I don’t often write articles — I draw them. As the Graphics Editor for the Sun, my job is to break down politics into digestible pieces using satirical and political commentary as my form of visual journalism. But today, I find myself sitting in front of my laptop grappling with a deep, gnawing fear that I do not wish upon anyone.
I live at the border. McAllen, Texas — 30 minutes away from the Hidalgo International Bridge — is the place I call home. My whole life has always been surrounded by immigrants: my friends, my family, my community. Our roots stretch across the Rio Grande to Reynosa, Tamaulipas, a city of over 700,000.
For years, the border has been a place of crisis. Toward the end of the first Trump administration, a flurry of Haitian immigrants had concentrated at the US-Mexico border, alongside asylum seekers from Central America and Cuba. With the Remain in Mexico program in full effect, most of these immigrants were forced to create tent encampments in Plaza de la Republica, facing violence, separation and an inevitable diaspora. They are still there. And you, dear reader, have no idea.
As a Mexican-American student activist, I have long felt the weight of speaking out about the fear that permeates the small region I call home. Most people will hear about New York City, Boston or Chicago, but few ever hear about the atrocities occurring in the Rio Grande Valley (or RGV). And even fewer still understand the violence, dehumanization and constant surveillance that define daily life there.
I have experienced almost every form of racial profiling and dehumanization you can think of: I have been threatened by Border Patrol for wearing headphones while crossing the border, I have had my citizenship status questioned while the Border Patrol officer examines my very legitimate Texas ID (which you cannot get without a US birth certificate) and I have had countless phone calls with my parents actively expressing their fear even when they themselves are legal because we all know just how easily an innocent question can turn into an indiscriminate roundup.
The coverage of ICE raids in a local tortilleria and the sudden swarm of "targeted operations" has fragmented the RGV community. While our sheriff hollowly assures that they are only pursuing criminals, us RGV citizens know that everyone is at risk. We are Mexican-Americans, and we also know the blatant hypocrisy in that statement given the historical precedent of Operation Wetback. And we are not alone — every immigrant deemed a “national security threat” has a target on their back. The asylum seekers in Plaza de la República know it too.
You might be asking, why the sudden need to express this?
Because I am deeply afraid.
Because I am a student at Cornell, watching political decisions unfold that will have real consequences for my family, for my friends and for my home.
Because I know I am not alone — there are others at Cornell who live this reality, who carry this fear with them every day just like I do.
And because you should be afraid too.
As a government major, I see the backbone of America rotting from the inside out. America is an immigrant country, and once upon a time, it was proudly said. But now, we are swarmed by red-pilled rhetoric and reactionarity fear that dampens civil discourse with a manufactured “Latino threat” narrative. One that does not understand the nuances of the violence that immigrants face every day.
There is a reason why we leave and come to the United States. We are fed the belief that America is a country of freedom. We are promised a new life, far away from the corrupt countries we flee. We are told that America is a land of opportunity, a place where we can escape brutality. Instead, we find ourselves facing the same exact violence, just in another form: racism and nativism.
Cornell’s commitment to protecting Latino students is formidable, yet there’s a small part of me that feels it is performative. Words mean little without action, and it's time the administration publicly reaffirms its support — not just in quiet emails, but in real, visible ways.
So far, it’s been radio silent besides the small traction that the Alliance for Community Protection has garnered. There has been little acknowledgement for the fears, concerns and embedded realities us Cornell Latino students face. We do not need sympathy. We need recognition, acknowledgment and action. I am from a place that has gradually converted into a military zone, and to see Ithaca face the same fear I have felt in Texas is terrifying.
You do not know what is happening at the border. You have not witnessed what I have witnessed, or faced what I have faced, but I am asking you, dear reader, to reflect on what you know about the border. It is beyond just a “national security threat” — it is my life and the lives of others that are on the line. We did not choose to come to America, we were forced — a result of US foreign intervention in the places we once called home. I should not be carrying red cards to give to people I know are at risk, nor should I be writing this article to begin with. I should not be an activist, and I should not be debating the integrity of my history or my basic human rights.
So I ask you to educate yourself. Pick up a history book. Read about Latin history in the U.S. Understand why we are here. Because until you do, you will never understand why we are afraid.
Hannia Arevalo is the Graphics Editor on the Cornell Sun’s 143rd Editorial Board. They are a sophomore in the College of Arts and Sciences studying Government and Near Eastern Studies. A native Texan and proud Mexican-American, they hope to provide satirical cartoons expressing their political perspectives. They can be reached at hia8@cornell.edu.
The Cornell Daily Sun is interested in publishing a broad and diverse set of content from the Cornell and greater Ithaca community. We want to hear what you have to say about this topic or any of our pieces. Here are some guidelines on how to submit. And here’s our email: opinion@cornellsun.com.
