Throughout my first year of college, I have often been asked to tell people about myself—whether in classrooms, interviews, or casual hangouts. There are easy facts I reach for: my majors, the organizations I’m involved in, and the things I care about. But now, more than ever, there is a fundamental part of my identity that feels impossible to separate from the political moment we are living in.
I am the daughter of two Indian immigrants. To me, this has always been an obvious fact—my brown skin, the two languages I grew up speaking, the long-distance calls to relatives living across the ocean. It was embedded in our routines, our food, and our family stories.
For most of my life, it felt like just a neutral truth about who I was.
I was raised on the belief that America was built on the backs of immigrants. I was blessed to grow up in an area chock-full of diversity, where differences felt ordinary. In that environment, it was easy to believe that belonging was inevitable, that hard work and patience were enough to secure a place in this country.
But as I grew older, I became much more aware of how immigration was framed as a political talking point. Immigration stopped being about families and futures, instead becoming a question of borders, legality, and threats. The language surrounding it hardened. Words like “illegal,” “criminal,” and “invasion” began to dominate public discourse.
But these sentiments did not stop at politicians and pundits. It seeped into immigrant communities themselves, where lines began to be drawn between who came to America the “right way” and who did not. That distinction seemed to create a sense of entitlement—the question, “I came here legally, why can’t they?” as if the process were equally accessible to everyone, as if patience and compliance were all it took. It framed immigration as a test of character rather than an incredibly difficult maze of paperwork, waiting periods, and intense barriers to entry.
This sense of entitlement has fostered a belief that legality offers immunity, but that distinction has never stopped violence by the hands of the state. It has only helped justify it.
Recently, in the name of “addressing illegal immigration,” Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) has actively participated in domestic terrorism through horrible actions against the American populace. Last year was ICE’s deadliest year in more than two decades, with December 2025 being the deadliest month on record. This year has only begun, and six people have died in ICE detention centers, and two people (Renee Nicole Good and Alex Pretti) have died in direct interactions with ICE.
Execution at the hands of the state seems impossible for many to fathom. But this rhetoric has always existed—first sequestered to extremist corners of the internet and now on full display. It has been amplified and legitimized by those in positions of power. Simply look at President Trump’s electoral campaign, where he openly referred to immigrants as “criminals” and “invaders” during his September 2024 presidential debate against Kamala Harris. He falsely claimed that Haitian immigrants were “eating the dogs…[and] cats…eating the pets of the people that live there.” Policy-wise, Trump proposed a series of hardline immigration policies, such as expanding expedited removals (deportations without a hearing), expanding ICE and detention centers, and authorizing penalties against sanctuary cities that refuse to cooperate with immigration enforcement.
One might expect this language and these policies to repel immigrant communities. However, the CATO Institute at Liberty finds that many naturalized immigrants voted for Trump in the 2024 election, with Asian and Hispanic naturalized populations collectively explaining 50% of the increased Trump votes from 2020 to 2024. I see this phenomenon play out clearly in my hometown community: the county subdivision I live in is majorly populated by Asian and Hispanic immigrants, yet the precinct voted for Donald Trump by a decent margin in the 2024 election (see: Fort Bend County Precinct 3157). On a national level, the 2024 election saw Trump receive a higher percentage of the Latino vote (the largest non-white voting bloc in the country) than any other Republican in US history.
There is no definitive answer as to why many naturalized immigrants voted for anti-immigration policies through Trump: many can chalk up their votes to prioritizing a better economy or frustration with the political establishment. But underlying many of these explanations is the assumption that immigration enforcement is meant for “someone else”; that documentation and having done things “the right way” create enough distance from harm to make support for these policies feel safe.
When it comes to Indian Americans feeling this way, I am reminded of the story of Vaishno Das Bagai—a person who remains an essential part of our history in this country, but one that many forget.
In 1915, Vaishno Das Bagai and his family immigrated from India to the United States. They settled in San Francisco and began to open shops and small businesses to sustain their living. Despite their efforts to assimilate, the Bagais faced intense racism: once, when they attempted to move from San Francisco into a newly purchased home in Berkeley, racist neighbors prevented them from entering the house.
In 1920, the Bagais applied to become naturalized citizens. Naturalization laws at the time required that the applicant be considered White, so Vaishno Bagai provided caste certificates from Indian officials to show that he was a “high-caste Hindu of Aryan origin.” This fulfilled the requirement, and he successfully became a citizen a year later. However, two years later, the Supreme Court ruled in United States v. Bhagat Singh Thind (1923) that South Asian Americans were not considered White, meaning Bagai and others (who were previously considered citizens) immediately lost their citizenship. This meant they could not own property or own businesses (under California’s Alien Land Law of 1913), and because they had to renounce previous citizenship to become a US citizen, they were immediately stateless. Bagai, specifically, had been extremely vocal about Indian independence from the British, which meant he could not return to British India without risking arrest. He was effectively stranded in the United States, with no rights as a citizen and no ability to return to his motherland.
In 1928, overwhelmed by the loss of his citizenship, livelihood, and sense of belonging, Vaishno Das Bagai died by suicide. In a letter he left behind, Bagai wrote about how he “came to America thinking, dreaming and hoping to make this land my home.” He expressed feeling disillusioned by being stuck in a country where he could not exercise his rights, and blamed himself and the American government for the crisis his family was in.
Bagai’s dream of a better life is something various immigrant families deeply relate to; for many of us, it defines why we are here in the first place. It is the promise that makes the uncertainty bearable, that turns struggle into something meaningful. Bagai believed in that promise, just as countless immigrants before and after him have. What his story makes painfully clear, however, is how conditional that promise has always been.
Which is exactly why immigration is not, and should not, be treated like a hierarchy. The divisions we draw in our own communities—the idea of “coming to this country the right way”—are rooted in racism and exclusion. When immigrant communities internalize this logic and turn inward, policing one another instead of resisting together, we only reinforce the systems that have always depended on our division.
Regardless of how we have come, our dignity should not be conditional, our safety should not be negotiable, and our belonging should never hinge on who the state decides is disposable next. If America was truly built on the backs of immigrants, then it is long past time we stop allowing those backs to be broken one by one.