On April 9, 2025, U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement came to Tulane University’s campus. The visit was ghostly, announced by student-run clubs that flooded GroupMe chats, attached to warning messages underlined with fear. Two international students have lost their visas. For many of us, the real shock was not ICE’s presence but the stillness that followed.
Tulane is a place that prides itself on being a “global” university. We boast international partnerships and promote diversity and belonging in every pamphlet and panel. But when ICE quietly arrived and two students had their lives upended, the institution said little. The response was not one of protection or even public direction. It was a hush. Sure, there is a page on the university website to guide students on what precautions to take to remain informed, but knowing does not stop ICE from doing.
Since overturning the 2021 memorandum, Guidelines for Enforcement Actions in or Near Protected Areas, that restricted law enforcement operations to be conducted within sensitive or “protected areas” such as K-12 schools, vocational schools and universities, immigration enforcement operations have been encouraged to happen anywhere at any time. Tulane’s official statement, delivered through spokesman Mike Strecker, claimed the students’ visas were terminated “based on prior criminal arrests unrelated to any protest activity.” And that was it. No context or assurance. Just a few lines, sterile and dry, meant to preempt criticism without inviting conversation.
But those paying attention — students with immigrant backgrounds, students of color and international students — felt something deeper. It was not shock or confusion. It was just that old, familiar ache of realizing that protection in theory does not always translate to safety in practice.
For many, ICE is not an abstract federal agency. It is a symbol of surveillance, fear and power with a badge. Its presence on campus is far from neutral. It is loaded with histories of raids, deportations, family separations and unchecked authority — histories that students carry in their bones, whether or not they have been personally affected. To hear that ICE came and went without a whisper of warning and the courtesy of campus-wide acknowledgment sent a clear message: You are only welcome here until you are not.
The fear this incident sparked was not hypothetical, it was lived. Students whispered about what was going on, and, if anything was truly going on — with whom? Others asked if simply attending a protest could be construed as a threat. Those with complicated visa statutes or undocumented relatives kept their heads down, even Puerto Ricans with no reason to be detained felt compelled to carry their passports, since the possibility of being wrongfully targeted as has happened before. And yet, the administration remained still without even an email as warning.
This is not about whether the two students “deserved” what happened, whatever the university wants to imply about prior arrests. This is about the environment of bystanders. An environment where students must interpret their safety through rumors and blurred pictures of ICE license plates roaming around the very place they reside. Where reassurance never comes and our supposed protections dissolve the moment students need them.
This is not the first time Tulane has defaulted to avoidance in moments of crisis. But when it comes to something as visceral and vulnerable as immigration enforcement, silence is not just disappointing. It is unsafe. It breeds distrust and fractures communities. It turns a campus into a place where some students are constantly on edge, calculating risk and wondering if they will be removed from the same community that promised them a protected shelter.
We need to ask ourselves: What does it mean to belong at Tulane? Is it a line in a brochure, or is it a lived reality supported by actions and accountability?