I was born a Muslim on August 15. Here’s what I feel in Modi’s India on Independence Day

But these days, I feel the ground slipping away. I look around, at the country, and the world, where Muslims like me are vilified, where suspicion lingers on my identity like a stain I cannot scrub away, however hard I try. And it cuts even deeper now, when my profession — journalism, the Fourth Estate, which I chose with a lot of pride, idealism and determination to change the world — appears to have lost its credibility, trading integrity for partisanship, sensationalism, or worse, silence.

Hate clings to me like dust

The irony of my birthdate is not lost on me. August 15. The date that once stood for the triumph of freedom now feels like a mockery of the freedom I thought I had. I think about Rousseau’s The Social Contract theory, often. Its opening sentence, “A man is born free and everywhere he is in chains,” acquires an urgency it didn’t when I was a student. Freedom, once a gift we all cherished, now feels like an elusive dream, receding in increments. It is an idea under siege. Living in India today, I walk carefully, often watching over my shoulder — acutely aware that I do not have the luxury of naivety. To me, being a Muslim in Narendra Modi’s India feels like carrying a fragile vase through a crowded street — every step is a careful negotiation of space, every breath held in fear of shattering.

I wasn’t always like this. I believed that my country, my India, was larger than its fissures. Too robust to be eroded by occasional ruptures. I grew up surrounded by the ideals of secularism and democracy, raised to see myself as an Indian first, where my faith was a matter of personal conviction, not a political statement. But now, that fragile vase of identity feels heavier than it ever has. The hate, so palpable in the air, seems to cling to me like dust — sometimes faint, but never truly gone, with its motes difficult to get rid of.

When I think about it — I actually try not to think about it at all, but sometimes I give in — it feels like a double-edged defeat. As a Muslim, I feel cornered by a society that increasingly sees my religion as a threat. But as a journalist, the sting is even sharper. I was trained to believe in the power of truth, to pursue facts as a sacred duty. Yet, today, I find myself part of a profession that is losing its way — engaging more in spectacle than in substance, falling prey to the whims of power and money. Journalists, once seen as the torchbearers of democracy, now seem all too willing to bow to the dictates of majoritarianism, and the truth has become an expendable commodity.

Why I feel like a failure

I wonder sometimes — where did we lose our way? Was it in the shrillness of prime-time debates where shouting replaces reason? Was it in the self-righteousness that blinds us to nuance? Or perhaps it was in our silence, the most damning betrayal of all. When the marginalised are pushed further into the shadows, our silence rings louder than words ever could. I say ‘our’ because I cannot absolve myself. I am part of this system that is falling apart. And that realisation burns — a quiet, persistent ache that gnaws at my conscience, with tremendous intensity since 2014.

I feel like a failure, like I’ve let down not just myself but the profession I was once passionate about, a profession I loved truly, madly and deeply. I joined journalism believing I could be a voice for the voiceless, but I wonder now if my voice even matters. I write words that vanish into the void, absorbed by the constant churn of noise in the 24x7 news cycle. I live in a world where ‘truth’ feels like an abstraction, a distant ideal to be debated rather than upheld. And so, I am left in this in-between space, torn between who I thought I could be and the harsh reality I face: of being a stranger in my own country.

I want to fight back, to push against the walls that seem to be closing in around me, but some days it feels impossible. How do I reconcile my identity with a country that seems increasingly hostile to people like me? How do I uphold journalistic values when those values are being corroded from within? How do I find hope when everything around me feels broken?

What true freedom means to me

Yet, despite all this, I cannot fully let go of hope. Like the feeling of being hated, it clings to me stubbornly, like an old friend who refuses to leave. Perhaps it’s the stubbornness of survival, or maybe it’s the quiet faith that no matter how dire the situation, history has shown us that resilience can still emerge from despair, light from darkness. My own life is proof of that. My faith, often seen by others as a liability, is my strength. It reminds me that adversity is not the end, that even in defeat, there is dignity in standing firm, in continuing to believe in justice and truth, no matter how elusory they may seem. So here I am, a Muslim in Modi’s India, a journalist in a time of Godi Media, holding on to the hope that freedom — true freedom — still matters.

So, what does true freedom mean to me? True freedom for someone like me means walking down the streets without the constant weight of prejudice bearing down on my shoulders. It means being able to practise my faith without it being politicised, without being reduced to a mere symbol of the other. True freedom is the right to exist in a space where my identity as a Muslim does not provoke fear or hate, where I do not have to constantly prove my loyalty to a nation I was born into. It is the freedom to be seen as a human being first, with dreams, desires, and fears like anyone else, rather than as an outsider whose place is perpetually questioned. True freedom means that I can speak without weighing my words, that I can move without watching my back, and that I can simply be without the burden of having to justify my existence every freaking day.

To me, true freedom also means living in a country where my profession — journalism — regains its moral backbone, where truth is not a casualty of power, and where speaking truth to power is not an act of rebellion, to be labelled as sedition, but a cornerstone of democracy. It means being part of a society that values debate, that seeks to understand rather than vilify, and that remembers the principles of justice and fairness on which it was founded. True freedom is the freedom to question without fear of retaliation, the freedom to write without censorship, and the freedom to hope that despite the forces of division, there is a place for unity and mutual respect. It is the kind of freedom that makes room for everyone, where faith and fact, personal belief and professional integrity, coexist without contradiction or compromise.

I also hold on to the hope that, in the end, my country will remember what it once stood for. That the truth will find its way back into the light — as it always does. ‘Satyameva Jayate’ (truth alone triumphs) is, after all, our national motto. It’s not an easy road, and I stumble often, but I keep walking. Because what else can I do?