As an Indian Muslim, I’ve become accustomed to speaking cautiously. This realization struck me during a visit to a McDonald’s in Thailand with my husband, where beef burgers were casually offered. The mere mention of “beef” felt strangely unsettling.
There, beef was just a standard ingredient, nothing special or controversial, and certainly not something warranting national debate.
It had been quite a while since I’d heard the word beef spoken openly. In India, I avoid saying it – in restaurants, conversations, even at home. I’ve learned to suppress it, to stop myself mid-sentence, to act as if it doesn’t exist.
In India, a predominantly Hindu country, beef is more than just food. Possessing beef or slaughtering cows can lead to prosecution, and some individuals have even been victims of mob lynchings. This is why I’ve removed the word from my vocabulary, trained myself to avoid it, and ensured my Muslim friends and family do the same.
I know that suspicion can be deadly because I’ve been reporting on violence against minorities for over five years. The pattern is often the same: a crowd gathers, accusations are made, violence erupts, and the spectacle is sometimes even filmed. The victims’ names are soon forgotten, while their families face endless legal battles.
Yet, there we were, in a fast-food restaurant that sold beef burgers. Even outside of India, the burger still made me anxious. My husband reminded me that no one cared if my name matched my lunch order. In India, consuming beef is illegal in many states, and rigid caste systems dictate who can eat what. Restaurants proudly advertise themselves as “100% pure vegetarian.” He was right, nobody cared what I ate. Still, I couldn’t help but think about the strange and unnecessary burden we carry back home.
I first became aware of the weight of my identity in India in 2020, during the Delhi riots, when at least 50 people, mostly Muslims, were killed by violent mobs. My safety depended on hiding my name.
Gas stations were on fire, tires were burning, and stones were thrown at fleeing people. Bricks were stacked neatly, ready to be used as weapons. Mobs armed with sticks and rods roamed freely. Slogans were chanted. I was reporting on the communal riots for News18’s Firstpost. The riots had been triggered by a controversial citizenship law proposed by the Hindu nationalist BJP government, which would expedite nationality for refugees of some faiths – Hindu, Parsi, Sikh, Buddhist, Jain, and Christian – but not Muslim. When men with lathis asked my name, I replied: Isha. And just like that, I was safe. That was the day I thought every Indian Muslim should have a second name.
Initially, it was just a fleeting idea. But then I noticed how many others had reached the same conclusion. They were changing their names on cab apps, altering drop-off locations, and some were telling me about applying tilaks on their forehead. All attempts to soften their identity just enough to avoid trouble.
However, even that doesn’t guarantee safety. For years, some Muslim street vendors have used religion-neutral names like Raja or Sonu, a simple change to maintain business and avoid an economic boycott.
But during Prime Minister Narendra Modi’s Hindu nationalist government, these vendors were accused of concealing their identity and pretending to be Hindu. It’s no longer just about having a Muslim name, but about the audacity of not having a non-Muslim sounding one.
For example, in July 2024, Yogi Adityanath, the chief minister of Uttar Pradesh, India’s most populous state, ordered shops and eateries along the route of the Kanwar Yatra Hindu pilgrimage to display their legal names. The move was widely seen as an attempt to target Muslim-owned businesses. Fortunately, the order was overturned by India’s Supreme Court.
The problem extends beyond the market stall. An alias won’t always save you when your very existence is seen as a problem. A landlord will change their mind as soon as they hear your real name. A broker will suddenly remember that the apartment has been rented. An employer will hesitate, then say they’re looking for someone else. You can try to hide behind an alias, but eventually, someone will see you for who you are. You can soften the syllables, shorten the name, and try to be someone else. But eventually, the truth comes out, and the answer remains the same.
Many Indian Muslims are retreating into Muslim spaces. But even those spaces are being watched, renamed, or even demolished. The places where we once felt at home now feel abandoned, watched, or unwelcome.
Consider the BJP’s proposed law regarding Waqf properties. It could remove legal protections from Waqf properties—donated by Indian Muslims over the centuries—and allow the state to control or reallocate them. Thousands of mosques, dargahs, and cemeteries that have served communities for generations are at risk.
Meanwhile, those who dare to protest or advocate for Muslim rights face potential crackdowns. During the protests against the controversial citizenship law, many activists, including students and community leaders, were arrested under anti-terrorism laws.
So, where does that leave us? I’ve tried to adapt. To learn the art of disappearing. To keep my voice neutral. To avoid appearing too religious. To smile just enough. To downplay my identity in conversations. To self-censor my social media posts. To move through public spaces with quiet calculation. Yet I’ve always wondered if this quiet, internalized fear is the biggest tragedy of all. The moment a Muslim self-censors their own words, lowers their voice, erases a part of themselves, the damage is done.
A name is a fragile thing. It can slow down a job application, deny a rental application, or trigger extra scrutiny at airport security. But fear, like a name, is also fragile. I have learned the art of vanishing, but I no longer want to vanish.
A simple order at a McDonald’s in Thailand reminded me of this. I am slowly learning that there is power in being seen, in just being. Some days, I am forced to be Isha. On others, my very name, Ismat, is a political statement. On those days, I am exactly who I was meant to be.
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