Recently, while scrolling on TikTok, I stumbled upon a video of a young woman named Deepa explaining that she had lost her mother to suicide. Her mother, an undocumented older South Asian woman, was so afraid of what the political climate could mean for her that she had recurring panic attacks. Eventually, she couldn’t take it anymore.
Deepa described her mom as immensely supportive, crediting her for “paving the way” for her to get into a top university such as UC Berkeley. According to Deepa, she lit up every room with her warmth and radiance. A soul like that deserves to flourish, not wilt.
This is one of the quieter violences of ICE. Beyond raids, detentions, and deportations, its presence reshapes how people relate to their own identities. It teaches us to live in fear, to treat heritage as a liability, and to see our neighborhoods as targets instead of homes. ICE doesn’t just remove people from their families; it erodes the sense of safety required to ask a fundamentally human question: where do I come from?
Growing up mixed, I was often asked what I was before anyone thought to ask who I was. My skin tone, my hair, my features never seemed to match neatly with people’s expectations of what I was meant to be. Strangers (sometimes well-meaning, sometimes not) treated my existence like a puzzle they were entitled to solve. Racial ambiguity turned identity into an interrogation. I learned early that in the U.S., being seen as “confusing” can invite both curiosity and suspicion.
Some of my most authentic friendships were with Mexican kids whose families, like mine, moved fluidly between cultures. They spoke Spanish to one another; I answered in English. We understood each other anyway. Those friendships taught me that belonging does not require uniformity. All that’s needed is recognition. At the time, I didn’t have the vocabulary to name what we were doing. We were simply existing together in a country that often insists differences must be explained or defended.
As an adult, I now find myself wanting to know more about where I come from. I think about taking a DNA test, tracing the histories written into my face, filling in the gaps left by generations of colonialism, migration, and erasure. But I hesitate. Not because I don’t want the truth, but because I’m afraid of how that truth could be used. In an era of expanding surveillance, data-sharing, and aggressive immigration enforcement, even curiosity can feel risky. The desire to understand myself collides with the fear that the information meant to connect me to my ancestry could be weaponized against my community.
The ICE raids are causing unimaginable damage to each community. No matter who you are, it affects you. Find a way to speak out. Be loud.