By Aisha Marilyn Abdulbary-Knotts | Staff Writer
During just a short time at this university, I’ve found something I hadn’t felt in a long time: safety and a sense of belonging.
But it hasn’t always been this way. My transfer was more than just a change of scene and the academic environment; it was a way of survival. I left my former university because I ceased to feel safe there, not just in terms of physical safety but emotional safety, mental safety, and spiritual safety.
Being an immigrant Black, Arab, and Muslim woman, I carry with me many identities that may not always be welcomed or safeguarded in every space I enter. Speaking out has always been a risky venture; silence has never really felt like an option.
Last year, I, as well as five other students, at a vigil mourning the lives lost in Gaza. We shared our grief, frustration, anger, and humanity. But someone in that crowd didn’t see us as people—they saw us as targets. They filmed me and sent the video to one of the country’s most notorious doxxing sites.
Overnight, I became the subject of death threats, racial slurs, and hateful messages from strangers who knew my name, school, major, where I lived, and where I worked. They posted on my social media accounts, including LinkedIn.
I turned to my university for support, believing in the promise of care and protection. But I was met with indifference, microaggressions, and the most devastating response: blame. I was told this happened because I spoke up. As if using my voice made me deserving of violence.
That moment changed everything. I couldn’t stay somewhere that saw my pain as a consequence of courage. So I left. And I found Lynchburg.
Here, I’ve begun to heal. I found faculty, staff, and students who listen and who believe in creating a safe space for all. But my story isn’t just about my past—let it be a reminder for the present and a call for the future.
This university, like every institution, needs to continue improving. We shouldn’t have to wait for tragedy or transfer paper requests to prioritize student safety. All students should feel that they are being seen, protected, and valued.
To all those who may feel silenced by fear, law, or hate, you are not alone. I shall continue, for as long as it takes, to speak on your behalf, to stand with you, until the day you are heard without any danger. My voice is a privilege, and it shall continue to be so until everyone else feels free and safe to use theirs.
But to those who have the privilege to speak safely right now: silence is not neutrality. Silence is complicity. If you have the power to raise your voice without risking your safety, you must. Use it to defend those who can’t. Use it to demand better. Use it to tear down the fear that keeps so many quiet.
Privilege is not meant to be a shield we hide behind. It’s a tool we must wield for justice. If you can speak, speak louder. Speak bravely. Speak for something bigger than yourself.
