华亚裔少数族裔——风声鹤唳

这几天，社区裡的空气像被无形的手搅动过：表面仍旧平静，街角的餐馆照常开门，孩子照常上学，父母照常上班；但每个人心裡都多了一层「不敢大声说出来的紧张」。一阵警车声，能让人下意识停下筷子；一个陌生敲门声，会让人先把手机握紧；一则社群讯息转来转去，像寒风穿过走廊——真假尚未分明，恐惧已先抵达。

对华亚裔与各族裔少数族群而言，「风声鹤唳」从来不只是成语。它是移民一代的生存本能：在不确定中学会降低声量，在风向变动时先护住家人。很多人以為我们沉默，是因為不关心；其实更多时候，是因為太关心——关心孩子放学是否安全、关心长者在超市是否会被羞辱、关心自己一个口音、一张面孔，会不会被误解成「不属於这裡」。

这种焦虑最残酷的地方，在於它会扩散到日常最柔软的角落。有人开始避免夜间外出；有人提醒父母别单独去办事；有人在车上多放一份证件、多记一个律师电话；有人把孩子的书包拉鍊拉得更紧，好像那样就能把世界的锋利隔在外面。於是，社区表面更勤勉、更守法、更低调，但心裡却更疲惫——像长期绷紧的弦，哪怕没有声响，也一直在震动。

然而，恐惧不该是我们的终点。少数族裔的歷史告诉我们：每一次被迫低头的时代，终究也会有一群人抬头，重新把尊严放回公共空间。当风声越急，我们越需要三件事：互相通报、互相扶持、互相看见。

• 互相通报，是让讯息取代谣言，让準确取代惊慌。

• 互相扶持，是让每个家庭知道：遇到事，你不是孤岛。

• 互相看见，是让社区不再只用「沉默的好人」被记住，而是以公民、以纳税人、以建设者、以同胞被尊重。

今天的「风声鹤唳」，也许是一面镜子——照出我们仍然脆弱的安全感；但它同时提醒我们：真正能护住社区的，不只是个人的小心翼翼，而是社区的组织力、彼此的信任，以及在关键时刻敢於说话的勇气。

愿这一夜，警笛不再刺耳；愿这一代的孩子，不必把恐惧当成成长的必修课。愿我们在不安之中，仍能把彼此的手握得更紧，把家园的灯点得更亮。

Asian Americans & Minority Communities — Living in Fear

These days, the air in our community feels unsettled—stirred by an invisible hand. On the surface, life continues: restaurants open as usual, children go to school, parents go to work. Yet underneath that routine is a tension people don’t always say out loud. A distant siren can interrupt a meal. A knock at the door can tighten the chest. A message forwarded again and again—true or not—arrives like cold wind in a hallway. Fear often reaches us before facts do.

For Asian Americans and other minority communities, “living on edge” is not a slogan. It becomes a survival instinct: speak a little softer, keep your head down, protect your family first. Some mistake our silence for indifference. More often, it is the opposite—we care so deeply that we worry constantly. We worry about a child’s walk home, an elder’s trip to the grocery store, a stranger’s insult, a misunderstanding. We worry that an accent, a face, or a name can be judged as “not belonging,” even when we have spent years building a life here.

The cruelest part of fear is how it spreads into the most ordinary moments. People avoid going out at night. Children are told to stay close. Families keep extra documents nearby, save phone numbers “just in case,” and rehearse what to do if something happens. The community may appear quieter, more cautious, more obedient—but inside, many are exhausted, like a string pulled too tight for too long, vibrating even when the room is silent.

But fear cannot be our destination.

The history of minority communities teaches us this: every era that pushes people to bow their heads eventually produces those who lift them again—and bring dignity back into the public square. When the winds grow sharper, we need three things more than ever: clear information, mutual support, and public visibility.

• Clear information replaces rumors with truth and panic with clarity.

• Mutual support ensures no family feels like an island when trouble comes.

• Public visibility reminds society that we are not “quiet outsiders,” but citizens, taxpayers, workers, business owners, and builders of this country.

This moment of anxiety is also a mirror. It reflects how fragile our sense of safety can still be. Yet it also points to what truly protects a community: not only individual caution, but our organization, our trust in one another, and the courage to speak when it matters.

May tonight be calmer. May sirens grow distant. May our children not inherit fear as a required lesson of growing up. And may we, even in uncertainty, hold each other’s hands tighter—and keep the lights of our community burning brighter.