As an Indian Muslim, I have learned to whisper certain words. This realization struck me recently while my husband and I were at a McDonald’s in Thailand, where beef burgers were casually listed on the menu. The word “beef” felt strangely jarring to me.
In India, beef is not just food it is a controversy, a risk, sometimes even a death sentence. A mere rumor of beef possession has led to mob lynchings of Muslims and Dalits. I have learned to erase the word from my vocabulary, to avoid speaking it aloud, to pretend it doesn’t exist.
The Cost of a Name
I know suspicion can kill because I have spent years reporting on hate crimes against minorities. The pattern is chillingly familiar: accusations fly, mobs swell, fists land, and yet another life is lost all captured on video, another fleeting headline. The families left behind are burdened with endless court battles, seeking justice that rarely comes.
I first grasped the weight of my identity in 2020 during the Delhi riots, where at least 50 people mostly Muslims were killed. As I reported from the ground, I realized that my name could determine my fate. When men wielding lathis (sticks) demanded to know my name, I answered: Isha and just like that, I was safe. That was the moment I thought:
Every Indian Muslim should have a second name.
At first, it was just an unsettling thought. But then, I noticed how many others were doing the same changing names on cab apps, tweaking drop-off locations, even wearing a small bindi to blend in. Small acts of self-preservation, all aimed at dulling the sharp edges of identity just enough to avoid trouble.
Hiding Is No Longer Enough
But even this camouflage offers no real protection. For years, Muslim vendors have adopted neutral names like “Raja” or “Sonu” to keep their businesses running. But now, under the Hindu nationalist government of Prime Minister Narendra Modi, these same vendors are being accused of hiding their faith of not making their Muslim identity visible enough.
Take the July 2024 order by Yogi Adityanath, the Chief Minister of Uttar Pradesh. He mandated that shops and eateries along the Kanwar Yatra pilgrimage route display their legal names, widely seen as an attempt to single out Muslim-owned businesses. Thankfully, India’s Supreme Court blocked the move. But the message was clear: Muslims must either erase themselves or be singled out.
Even outside the marketplace, a name is a fragile thing. It can slow down a job application, deny a rental, or trigger extra scrutiny at airport security. Many Indian Muslims retreat into Muslim spaces, but those too are being watched, renamed, or erased.
The BJP’s proposed Waqf Amendment threatens to strip legal protections from centuries-old mosques, dargahs, and cemeteries, placing them under state control. Meanwhile, those who dare to protest students, activists, community leaders face arrest under anti-terrorism laws.
Refusing to Vanish
Where does this leave us? Like many, I have tried to adjust, disappear, make myself smaller. I have learned to keep my voice neutral, to self-censor my words, to erase parts of myself. But perhaps the greatest tragedy is that so many of us have internalized this fear, carrying it with us like an invisible weight.
But fear, like a name, is fragile.
A simple McDonald’s menu in Thailand reminded me of this. I am learning that there is power in being seen in simply being. Some days, I am forced to be Isha. But on other days, when I introduce myself as Ismat, it is a political statement.
And on those days, I am exactly who I was meant to be.
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