On January 4, Sayed Arif Faisal was killed by Cambridge police. A student at the University of Massachusetts Boston, a Bangladeshi American, a 20-year-old only child, Faisal’s death sparked protests from the Cambridge community calling for police accountability. Faisal was very probably undergoing a mental health crisis, and instead of helping him, police fatally shot him.

As a Bangladeshi immigrant myself, I cannot describe the feelings of anger and grief that I felt when hearing this news. My parents, however, clearly articulated theirs: anger at his death, grief for his parents, and lack of trust in the ability of the police to conduct a thorough investigation. In that moment, the myth of immigrant excellence — of coming to America to achieve a better life — vanished, and all that was left behind was the realization that the police will not protect us.

There is an urge, I think, to provide the police with more resources, like body cameras, for the sake of better regulating the system. But bolstering law enforcement does not always keep us safe, for reasons with which we are already all too familiar, although perhaps not well-equipped to see.

For South Asians, the stain of British colonialism has never left; the violence perpetuated and the struggle for independence has left behind a legacy of struggle and division. We understand very well the imprint British colonialism has left in our motherlands, and we are aware of our racialized brown bodies in the airport post 9/11, but too often, we fall short at denouncing the American policing system — another tool of colonial and racist/white supremacist/Islamophobic violence, one that does not guarantee safety and protection like it advertises.

The United States spends more than 100 billion dollars a year on policing, yet some experts argue that there is no relationship between the number of police present in an area and crime rates. It is clear from the disproportionate impacts that police have on Black people that their presence is not always good for the communities they claim to serve.

Many South Asians extend our solidarity with Black Lives Matter by protesting against police brutality and donating to antiracist organizations. However, we often dismiss having discussions of anti-Blackness in our own communities and may believe our efforts are wasted on our parents, who belong to an older generation that can be less socially conscious.

To be sure, having these conversations is necessary to create sustained change. But ultimately, atrocities targeting people and bodies we identify as “our own” create powerful feelings of solidarity. This shared sense of vulnerability opens the door wide open for righteous outrage despite these obstacles, just as it did for my parents.

This may be uncomfortable for many — as it should be. Narratives of Asian American excellence are designed to placate us and ease our assimilation into the white supremacist fabric of this nation. We may be convinced by the outwardly progressive stance of Cambridge’s government, but they refuse to release the names of the officers involved in Faisal’s shooting, and have placed the man who shot him on paid administrative leave rather than taking stronger action. While we may have nominal freedom to conduct as we choose, what does that mean when the police, a tool of colonial violence, can end our lives on a whim?

We should know that we would not be able to live comfortably in this country without the civil rights movement that in many ways fought against police brutality, just as Black Lives Matter does today. Particularly, those of us who come from a privileged caste — meaning that, back home, we wield disproportionate wealth and power, socially, religiously, and politically — must acknowledge the violence that has and will continue to perpetuate towards Black, brown, and low income communities in this country. We can clearly articulate the problems of corruption and violence that exist in our motherlands, but why do we often fail to do so in the United States?

Sayed Faisal should be alive today. If proper mental health and emergency response professionals had been available to answer his call, he would not have been viewed as a threat and had his humanity stripped from him. The city of Cambridge should not be able to quietly hide their officers away on what essentially amounts to paid vacation while the community grieves, and we as South Asians have a responsibility to fight against this country’s police system — not just for Faisal and his family, but for every Black and brown American killed by police brutality.

Afiya Rahman ’24, a Crimson Editorial editor, is a Social Studies and South Asian Studies concentrator in Pforzheimer House.