letting years of hard and important work go. It’s horrifying.
If you asked me to identify the central thread of what is fast becoming a rambling blog post - I would tell you that it is our voices.
Some of us have been silenced, it’s hard and I wrestle with that constantly.
However, for me, some comfort is found in my Edgehill community. I can’t take part in everything that Edgehill does, but I know my community is fighting back and that means a lot.
Edgehill is a loud voice and one which is demanding an end to the dehumanisation of our neighbours and kidnappings without due process.
Edgehill is the people who dropped everything at a few minutes notice and put their bodies and safety on the line at the detention center;
Edgehill is the members who spent every day for weeks at the state Capitol protesting bills which would harm our immigrant neighbours;
Edgehill is the members who were escorted out of the legislature every day by state troopers for protesting;
Edgehill is the hours of work put in by volunteers to host a concert and raise thousands of dollars for TIRRC (Tennessee Immigrant and Refugee Rights Coalition);
Edgehill is the member in his 70s who got his first tattoo this year – it is his US passport number so that he can use his privilege to take more risks in protesting the treatment of immigrants;
Edgehill is the people who surrounded the Courthouse and demanded the release of Kilmar Abrego Garcia;
Edgehill is all the other actions and efforts and protests that I can’t bring to mind right now;
Edgehill is a loud and constant voice, which has advocated for the marginalised since the church was founded.
Some weeks ago, I stood with my fellow Edghillians outside the ICE office here in Nashville. And I watched the callous indifference of homeland security who smoked cigars as people were loaded onto busses in shackles and who swept weeping mothers and sobbing children out of the way without even looking them in the eyes. It’s one of the worst things I have ever seen, and it is something I will never forget.
But I know that Edgehill is not indifferent. We are not callous or dismissive but radically invested in our community - and what a privilege it is to count myself as a member of that Edgehill community.
This blog was written by a member of the Edgehill community. They are an immigrant without permanent resident status, and they are choosing to remain anonymous.
You can donate to the important work of TIRRC below.