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As I watched the recent presidential debate, I found myself being characterized against my will by former president Donald Trump. His statements in the debate labeled immigrants like myself as dangerous criminals and a threat to the economy.

During those 90 minutes, I found myself grappling with statements that challenged my right to be in the United States. Trump took the stage and, with conviction, claimed that immigrants “can’t even speak English” and that they “don’t even know what country they’re in”. As a Venezuelan immigrant, this wasn’t just bigoted political rhetoric, it was personal. The portrayal of immigrants by someone running for national office cast doubt on my place in the country I now call home.

I fled a regime that stole my childhood in search of a better life in a so-called “land of promise.” But it has become increasingly apparent that this promise came with the risk of being labeled a threat in the place I considered my safe haven. When Trump’s rhetoric includes statements like,“Crime in this country’s through the roof, and we have a new form of crime called migrant crime. I like that. It’s happening at levels nobody thought possible”, I am led to the conclusion that he sees immigrants as the problem.

I am part of a so-called “migrant crisis.” I’m held responsible for what he labels “migrant crime.” To him, I represent a disruption, something that needs a solution. What he sees is a distorted version of immigration that excludes, ignores and rejects anything beyond his privileged reality.

Yet, I am here, thriving in this country, at “levels nobody thought possible,” to contrast Trump’s own words in the debate.

Like another 8 million Venezuelans, my family and I were forced to leave our homeland in search of a better future. Venezuela, often referred to as “the north of the south,” is a country blessed with immense natural wealth—oil, natural gas, gold and diamonds.

Yet, 25 years ago, Venezuela was taken hostage by a regime that has shattered countless lives, reducing one of the region’s wealthiest nations to a place where inflation has spiraled to 344,509.5%. Today, Venezuelan migrants have created the largest displacement crisis in the Americas. Inside Venezuela, 45% of the population faces food insecurity, and 86% of people report they cannot afford enough to eat or are concerned about running out of food.

I live in the United States and am proud of where I come from. Contrary to the anti-immigrant statements Trump makes, I don’t feel I have to justify my existence in a country to which I’ve given as much as it has given to me. My presence here is a testament to resilience and the hope for a future in America that my homeland could never provide.

Packing an entire life into two suitcases is hard, but living in a country with no future is even harder. It became normal for me to see people eating from public trash bins out of desperation to survive, all without the right to voice their truth.

In Venezuela, freedom of speech doesn’t exist – anyone who criticizes the government faces persecution, imprisonment, kidnapping or worse. The authoritarian government took everything from me. Though I have fond memories of my childhood, they are bound to the same country my family and I were forced to flee.

Political persecution shaped my life from the moment I could understand the world around me. At 12 years old, I arrived in Miami without knowing a word of English, witnessing firsthand the enormous sacrifices my parents made to give me a chance at a future. It was their example that inspired me to work hard, to embrace the responsibility of fighting for that future – not just for myself, but for all immigrants like us.

The Venezuelan government took away my right to dream and my hope for a future. In America, I’ve been given the chance to grow into the person I am today. All I ask in return is respect for my contributions. The crisis in my country isn’t about politics, it’s about humanity. I’m almost 21 years old, and I’ve still never had the chance to vote. Even now, the political struggles surrounding me still impact my path to citizenship.

In a democracy, our choices shape not only our policies but the future of our communities. Voting isn’t just a right; it’s a responsibility. This is why I encourage every eligible Syracuse University student to vote in this presidential election. Members of the United States non-citizen community wish they had this ability, so please execute this constitutional privilege if you are able. In a democracy, voting shapes the future, rights, and opportunities of not only U.S. citizens, but immigrants like myself.

Though I am not a U.S. citizen yet due to the long and grueling immigration process, I am driven to succeed and to become the person I know I can be, for myself, for my parents, and for Venezuela. I deserve every opportunity I’ve fought for. My presence here is a testament to resilience and the hope for a future in America that my homeland could never provide.

This platform empowers me to challenge the toxic narrative surrounding immigrants, especially in the face of Trump’s current campaign. But while I can use my voice and position on campus to reach others, I cannot vote. I cannot cast a ballot against the rhetoric and policies that threaten my future.

For this reason, I call on those who can vote: amplify the voices of those who can’t. Vote for the sake of your loved ones, your community, and those who are labeled as “unwanted” in a country they’ve fought to belong to. As the rising generation, we must demand equal opportunity and respect from those in power. We are not just surviving, we are enriching the very fabric of this nation. My community is far more than the word “immigrant” can ever capture.

German Nolivos is the president of Syracuse University’s Student Association and a junior majoring in Political Science and Public Relations. He can be reached at ganolivo@syr.edu.

Published on September 19, 2024 at 12:55 am