As a young Indian woman, I struggle to understand how South Asian women in the Trump administration can support policies that seemingly harm us. President Trump threatens Diversity, Equity and Inclusion (DEI) programs and has enacted mass deportations of undocumented immigrants, issues that will affect South Asian Americans. I am confused about these womens’ beliefs, leading me to grapple with the meaning of representation. Seeing people like me in power nationally is usually gratifying–but if I disagree with their views, should I be proud?
According to the Pew Research Center, Indians were America’s third-largest undocumented population in 2022. Last year, Indian migration through the northern border surged. Many are traveling through harrowing “donkey” routes, hopping between countries, often exploited by smugglers along the way.
On February 5, one of Trump’s first military deportations flew 100 Indians to Punjab. The migrants were “in shackles for their 40-hour flight home, including during bathroom breaks,” CNN stated, causing outrage in India. Second Lady Usha Vance standing behind an administration that treats Indians with such indignity feels like an unignorable betrayal of the South Asian community.
“The idea of sharing an identity with someone is that you’re sharing some values,” Sona Kempner ’26, a South Asian student and FM (Lick-Wilmerding women of color space) leader, said. “It’s not just like, oh, we’re both Indian. With political representation, it’s the idea that someone is representing your values as a community.”
However, if representation should align with the South Asian community’s beliefs, it is difficult to identify collective values to hold politicians to modeling. The South Asian subcontinent contains hundreds of languages, cultures, and political tensions within itself.
Inequality permeates the region through the legacy of the caste system, “an exclusionary social category that ranks people at birth,” subjecting lower-caste people to “abuse, attacks and systematic social exclusion,” according to Equality Labs. Due to cyclical poverty among low-caste communities, the diaspora is dominated by high-caste families, adding to ideological differences among South Asian Americans.
“Within the Indian community there are people who have very different views–it’s not homogeneous in any way,” Kempner said. “I don’t view [Vance] as representation for my own identity. But maybe for conservative Indians she is.”
Watching Usha Vance at the Republican National Convention (RNC), staring into “MASS DEPORTATION NOW!” posters, I had difficulty understanding how someone brought up by immigrants could stand for such rhetoric, when I was raised to value immigrants like my grandparents.
Similarly, I grappled with conflicting pride and confusion when Trump nominated Harmeet Dhillon on December 9 for Assistant Attorney General for Civil Rights at the Department of Justice. Dhillon is a Bay Area lawyer and the first Indian member of the Republican National Committee.
Both Dhillon and I were raised in politically and community-engaged Sikh families. Our shared faith taught Dhillon to value civic service and defense of the defenseless, encouraging her towards pro bono work representing victims of domestic violence, refugees and religious liberties and prisoner rights cases. However, our upbringings took us in different political directions.
Dhillon is a conservative cultural and legal champion. “I think the Republican Party’s values are very consistent with immigrant values,” Dhillon said. “Wanting to have a better life for their families and grow their businesses.” In contrast, my grandparents’ success in America has guided me to identify as a liberal.
Conservative Indian politicians like Vivek Ramaswamy and Nikki Haley have used their parents’ legal immigration to illustrate the disdain they feel for people entering the U.S. illegally. However, the disparaging of these migrants–many of whom left poverty and danger–to me feels deeply wrong.
In this immigrant hierarchy, I see an internalization of the model minority myth: the idea that certain groups are “less burdensome” or “more assimilable.” However, the “model immigrant” is also a victim of this system, subject to a racial hierarchy dictated by white supremacy.
Though many South Asians whose families came to the U.S. legally feel exempt from anti-immigrant rhetoric, it seems foolish to expect that success can hide that many see people like Vivek Ramaswamy, Usha Vance and me as outsiders, indicated by the xenophobic phrases plastered on signs at the RNC. This raises questions for me about how much these politicians believe what they are saying.
Looking at the policies Vance supports–or chooses not to object to–I wonder about the reality of her beliefs. In speaking with other South Asian women, I have seen that women in our culture are often forced into roles of service or silence. To me, Vance’s behind-the-scenes support of her husband feels like a troubling reflection of that patriarchal tradition. Many close to the couple claim that Vance’s politics differ from her husband’s, though she rarely discusses them.
In 2014, Usha Vance registered as a Democrat. The American Lawyer described the law firm she worked at for six years, until Trump named Vance his running mate, as “radically progressive” and “a top contender in the cool, woke category.”
Despite these shifts, not all South Asians are concerned with Usha Vance’s politics. For many who pursued opportunities to establish themselves in the U.S., her groundbreaking status is affirmation.
More deeply, I wrestle with whether South Asians in the Trump administration like Vance are obligated to represent the community. Vance does embrace her heritage: she practices Hinduism, and honored her culture in a gown by Indian designer Gaurav Gupta at the inauguration dinner. Should she be obligated to support certain policies based on her Indian identity?
Both Dhillon and Vance’s national success could make them role models for me. “There were no Asian American female lawyers at any of the law firms that I worked at,” Dhillon said. “There was no one who looked like me in those places, and I didn’t let that stop me from doing my best to excel.”
I was both moved and conflicted when she recited ardas, Sikh prayer, at the 2024 RNC. It was representation lacking when Dhillon was a young lawyer. Now, that representation is also absent at LWHS, where I am one of two Sikhs. I identify with Dhillon’s values–political engagement, civic service and generosity–but struggle to reconcile that convergence with her support of the Trump administration.
I wonder if my and Dhillon’s political disconnect is, counterintuitively, positive. “I was taught by my parents that in America, anybody can be anything. That is the beauty of this country,” Dhillon said. “The sky’s the limit.”
Perhaps, the diverging views of South Asian Americans illustrates that opportunity. Is it more liberating to have representation that is diverse, contradictory and free of ethnic obligation?
Maybe, varied politics depict a nuanced image of South Asians. Maybe, seeing Usha Vance refuse to be defined by her parent’s immigration is an empowering rejection of the perpetual foreigner trope.
And maybe, this tells us something bigger about America: that in a period of extreme partisanship, you can still see yourself reflected on the other side of the aisle, like I do in Harmeet Dhillon, and maybe even Usha Vance.
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