Dear America,
Behen, we need to talk. Again.
I saw that tweet. The one quoting the Cato Institute’s 2024 Globalisation Survey. And I haven’t stopped shaking my head since.
Here’s the gist:
- 80% of Americans believe the country would be better off if more people worked in manufacturing.
- But only 25% think they themselves would be better off working in a factory.
- And just 2% actually do.
Very on-brand. It’s like saying society would be better if more people had children, while proudly announcing you just had a vasectomy.
You want factories. You just don’t want to be in them. You want “Made in America”, just preferably not by Americans. Or at least, not by you. It’s patriotism, as long as it’s someone else doing the work.
Now, before you accuse me of being judgy, let me assure you: this is not judgement. This is family. This is your slightly older cousin from halfway across the world, munching on bhujiya and watching your drama unfold like an NRI aunty watching Bigg Boss with subtitles. Indeed, we have a saying right here in India that translates something like,
Everyone wants a Bhagat Singh… to be born to the neighbours.
You see, we’re not so different, you and I. Both rebellious offspring of an empire that couldn’t quite keep up. You had a tea party and threw their tea in your harbour. We threw their tea in a degchi, boiled it with ginger and cardamom, sweetened it generously, filtered it through a dhoti wrung tighter than a white American immigration officer on a bad hair day, and poured it into kulhads, called it masala chai, and sold it to them at £10 a pop, as they took a break from fielding at silly mid-off, trying to stop us from driving through cover… in vain.
You wrote a constitution. We wrote one that’s longer, more detailed, and still manages to confuse every judge, leave alone politician, who tries to interpret it. You chose democracy, merit, and loud, argumentative self-rule. So did we. In a way. We just added more languages and an unhealthy amount of WhatsApp groups and letters to editors about what Rahul Gandhi should be doing.
And like you, we dream. Of upward mobility. Big houses. Bigger egos. Respectable careers, side hustles with dubious GST compliance, and children who go to overpriced universities that produce little beyond PowerPoint and burnout. Your American Dream? We copied it, pirated it, sprinkled some masala, and sold it to the world with an A R Rahman soundtrack. Jai ho!
And while we were remixing your dream, you were already moving on from it. You didn’t want the smoke, the grime, the oily rags. So you sent the needlework to Bangladesh, the assembly lines to Vietnam, the circuit boards to China. And the customer service scripts, the ones that needed polite English and painful optimism, to us. You climbed the value chain. We held the ladder.
You focused on ideas. Platforms. Patents. IPOs. You became a nation of whiteboards and pitch decks, of better branding, better UI, better vibes. We, meanwhile, answered phones, debugged code, stitched your sneakers, made your selfies possible, and occasionally tried to pronounce “Illinois” without crying. And yes, we were happy to. Because we too wanted to become you. Or more accurately, become Bill Gates. And occasionally Tom Cruise. Never Mark Zuckerberg. Too much angst. Or arrogance. Or both. But I digress.
Now, you want to bring factories back. Fair enough. Nostalgia is comforting. The hum of machines, the dignity of manufacturing, the steel spine of a working-class middle America. I understand it. I even admire it.
And to get there, you’ve chosen the tool of tariffs. You’ve slapped duties on everything that moves: from semiconductors to shoelaces, from solar panels to screwdrivers. It’s economic nationalism on steroids. Or shilajit. Whatever. The numbers are irrational, the categories bizarre, the implementation comedic when not insulting. But hey, if it helps you protect your domestic industry, if it gives Detroit some muscle memory, if it scares a few supply chains into coming back, go for it. Your country, your prerogative. Your boat. Your float.
But here’s what I don’t get.
- You want the factories. You’re taxing the world to get them.
- And then you slam the door shut on immigration.
Who, pray, is going to work in these glorious new American factories? The 2% who already do? The 25% who say they wouldn’t mind, but won’t apply? Or the 73% who have clearly said, “Not me, thank you very much”?
This isn’t just a labour issue. It’s an identity crisis.
Because when you block immigrants, you’re not just keeping out low-skilled factory hands. You’re also excluding the coders, the chemists, the Nobel winners, the teachers, the nurses, the mayors, the odd genius, and the everyday miracle, the immigrant who still believes in the American Dream more than the average American does.
It’s short-sighted. It’s self-defeating. It’s like building a stadium, raising ticket and beer prices sky-high, and then wondering why no one came to watch even the greatest teams play.
Let me spell it out: You can have your tariffs. But without immigration, they won’t work.
Factories need workers. Supply chains need hands. Innovation needs brains. And nations need belief. Especially from the ones still willing to cross oceans, mountains, and deserts, willing to subject themselves to the humiliation of your visa and immigration services, and willing to stay lonely and hungry, working long hours half a world away from their families, to find it.
Meanwhile, China (yes, that Excel sheet of a country) is being terrifyingly efficient. High GDP. Low (more like “no”) dissent. No immigration. No spontaneity. No soul. Homogenous. Groupthinking. Unquestioning. For years, they’ve been trying to become America. And now, irony of ironies, you’re trying to become China.
You see, behen, you can’t out-China China. But you can still out-America them. If you remember how.
Which brings me to us. India.
Your unruly, argumentative, turmeric-stained cousin who shows up overdressed, brings too much food, insists on debating religion at dinner, and fights over the check (no, not to avoid paying, but to stop you from reaching for your wallet!). We’ve absorbed more invaders than a Parle G dipped in a cup of Irani chai. And probably faster. Persians, Greeks, Turks, Afghans, Uzbeks, Zoroastrians, Jews, Muslims, Christians, you name it. They came. They saw. They liked the view. They stayed.
In fact, even the British, who famously didn’t (stay, that is), came initially to conquer and loot. But by the time we were done with them, they were eating samosas, using shampoo, speaking Hinglish, inventing the chicken tikka masala, sipping spice-infused Darjeeling, and shouting at the umpire. True, we didn’t absorb them. But we marinated them. And somehow, we’re still here, still shouting at each other about the third language, even while we learn English as the second. By default. Still wildly, irrepressibly us, while they stare into their cold curry and sip their warm IPA, wondering what the hell happened.
You were the land of assimilation. We were the land of absorption. And between us, we’ve proven a simple truth: civilisations don’t fall because of outsiders. They fall when they forget what outsiders once built.
So here are some suggestions:
- By all means, protect your industries. Fix your trade.
- Wear your “Made in America” badge with pride.
- But let people in. The doers, the thinkers, the tinkerers, the mad ones, the ones who still think America is worth pursuing. (As an aside, Steve Jobs would have been proud of that last sentence!)
Because no one builds an empire on nostalgia. Empires are built on sweaty backs, unreasonable hope, and yes, occasionally, by people named Raj who speak English with a strange rhythm, nod their head confusingly sideways, and make Python do things it was never meant to.
If you want factories, you’ll need workers.
If you want greatness, you’ll need immigrants.
And if you want to be America again, you’ll have to stop trying so hard not to be.
With love, exasperation, and a pinch of Hing,
Kedar Gadgil
A Fellow Believer in the Possible
P.S.: Remember that Lady Liberty is a smiling sevak at the door of a langar, welcoming all. Not a bouncer at a club, keeping the riff-raff out.
