“Um, guys … I think we’re getting deported.”
And so this was how the Trump administration’s May 22 decision to terminate Harvard’s Student and Exchange Visitor Information System (SEVIS) status unfolded to us. Mid-day, mid-hike, on the top of a canyon with worse-than-pathetic internet service. I was on a week-long expedition with fellow international students through various U.S. national parks, and while my catastrophizing-prone brain had been well prepared for heat exhaustion, a tumble from the devilish incline, or even a phone carelessly dropping into the abyss, nothing quite prepared me for this.
In those 24 hours, a million thoughts raced through my mind. The summer — my immediate future — seemed to be in dire jeopardy: Would I be able to go home? Would I have no other choice? What about the summer I worked so hard for? And almost on cue, the next few years I had envisioned for myself flashed before my eyes: Would I have to transfer schools? Which school would I choose? How could I leave my peers, mentors, and communities behind like that?
In those moments of extreme reckoning, I found myself shakily affirming a distant, but important, truth. I knew that no matter what happened, life would find a way, and I could still have control over it if my Harvard journey was to end. But reasoning that to myself was easy enough; my emotions would spend the rest of the summer playing catch-up, confronted with the possibility of being forced to leave Harvard, perhaps for good.
Leaving Harvard was almost as inconceivable as getting in. I was born and raised in Singapore to Malaysian parents who had immigrated to Singapore for a better life. Having both attended university abroad, my parents encouraged me to pursue an education overseas to broaden my horizons.
Thus, I applied to Harvard in the early action cycle with few expectations, except for my conviction that a liberal arts education would be best for me. Such an education sounded like my most appealing option, especially for a chaotic 18-year-old with hardly a clue on what I wanted to do. Music was the main thrust of my application, as well as my experience navigating between performativity and authenticity as a young, insecure opera singer. Despite having slowly established myself in the Singaporean opera community, I had never taken music as a formal, academic subject, hence I wanted to pursue it without committing exclusively to a conservatory degree. Yet, I knew I wanted the flexibility of a complementary course of study in the humanities or social sciences. After all, this was the environment that had nurtured some of the greatest musical minds of the recent past: From Leonard Bernstein to Yo-Yo Ma. I knew that a liberal arts education would be more holistic and still give me the chance to study music at a high level.
Between the many hours of rehearsals, performances, competitions, and auditions, I wear my international “status” as a badge of honor. Being a classical musician is arguably unconventional enough, but coming from Singapore, a country known for its no-nonsense, utilitarian education system, I have felt like even more of an odd specimen among my compatriots. As a double concentrator in Music and Government with a secondary in European History, Politics and Societies, I am admittedly a curious mix between practicality and passion.
I would venture to say that this sort of mix is only possible at a place like Harvard, where we have one of the only undergraduate-run opera companies in the country putting on a fully-staged opera once a year, while the undergraduates also juggle being some of the best computer science, physics, math, english, and medical students I know. While far from a “proper” conservatory education, I have faith that my unique Harvard experience gives me a reinvigorated approach to music, informed by the sensibilities of a diverse, tangible world. And indeed, I feel privileged to have the choice to pursue music, my long-standing passion, at one of the best institutions in the world. It was certainly a leap of faith, especially when a preference for studying something more “practical” dominates my background, but one I am holding steadfastly to.
After the trip, I came back to campus to sing in the commencement choir for all of commencement’s accompanying festivities. I remember shedding silent tears on the drive back from the airport, and pulling up outside my dorm not knowing if I would be back next semester.
At commencement, I listened to Harvard president Alan Garber’s opening remarks and international graduate student Yurong “Luanna” Jiang’s speech in the flesh, overwhelmed by a bittersweet mix of emotions: pride, anguish, anxiety, numbness. Pride that an international student was chosen to give a monumental address, even long before that fateful day of May 22. Anguish and anxiety at not being able to speak out for myself and needing a billion-dollar institution to do so for me, making me feel so small and powerless. Numbness from being in two mindsets: Staying on campus in the thick of things was equally as torturous as it was a saving grace to be near my friends from all over the world. It was as if these opposing sensations cancelled each other out, leaving me paralyzed.
Afterwards, I embarked on a week-long tour through New England with the Harvard University Choir. At the conclusion of our tour on Jun. 4, it felt like the rug had been pulled out from under my feet again as a new proclamation barred international students from entering the country. The news came in the middle of an end-of-tour celebration honoring our graduating seniors, and once again, I found myself overwhelmed with emotion.
Part of me felt guilty for not being able to hold in my reaction right then and there: My throat instinctively convulsed, my heart dropped, and before I knew it, my voice was wobbling with grief. But in times like these, the kindness and empathy of my fellow choristers, regardless of country of origin, enveloped me in a comforting blanket of support. And in those moments, what mattered was not logical thinking — something I had prided myself on so much in more normal times. It was the compassion and patience of peers who were able to hold a tearful friend and reassure her that they would be there for her, and all of us, no matter what.
Following a rollercoaster two weeks in the crosshairs, traveling with the communities and through the physical spaces I had learned to call home over the past two years, I finally left the Harvard campus. My summer went on as planned, and life has continued largely without any hitches. And the truth is, I have almost accepted being in limbo as a pseudo “new normal”. Perhaps the result of subconscious radical acceptance, I sadly do not think there is much that can surprise me anymore, and I have learned that I cannot control the current situation. But I can control how I react to it, carrying myself with honor and dignity and knowing that I am more than just some legal paperwork.
I am the sum, and so much more, of my lived experiences within and without this campus, and I have homes inside communities where I lead and give back. I do not belong at Harvard because of some imaginary, god-given right — I belong at Harvard because of the generosity of those who have shaped and shown love to me, and my determination to remain kind and hold on to my dignity, even in the face of uncertainty. That means solidarity, sensitivity, gratitude, and most importantly, speaking the truth of my lived experience in this incredible place. And while my truth is foundational to my agency and identity, it is just one of many truths that make international students who we are.
