We must reject fear-based narratives — old and new

Last weekend, I parked a few blocks from a restaurant and took a shortcut through a nearby alley. A woman, just ahead of me, had exited her vehicle and started walking in the same direction.

When she heard my car door close and noticed I was behind her, she instinctively clutched her purse tighter and turned back toward her car, as if she’d forgotten something.

I’ve grown used to these moments — small reminders that, for some, my presence alone triggers fear.

This time, though, the weight of it lingered. I had just finished reading The Invisible Ache by Courtney B. Vance, whose words came rushing back:

“My ache is your ache. If I’m aching … and you’re clutching your purse as I walk by … you’re as much in a prison as I am.”

That ache — of being perceived as a threat simply for existing — is no longer borne only by Black men.

Today, it’s projected onto entire communities, particularly nonwhite immigrants. It plays out on national stages: in news cycles, in immigration policy debates, and in the cruelty of U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement raids.

This harmful rhetoric isn’t new.

Immigrants are first painted as threats: “illegals,” “job-stealers,” “burdens” — until our economy needs them. Then, they are rebranded as “essential,” a label that conveniently erases the pain and fear they’ve endured.

This harmful rhetoric isn’t new. But its repetition and normalization have real consequences. Families are torn apart. Parents are afraid to bring their children to school. Workers fear retaliation if they speak up about exploitation.

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These aren’t isolated issues, either — they’re fractures in the foundation of our shared civic life.

But across Pennsylvania, local nonprofits are helping rewrite the story. Whether it’s defending the basic right to be paid fairly for a hard day’s labor, regardless of immigration status, or providing emergency assistance to families navigating housing, food, or utility insecurity (families often left out of federal aid but never out of our communities), their work reminds us: The suffering of immigrants doesn’t exist in isolation.

When any member of our community feels unsafe or unseen, we all lose something.

As nonprofit leaders, policymakers, and neighbors, we must rise to this moment:

Reject the fear-based narratives. Elevate immigrant voices. Share stories of contribution and resilience that reflect the full humanity behind the headlines.

Support frontline organizations that see this work as core to their mission — not charity, but justice.

Demand policies grounded in dignity, not expediency.

Because when we do, we not only protect immigrants — we protect our democracy, our economy, and our shared future.

Until we all walk freely — without suspicion, judgment, or fear — we remain bound in the same ache.

But we also share the same hope: that by standing together, we can move from pain to possibility.

Anton N. Andrew is a nonprofit executive and proud son of hardworking Caribbean immigrants.