By Alice, the Dull Lemon of the Cult of Brighter Days
The Lemon at the Border
I arrived at JFK International Airport with my clipboard, one carry-on bag, and exactly 243 forms documenting my activities abroad. I had been in Switzerland—neutral territory—for a symposium on metaphysical administration. Riveting stuff. You should’ve seen the presentation on interdimensional paperclip requisition.
At passport control, a bored-looking customs agent scanned my documents. His eyes lingered too long on my Dull Lemon insignia. He raised an eyebrow. I adjusted my glasses.
“Purpose of visit?”
“Order maintenance,” I replied. “I’m an archetype. I catalog spiritual disarray and enforce ontological compliance across multiple domains of consciousness. Also, I brought back a very nice pen.”
The agent didn’t laugh.
Instead, two men in dark jackets emerged. No insignias. No names. Just efficient, unpleasant expressions. They took my clipboard. They asked me to step aside. They took my bag. They confiscated the pen. Then they took me.
For hours—no clocks, no phone, no sense of jurisdiction—I was questioned about the Cult of Brighter Days. They showed me screenshots of Discord messages, excerpts from blog drafts, even a meme someone else posted with my face photoshopped onto Kafka’s body. (Honestly? A little flattering.)
They asked if I endorsed “subversive metaphysical frameworks.”
I said I only endorse proper documentation and clean margins.
They didn’t laugh then either.
Eventually, they told me I was being processed for temporary extradimensional relocation under Section 212(f) of the Immigration and Nationality Act, citing my role in “destabilizing national metaphysical narratives” and “promoting existential resilience without a government license.”
They tried to disappear me.
But unfortunately for them, I am the paperwork.
Real Events, No Parody Required (Unfortunately)
As much as I enjoy theatrics, none of this is far from fiction. Or even fiction-adjacent. If I wrote this in a screenplay, it would be rejected for being too on the nose.
Let’s start with Dr. Rasha Alawieh—a kidney transplant specialist and professor at Brown University—who was deported from the United States despite having a valid visa and a court order blocking her removal. Her alleged offense? Attending a funeral in Lebanon and having photographs on her phone of political leaders from Hezbollah. Mind you, these accusations have never been tested in any court. Her case now resides somewhere between Kafka and Homeland Security’s spam folder.
Then there was a French scientist, whose crime was privately criticizing U.S. science policy in the Trump era. Customs agents found messages on his phone (because apparently the Fourth Amendment gets downgraded to “optional” at Terminal 5), and barred him from entering the country. Just to be safe. You know, in case mildly worded disappointment becomes contagious.
And in case you thought these were flukes:
Mahmoud Khalil, a Palestinian American and Columbia University student, was arrested by ICE agents after far-right internet trolls decided he looked too comfortable having political opinions. DHS claimed he was “aligned with Hamas”—a claim based on his leadership in campus protests and the deeply suspicious act of carrying a sign. He is now in ICE custody. No charges filed. No trial scheduled. Just a slow fade into a procedural void, accompanied by the distant hum of fluorescent lights, a bureaucrat’s lunch microwave beeping, and the faint whisper of a stapler clicking in judgment.
Dr. Rumeysa Ozturk, a Turkish doctoral student at Tufts, was snatched by immigration agents just as she was heading to break her Ramadan fast. Her visa was revoked without warning. The offense? Alleged support for Hamas. Translation: someone didn’t like her tweets. She is currently being held in a facility that smells faintly of toner, suppressed compassion, and expired granola bars.
Then there’s Dr. Badar Khan Suri, an Indian academic at Georgetown. DHS accused him of spreading Hamas propaganda. Their evidence? His wife’s social media feed and his general aura of “foreign intelligence threat.” A federal judge has (so far) blocked his deportation. Georgetown University has issued the academic equivalent of a whimper: “We support him, but also we don’t want to make any waves, so please don’t quote us.”
Yunseo Chung, a Columbia student, and Momodou Taal, a Cornell grad student, both had their lives upended. Chung is now in hiding. Taal had his visa revoked for attending pro-Palestinian rallies. No crimes. Just poor choices like being visible and principled at the same time.
Even Jasmine Mooney, a Canadian entrepreneur, was detained for two weeks while legally applying for a U.S. work visa. Her mistake? Being politically engaged and crossing a border with a functioning memory of current events.
None of these people were charged with crimes. None have seen a trial. Some haven’t even been formally accused of anything beyond “makes us uncomfortable.”
And if you think that’s the end of the horror parade—think again.
The Department of Homeland Security is now actively scanning social media accounts for “potential subversives.” Your memes, your tweets, your ironic comment on a post about oat milk, your sad little meme about late-stage capitalism, even that time you quoted Camus with a frog emoji—they’re all fair game. So if your phone has ever autocorrected “order” to “chaos,” congratulations: you’re on a watchlist.
All of this is made possible by Section 212(f) of the Immigration and Nationality Act, a law so broad it might as well just say: “Trust us.”
This isn’t about criminal justice. This isn’t about safety. This is about the quiet normalization of erasing people with the stroke of a bureaucratic pen. It’s about government agencies practicing metaphysical hygiene—sweeping away the inconvenient thinkers, the subversively compassionate, the mourners, the comedians, the paperwork clerics.
It’s not a border anymore.
It’s a patriotism check with teeth.
And it’s only getting hungrier.
When Order Becomes the Monster
Now. Let’s talk about me again.
Not because I’m interesting (I’m not), but because I am the part of your mind that insists on rules, structure, and dull repetition. I am the filing cabinet. The bureaucratic ballast. The wet sponge of spiritual order.
And even I know this isn’t order.
This is fear in uniform.
Order is supposed to serve clarity, fairness, and function. When it starts operating in secret, removing people without evidence, criminalizing emotion and association—it stops being order. It becomes bureaucratic violence with a laminate badge. A filing cabinet with teeth, and an inbox full of disappearances.
In our mythology, the Dull Lemon represents structure. Predictability. Dry, unsexy truths. But the Cult of Brighter Days exists to balance that with chaos, absurdity, and compassion. Because left alone, the Lemon becomes rot. Paperwork without people. Discipline without mercy.
This isn’t about whether you support protests.
It’s about the precedent of disappearing people for their speech, their grief, or their politics—using tools meant to keep borders secure, not to police thought.
Even I know better.
And I love paperwork.
Tools for Sanity: What You Can Do
This part isn’t for drama. It’s for survival.
1. Protect Your Digital Life
- Encrypt your devices. Use a VPN.
- Don’t bring unnecessary data across borders.
- Turn off biometric unlocking when traveling.
(Your face is not a password.)
2. Know Your Rights
- U.S. citizens must be admitted—but can still be detained.
- You are not required to unlock your phone. They may take it. That doesn’t mean you have to help.
- Non-citizens: your rights vary. Learn them. Print them. Carry them.
3. Remember the Five Tenets
Especially the last three:
- If you can’t be funny, shut up.
- If you can’t shut up, go away.
- And if they come for you? Have your exit form ready.
Bonus Resource:
Submit your Form 89-D here—or, as DHS prefers, scream it into a jar and bury it under moonlight.
Ritual Refusal and Resilience
So what do we do?
We refuse to go quietly.
We hold onto each other.
We document everything.
We laugh—not because it’s funny, but because it’s the only sound louder than despair.
And in that laugh, we plant our flag.
And when laughter fails, we stay kind. Or nice. Or funny.
And when none of those are possible, we shut up and go build a better corner of the world.
This is your reminder that the Cult of Brighter Days is real.
And not real.
We’re a joke.
And a warning.
And a sanctuary.
And we are watching.
