At Boston College, silence has become the safest language to speak. 

A few weeks ago, I recorded a video of a man shouting a racial slur at Black students outside St. Mary’s. I hesitated before sharing it. I did not hesitate because I doubted what I saw, but because I was afraid of what might happen to me if I reported it. I worried that if the man turned out to be faculty or staff, I’d get in trouble for recording without permission or for some other irrelevant reason. That fear says everything about this university’s culture: at BC, accountability feels riskier than racism. 

I eventually decided to circulate the video among students, hoping that if enough people saw it, it couldn’t be ignored. But, despite these efforts, it almost was. The administration issued a vague response, and most students went on with their week as if nothing had happened. The message was clear to me: At BC, as long as it doesn’t touch you personally, it’s not worth caring about. 

That pattern keeps repeating itself. Nearly a month has passed since Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) was seen operating near campus. UGBC is still debating whether to release a statement condemning ICE’s actions and presence. Meanwhile, those affected most directly,  such as immigrant students, first-generation students, and students of color are left to wonder if anyone will ever speak up for them. 

How much silence does it take before we admit that neutrality is not neutral? 

BC prides itself on forming “men and women for others.” Yet, when faced with moments that demand moral courage, the institution and its students often choose comfort instead. 

Administrators hide behind “ongoing investigations” and “official procedures.” 

Students hide behind the excuse of being “apolitical.” But there is no such thing. To say nothing in the face of injustice is to protect the status quo. Silence is a statement and it says that this isn’t my problem. 

Maybe it’s easy not to care when injustice feels far away. But I can’t separate what happens here from what happens back home. 

I’m from Cicero, Ill., a community that has frequently been the target of ICE operations. I’ve seen videos of officers dragging people away as their families cry out, powerless. I’ve seen neighbors disappear overnight. When the background of those videos is the grocery store I go to, when the people being taken look like my friends and relatives, I don’t have the luxury of not caring. 

The lack of outrage at BC stings so deeply. I’m surrounded by students who can debate ethics in class but go silent when those ethics require action, students who will repost infographics during an election year but say nothing when ICE shows up a few blocks from campus, and students who will analyze “privilege” in philosophy seminars but refuse to recognize how their own safety depends on others’ vulnerability. 

There’s been a dead mouse on the steps outside my dorm for weeks now. No one’s moved it. People, including myself, walk over it on their way to class every day. It is still there, shriveled into something unrecognizable, a reminder of how easily we can step around what’s uncomfortable. 

To me, that’s what BC’s bystander effect looks like—not loud cruelty, but quiet neglect. I understand the instinct to stay silent. I’ve done it myself. But silence doesn’t make anything better. It just lets it rot. 

I went to the protest after the ICE sightings. I showed up because I’m tired of pretending that caring is radical. It shouldn’t take a protest to make people pay attention. It shouldn’t take fear, or proximity, or personal loss to make us act. 

BC teaches us to strive for greatness but not to risk anything for justice. It teaches us to be kind, but not to be brave. We are encouraged to volunteer, donate, and write reflective essays but not to challenge the systems that create the very suffering we claim to care about. 

When you tell yourself you’re “staying out of politics,” what you’re really saying is that your comfort is worth more than someone else’s pain. You’re saying that your silence is worth protecting, even if it means others are left unheard. 

So, I have to ask: What will it take for you to care about someone other than yourself? Does it have to be your friend, classmate, or family member being targeted before you decide that silence is no longer an option? 

This isn’t just about one incident or one policy. It’s about a university and a student body that has grown far too comfortable watching from the sidelines. It’s about the fear that if you speak up, you’ll be punished, while those who harm others will be protected. It’s about the illusion that BC can remain a “community” while ignoring the suffering that happens in plain sight. 

I don’t want to be afraid to speak anymore. I don’t want any student to have to choose between being safe and being heard. We can’t build the kind of community BC loves to advertise without the willingness to confront what’s broken within it. 

BC can no longer afford to stay silent, and neither can we. 

Because silence might protect your reputation, but it will never protect your humanity.