Racism in India is often subtle, disguised as curiosity or humour, but for us it is a daily experience that shapes how we move, speak, and live.
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We, the north-easterners are Indians—by birth, by identity, and by belonging. Yet, beyond our homeland, many of us are repeatedly made to feel like outsiders in our own country. Racism in India is often subtle, disguised as curiosity or humour, but for us it is a daily experience that shapes how we move, speak, and live.
Being called “Chinese,” “chinky,” or “foreigner,” being asked “Which country are you really from?”, or having our facial features mocked is common for many north-east people. These remarks are brushed off as jokes, but when they follow us into classrooms, workplaces, markets, and public transport, they become reminders that our Indian identity is constantly questioned.
Over time, this normalised behaviour teaches us silence. We learn to smile, ignore, or walk away—not because it does not hurt, but because speaking up often leads to disbelief or blame.
Racism does not remain limited to words. We have witnessed how quickly discrimination turns into confrontation. Minor disagreements escalate once racial slurs are used. In cities far from home, we often find ourselves outnumbered and unsupported, making conflict feel dangerous.
Such tensions have led to protests, clashes, and deep social divides. When a community is consistently viewed as “different” or “foreign,” mistrust grows on both sides. Racism quietly plants the seeds of conflict long before violence occurs.
Many of us have seen or experienced crimes rooted in racial hatred—verbal abuse, sexual harassment, physical assault, and in extreme cases, murder. What is most painful is how often these incidents are labelled as “personal matters,” with the racial motivation ignored. This refusal to name racism weakens justice. It sends a message that our safety is negotiable and that crimes against us do not demand urgency. Over time, this normalisation of violence creates fear and emboldens offenders.
Like millions of other Indians, we migrate for education and employment. But independence comes at a cost. We worry about finding landlords willing to rent to us, about safety after dark, about being judged for our food habits or clothing. Many of us avoid certain areas, suppress our cultural identity, or remain silent during abuse simply to stay safe. This constant vigilance is exhausting. No citizen should have to live with fear attached to their face.
Another shared pain is invisibility. Incidents involving north-eastern people often receive brief attention and then disappear from national conversations. Our achievements rarely receive equal recognition. This imbalance deepens the emotional gap between the north-east and the rest of India, making us feel forgotten rather than included.
From our collective north-eastern perspective, racism in India is not rare—it is routine. It influences our daily choices, our sense of safety, and our belonging. A nation cannot remain united while some of its people are made to feel invisible. True unity will begin when our voices are heard, our pain is acknowledged, and our dignity is protected—everywhere in India, not just at home.
Dharma Dhaj Sonowal
Dimapur
Disclaimer: This article reflects my lived experiences and shared observations as a person from India’s northeast and is not intended to generalise or accuse any individual, community, or region. Its purpose is to foster awareness, empathy, and constructive dialogue around racism, not to promote division or hostility.