It's a lonely feeling to know that the leaders of your country don't need you. In India, where Hinduism is currently the mainstream, being slandered for being a Muslim.
It colors everything. Even friends you have cherished for decades change. Neighbors have become more restrained in their physical interactions with each other, no longer joining in on celebrations or knocking and asking when they're in pain.
“It's a life without life,” says Ziya Us Salam, a writer who lives on the outskirts of Delhi with his wife, Uzma Ausaf, and their four daughters.
Salam, 53, spent his time focusing on movies, art and music when he was a film critic for a major Indian newspaper. His work day ended with a ride on the back of his older friend's motorbike to his favorite stall and a long chat. His wife is a fellow journalist and writes about her life, food, and fashion.
Now, Salam's daily life has been reduced to his office and home, and his thoughts are occupied by more serious concerns. He said he was tired of constant ethnic profiling from bank tellers, parking attendants and fellow train passengers because he was “obviously Muslim.” His family conversations became darker, his parents increasingly questioning and even erasing the markers of Muslim identity: how we dress, what we eat, and even being Indian. She is concentrating on raising her daughter in a country where she plans to do so.
One of my daughters, a talented student-athlete, suffered so much that she needed counseling and missed months of school. The family often debates whether to live in the mixed Hindu-Muslim neighborhood of Noida, on the outskirts of Delhi. Her eldest daughter Mariam, a graduate student, tends to compromise on anything to make her life bearable. She wants to move.
It may be difficult outside of Islamic countries. Real estate agents often ask outright if your family is Muslim. Landlords are reluctant to rent to them.
“I am starting to move forward,” Mariam said.
“I refuse,” Mr. Salam retorted. He is old enough to remember a time when coexistence was almost the norm in diverse India, and he doesn't want to see further racism in the country.
But he's also a realist. He wants Mariam to move abroad, at least while the country is in this situation.
Salam remains hopeful that India is at a milestone.
But Prime Minister Narendra Modi is playing the long game.
He took power in 2014 with promises of rapid development, firmly pushing a decades-old Hindu nationalist movement from the periphery to the center of Indian politics. Since then, he has chipped away at the secular framework and strong democracy that have long held India together despite sometimes bitter religious and caste divisions.
Right-wing groups have begun trying to rebuild Indian society using the enormous power of Mr. Modi as a shield. While the government looked the other way, their members sparked sectarian violence before authorities arrived, destroying Muslim homes and rounding up Muslim men. Brave vigilantes lynched Muslims for smuggling beef (cow is sacred to many Hindus). Leaders of Mr. Modi's party openly praised Hindus who committed crimes against Muslims.
Bigotry was allowed to run wild in much of the broadcast media, especially social media. WhatsApp groups are spreading conspiracy theories about Muslim men trying to seduce Hindu women into converting them and Muslims spitting on restaurant food. While Mr. Modi and his party officials have rejected claims of discrimination, citing welfare programs that cover Indians equally, Mr. Modi himself has repeated anti-Muslim metaphors in elections that end early next month. There is. He targeted India's 200 million Muslims more directly than ever before, calling them “infiltrators” and implying they had too many children.
This creeping Islamophobia is now a major theme in Salam's writings. The joys of life, such as movies and music, now seem small. He documented lynchings of Muslim men in one of his books. In a recent follow-up, he spoke about how Indian Muslims feel “orphaned” in their homeland.
“If you don't address important issues and limit your energy to film and literature, you won't be able to look at yourself in the mirror,” he says. “What will you tell your children tomorrow? When your grandchildren ask you what you were doing when you had an existential crisis?”
As a child, Salam lived on a mixed Hindu, Sikh, and Muslim street in Delhi. When the afternoon sun became hot, the children played games under the trees in the garden of the Hindu temple. The priest comes with water for everyone.
“To him, I was just like any other kid,” Salam recalls.
These memories are one of the reasons Salam remains stubbornly optimistic that India can restore its secular fabric. Another is that while Mr. Modi's Hindu nationalism has penetrated much of the country, some richer southern states are resisting.
Family conversations among Muslims there are very different. It's about normal aspirations, like a college degree, a promotion, or a life plan.
In Tamil Nadu, often bickering political parties are united in their defense of secularism and focus on economic well-being. Prime Minister MK Stalin has been declared an atheist.
Jan Mohammed, who lives with his family of five in the state capital Chennai, said his neighbors participate in each other's religious celebrations. Rural areas have traditions. Once a community has finished building a place of worship, villagers of other faiths come with gifts of fruit, vegetables, and flowers and stay for a meal.
Mr. Mohammed said, “More than consideration, we need understanding.''
His family is full of overachievers, which is the norm in the state where he was educated. Mr. Mohammed, who holds a master's degree, works in the construction industry. His wife Rukhsana, who has a degree in economics, started an online clothing business after her children were grown. Her daughter Maimoona Bushra has two master's degrees and she is currently teaching at a local university while preparing for her wedding. The youngest, Hafsa Lubna, earned a master's degree in commerce and within two years went from intern to 20-year-old manager at a local company.
Two of her daughters were planning to go on to doctoral courses. The only worry was that the prospective groom would be intimidated.
“The proposal is rejected,” Rukhsana joked.
A thousand miles north, in Delhi, Salam's family lives in what feels like another country. Prejudice is so commonplace here that even friendships of 26 years can be torn apart as a result.
Salam had given the former editor the nickname “Human Mountain'' because of his large stature. When he rode his editor's bike after work in the Delhi winter, he shielded Mr. Salam from the wind.
They were often together. Salam was also with his friend when he got his driver's license.
“I went to pray every day, and he went to the temple every day,” Salam said. “And I looked up to him for that.”
Things started to change a few years ago. The WhatsApp message came first.
The editor began forwarding some of the staples of anti-Muslim misinformation to Mr. Salam. For example, Muslims will rule India within 20 years because women give birth every year and men are allowed four wives.
“At first I said, 'Why do you want to be involved in this?' I thought he was just an old man receiving all this and forwarding it on,” Salam said. Ta. “I give him the benefit of the doubt.”
The breaking point came two years ago. It came as Yogi Adityanath, a Modi protégé, was re-elected to lead Uttar Pradesh, the populous state bordering Delhi where Salam's family lives. Mr. Adityanath has been more overtly belligerent toward Muslims than Mr. Modi, governing in the saffron-colored robes of a Hindu monk and frequently greeting throngs of Hindu pilgrims with flowers. It cracks down on the act of expressing Muslim faith in public.
On the day of vote-counting, a friend kept calling Salam overjoyed at Adityanath's lead. Just a few days ago, the friend had complained about rising unemployment and his son's struggle to find work during Mr. Adityanath's first term.
“I said, 'You've been so happy this morning. What can you get for me?'” he recalled asking his friend.
“Yogi ended the namaz,” my friend said, referring to the Friday Islamic prayers that are often splashed on the streets.
“That was the day I said goodbye,” Salam said. “He hasn't come back into my life since.”