On Sept. 23, 1952, Mugo Gatheru had just finished English class when an American official approached him and flashed a United States Immigration Services badge. Gatheru, a young Kenyan student at Lincoln University, quickly realized that his education was not the officer’s concern. His politics were. The officer interrogated him about his role as an editor of the Kenya African Union’s newspaper, The African Voice, and about whether he had ever engaged in political agitation against government officials in Kenya, India, England or the United States.
In the 1950s, the Cold War logic of American immigration enforcement sought to place Gatheru into a rigid political binary: communist or anticommunist, agitator or ally. But Gatheru challenged these political borders. When accused of being an agitator, the young Kenyan student reframed the terms of the interrogation. Agitation, he argued, was a matter of perspective. British colonial authorities may have seen him as disruptive, but what he was doing was simply a continuation of the democratic ideals he had learned in America. “After all,” he told the immigration officer, “even George Washington was an agitator here in your country.”
Seventy-three years later, it’s old wine in a new bottle.
The same Immigration and Nationality Act that was used to justify deportation proceedings against Mugo Gatheru in the 1950s is now being wielded against Mahmoud Khalil. In Gatheru’s time, the target was anticolonial activists suspected of communist ties; today, it’s Palestinian advocates accused of supporting terrorism. The global politics are different, but the playbook remains the same: Silence dissent, rebrand it as a security threat and use immigration law to make it disappear.
These cases are not just about two individuals. They are part of a much longer history of using immigration enforcement as a tool of political suppression on college campuses. Gatheru was one of many African, Latin America, Asian and Caribbean students in the mid-20th century whose presence in U.S. universities became politically suspect. Fueled by Cold War anxieties, U.S. authorities from across the political spectrum saw anticolonial activism as inherently subversive to American geopolitical interests. In the late 1970s, the Carter administration, which professed a strong commitment to human rights, employed the same tools of immigration enforcement to investigate and silence Iranian students who denounced U.S. complicity in the shah’s regime. And in the mid-1980s, the Reagan administration also utilized those same tools to prosecute young Palestinian activists in Los Angeles.
The history of immigration and student activism is thus also a history of global racial politics. White European students were welcomed into American universities while Black and brown international students from the Global South were scrutinized for their political beliefs. In effect, academic freedom was never truly universal for international students. It was selectively granted and shaped by a racialized global hierarchy that mirrored U.S. Cold War priorities. Ultimately, an uncomfortable truth might be this: American universities are deeply entangled in America’s geopolitical agenda, and their commitment to academic freedom rarely extended to those who challenged U.S. hegemony.
Today, the U.S. government is deploying a similar logic. In addition to Khalil’s arrest, the government has trumpeted the arrest of another international student tied to the Columbia protests, Leqaa Kordia, and the visa revocation and “self-deportation” of Ranjani Srinivasan, who says she got mistakenly swept up in arrests of protesters during the occupation of Columbia’s Hamilton Hall last spring. A Georgetown University postdoctoral scholar from India, Badar Khan Suri, was also arrested last week, targeted, according to his lawyer, for his wife’s “identity as a Palestinian and her constitutionally protected speech.”
In other words, these are not isolated incidents but part of a deliberate policy effort to criminalize Palestinian advocacy and antiwar protest.
In the past two years alone, we have seen student groups labeled as extremist, faculty members investigated for their political speech and foreign nationals facing heightened scrutiny for their views on the ongoing war in Israel-Palestine. The arrest of Khalil, even if dropped, has had its intended effect: It sends a chilling message that political dissent, particularly when voiced by students from politically fraught regions, comes at a cost.
The echoes between these cases should prompt us to reflect on the historical legacies at play. Both Gatheru’s and Khalil’s experiences show how governments, fearing the power of certain ideas, attempt to control the discourse by criminalizing student activists. Both demonstrate how racialized and colonialist logics shape the policing of dissent, whether in the 1950s, under the specter of communism, or in 2025, under the guise of counterterrorism. And, most significantly for those in higher education, both reveal the ways in which universities serve as battlegrounds for global political struggles.
Yet both cases also highlight the potential role of academic communities and activist networks in resisting such overt suppression of political activism. When Gatheru faced deportation, university allies and civil rights leaders and groups, including Thurgood Marshall and the NAACP, mobilized on his behalf. Faculty and students at Lincoln University established the Friends of Mugo Gatheru Fund. They reframed his case as a fight for both racial justice and academic freedom. Their efforts eventually led to the U.S. government dropping its case.
Khalil’s arrest has likewise sparked widespread resistance. Student organizations and faculty at Columbia have mobilized swiftly, with Jewish faculty members holding a campus rally under the banner “Jews say no to deportations.” Meanwhile, an online petition demanding Khalil’s release has amassed more than three million signatures. These responses underscore the broader stakes of Khalil’s case: It is not just about one student but about the right to dissent in an era in which protest is again being reframed as a national security threat.
Gatheru’s case, once seen as a national security risk, is now remembered as an example of state overreach. Will we look back on Khalil’s case the same way? If so, it will be because students, faculty and advocates refused to allow immigration enforcement to dictate the terms of political activism. As Gatheru reminded his interrogator, George Washington was an agitator, too. The question is whether we will continue to punish today’s agitators for following in that tradition.
