Palomar College is where I found passion, friends, community and experience. It’s where I learned to report fairly, to listen, and, as editor-in-chief of The Telescope, to hold my opinions back so other people’s truths could come forward. But sometimes loving a place means saying the hardest thing out loud.

So here it is: Palomar is becoming an unsafe space for our most vulnerable students, especially Hispanic and undocumented students, and those with the most power are showing us, through their decisions and their silence, that they are not only willing to let that happen but they will do it with their own hands.

For Palomar’s Hispanic students, this fall semester has brought more than midterms and deadlines. National funding for Hispanic-Serving Institutions (HSI) has been cut, ICE raids have returned to our community, and uncertainty is everywhere. On a campus that prides itself on being not just an HSI but a super HSI, where 51.1% of our students identify as Hispanic, reassurance shouldn’t be controversial. It should be instinct.

Palomar has long celebrated its HSI status, from branded merch in the bookstore to federal grants earned through that designation. We post about it. We put it in presentations. We display it on every page of our website. But when Hispanic and undocumented students needed to hear, plainly, “You still belong here,” the institution said nothing. That is not how a college that claims to serve its majority population behaves.

What makes that silence even more painful is that on the ground level, this college is full of people doing the work. Programs like the Cariño Dream Village, Puente, EOPS, Umoja, Pride Center, and Student Services are what actually make Palomar feel welcoming. They’re the ones who held Palomar’s Undocumented Student Awareness Month. They’re the ones connecting students to real help. Compassion is alive and thriving in classrooms and programs.

But when the board makes decisions like removing the land acknowledgement and deleting the anti-racism policy and the college president remains largely silent, it tells students, “Your safety depends on individuals, not on the institution.” And individuals can be overridden.

That’s not paranoia. That is the pattern. I sit in those governing board meetings. I watch where the questions land. We’ve seen repeated skepticism about equity and DEI. And on Oct. 14, we watched the board vote 3-2 to delete the anti-racism and diversity policy, Board Policy 3000. That is not how you protect vulnerable students.

And then there’s the part that doesn’t always make it into the official minutes: what board members post and like online. When Board President Jacqueline Kaiser supports violent ICE content on Instagram, like she did in August, while ICE detentions are happening closer and closer to where our students live.

That is a signal.

If you are an undocumented student, mixed-status student or just a student who is bilingual and brown when you see that, you hear: “You are not the priority here.” You hear: “If ICE shows up, this board will not be the one standing in front of you.” You hear: “You are on your own.” And you’re not wrong to hear it.

What makes it sting even more is that our president, Star Rivera-Lacey, someone this campus rightly celebrated as the first Latina president, was largely silent as BP 3000 was deleted.

At a moment when marginalized students needed a loud, unequivocal, “You belong here, we will protect you,” Rivera-Lacey hasn’t even given us a whisper. And now, in the face of controversy, she is a finalist for the position of deputy chancellor and provost at the Riverside Community College District. During the selection process, she even emphasized the importance of her DEIA work, saying it “isn’t performative.”

It is hard not to feel like Palomar’s students, especially its Hispanic students, were asked to be quiet so she could look politically safe for her next move. That’s the part no one likes to say out loud.

I am able to say all this because I am not one of those at risk. I am privileged: I am not undocumented. I am light-skinned. I carry my dad’s Scandinavian last name and not my mother’s Hispanic maiden name. I am not the one ICE is looking for. I can sit in those board meetings without wondering if I am at risk. Because of that, I have a responsibility to use whatever platform I have to raise the alarm before something happens to someone who can’t come forward.

I don’t want to write, after the fact, “We should have said something.” I want to say it now.

While I don’t want to add fear for those in precarious positions, I believe we need to engage in risk management. When the board deletes its anti-racism policy, when a trustee amplifies pro-ICE rhetoric, when HSI programs vanish, when leadership will not contradict them publicly, the risk to undocumented and mixed-status students goes up. And when risk goes up, we have to tell the truth: for some students, Palomar may no longer be the safest option right now.

That breaks my heart to write.

This is a community college. We are supposed to be the door that’s open to all. But if the people at the top are working against your safety, then our first ethical duty is to protect you — even if that means helping you find another door while we fight to fix this one.

Here’s what I don’t want lost in all of this: our staff and faculty are fighting. Classified staff are showing up in public comments at governing board meetings. Faculty are sending letters and speaking unapologetically to those in power. Program coordinators are doing everything they can to shield students from political decisions they didn’t make. This criticism is not of them. This is about a governing board that has shown us its priorities, and an administration that has chosen to accommodate those priorities instead of challenging them.

And maybe that silence is the message. Maybe what our leaders are saying, by saying nothing, is: “We will take the HSI grants, we will take the title, we will market the diversity, but when it costs us politically, we will not stand between you and harm.” If that’s the message, then we need to stop pretending this is still the same Palomar we brag about on Welcome Day.

So where do we go from here?

At-risk students, especially Hispanic, undocumented, mixed-status, and international students: Document everything. Screenshot social posts. Save emails. Visit the Cariño Dream Village. Know your rights, grab a red card from the library or service centers. Ask your professors if they will support you. If you don’t feel safe coming to campus on a specific day, tell someone you trust. Your safety is more important than an attendance policy.

Students with privilege: Demand better. Attend governing board meetings. Make public comments. Protest in the Student Union. Do not let these changes go by the wayside just because it’s hard to speak up. At a minimum support your classmates, your friends, your teammates, and your community. Let them know that with you they are safe.

Staff and faculty: Keep doing what you’re doing, but do it with clear eyes. Build contingency plans for your students. Don’t assume the board “wouldn’t go that far” — they already deleted BP 3000. Don’t assume programs are permanent; protect them, gather data, and communicate with the students who would be most harmed if something is cut.

The Board: You cannot call yourselves stewards of a majority-Hispanic college while amplifying rhetoric that puts that same population at risk. Stop using “politics” as a shield to avoid basic humanity. Some of you are up for reelection and we are watching.