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 peoples.

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 normalized 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.

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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 normalization 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 Northeastern 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 Northeast

and the rest of India, making us feel forgotten rather than included.

From our collective Northeastern 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.

-The writer lives in Dimapur. This article reflects his lived experiences and shared observations as a person from India’s Northeast, and is not intended to generalize 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.