There’s an old fable we all know. A boy, bored and seeking attention, cries “Wolf!” to stir up panic in the village. The people run – every time – until the day a real threat arrives, and no one believes him. That story was about a liar who caused fear for fun.
The current story unfolding in the USA is about one who uses fear as a strategy.
Every few weeks, the international education community is thrown into chaos. A pause in visa appointments. Revoked student visas. Talk of new surveillance requirements. Stepped-up vetting for students and visa reviews for those already approved. The man-child in question has cried wolf again – and we run.
And that’s not just a metaphor. It’s a pattern. And this week, it escalated
On Monday, a new executive order banning students from 19 countries went into effect. No warning. No nuance. No regard for the thousands of lives it will disrupt or the institutions it will damage. Just fear, policy as punishment, and the unmistakable message: You’re not welcome here.
We’re told it’s about national security. We’re told it’s temporary. We’re told it’s necessary.
But if we’re being honest – it’s just another cry. Cruel, outrageous, and expected. Because by now, it’s more than just politics. It’s a strategy.
And the village keeps running. Because if we’re always reacting, we’re never reflecting. If we’re always scrambling, we’re never strategizing. The noise is the tactic. The fear is the tool.
And in the world of international education, fear-based policies have become the man-child’s new cry.
And make no mistake: fear is working.
Every international student who earns admission to a U.S. college also earns an invisible burden: fear. Not just the typical nerves before a big move, but a deeper, more existential anxiety. Fear that no matter how qualified they are, they’ll be denied a visa. Fear that the embassy official they meet will be having a bad day. Fear that they’ll be asked an impossible question or misunderstood because of their accent. Fear that a single moment at a counter will erase years of preparation.
And for those who make it through? The fear doesn’t end. It just shape-shifts.
It becomes fear of saying the wrong thing online. Fear of falling out of visa status. Fear of applying for internships and being told they’re ineligible. Fear of political rhetoric. Fear of being seen, always, as temporary – even when they’re valedictorians, researchers, or entrepreneurs.
That fear is real. And it is exhausting.
I, for one, understand the fear. Not just in theory – but in lived experience.
It was 1991. I was a 18 yr old student in India, holding onto a dream that felt audacious at the time: to study in the United States. I’d done everything right – earned admission, gathered my documents, showed up early at the consulate, wearing the hope of my entire future. And then, in under one minute, it was over. Denied. No explanation. No chance to clarify. Just a cold pink slip and the quiet humiliation of walking past the others in line with my head down.
I remember wondering what I would tell my family and friends. How I’d explain that a stranger, with no context and no questions, had decided my future didn’t get to begin.
That moment is still with me. Not because it defined me – but because it reminds me how fragile this system has always been. The randomness. The power imbalance. The feeling that no matter how hard you work, someone you’ve never met gets to decide your future in seconds.
I was resilient. So I applied again and eventually made it in. But many students won’t. Not because they lack potential – but because they dared to dream in a system that continues to treat them as expendable, even today.
That’s why this matters. If last week’s MNT was a warning, this one is a blueprint. Because the more things change, the more students keep getting caught in the same old machinery. And we owe them more than reactive sympathy. We owe them protection, clarity, and a sector that’s finally ready to fight back.
Beyond Outrage: A Blueprint
It’s not enough to react – we need to respond. Not just with outrage, but with orchestration. Below are actions the higher education sector should take – not in isolation, but collectively – to stop playing defense and start calling the bluff:
• Withdraw symbolic support from federal education diplomacy:
Universities don’t need to pause recruitment – but they can absolutely withdraw from performative partnerships. That means opting out of government-led education fairs, trade missions, and embassy-sponsored campaigns while current policies undermine student access. It means declining to co-brand materials or host federal visits that suggest global engagement is thriving – when government policies are telling us otherwise.
And no, writing polite letters to congressional offices isn’t enough. We’ve mastered the art of soft dissent – template emails, carefully worded statements, and policy breakfasts that go nowhere. It’s time we stop pretending that a letter is activism. This isn’t sabotage. It’s solidarity.
• Leverage corporate influence through a Global Talent Compact:
International students don’t just fund universities – they fuel the American workforce. From engineering labs to startups, from biotech to finance, they are the quiet engine of U.S. innovation. Imagine a public letter signed by the CEOs of Google, Pfizer, JPMorgan Chase, Nvidia, calling for fair and stable visa policies – not out of generosity, but out of economic self-preservation. The message? Undermine international education, and you choke the future of American industry.
• Expose the real financial risk to U.S. students and campuses:
When international students disappear, everyone pays. Fewer scholarships for domestic students. Delayed maintenance. Staff cuts. Shrinking course offerings. Diminished global learning. Institutions must be honest and public about this dependency – not to shame, but to explain. The next time a lawmaker questions international enrollment, show them the tuition spreadsheet – and the pink slips that follow.
• Organize legal pushback through coalition litigation:
This isn’t just bad policy – it’s discriminatory practice. Universities should partner with civil rights organizations to file legal challenges, submit amicus briefs, and publicly support students denied visas without due process. We saw it during the Muslim Ban. We need that courage again – only this time, coordinated and sustained.
A strongly worded press release isn’t legal action. A letter to DHS isn’t a strategy. If we’re serious about protecting students, we have to do more than gesture. We have to litigate.
• Launch a Global Education Watch:
We need memory, not just outrage. A student-facing platform that tracks policy changes, visa denial spikes, and discriminatory actions in real time. Include data, case studies, student testimonials, and legal briefings. Let it become the industry’s public ledger – and a resource for students, journalists, and policymakers alike. Not another internal dashboard. Not another PDF circulated at a conference.
We need sunlight, not summaries. Let no threat go unrecorded – and no injustice go quietly.
The Final Cry
This isn’t just about one man’s ego. It’s about a broader culture of intimidation and indifference that sees international students as revenue streams or security risks – but rarely as people.
And it’s about us.
Because while we expect international students to move across oceans, adapt to foreign systems, and navigate complex bureaucracy with courage – we ask almost nothing of ourselves in return.
Too many university leaders remain silent.
Too many staff worry that speaking up will jeopardize a grant, an embassy relationship, or a line on next year’s budget.
Too many directors whisper privately what they refuse to say publicly.
Why? Because we’re afraid.
Afraid of political backlash. Afraid of access being cut off. Afraid of discomfort.
And yet – we expect bravery from 18-year-olds facing visa interviews alone. If that doesn’t tell you something about this imbalance, I don’t know what will.
Because even when the cry is false, the consequences are real.
If we keep acting like every cry is a five-alarm fire but never build fireproof systems, we’re just playing our part in the theater of chaos.
So maybe it’s time we do what we’ve expected of our students all along. Maybe it’s time we get a little braver.
It’s time to stop whispering. It’s time to stop reacting. It’s time to organize, strategize, and push back – with courage, with clarity, and with a collective voice that can no longer be ignored.
The tantrums will keep coming. The man-child will cry again.
But next time, let’s not just listen. And let’s not run. Let’s move together. Braver. Louder. Smarter.
Ex Cogitatione, Progressus.
Girish
