Five years ago, on January 6, I became a naturalized citizen of the United States. It was COVID times, so the ceremony was very uneventful. It was just me and the immigration officer on the other end of the plexiglass at the USCIS office in Buffalo. That same day, the Capitol was attacked, precisely while I was taking the oath of allegiance. I came out as a new citizen into a political landscape that I was not prepared for.

I did not know then that, within a few years, this country, my adopted home, would feel so fragile and so dangerous in ways I never imagined. I have loved this country. I still do. I love the people who make it beautiful: people who welcomed me before they knew me, people who saw my potential and trusted me with opportunities, people who helped me build a life, a career, an artistic practice, and a chosen family. This country gave me space to dream, to create, and to contribute. It gave me a home and a new identity.

But loving this country also means telling the truth about it. I have wrestled with the United States’ long, complicated, and painful history: the fact that it was built on stolen land and the genocide of Indigenous peoples, through enslavement, exclusion, and systems designed to protect the power of the few. I just couldn’t find a sense of pride in the origins of this country. I had to grapple with the fact that the ideals of freedom and democracy were never meant for everyone. But I always knew that it also has a long history of people demanding, fighting for, and eventually succeeding in reforming unjust systems. I found solace when I learned about the greats who also called this country their home, like Ida B. Wells, Sarah Winnemucca, Harriet Tubman, Mother Jones, Rosa Parks, Audre Lorde, Marsha P. Johnson, and Judy Heumann (just to name a few), and their immense courage and contribution in challenging systemic oppression.

But our immigration system still clings to that murky history of exclusion. It has never been fair or humane. It is shaped by race, class, nationality, and geopolitics. Who is welcomed, who is tolerated, and who is punished has always depended on who is seen as useful or disposable.

People do not leave their homes for fun. People come to the U.S. because of war, economic collapse, systemic corruption, political violence, climate disaster, and instability. Much of this did not happen by accident. Imperialism and colonialism stripped entire regions of their resources, their wealth, and their ability to thrive. Colonizing nations grew rich and powerful by extracting land, labor, and lives from elsewhere. Those same nations now turn around and criminalize the people who are forced to move in order to survive. That contradiction sits at the center of this crisis.

I have gone through the U.S. immigration system. I know how brutal it is. The paperwork never ends. The waiting stretches for years. The financial cost is crushing. Your life is constantly in limbo for months, if not years. And I say this as someone with immense privilege. I had a strong college education. I spoke English fluently. I came from a financially stable family. I had extensive documentation, innumerable recommendations, affidavits, 20+ years of background checks, and guarantors. Even with all of that, the process was overwhelming and exhausting. I cannot imagine navigating this system while fleeing violence or persecution. I cannot imagine doing it while grieving, traumatized, or trying to keep your family alive. I cannot imagine what asylum seekers and refugees have endured just to get here.

We were told that only dangerous criminals would be targeted. We were told that if you followed the rules and did everything legally, you would be safe. That was a lie. People are being denied naturalization on the very day of their scheduled oath ceremonies, after years of paperwork, waiting, and sacrifice. Lives that were built in good faith are being thrown back into uncertainty without warning or due process. People who worked hard, paid taxes, waited patiently, and built lives here are still being detained, brutalized, deported, and erased. Due process, something this country once claimed to value, is being quietly stripped away. Citizenship and legality no longer guarantee safety. They are conditional and fragile.

What has been especially devastating is watching people I know choose cruelty: sharing propaganda, mocking suffering, and taking pride in other people’s pain. Some of them call themselves Christians while celebrating detention, torture, and death. I do not understand how those things can exist together.

I am horrified by what is happening. I am heartbroken. I am afraid.

The belief that someone is superior, or has a God-given right to this land simply because their ancestors moved here from Europe to avoid religious persecution and gain economic mobility, or that they were born here, or belong to a certain religion, or have a certain skin color, is deeply disturbing. None of us earn our birthplace. None of us are more deserving of dignity, safety, or rights by the accident of birth.

This country has never been perfect. But what has always mattered is whether we are willing to face the truth and choose humanity anyway. Loving this country does not mean staying silent. It means refusing to accept cruelty as the norm. I speak because I care. I stay engaged because silence has never kept anyone safe.

Sukanya Burman is a Jamestown resident.