The Invisible American: The Phenomena of Brown Neglect in Media and Societal Bias

By Rishika Tipparti

The world seemed to shatter when I heard about Jaahnavi Kandula, a 23-year-old Indian 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