“What is your stance on the war happening in Iran?” The interviewer for The Phillipian asked as I had just returned from a grueling three-flight trip back into the United States. I hesitated to answer because it felt like a thousand horrible outcomes could come from one statement I could make in regard to the war. While thinking of a response, I couldn't help but let my mind wander back to the Brown man I saw get denied entry earlier that day. Was it because of his colour that he was aggressively denied? Was it because of something they saw on his devices? I found myself stuck between two aspects of my identity—being an international student of colour while also being an active member of the Andover community. To me, there hasn’t been enough empathy concerning the war, and to have that opinion voiced felt liberating, yet all so suddenly life changing. As an international student from a country the United States has explicitly stated can no longer be granted a visa, I have found being in Andover both exhilarating and painstakingly constraining. In an institution where we are empowered to think differently and encouraged to use our voices, I don’t have the same privilege of lavishing in this empowerment because of my background. How cruel and discouraging it is to leave home wanting to be the best version of myself only to be trapped in the cage called “the land of the free.”

A comparable experience came in October of this academic year, and I was inspired to join the protest initiative on campus to advocate for the communities that have experienced extreme levels of abuse by ICE agents. But just days before, I snapped back to reality and took a step back. Reverend Gina, the international student coordinator on campus, highlighted the risk that a public statement against the federal administration could be detrimental to our legal residency in the country. Who knew that exercising the right to freedom of speech in “the land of the free” could be what gets me deported? It was a repeated cycle I found myself in whenever I wanted to be a part of something bigger than myself. After hesitating to answer the interviewer’s question, I disappointingly rejected his offer. I chose safety over advocacy, and I chose feeling small over danger. 

When Ralph Ellison writes that the white ‘elite’ men “‘mean to do [the narrator] right, but [he’s] got to know [his] place at all times,’” in his book Invisible Man, it is not only a testament to the inequitable dominance white elitists hold, but the manipulation and gaslighting it took to leave black people in perpetual fear (Ellison 31). In a similar way, the Phillips Academy institution acts as the elitists in Andover. Phillips Academy cares about its international student percentage for institutional benefits: the ability to have connections that transcend oceans. Therefore, because we live in a world where networking is crucial for success, the Academy regulates our voices to ensure its own good status in the United States. By restricting our voices, they avoid confrontation with the federal administration, ultimately protecting themselves but fear-mongering students. And although teachers and members on campus like Reverend Gina do deeply care about us, far more than any white elitist would, I cannot help but question whether the intention is to truly protect students or protect the image of the institution. The emphasis on our safety reminds us that we will never be given the same rights as American citizens while living on the same soil solely because of our nationality. I have been shown nothing but hate for who I am in the United States, and I am forever fearful of my safety and immigration when landing here.

While I am more liberated at home, I am tethered to the United States because of opportunity and education. I am merely another pawn to be played with while they wait for a mistake. And so I must continue to say no; I must continue to abide by rules put in place to control me so I can maybe, one day, have a successful and safe future the same way Ellison’s narrator does.