The story you’re about to read was shared by Huy, part of our CPG – Campaign Preparatory Group, to whom we’re extremely grateful.
Borders are ironically powerful enough nowadays to define who deserves protection, and who is left to survive on their own.
Living in the Netherlands, a small coastal country, I’m never far from the sea. Though not a beach person myself, I find the ocean strangely comforting. Perhaps it’s because it brings me closer, in spirit, to the place I once called home—Vietnam. It reminds me that I’m not as far away as I sometimes believe. In fact, I’m just one sea away, on the other side of the same great landmass: Eurasia.
Four years ago, I moved to the Netherlands to pursue my dream of building a career in International Relations. I still vividly remember my 23-year-old self, full of excitement as I said goodbye to my family and boarded the plane, embarking on my very first solo trip outside Southeast Asia.
Four years ago, I left Vietnam for the Netherlands, chasing a dream. My passport—my fate—was always on my mind
Growing up in Vietnam, I was—and still am—well aware of the limitations of the passport I carry. This understanding comes from the countless daily conversations—stories of people pouring immense effort into visa applications, only to face uncertainty. Even with a valid visa in hand, entry isn’t guaranteed; being turned away at the border remains a common, often quietly accepted, reality. So when the plane touched down, my excitement quickly gave way to anxiety. I knew immediately I had to pull myself together, ready to answer any questions that might come my way at border control. That day, I was lucky. They only asked a few questions about my name and where I would stay for the next two years. And just like that, I had legally and safely arrived. Only then did I feel a rush of relief and pride. Little did I know back then that the piece of paper granting me entry would also begin to define—and, in some ways, confine—my identity. Simply put, my life was now reduced to a document that is the size of a credit card.
A single line on my permit closed doors, no matter my skills or dreams.
Without a scholarship, I actively looked for part-time work to ease the financial burden on my parents. That’s when I encountered another hurdle. Although international students are legally allowed to work a maximum 16 hours in the Netherlands for their part-time job, this isn’t widely known. On my credit card–sized residence permit at the time, there was a line in Dutch that read: “TWV vereist voor arbeid van bijkomende aard, andere arbeid in loondienst niet toegestaan” (Translation: Work Permit (TWV) required for secondary employment; other paid employment not permitted). Automatically, when potential employers saw this, it usually didn’t take them long to reject my application—regardless of what they had said before that I would be a good fit for their team. Even when I explained that applying for a TWV is free of charge, their response was usually a polite shake of the head. I understand why the Dutch government enforces this rule: to discourage individuals from entering the country on student visas and working instead of attending school. I also understand why employers hesitate. Without me, there are still plenty of fish in the ocean who don’t require the extra administrative step of securing a work permit. However, it was unfair for me who simply wanted to sustain my living in the Netherlands and help his parents.
We all want to build meaningful lives. But our futures are shaped by papers and origins we never chose.
Now that I’ve graduated and hold a Dutch partner visa, which allows me to legally stay in the Netherlands for five more years—and importantly, to work without requiring visa sponsorship. Still, my journey here as a Vietnamese migrant has not been one of inherent privilege. I continue to navigate unfamiliar systems, bridge cultural and linguistic divides, and work harder than many to build a meaningful life and career. Despite my qualifications, I still face rejection when applying for roles aligned with my expertise—often due to underlying biases. Two years after completing my degree, I find myself working part-time at a coffee shop—far from what I studied or envisioned for my future. My passion lies elsewhere, outside the space of such café. On my days off, I volunteer and take on freelance work to grow my credentials and show future employers that I am equally capable and worthy. There are times when I feel burnt out and just want to drop everything.
But when I think of some of my former classmates, who came to the Netherlands with the same hopes as mine, these worries suddenly became invisible. They weren’t as fortunate. When their search year visas expired, they had to return to their home countries, move elsewhere, or enrol in additional studies just to extend their stay. Those of us who managed to remain—whatever the reason—still face immense hurdles. And it makes me wonder: if this is the reality for us, who are here legally, what unimaginable challenges must refugees and undocumented migrants face? Their journeys are likely even more complex—at times, insufferable.
Borders reflect systems of exclusion—by race, gender, class, and status. We must see the person, not the passport.
Many of us share the same aspirations: to build meaningful lives, walk the same streets, breathe the same air, or often benefit from the same education. Yet, our life unfolds in a different way, one from another, just because of the documents we hold or the origins we never chose.
When we speak of forced displacement, we must confront how bodies are treated differently based on race, gender, sexuality, class, and legal status. A passport can mean safety or statelessness. A name can invite care or suspicion.
Whether a person is fleeing war, climate collapse, or persecution — the borders they face reflect the same systems of exclusion.
Same dreams. Same needs. Same rights.
Yet our bodies are weighted differently by policies that decide who “deserves” protection.
How would things look if you had to cross that border?
