Open Permission

Maya Mukhopadhaya

May 2021

As I write this, India is reeling under an inexhaustible second wave of Covid-19 that is ripping through the population at an unprecedented speed. You have probably heard the grim stories. Oxygen supplies depleted. Not enough hospital beds. Mass cremations. Double and triple mutations of the virus. Vaccine shortages. Even over the counter painkillers are in short supply. Why? Because Modi and his government spent their time, energy and resources planning super spreader election rallies, rather than put plans in place to contain the inevitable second wave. 

His Covid plan extended as far as asking Indians around the country to stand on their balconies and bang pots and pans in solidarity with health care workers. His Covid plan extended as far as telling people to drink cow urine and pray to keep Covid at bay. His Covid plan entailed prematurely clearing a homegrown vaccine, and then shipping them all over the world in the name of “vaccine diplomacy” only to leave his own population in short supply. It is increasingly clear to those willing to see the situation honestly, that India’s current Covid crisis is the natural culmination of Modi’s fascist, predatory capitalist and power hungry approach to governance. 

Like a lot of NRIs with family and ties to India, I am wracked with the guilt of being far away, the fear of finding out my loved ones are sick, and perhaps most of all, anger. Anger at Modi and his co-conspirators for creating this crisis, anger at the global north for vaccine hoarding at the expense of the rest of the world, anger at the golden milk latte drinking, savasana-laying, vindaloo-eating contingent who “love” an exoticized idea of India, but can’t muster the empathy to care about its reality. 

In an effort to channel those emotions into something useful, I have been donating to organizations providing Covid relief to India, and amplifying on-the-ground coverage that reveals the extent of the devastation Modi has caused. This feels particularly important given that his government has spent most of their energy covering up the crisis instead of tackling it. I want his supporters in India and abroad to know that he is responsible. I want the world to see the depths of his incompetence and indifference, in the hopes that it ends his tyrannical hold over the country. 

And yet, I feel a peculiar case of whiplash when I open up Instagram. Living in America, the American half of my feed consists of cheery images of people with their sleeves rolled up, getting their highly anticipated vaccine jabs. The Indian half of my feed consists mostly of desperate pleas for hospital beds, oxygen and medicine for friends and relatives fighting for their lives without the necessary resources. The American half of my feed shows clinking mimosa glasses at brunch, the Indian half; aerial shots of mass funeral pyres.

At first, in an American context, I felt quite alone in posting about the crisis unfurling in India. But as things got worse and more people became aware, I was somewhat heartened to see some of my Indian American friends get vocal too. I’m hopeful that this apocalyptic injustice will open the floodgates on their willingness to speak up, not just about a humanitarian crisis taking place on Indian soil, but about the agent of that crisis — Narendra Modi. 

I’ll admit that the current Covid crisis is not the first time I’ve paid attention to who is and isn’t vocal about disturbing news coming out of India. I’ve felt this loneliness and sense of being let down before: when Modi passed agricultural laws that will gravely hurt farmers’ livelihoods, during his oppressive crackdown on protests in Kashmir following his revocation of Article 370, when he built detention camps in Assam for the 2 million people who found their citizenship stripped overnight following his Citizenship Amendment Act, and everytime a Hindu mob inflicts brutal hate crimes against Muslims.

When those and other injustices occurred, I wondered where my generation of Indian Americans were, and why they weren’t a part of the conversation. Those in their 20s and 30s, who I know don’t tolerate racism, white supremacy and majoritarian dog whistling here in the US. I wondered where they stood on similar issues playing out in India, and why they hadn’t gotten involved. I still do. 

If you fit that description, consider the rest of this is an open letter to you. Consider it an invitation to rise up against a hateful regime who counts your silence as implicit approval of their actions. 

I’ve speculated as to the reasons you might have stayed silent so far. Maybe, as second or third generation Indian Americans, you don’t feel like this is your fight. Perhaps, while you’re invested in what happens in America, what happens in India feels distant, maybe even irrelevant. If that’s the case, consider this: You can choose to be invested in the futures and fates of both your home and your homeland. You don’t have to pick one. Black lives matter. So do Dalit and Muslim lives. You’re against white supremacy. You can also be against Hindu and Brahmanical supremacy. You fight for democracy here in the US. You could also fight to protect it in India. Values can cross border lines. 

Maybe it’s not a question of connection, but rather that you have internalized the message that you don’t have a right to an informed opinion on what happens in India. If that’s the case, consider this your permission to have an opinion, and to share it proudly. If Rihanna and Greta Thunberg can, you can too. 

Maybe it’s not an issue of permission, but one of impact. Maybe you feel like what you have to say on Modi and his politics simply doesn’t matter. After all, you don’t have a vote in the Indian elections. If that’s the case, I’m here to tell you that your voice does matter. At over 4 million strong, Indian Americans make up the second largest immigrant group in America. That means that what you have to say on Indian politics and current events matters. You played a big role in getting the Biden administration to step up support to India by way of vaccines. Don’t stop there. 

You see, while you may not claim Modi to represent you, he claims you to represent him. He uses your presumed support as a leg of legitimacy to stand on at home and abroad, when he’s disenfranchising the poor, the lower-caste, and the Muslim community. Use your voice to show Modi that he doesn’t get to carry out hateful and oppressive policies in your name. 

Maybe it's none of the above. Maybe it’s a lack of awareness of how nefarious his government really is. If that’s the case, I urge you to start by reading up on the laws he’s enacted, and the increasingly Hindutva atmosphere he has cultivated since coming to power in 2014. It’s hard not to see his agenda clearly, when you look at everything at once: Dismantle democracy, marginalize and terrorize Muslims, forsake the poor, feed the rich. 

Ultimately, I don’t know what accounts for your silence. But I do know this. For those of you who do not agree with what he is carrying out in your name, getting engaged is a moral imperative. Posting on social media isn’t the only way to mobilize and reclaim your voice. Choose your lane. Donate. Call your elected representatives. Get informed. Engage with your families. Examine why you feel disconnected. Write. Read up. Whatever it is, I implore you to do something. Because silence speaks too. 

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Maya Mukhopadhaya is an anthropologist turned strategist who helps companies envision and deliver human-centered products and experiences. A daughter of Indian diplomats, she was born in Cuba, and raised in India, the US, and the Middle East.