Voices We Will Not Hear, by Lucy Clark

Not long after the recent presidential inauguration, Sensei spoke after class as we were seated in a circle. He reminded us that Chiba Sensei had not been a dual citizen of Japan and the United States. It was only possible for him to live and teach here because of open immigration policies—and none of us would be where we are now if he had not been allowed to remain in this country. 

As Sensei spoke, the wheels were already in motion to freeze access to the United States for refugees and migrants, to make it an even bleaker hell for asylum seekers to cross our borders, and to create an atmosphere of terror for those undocumented people already here in the country. I have noticed the impacts of these policy changes in the school where I work, a high school exclusively for newly arrived immigrant teens. In early spring, we would usually be admitting a new student every few days in hectic but jolly rolling admissions—not this year. My classes are small; we’re starting to worry about what will happen if no new students show up in September. So many empty seats and stories we won’t be a part of. 

I focus on the students who are here. They are the bravest, most vibrant, hungry-for-more young people I have ever met. I find it extremely valuable to talk to these teenagers at this time, because they know so much more about what it’s like to live in an autocracy than I do. They say things to each other like, “What are you doing not reading? Don’t you know there are places where girls aren’t allowed to read? Or where this book would be banned?” This isn’t a hypothetical, but a memory of their lived experience. They come from countries where they’ve been bullied for speaking their indigenous languages and silenced for asking about the minority cultures their grandparents belong to. They come from places where it isn’t safe to voice dissent, and they came here hoping to find a society where they could learn how to wield free speech and use it to uplift the people in the countries they left behind. 

One evening after school a few weeks ago, a small group of kids was gathered in my classroom taking turns playing music videos for each other (and me, fascinated observer) on the smartboard. A girl from Russia put on a song by a dissident artist and stood beside the screen to translate the meaning as the music played. “It’s talking about the feeling when you want to go home, you want to go to a place you loved, where you felt safe, but that place doesn’t exist anymore. So you can’t go back,” she said. Everyone could relate, no matter where they were from originally. After we had spoken about this loss, this exile—something very real for many of my students, who truly cannot return home—one of them turned to me and said, “You should write about this, Ms. Clark.” I was taken aback, thinking, I’m not the one to talk about these things that aren’t my story. In retrospect, I think what she meant was, “It isn’t safe for us to be open about these things, but you have a voice right now—you should use it.” 

In this moment, no one restricts me. No one censors me. I can speak freely, sincerely, from my heart, with no fear. This is a gift I do not want to waste by saying nothing, or lose through lack of vigilance, or keep only for myself. What I want to say is this: already, we have lost the invaluable contributions of people who might have come here but now will not arrive; whether they are full of potential like my students or powerful teachers like Chiba Sensei, it is the height of arrogance to close the door on people who have the capacity to help us grow beyond our small, bounded selves. And already, the young people who came here with the hope of finding freedom of expression are finding disillusionment and repression instead; I want them to be safe, and I want them to be heard, and I will fight for this.