In the Struggle for Undocumented Liberation, US Citizenship Is Not the Answer
When we reject the state’s power to define who belongs, and instead build systems of care that honor all people’s right to exist and thrive, we move toward real justice.
I am one of the 11 million undocumented immigrants who refuse to live in the shadows of the United States. Now that President Donald Trump’s policies are violently escalating, it’s critical to understand that none of this is new. Family separations, concentration camps, and the displacement of people are part of a long history of ethnic cleansing disguised as immigration policy. U.S. citizens are only now seeing it for what it’s always been.
I once believed anti-immigrant sentiment stemmed from a misunderstanding or a lack of empathy. But over the last decade, I’ve begun to accept what I need other undocumented people and allies to understand: U.S. citizenship is not the answer. True liberation for undocumented people will never come from assimilating into a colonial system built on our oppression. Instead, we must center the fight for Indigenous sovereignty, recognizing that dismantling these colonial ways of existing in the world—not gaining U.S. citizenship—is the key to our collective liberation.
At its core, U.S. citizenship is a legal and political status that grants individuals rights and privileges in exchange for adhering to certain laws and being loyal to its institutions. While it’s often framed as a beacon of belonging, security, and inclusion, in practice citizenship has functioned as a tool of exclusion. Programs like Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals (DACA), introduced by former President Barack Obama in 2012, highlight this tension, offering relief to some while reinforcing the “good immigrant” versus “bad immigrant” narrative.
Citizenship alone won’t free us—but solidarity will.
I was sitting in my high school English class when the program was first announced. What started as hope quickly devolved into disappointment when I realized I was ineligible due to when I arrived in the United States. To qualify, applicants must have arrived before age 16, lived in the U.S. continuously since 2007, and meet education or military service requirements. They must also pass background checks. These requirements underscore that only undocumented individuals who contribute to the U.S. economy through intellectual achievements or who advance the nation’s war machine are deemed worthy of living without the constant fear of deportation.
While DACA has shifted the material realities of some young undocumented people by providing work permits, it simultaneously puts them in danger. Recipients must voluntarily disclose their undocumented status to federal authorities, submitting fingerprints, addresses, and other personal information—a process that must be renewed every two years. Despite being billed as a relief program, DACA inadvertently creates a new system of surveillance targeting undocumented youth.
The disclosure of personal information not only risks recipients’ safety but also discourages resistance. With their standing in the U.S. contingent on being “productive” and “deserving,” DACA recipients are pressured to become complacent and silent about the broader criminalization of undocumented people. Immigration and Customs Enforcement has targeted undocumented activists from across the country in retaliation for their advocacy efforts. Thus, DACA is not merely a program meant to protect; it also functions as a system to surveil and neutralize a whole generation of young people.
At the same time Obama instituted the DACA program, his administration also militarized the border and expanded deportations. The actions of the so-called “Deporter-in-Chief” demonstrate that programs like DACA are insidiously compatible with anti-immigrant sentiment. By creating a distinction between so-called “good” and “bad” immigrants, citizenship divides our community and reinforces the narrative that our worth is conditional. We are reduced to exploitable and expendable resources, mere cogs in a capitalist system.
Moving forward, we must center the material realities of undocumented people who don’t have an immediate path toward legal citizenship on the horizon. As a short-term strategy, we must continue to support harm-reducing legislation such as the New Way Forward Act, which severs ties between the immigration and carceral systems. In the longer term, we must also attend to Land Back movements, acknowledging that Indigenous people are the rightful stewards of this land.
Citizenship alone won’t free us—but solidarity will. When we reject the state’s power to define who belongs, and instead build systems of care that honor all people’s right to exist and thrive, we move toward real justice. Our futures are intertwined, and only by dismantling these violent structures together can we create the world we all deserve.
