Waiting for the elevator after our interview, the student lingered for a moment before turning to ask if her name would appear in the story. 

When told that international students have the option to remain anonymous, the tension in her shoulders eased, and she nodded. 

“I want to be anonymous then … I just don’t want to get in trouble,” she said, half joking, half serious. 

For many international students, the right to speak freely once felt like part of the promise of studying in the United States. Now, it can feel like a risk. 

Since the current administration took office in January, it has tightened immigration measures, expanded U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE), and sought to restrict diversity, equity, and inclusion (DEI) initiatives at universities. Their renewed focus on immigration has left many students uncertain about what they can say and how their words might be interpreted.

At The New School, where 36% of the student body is international, these shifts have reshaped how some students express themselves. Conversations once taken for granted — from classroom discussions to social media posts to simply talking among friends — now come with calculations: what to say, what to delete, and when to stay silent.

A first-year graduate student from China, who has been granted anonymity out of fear that speaking publicly could affect her future visa status, is studying historical studies at The New School for Social Research. Before coming to the United States this fall, she scrolled through social media posts about students being stopped at customs and questioned at airports. 

On Chinese social media platform Xiaohongshu (RedNote), she posted a question asking if she could enter the United States with an old visa. Soon after finding the answer, she deleted the post. “I was … worried … they would check my phone, they would look through my computer,” she said.

That anxiety followed her to New York. In class, she avoids political discussions. “I feel this is the right thing to do,” she said.

Her goal is clear. “My priority here is to finish my studies …  not get involved in politics and advocacy.” She hopes to continue her research and apply for a doctoral program. “I think I know that I’m going to maybe stay here for the long term,” she said. “ I [have to] think about how [what I say] could affect me in the next three years, four years, five years.” 

For her, silence feels like safety — a strategy for survival.

Her caution reflects a growing unease shared by many international students in the United States. In recent months, Tufts University student Rümeysa Öztürk and Columbia University student Mahmoud Khalil were both detained after reportedly sharing political views, and six foreign nationals in the United States had their visas revoked over comments about right-wing political activist Charlie Kirk. 

The line between free speech and government censorship has never felt blurrier for international students. For Lis Rojas — a fourth-year Parsons School of Design illustration student from the Dominican Republic who fears being stopped on the street — that awareness is constant. 

“I am very afraid of ICE agents,” she said. “Sometimes I forget to have my passport … like the physical one. I have a picture, but sometimes that doesn’t work and it’s just … you have to be really careful.”

That worry has become part of her routine — a reality that most of her domestic classmates might never have to consider. For international students, a passport is no longer just a travel document, but proof of legal status. 

During her time at school, Rojas discovered her passion for storytelling through art. For her, the city feels like the perfect place for an illustrator to grow. She hopes to stay in New York after graduation. 

“Hopefully I can get a job [or] an internship in children’s illustration,” said Rojas. “But I know with immigration laws … staying [in the United States] might not be plausible for me.”

She explained that applying for work visas after graduation has become increasingly complicated and stressful. “Right now, it’s kind of a chaotic process,” she said. 

Even when Rojas has found a sense of direction through art, that clarity does not erase the uncertainty of staying. That same uncertainty echoes with Neev Jain, a second-year transfer student from India who once idealized the American dream, but now questions what that promise really means.

Currently studying communication design at Parsons, Jain said he has become more cautious about what he posts online since moving to the United States.

“It’s no secret anymore,” he said, speaking on hearing stories of students being deported. “[If] you get deported from the U.S., you automatically lose the chance to get visas for a lot of other countries.” 

He worries that even if he follows every rule, like keeping his “documents in check” and avoiding political activity that could be misinterpreted, his efforts still might not be enough. “You’re not given a second chance here,” he said. “You’re not given a fair case to fight.”

That fear, he said, has made him question his future. It makes him wonder: “[Do] I still want to continue staying here, working here, you know … pursu[ing] the future I had planned for myself?” 

The anxiety and uncertainty is not limited to those with temporary visas. Even students who appear to be on more stable ground say they feel that ground shifting. 

Elin Nakayama, a fifth-year communication design student at Parsons, holds dual citizenship in the United States and Japan — she said that does not make her feel any safer. 

She recalled a moment last semester when students were participating in signing a letter to a judge on behalf of a classmate detained by immigration authorities. The letter, organized by the University Student Senate, was described as anonymous. But when she saw that the form required the names and school affiliations of its signees, she hesitated to take action.

“That caught me off guard,” she said. “At this current day and age, I don’t really know how this [information] is going to be used against me. That made me really scared.” 

Despite being born in the United States and holding a U.S. passport, Nakayama said she often questions what her citizenship even means, especially now, as birthright citizenship faces renewed debate under the current administration. 

“The definition of citizenship is getting more narrow,” she said. Her words hang in the air — not dramatic, just true. “You don’t know where the line is. So the question is — who is next?”