The Invisible American

By Rishika Tipparti

graduate student killed in January 2023 by a speeding Seattle Police officer, who was going 74

mph in a residential area. He later mocked her worth, stating that she had “limited value” and

that the city would need to “just write a check” to make up for her untimely killing.

For many, this story was just another fleeting headline, quickly buried in the

endless scroll of trending topics – if recognized at all. For many Indian Americans like me,

however, even over two years later, it remains yet another reminder of how our stories – our

lives – often fail to receive the attention and respect they deserve.

Indian Americans are one of the fastest-growing U.S. immigrant groups,

contributing significantly to its economy and culture, according to the Carnegie Endowment for

International Peace. Yet, our narratives remain overlooked, reduced to stereotypes like

“unhygienic,” “job stealers,” or “housing market disruptors” based on the acts of a few

individuals who are not an accurate representation of all Indians or Indian culture.

Now, let me be clear – I take immense pride in my heritage. I live for the vibrant

music, traditions, and festivals that bring people together. My culture is my home and brings me

hope. At the same time, I’m deeply American. My family came to this country in pursuit of the

American dream, and I’ve worked to contribute meaningfully to the communities I’m a part of. I

am not here to destroy anything, least of all the “perfect American landscape.” I am here to

grow, to learn, and to give back. Yet, no matter how integrated we are or how much we achieve,

the broader narrative too often ignores us unless we fit into preexisting tropes.

The media, despite its power to humanize, often treats our stories with

indifference, resorting to tokenism or sensationalism – Indian weddings become spectacles, but

deaths like Kandula’s are relegated to footnotes. This neglect isn’t accidental; it reflects

systemic racism and a lack of understanding about the Indian American experience and value.

This erasure is compounded by social media; platforms like Instagram and

Twitter allow stories like Kandula’s to reach millions and demand justice. However, this activism

often reduces complex issues to microtrends – fleeting bursts of attention that prioritize virality

over sustained action. In an era of endless content, an Indian woman’s death might briefly trend

under hashtags like #JusticeForJaahnavi, only to be replaced hours later by another tragedy.

Social media’s fast-paced nature creates an illusion of progress. Sharing posts

and changing profile pictures can feel like meaningful action, but these gestures rarely translate

into the structural change required to make a lasting change for minorities. Rather, this –

performative – allyship underscores the conditional nature of our visibility; our stories matter

only when they’re convenient or trending.

However, one cannot blame the algorithm alone; the answer to this lack of

meaningful coverage also lies within human biases. When Indian immigrant Chandra

Nagamalliah was brutally murdered in broad daylight – beheaded in front of his wife and son

while his cries for help were ignored – it took days for mass media outlets to acknowledge his

death. By the time his story reached the wider public, the shock and urgency had already dulled,

and the slow trickle of coverage sent a clear message: Brown lives simply don’t command the

immediacy they should.

Compare that to tragedies involving other communities, which are often amplified

within hours, dominating headlines and social media feeds. The discrepancy isn’t coincidental; it

reflects systemic biases in both media coverage and public attention. This phenomenon – one

that I dub “Brown Neglect” – extends beyond individual stories.

When Pakistan attacked Indian Hindu tourists in Pahalgam, the silence from self-

proclaimed “allies” online was deafening. It was clear that this attack was motivated by prejudice

against Indians and Hindus. However, many of the same people who had filled their stories with

posts for Black Lives Matter or Stop Asian Hate, and even international conflicts such as

Russia-Ukraine and Israel-Palestine – all undeniably important issues – were suddenly mute

when it came to Indian victims of violence. The support had been conditional, tied not to

solidarity but to the virality of the cause.

One may argue that the complexity of India’s international relations would result

in global silence – which is, to an extent, understandable. However, the hypocrisy becomes

clear when looking back at Air India Flight 171. All the passengers who passed away were

innocent civilians who happened to be on a faulty flight – truly, one might say, “textbook

blameless victims.” Instead of mourning, many online mocked the tragedy, reducing the dead to

racist jokes like “imagine the smell” (playing on racial stereotypes surrounding Indian hygiene).

That kind of dehumanization reveals a disturbing truth: while some tragedies invite empathy and

calls to action, others invite ridicule, especially when the victims are Indian.

This is the rot at the core of performative social justice activism. People are

eager to show support when it earns them likes, social approval, or the comfort of joining a

global trend. But when it comes to Indian lives – whether in Seattle, Pahalgam, or on an Air

India flight – silence takes over. This silence is not neutral; it is complicity in erasure.

Social media has made outrage into a commodity. Causes rise and fall like

fashion trends, and Indian suffering doesn’t seem to “fit” into the Western imagination of

resistance and justice. The hypocrisy of so-called social justice warriors (SJWs) lies in their

refusal to confront their own biases and the biases of the platforms they inhabit. It’s easier to re-

share what’s trending than to examine why some lives are valued more than others.

(I must also add: while I point out the hypocrisy in netizens who prefer covering

one issue over another, I want to emphasize that the issues that do receive widespread

coverage – such as Black Lives Matter, Stop Asian Hate, and conflicts like Russia-Ukraine and

Israel-Palestine – are extremely relevant and important, and deserve the attention they get. My

point is not to diminish those struggles, but to question why tragedies affecting Indians and

Indian Americans are not treated with the same urgency.)

The commodification of activism also perpetuates harmful stereotypes. Indian

Americans, especially today, with the rise of anti-Indian hate on the internet, are often portrayed

as perpetual outsiders with no class – caricatures that erase the diversity and complexity of our

experiences. These reductive narratives not only dehumanize us but also make it harder for

stories like Kandula and Nagamalliah’s to break through the noise.

On the flip side of social media culture, there is also the issue of glamorizing

Indian arts and cultural elements. Not long ago, I came across a viral video where a TikTok

influencer called a dupatta a “Scandinavian scarf.” She was dressed in what she called

“Scandinavian wedding guest fashion,” draped in flowing fabrics that looked unmistakably

familiar.

I grew up seeing those fabrics in my own home. To me, a dupatta – or chunni, as

my Telugu family calls it – wasn’t chic. It was a reminder of what made me different – and at

times, what made me feel out of place.

I grew up hating my own culture. Not in the way that hatred always looks – loud

and angry – but in the quiet, resigned way of someone who just wanted to blend in. When I was

younger, I’d cringe when someone mispronounced my name and rush to explain my mom’s

cooking so the smell wouldn’t draw stares. It was easier to laugh with them than feel the sting of

being laughed at.

So when I see Coachella-goers with mehendi patterns snaking up their arms or

influencers wrapped in Scandinavian scarves marketed as “boho” (but undeniably resembling

chunnis my mother used to make me wear to the temple), I feel a strange hollowness. It’s not

jealousy. It’s not even anger, not at first. It’s grief for the years I spent trying to erase the very

things that are now casually picked up, filtered through an aesthetic, and paraded as global,

whitewashed chic.

And I know – I sound like a broken record, but I don’t know how else to say it: it’s

exhausting to watch the same cycle repeat, over and over, while so little changes for the people

behind the culture.

This isn’t just about cultural appropriation. It’s about selective acceptance. It’s

about how people can love my culture – our food, our clothes, our rituals – without extending

that same love, or even basic respect, to the people behind it.

Growing up Indian in a Western context often meant learning which parts of my

culture to minimize. Sometimes it was pronunciation. Sometimes it was lunch. Sometimes, it

was the quiet math of deciding which parts of your identity were safe to show. I don’t blame my

younger self for that – I was just trying to survive high school.

But what’s frustrating is how easily culture can be stripped of its context and

repackaged as a trend. It’s not just about the scarf. It’s about hair oiling, turmeric, yoga, henna –

all of which are suddenly desirable now that they’ve been filtered through the lens of social

media and rebranded as wellness or aesthetic. In a vacuum, that could be called appreciation.

But it doesn’t exist in a vacuum.

At the same time these traditions are going viral, people from South Asian

communities – especially immigrants and first-gen kids – are still being stereotyped, mocked, or

left out. I’ve heard people joke about India and Pakistan “blowing each other up” and remain

silent when temples are desecrated or hate crimes spike against Indians. When I hear that our

music is “so vibey” but our accents are a punchline, I notice.

There’s something hollow about celebrating the culture while ignoring the people.

The world has made a brand out of the Indian aesthetic while distancing itself from Indian pain.

If you don’t also care about the histories, the languages, the tensions, the humor, and the

humanity of those cultures – what exactly are you appreciating? Where was this appreciation

when Indians were made ashamed to exist? This “love” is a luxury that we, Indians, have never

been afforded. “Loving” the culture while hating – or ignoring – the people who created it is not

love. It’s consumption. It’s convenience. It’s Brown Neglect.

I’m not saying people can’t enjoy Indian traditions. In fact, I want them to. Of

course, beauty crosses borders and culture evolves, and our culture is built upon connection.

But, appreciation comes with responsibility. It means asking where things come from. It means

knowing the difference between inspiration and imitation. It means respecting the people who’ve

carried these traditions even when they weren’t trendy.

I’ve spent a lifetime unlearning the shame I was taught. Now that it’s being

embraced, I’m learning to reclaim it on my own terms. But it’s complicated to see something that

once made me feel small become fashionable – while the deeper parts of my identity are still

misunderstood, ignored, and hated.

I challenge the widespread conception that this is unavoidable, acceptable even. As a

journalist myself, I know that challenging this status quo is difficult, but we must demand more

from both the media – and ourselves.

Journalists are responsible for covering marginalized communities with depth

and empathy, treating our lives – and, when it comes to it, our deaths – with the gravity they

deserve. This means moving beyond tokenism to addressing the systemic issues behind

tragedies like Kandula’s, and examining our own biases. Asking ourselves, “why don’t I hear

about the deaths of these individuals?” and “why are they not important enough for today’s

media?” is a great place to start.

For Indian Americans and other minorities, it means amplifying our voices and

advocating for ourselves in spaces that have long excluded us. We show up – often invisibly –

in laboratories, classrooms, hospitals, and government offices, keeping the American dream

alive not just for ourselves, but for those around us. But invisibility is not enough; an equitable

future would mean that our stories, too, are told fully: not just our weddings or stereotypes, but

our struggles, our triumphs, and yes, our tragedies. For our voices to be heard, we must have

the courage to put it out first.

If justice is truly justice, it cannot be selective. All of us deserve sustained

attention, action, and a commitment to dismantling the systems allowing such tragedies. This

action cannot depend on whether a tragedy is fashionable enough to post about. Until we

confront the neglect and erasure of Indian lives in both media and activism, the cycle will

continue: our tragedies delayed, diminished, or dismissed.

And it will not end with Indian Americans, either. When the hate for us eventually

runs dry, and another community faces the brunt of it, this cycle will continue for them, and go

on and on.

For this, we must critically examine social media's role in shaping our perceptions

of justice and progress. While it can raise awareness, it cannot replace activism – organizing,

educating, and demanding accountability, something we need to continue doing in the future.

We must resist the urge to reduce our stories to hashtags and instead demand meaningful

change that honors our lived stories and lost lives moving forward.

Until Brown Neglect is confronted and dismantled, Indian Americans will remain

visible only in death, and even then, only briefly. We can keep expecting to have our lives

reduced to pixels on a screen and the average netizen’s pat on the back to reassure themselves

that they are, in fact, a good person that cares about current events.

We deserve sustained attention, action, and a commitment to dismantling the

systems that allow such tragedies to occur. We must break this cycle; otherwise, the American

Dream will remain unattainable for too many of us in the future.

By Rishika Tipparti