The truest measure of any civilization isn’t found in its monuments or military might, but in how it receives the stranger. I’ve been contemplating this ancient wisdom lately as I navigate courtrooms challenging Trump administration policies that affect those who come to our shores seeking knowledge or safe harbor. Beyond the legal briefs and judicial opinions lies a more fundamental question: Who are we becoming as a nation when we withdraw our welcome?

As international students across America face visa revocations and heightened scrutiny, Yale has a moral obligation to stand as a beacon of welcome in a nation retreating from its tradition of hospitality. Our university community must actively counter this withdrawal through deliberate acts of inclusion that transcend national politics.

Perhaps I return to this question so often because I carry within me the memory of what it means to be welcomed. Not as a tourist passing through, but as a young American living overseas — in the dormitories of English boarding schools, in the International School of Beijing, on the pristine lawns of Yoyogi Park in Tokyo, on the snow-covered slopes of Dizin outside Tehran, in villages where the Vietnam War still echoed in the silence between generations.

In England, when holidays arrived and other students journeyed home, British families would appear at my dormitory door with invitations. “You’ll come with us, of course,” they would say, as if my presence at their Christmas table or Boxing Day celebration was not an imposition but something necessary and right. I remember my first Guy Fawkes Night – standing beneath a sky illuminated by fireworks, a British father beside me explaining their tradition with such enthusiasm that it began to feel like my tradition too.

During Beijing’s Olympic summer of 2008, when tensions between nations dominated headlines, my native classmates at the International School approached me with questions that had nothing to do with policy. “What do Americans think about our Olympics?” they asked, their excitement palpable. They wore NBA jerseys and chatted about Kobe Bryant. 

The slopes of Dizin ski resort outside Tehran offered perhaps the most profound lesson in welcoming others. Skiing with distant cousins and their friends, all hailing from Mashhad – one of the country’s most conservative cities – I expected political discussions. Instead, they wanted to know about American music and nightclubs! When I mentioned Biggie Smalls, expecting cultural disconnect, they began humming lyrics I’d assumed would be foreign to them. I remember sitting in a café in Tehran, watching young people sharing earbuds and laughing at the same jokes that would have resonated with friends in New Haven.

During Eid celebrations in Algeria, young cousins approached with notebooks. “Will you sign this?” they asked, as if my American passport conferred celebrity status. “Tell your leader hello,” they requested, their eyes bright with an uncomplicated view of my country that humbled me with its generosity. They saw America not through the lens of complex international relations but as a place of possibility, their perception unclouded by the cynicism that so often defines adult understanding.

These memories aren’t exceptional. They represent ordinary human decency — the simple recognition that individuals need not inherit the tensions of their governments. The welcome I received wasn’t political; it was human.

Today, thousands of international students across America face a starkly different reality. Hundreds have had their visas revoked without a clear explanation. Those who remain study under the shadow of uncertainty, never knowing if they will be next. The message resonates clearly: your presence is conditional, subject to sudden revocation, your contributions valued less than our suspicions.

What are we losing in this retreat from welcome? Beyond the interrupted dreams of individual students, our universities lose the perspectives that challenge comfortable assumptions. Research collaborations dissolve, intellectual horizons contract. But the most profound loss may be to our national character — the erosion of our identity as a place that welcomes those who seek knowledge, regardless of where they were born.

The Yale community has always understood that education transcends national boundaries — that wisdom itself cannot be contained by borders or limited by passports. In times when national policies create barriers, our individual capacity for welcome remains undiminished.

To my fellow members of the Yale community, I offer these reflections not as criticism but as an invitation to reciprocity:

When international voices grow quiet in seminars, gently create space for their perspectives. Many cannot publish their views or speak publicly without fear of visa repercussions. Their insights deserve amplification, especially when they cannot safely amplify themselves.

As holidays approach, consider opening your home to those who cannot travel back to theirs. This isn’t charity but simple reciprocity — the acknowledgment that countless American students abroad have received the same grace.

Remember that welcome isn’t merely polite — it’s transformative. It changes both the welcomed and the welcomer, creating space for understanding that cannot exist when borders remain rigid.

In how we treat international students today, we aren’t just implementing policies – we’re writing the story of who we are. The measure of our institution — and our nation — isn’t found in the provisions we cannot always control, but in the community we create through countless individual acts of welcome.

The hospitality extended to Americans abroad deserves nothing less than equal measure in return. In times when official welcome falters, our personal welcome must never waver.

MAUNI JALALI is a 2022 graduate of Yale Law School. He can be reached at maunijalali@quinnemanuel.com.