A few hours ago, as I waited at Newark Airport to board a flight to Delhi, I witnessed something that deeply scarred me. It wasn’t just a scene, it was a moment that shook me as both an Indian at heart and a U.S. citizen by passport.
Right in front of me, two officers were escorting a young Indian man onto the same flight. He looked like a student: lost, broken, visibly resisting. Over and over he pleaded in Hindi, “Main pagal nahi hoon… yeh log mujhe pagal sabit karna chahte hain”. (“I’m not mad… they’re trying to prove I’m mentally unstable.”) His eyes were wide with fear and confusion; his desperate attempt to make someone, anyone understand was haunting.
I stood frozen in the boarding line, unable to look away. He was restrained, wrists bound, and at one point both officers physically pinned him down. I took photos and video not out of voyeurism, but to document something that shouldn’t have happened this way.
Then, something even more heartbreaking occurred: the pilot stepped out, saw the situation, and refused to allow the young man to board. And just like that, the drama ended for everyone else. But not for me. I boarded with a heavy heart, full of questions, shame, and helplessness.
As someone who’s lived in the United States for over 22 years, building businesses, creating jobs, and calling this country home, this moment was deeply unsettling. I felt like a spectator to my own internal conflict. My heart bleeds for India, yet my mind operates within the U.S. system. What do I do in such moments? What should any of us do when our identities split, compassion versus compliance?
This wasn’t just one person being deported. It was a collective failure.
I thought of all the young Indian students who come to America with big dreams, often paying triple what domestic students pay in tuition. They arrive with hope, ambition, and their families’ trust, yet, if they can’t secure a job after graduation, their visa expires. Many become undocumented, trapped in a legal limbo where they’re no longer welcome, yet have nowhere else to go. Is this the justice they deserve?
That young man, you could tell from his accent he was from Haryana. Maybe his parents sold land or borrowed money to send him here. Maybe they still believe he’s pursuing his dreams. Instead, he was dragged out like a criminal, publicly humiliated, treated as a security threat.
And I ask, where is our support system? What is the Indian embassy doing to protect our citizens from such indignity? Why does the U.S. system welcome people with open arms only to close the door when it matters most? I don’t have all the answers. But I know what I felt.
As someone who has proudly contributed to both nations, by promoting Indian talent and creating American jobs, I left that airport deeply humiliated and heartbroken. One young man’s pain became a symbol of a much larger tragedy.
I hope we can all pause and reflect on what this means, for immigration, for justice, and for our shared humanity.
Kunal Jain is the President of Health Bots AI and philanthropist who runs Son of India foundation in Florida, US.
