In the fall of 2012, I stood at the entrance of a New England boarding school – a teenage boy from China, clutching two suitcases and quietly rehearsing my introduction, my heart alight with nervous excitement. Like so many, I envisioned building bridges across the Pacific through curiosity, kindness, and empathy.
It never occurred to me that, just over a decade later, those hopes would fray in the face of trade tensions and vicious political narratives.
On April 9, 2025, a warning from China’s Ministry of Education jolted me. The advisory urged students to assess risks before studying in the U.S. state of Ohio, citing a recently passed state bill that restricts China-U.S. educational cooperation. To many, the episode may seem like an insignificant tit-for-tat in the grand scheme of a heated trade war, but it struck a personal nerve. As a Chinese expat who has lived, learned, and built a life in the United States, I feel a pang of grief: the cost of great-power rivalry has landed on young people who once embodied the hope of mutual understanding.
The U.S. had, for decades, welcomed Chinese students with open arms. In high school, I found care and inclusion; at college, I was captivated by academic freedom. When the first China-U.S. trade war began in 2018, I overheard campus debates about tariffs and supply chains. I could sense the unease but clung to the belief that scholarship could transcend politics.
Then, in November 2018, the U.S. government launched a wide-ranging “China Initiative” to hunt down Chinese researchers allegedly spying for Beijing. Less than two years later, the COVID-19 pandemic helped bring tighter visa policies. A close friend had his student visa revoked, forcing him to drop out of his master’s program. The many other similar stories revealed a harsh truth: students are being swept into a geopolitical maelstrom, and the bridges of academic exchange are under strain.
Last year, 277,398 Chinese students attended schools in the United States – roughly a quarter of all international enrollment – contributing well over $10 billion to the U.S. economy through tuition and living expenses. Beyond the numbers, these students add vibrant perspectives to classrooms and research labs, and behind each student is a family that placed its trust in the promise of a U.S. education.
The Chinese Ministry of Education’s call to assess “safety risks” in the U.S. feels jarring – when I boarded my first 14-hour flight to New York in 2012, such concerns felt distant, almost unthinkable. Today, they feel uncomfortably real. And the cost is not on Chinese students alone – it’s a blow to the diversity and openness that make American campuses thrive.
The Ohio bill was only a snapshot of the rising tide of academic protectionism in U.S. politics. The White House’s broader war on higher education has added to the growing sense of unease among foreign students from around the world – including, but not limited to, China. Since late March, the Trump administration has, under the pretense of national security, detained or deported over 1,000 international students, many of whom are Chinese. I recall meeting a Ph.D. student in Baltimore whose promising work in clean energy came to an abrupt halt when her visa was withdrawn.
Last month, Republican lawmakers proposed a bill to bar all Chinese nationals from obtaining student visas. While the bill is unlikely to become law, its symbolism was unmistakable – a stark escalation in the securitization of academic exchange. The proposal reflects a broader shift in how national security is being framed, with students increasingly caught in the crosshairs. I think back to those late nights at college, when classmates – American and foreign – worked side by side to finish lab work. It’s disheartening to think those same partnerships might now be treated as risks.
Meanwhile, the House Select Committee on China has called on several universities to disclose the full list of Chinese students, their sources of tuition funding, and the research projects they are involved in – alleging that such students serve as a “Trojan horse for Beijing” to acquire U.S. technologies.
But the idea of building a border wall around scientific collaboration is ludicrous, to say the least. A recent study by the World Economic Forum showed that over 30 percent of the United States’ high-impact international research has involved Chinese scientists, while more than 45 percent of such research in China has involved U.S.-based scientists. To treat such symbiosis as a threat is to misunderstand how modern science works: knowledge advances not through isolation, but through exchange.
According to a Georgetown University study, Chinese students now represent over 30 percent of all foreign STEM students in the U.S. Their departure not only shatters careers – it chips away at the very talent pool that helps sustain U.S. scientific leadership.
Even more troubling is how geopolitical rancor has seeped into public discourse. Last week, Donald Trump Jr. posted online that expelling all Chinese students would be a “good idea” to counter China’s tariffs. I read his words with quiet disbelief; as the president’s son, Trump Jr.’s offhand comment carried outsized weight. Such rhetoric isn’t just misguided – it deepens social divides and resentment toward Chinese expats.
Most students never expected to be treated as pawns in a political contest. At my college graduation, a professor reminded us: “You are the future of globalization.” Today, those words ring like a distant dream.
As I look back today, I often reflect on how much the bilateral relationship has shifted since I first arrived as a high schooler. The evolution of China-U.S. ties has quietly altered the lives of many Chinese students, turning what was once a clear and promising path into a far more uncertain journey. Trade tensions may dominate headlines and policy debates, but their consequences are also felt by young people pursuing opportunity through education.
