Querida comunidad, (Dear community,)
As we witness state-organized violence directed at Latine, Asian and Black and Brown immigrants and refugees, we recognize that the harm inflicted on those we serve carries profound consequences for physical, emotional and spiritual health. The abductions, arrests, detentions and aggression against women, children, elders and families stream across our screens each day and send a message we are forced to decode in real time: if you look like, sound like or are perceived to be an immigrant and a person of color, you may be met with some of the most vicious embodiments of racism and xenophobia of our time. These actions tell us that constitutional protections can be discarded the moment someone is labeled an “immigrant” or an “other.” And whether we are at home, driving to work, heading to school or caring for our families, we are watching the deadly results of racial profiling and dehumanization as we collectively experience the same fear and outrage as the families in those videos.
Fear primes our daily living. In spaces where safety once felt possible, sorrow grows. And grief, with her steady presence, moves from the edges of our awareness to the center of our being.
The heartache is great. And fear isolates. It teaches silence. Yet silence has never kept anyone safe. So how do we move toward action and change from places of fear, sorrow and grief?
Our own community carries its record of harm. In 2009, a Black employee at CWLP found a noose at his workstation. A grand jury declined to indict the two white men responsible. There was no justice, only the confirmation that some wounds are allowed to remain open. Years later, that employee received a $225,000 settlement not to sue the city. Racism is expensive. Xenophobia is, too. We all pay for it through public funds, lost trust and communities forced to rebuild after preventable harm.
Taxpayers often imagine racism and xenophobia as failures of individuals, but these injustices live within systems we collectively maintain. We ensure them with our silence and we budget for them. That should stop every self-described “good” person in their tracks. Because if goodness is measured only by intention and not by impact, then it is not goodness at all. It is avoidance dressed as virtue.
Even with all of this, we choose one another. We fight for our communities because we love them, and because our liberation is bound together. When we speak truth about racism and xenophobia, it is not to shame our neighbors but to protect the futures of all our families; including theirs.
At the Springfield Immigrant Advocacy Network (SIAN), we recognize that malice is not required for terrible outcomes. A lack of impact assessment and a lack of multiracial, intersectional understanding are enough to cause grave harm. If organizations build “tables” that are not multiracial, intersectional and trained in antiracist praxis, they will cause harm. And if organizations refuse to follow the leadership of Black women and women of color, they are not practicing freedom. They are upholding structural oppression.
We have also learned that racism and xenophobia evolve. Racism here is not subtle; it mutates. Immigration is the latest scapegoat in an old script whose targets simply shift.
As our antiracism work becomes more intersectional, our praxis must address what Gloria Anzaldúa calls la herida abierta, the open wound. That wound is not only at the border. It lives here, too, in Springfield, in every place where race, language and origin collide. Our organizing must address the historical and cultural trauma carried by those who crossed borders seeking safety and survival.
How do we move from exhaustion and trauma toward healing? By naming what hurts and recognizing that fear is a policy choice. At SIAN, our praxis centers three truths:
1. Immigrants share space with other marginalized communities; if we lift one, we lift all.
2. Xenophobia is racism; immigration work must invest in antiracism education.
3. Care is a form of resistance; caring for our neighbors strengthens all of us.
When we hold these truths and say, “No más miedo, No more fear,” hope becomes tangible, and healing becomes possible.
We teach children to work hard. We must also teach love. How does love look when you love sin fronteras; without borders? A strong love ethic connects organizing to trauma mitigation and healthy living. Love in community tells us that we belong.
Open your doors. Check on your neighbors. Aún estamos aquí. We are still here. Healing the wounds that racism and xenophobia inflict is the work of our lifetime. Trust your love and endurance, and let us continue building a community where no one is disposable and where belonging is our shared practice.
Verónica Espina is founder and president of SIAN and member of the Massey Commission. Dr. Kelly Hurst is a board member of SIAN and managing director of the Massey Commission.
