The shocking truth is that in the aftermath of violent events, people who look like me often find themselves caught in a web of suspicion and prejudice, facing consequences that many might overlook. But here's where it gets controversial: the way society and authorities respond to these incidents can perpetuate, or even deepen, racial biases.
When news of a brutal attack in Bondi surfaced, my immediate concern was for the victims and for my friends—many of whom are Jewish or from Bondi—that such an atrocity could leave lasting scars. My mind also raced with fear—not just because of terrorism, but because, historically, individuals who share my appearance and background have faced increased scrutiny and hostility following such tragedies.
Despite having been born in Australia, speaking fluent English, I am often judged by my looks. To many, I appear “Indian,” even though I am Hindu and do not look Muslim. For some, that mistake sparks frightening assumptions—labeling me as a terrorist—similarly to how Sikh communities suffered violent discrimination after 9/11. Those experiences have meant years of heightened airport security checks, suspicious gazes, or outright hostility in public spaces.
The recent tragedy in Bondi has only intensified these fears. The reality is that, in Australia, the responses to violence heavily depend on the perpetrator's background. For instance, when a white man committed the Port Arthur massacre in 1996, it was seen as an isolated act, not reflective of all white Australians. Similarly, the 2024 attack in Bondi Junction that resulted in six deaths did not invoke suspicion of all white people. The 2019 Christchurch mosque shootings and other extremist acts carried out by extremists—whether Christian nationalists or white supremacists—are often viewed as the acts of individuals, not entire communities.
However, for individuals like myself and many others from South Asian, Arab, Sikh, or Muslim backgrounds, the story is different. Increasingly, we see violent anti-immigrant rhetoric amplified by certain media outlets and politicians—whipping up fears around immigration, targeting Indian students, and even demonizing places of worship. The so-called ‘Marches for Australia’—meant to rally national pride—sometimes veer into anti-immigrant and antisemitic rhetoric, further fueling division.
While the government has taken some steps—deporting neo-Nazis, shutting extremist prayer centers—the question remains: what concrete actions are taken to genuinely safeguard vulnerable communities from violence and racial profiling? Statements that “racism has no place in Australia” are well-meaning, but many of us crave real protection, not just words.
Like many diverse Australians, my life is enriched by friends from different faiths and backgrounds. I come from a family with Anglo, Indian, and Chinese roots, and I cherish the multicultural fabric of this country. As Wesley Enoch, a prominent playwright, beautifully expressed, Australia’s diversity resists neat categorization. To deny or suppress any part of this diversity risks fostering internal conflict and hatred—ultimately making our society less stable.
And this is the part most people miss: Why do some officials, like Scott Morrison or Andrew Bragg, call on community leaders to denounce extremism within their communities—while never asking Christian leaders to do the same for Christian nationalism? Christianity, after all, encompasses a wide range of denominations and cultural backgrounds—just like Islam, Judaism, Hinduism, or Buddhism. No faith should be painted with the same broad brush, and combining tolerance with diversity is vital.
The reality is that extremists represent only a tiny fraction of any community—they do not define us. Yet, the lingering fear is that racially profiling entire communities or conflating faiths with extremism creates a dangerous cycle of discrimination, which can pull us apart.
For many of us, the consequences are personal. Victims of hate crimes, like some Jewish individuals, now feel compelled to hide parts of their identity—something nobody should have to endure. But for those of us whose skin color gives us away, concealment isn’t an option.
Malcolm Turnbull once remarked that Australian identity is a mosaic of different races, cultures, and ethnicities, and we must remember that none of us can speak for all Australians. Our collective safety depends on addressing antisemitism, radicalization, and xenophobia head-on—acknowledging how interconnected our well-being truly is.
To prevent tragedies like Bondi from happening again, authorities must be careful not to single out any community. Missteps in that direction carry dangerous consequences, not only for the communities directly affected but for our society as a whole. The challenge—and the opportunity—is to build an Australia that truly embraces all of us, regardless of our appearance or beliefs.
Sunil Badami, a writer from Sydney, reminds us that our strength lies in diversity. But will we seize this moment to stand united against hate, or will we let fear and prejudice divide us further? The choice is ours—and the debate is more urgent than ever.
