Then They Came for Me: Reflections on the threat of Denaturalization

Then They Came for Me: Reflections on the threat of Denaturalization

I lived undocumented for 15 years.

Fifteen years of looking over my shoulder, of second-guessing every knock at the door, of wondering if today would be the day my life in the U.S. would come crashing down.

I was recently reading "Trump revives push to denaturalize US citizens" by Lauren Villagran, in which she shares "Trump's new directive got little attention amid the flurry of eye-catching orders to launch the president's promised "mass deportation." The article highlights the current administration's efforts and dedicated resources to work on the denaturalization of Immigrant-Americans for minor clerical errors or past offenses.

I know what it’s like to live in a country that tells you that you are good enough to work, to contribute, to belong in silence—but never enough to be fully accepted. Even now, as a naturalized citizen, that fear lingers, because I know all too well that citizenship is not always the guarantee of security that it should be. It can be revoked, turned into a weapon, used to silence and intimidate those who dare to speak out.

Then They Came for Me

First, they came for undocumented families,


I did not speak out—


Because I was not undocumented.

Then they came for DACA holders,


I did not speak out—


Because I was not DACAMENTED.

Then they came for permanent residents,


I did not speak out—


Because I was not a permanent resident.

Then they came for me—


And there was no one left to speak for me.

— Dr. BORA.DMC

The Fear That Silence Breeds

There is a particular kind of fear that exists in the spaces where citizenship and identity intersect—where the lines between belonging and marginalization are written not in ink, but in shifting policies and political changes. As a psychologist, an author, immigrant-American, and someone who has spent years navigating conversations and experiences around trauma, identity, and systemic oppression, I recognize the weight of that fear. It is not just fear of deportation or denaturalization—it is the fear of being erased, of being stripped of the very thing that allows you to exist within a nation’s borders—all your work, sacrifice, and dreams taken with the flick of a pen.

Denaturalization, the process of revoking a person’s citizenship, has long been a legal tool meant to address fraud, misrepresentation, and Nazi or terrorist affiliation. But history has shown us that it is far more often used as a weapon of control, a way to silence dissent and intimidate communities. When governments begin wielding denaturalization against those who challenge them—journalists, activists, immigrants, political opponents—it is not just about immigration enforcement, it is about power and control.

Weaponizing Citizenship: A Historical Pattern

This pattern is not new. The U.S. government has used citizenship as both a privilege and a punishment for over a century. During the Red Scare, naturalized citizens suspected of communist affiliations were stripped of their status and deported sometimes without proof of guilt. During the civil rights era, Black and Indigenous activists were placed under surveillance, their legal status scrutinized as a means to suppress their voices. After 9/11, Muslim and Arab naturalized citizens were disproportionately targeted under the guise of national security.

And more recently, under policies revived and expanded by the Trump administration, a dedicated denaturalization task force has sought to strip citizenship from individuals—many of whom have lived in the U.S. for decades—for minor paperwork discrepancies or alleged past infractions. The message is clear: citizenship, for some of us, is conditional.

The Psychological Toll of Living Under Threat

For those who live under this constant threat, the psychological toll is profound. The anxiety of knowing that your right to belong could be revoked at any moment creates a state of chronic hypervigilance and stress—a condition often seen in survivors of trauma. This isn’t just about immigration status; it’s about a fundamental loss of safety.

• The fear of speaking out, knowing that visibility could make you a target.

• The anxiety of filling out legal documents, aware that even a minor clerical error might be weaponized against you years later.

• The deep exhaustion of fighting for a place in a country that refuses to recognize you as fully and permanently belonging.

• The erasure of identity in the denial of our humanity—by a nation many of us call home, to which we have given so much of ourselves.

For children growing up in mixed-status families, this fear becomes a formative part of their development. They learn young that stability is fragile, that their parents or loved ones could disappear overnight, and that their citizenship might not protect them from the harsh reality of the immigration system. This is not just political. It is personal.

Why We Must Speak Out

Then They Came for Me, echoes the famous words of Martin Niemöller, a German Lutheran pastor and theologian, best known for his opposition to the Nazi regime during WWII, who warned of the dangers of silence in the face of authoritarianism. We have seen this play out before. When we ignore the injustices faced by those who seem distant from us—undocumented families, DACA recipients, refugees—we set the stage for broader repression.

Denaturalization is not just an immigration issue; it is a democracy one. It is a tool that can be turned on anyone who challenges the state—journalists, activists, scholars—anyone who dares to hold power accountable. The erosion of rights always begins at the margins, but it never stays there. Centering the margins has always been part of the conversation, but rarely part of the action. We’ve always known that when we protect those most affected, we create a better, safer future for everyone. Even when we have tried to even the playing field through decades of activism, organizing, and resistance, in what seems to be a couple weeks, we have rolled back decades of work for inclusion and civil rights for all people.

The only way to break this cycle is to speak out before it reaches us. We speak out not because we might be directly affected by it but because our lack of action is a reflection of who we are as a people and nation.

A Call to Action

If you are reading this and feeling that fear, know that you are not alone. Fear thrives in isolation, but power is found in community.

• Educate yourself and others on immigration policies and their implications.

• Support immigrant rights organizations that provide legal assistance and advocacy.

• Speak out in your communities, online, at the ballot box—because silence does not protect us.

• Take action and use your positionality to support immigrant and undocumented communities, hold know your right workshops, and learn what others are doing at the moment.

History has shown us what happens when we look away. Let’s make sure we never look away.