By Imlisanen Jamir
There’s a certain look people get when suspicion curdles into something darker. You see it sometimes on the streets, in shops, on public transport—a sudden narrowing of the eyes, a tightening of posture. It’s not always loud. But it doesn’t need to be. In places where identity is fiercely protected, silence can be just as brutal as a slur.
The fear of being overrun is not unique to us. Around the world, societies are drawing lines, building walls, and hardening definitions of who belongs and who doesn’t. Some of it is understandable. Communities with histories of exploitation are right to be wary of open gates. Cultures that have fought to survive deserve tools to protect themselves. But when protection turns into performance—when the goal becomes not safeguarding but scapegoating—then something vital begins to erode.
Lately, the tone of conversation has shifted. You hear it in the news, you read it in the comments. Anxieties about outsiders have metastasized into something that looks and feels like hatred. And what’s more chilling is the enthusiasm. There’s a kind of ravenous joy in watching people scrutinize others on the street, questioning their origins based on little more than how they look or sound. It’s not just policy enforcement anymore. It’s theatre. And the audience is always hungry for more.
There is, of course, a very real fear at the heart of this. Land, culture, language, livelihood—these are not abstract concepts. For many communities, they are survival itself. But survival must not come at the cost of our own humanity. The worry that jobs will be taken, that we will be diluted, ruled over, or erased—these are heavy things. But if we’re not careful, they become justifications for treating anyone with a “non-local” face as a threat. The line between caution and cruelty grows thin.
And in all this noise, nuance gets lost. There’s a difference between undocumented migrants—those commonly labeled under acronyms that often carry racial undertones—and Indian citizens who enter through proper legal channels, with valid documents and permits. Yet the distinction is rarely made in the public discourse. On screens and in comment sections, the conversation collapses into a binary of “us” and “them.” If someone looks different, they are cast in the same suspicious light, regardless of their status or rights. People stop being people. They become threats. They become warnings.
We forget to ask harder questions. Why would someone come here in the first place, especially if they had no safety net or status? What does it say about our society if those at the very bottom—documented or undocumented—see this place as a last resort? And what does it say about us that we greet them with suspicion instead of compassion?
Maybe the better response to these fears is not to shut down, but to build up. Make ourselves more capable, more driven, more self-reliant—so that it doesn’t matter who comes, because we know who we are. Let our policies reflect conviction, not insecurity. Let our markets be shaped by fairness, not fear. Let us reach a place where we thrive—not behind walls, but with open hands. A place where we are not just guardians of our land, but examples of what it means to be human.
Comments can be sent to imlisanenjamir@gmail.com
