Last weekend, I made a decision that felt both surreal and necessary: I canceled my trip to the Conference on World Affairs in Boulder, Colorado. My cancellation comes just weeks after I wrote about canceling the Arizona portion of my American journey — a piece that resonated with some 20,000 readers, far more than I anticipated. What I didn’t mention then was that Boulder — a conference and not part of my hiking trip — remained on my itinerary. Now, that too is gone.
“It is with profound regret that I must withdraw my participation from the upcoming Conference on World Affairs,” I wrote to the organizers. “For the past six or seven years, CWA has been my favorite intellectual gathering, and I’ve often described it as such to colleagues.”
The letter was a particularly hard one to write. The CWA has been an annual highlight of my calendar — a week of intense intellectual exchange, unexpected connections, and the particular beauty of Colorado in spring. The unique concept, the quality and originality of the exchanges, the wonderful Boulder community, and the friendships I’ve cultivated have made this an annual source of inspiration. Each year, I’ve returned home energized by the conversations and community. This year, I’ll be watching from afar.
This cancellation is even more painful because it’s not just the conference I’ll miss but the journeys that typically follow. Most years, after the intellectual stimulation of CWA, I would rent a car and set off to explore the American West. Those long drives on open highways became a form of meditation for me — coming from the densely populated Netherlands, I found space and solitude unknown in Europe. I sought out the spectacular landscapes of National Parks and State Parks, but my most treasured memories are of the people I encountered along the way.
Southeast Utah, arriving at Monument Valley (my photo, April 2023)
On paper, my social-democratic Northern European political instincts should have clashed terribly with many I met in rural America. Yet, I can’t recall a single moment of tension. Instead, I remember a retired couple who stopped to help when my rental car wouldn’t start anymore outside Moab. I think of the older woman in a small Utah museum who, overhearing my accent, shared some homemade apple pie and chatted happily about the importance of gun ownership in America while I listened with genuine curiosity rather than judgment.
Or the unforgettable afternoon in that same state when a local man called out when I returned to my car. “You ain’t from around here,” he said, not as an accusation but as an invitation, asking me to join him for a beer. For the next two hours, he shared his life story — many decades in a community of fewer than 2000 people, a history I could scarcely imagine with my European sensibility of constant mobility. These encounters revealed an America that transcends political divides, an America I’ve grown to love deeply despite our differences.
The Risk at the Border
My decision wasn’t made lightly. “As someone with a significant social media presence and outspoken positions on issues including human rights, international law, climate change, and the risks of fascism,” I explained in my letter, “I’ve received advice from contacts both in Europe and the United States not to visit the US now due to a number of potential risks.”
In recent weeks, I’ve followed a growing number of troubling accounts — foreign visitors detained at U.S. borders, held for days or weeks, and then denied entry.
There have been troubling incidents involving foreign nationals being detained or denied entry into the United States, raising questions about freedom of expression and immigration practices. One notable case is that of a French academic who was denied entry after U.S. border officials searched his phone and found exchanges with colleagues criticizing President Trump’s research policies. The French government claimed that this action was politically motivated, framing it as an attack on academic freedom. However, U.S. authorities later stated that the denial of entry was due to the academic allegedly possessing confidential information from an American laboratory, which violated a nondisclosure agreement — a claim disputed by French officials.
Similarly, German nationals have faced detentions under unclear circumstances. Fabian Schmidt, a legal U.S. resident with a green card, was detained upon re-entering the country despite holding valid documentation. His family remains in the dark about the reasons for his detention. Another German citizen, Lucas Sielaff, was held for two weeks and deported after a misunderstanding during border questioning, despite having a valid tourist visa.
In another instance, Jessica Brösche, a German tattoo artist, was detained for over six weeks in a California detention center despite reportedly having proper travel documents. Her experience highlights concerns about harsh conditions in U.S. immigration facilities.
Just yesterday, Senator Cory Booker, during his historic 25-hour Senate speech protesting President Trump’s policies, referenced the case of Jasmine Mooney, a Canadian business consultant detained for 12 days by U.S. immigration officials under reportedly inhumane conditions. Mooney’s detention began at the San Ysidro border crossing in California and included transfers to multiple facilities, where she faced harsh treatment, such as overcrowded cells and constant fluorescent lighting. Her visa was revoked due to her employer’s use of hemp in products, leading to her detention while attempting to return to Canada. Booker highlighted this case as emblematic of broader concerns about the current administration’s immigration policies, which he described as undermining fundamental principles of democracy and human decency.
These aren’t isolated incidents. Several Western governments have issued travel advisories for the United States. I wrote to the organizers of the conference: “Should I encounter difficulties at the border or during my stay, it would not only affect me personally but would cause distress to many others.”
The thought of being detained for days, having my devices searched, and potentially being barred from a country I’ve visited dozens of times — this uncertainty has become increasingly unsettling for me. Furthermore, as a non-citizen, I do not enjoy the same protections as Americans. My entry into the United States is a privilege granted at the discretion of the government, not a right.
The political climate in the United States, coupled with stricter immigration policies and controversial rhetoric, has led to a significant decline in travel from Europe and Canada. According to recent data, passenger bookings on Canada-to-U.S. routes are down by over 70% compared to last year. This downturn is not only reshaping tourism patterns — with Europeans opting for destinations like Mexico and Canadians choosing domestic vacations — but also threatening the U.S. economy. A 10% reduction in Canadian tourism alone could result in a $2.1 billion loss in spending and jeopardize over 140,000 hospitality jobs.
Spring Memories in Boulder
As I write this, I can picture the Boulder campus in April: the Flatirons mountains catching the morning light, students sprawled on the grass between sessions, and other speakers, students, and the Boulder community chatting during coffee breaks. I will miss the intensity of panel discussions, where perspectives are exchanged on any topic, from politics to art and from economics to science.
I remember my first visit in 2018, arriving jet-lagged and immediately being whisked into a discussion about climate diplomacy with a scientist, a jazz player, and a city planner. By the time we finished, I had forgotten my exhaustion, caught up in that uniquely American ability to bring diverse minds together in productive conversation.
I think about my friends in Boulder and the pain they experience by seeing so much they love about America being broken down before their eyes. They all share a passion for science and the free exchange of thoughts, which I would in normal times summarize as ‘truth’ and ‘freedom’ — words that have a different resonance in the dawn of a new America where alternative facts have gained prominence.
These are the memories and experiences I’m mourning as I cancel my flight: the spontaneous dinners with fellow panelists, the meetings with students that sometimes change their career trajectories, the quiet moments in the study room on the top floor, preparing for the next day’s sessions and writing a short newsletter to update my subscribers to The Planet.
What Has Changed?
Some might reasonably ask: Why now? What has fundamentally changed at the border?
The answer lies not in official policy announcements but in implementation. Border officials have always had broad discretion, but what’s different now is how they exercise that discretion — and against whom. The chilling effect is real. Additionally, international students and scholars have experienced visa revocations and detentions for participating in protests or engaging in politically sensitive activities.
Colleagues across various fields have shared similar concerns about traveling to the United States, citing risks to personal safety, professional autonomy, and academic freedom. For instance, a British climate scientist moved his sabbatical from MIT to Zurich due to fears of political interference in his research. A Japanese author canceled her book tour after learning about visa complications faced by other international artists. Similarly, a Canadian filmmaker declined an invitation to a U.S. festival, citing the increasing unpredictability of border enforcement policies despite proper documentation. These decisions reflect the growing reluctance among professionals to engage with American institutions under current conditions, underscoring the impact of restrictive policies on global collaboration.
I have declined invitations to speak in countries with authoritarian regimes. While I deeply value my friendships and professional relationships with individuals in these nations, I cannot overlook the broader implications of legitimizing their governments through my presence. Similarly, while I recognize that the views of the current U.S. administration do not represent those of my friends at CWA or many people in the Boulder community, this distinction applies equally to countless citizens in other nations whose governments I have chosen not to endorse by participating in their events.
What also troubles me is the arbitrariness. There’s no clear standard for what expression might trigger detention or denial. Is it a tweet from five years ago? A private message to a colleague? An article like “My Farewell to America” or “How Berlin’s Memorials Warn America Today” that I recently published? This uncertainty itself becomes a form of control — a reason to self-censor and avoid the risk entirely. That is precisely why I have chosen not to put myself in a situation where I must compromise my freedom of expression just to gain entry into the country.
The Broader Pattern
My situation is privileged. I’m canceling a conference, not fleeing persecution. I have a choice that millions around the world do not. Yet even in this relatively comfortable position, I feel the constriction of space for free expression and movement — a small taste of what others experience more severely.
What concerns me is the direction of travel. Democratic backsliding rarely happens all at once. It progresses through small accommodations, individual decisions, gradual normalization of the previously unacceptable. Each of us draws our own lines, makes our own risk calculations.
I wonder about the conferences, collaborations, and conversations that won’t happen because of these border policies. The ideas that won’t cross-pollinate. The understanding that won’t develop. These losses are invisible but consequential. I look at some of America’s famous universities and law firms and see the backsliding in a historical perspective, just as I recognize bravery; themes of the past that I’ve written about, rhyming with current developments.
Looking Forward
Will I return to Boulder? To America? I hope so, but I realize I may have to be patient. Yesterday, I posted a short video depicting the beauty of the Arizonan desert, which I had hoped to return to later this month; realizing that the America I love is out of reach is painful. Similarly, the Conference on World Affairs has been too meaningful for all these years to abandon permanently. The colleagues and friends I’ve made there remain important to me. Friendships strengthen in challenging times; I believe deeply in the value of maintaining connections across dividing lines — especially when those lines are hardening.
“Please understand that this decision causes me significant personal disappointment,” I wrote. “I was very much looking forward to reconnecting with the wonderful CWA community, my friends in Boulder, and meeting this year’s host family and the other speakers. I hope that circumstances will change and allow my return in the future.”
Until then, I remain grateful for the years I’ve had, the perspectives I’ve encountered, and the community that continues despite the barriers between us. Some connections transcend borders, even as those borders become more challenging to cross.
I write about the intersection of environmental change, history, international relations, and personal experience. You can read earlier recent essays, such as "My Farewell to America" and "How Berlin's Memorials Warn America Today," in the archives of this newsletter.
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"What also troubles me is the arbitrariness. There’s no clear standard for what expression might trigger detention or denial."
There is nothing "normal" about this administration. Instead, the phrase "cruelty is the point" is what one most often hears.
I will miss watching your important participation in the many panel discussions, but relieved you will be safe from our current insanity.
Sad, but you are wise to avoid the United States at these fraught times.