Photo by VV Nincic

Dear Brown people in Vancouver,

Do you feel it too? The way those who don’t look like us seem to slip their distaste for us “subtly” between sentences? The fact that irrespective of our immigration status, fluent English, accomplishments, education, upbringing and value systems, we are still… unwanted? The barely concealed microaggressions and scarily racist behaviour of the people in this city have frankly tired me out.

I’ve lived here since 2018, but I felt it first in January 2023, at the No Frills closest to the University of British Columbia, of all places. While loading our groceries onto the checkout counter, I realized I forgot to pick up the key ingredient of the week—pasta. I brushed past the middle-aged white couple behind me in a dash to grab the crucial item, squeezing past them to load it onto the counter and help my boyfriend avoid the embarrassment he might face if I didn’t make it back in time. “When we walk past people, we say excuse me,” said the man behind me. “It’s in our culture.”

I was reminded of my otherness in a city I had worked so hard to create a home in. Never mind the fact that this man didn’t know a thing about me or my culture—which is known for its humility and hospitality—but he had successfully made not just one, but three people uncomfortable with his comment all at once. Me, my Brown boyfriend, and the cashier at our counter, whose skin tone betrayed her South Asianness. Imagine not even being able to work or grocery shop in peace!

Since then, an underlying, parasitic feeling of alienation has followed me everywhere, and I began to notice instances of othering all around me. Suddenly, it became salient how our language, culture and colour is used to mimic and mock us—“butter chicken” and “namaste” are just a few names I’ve been called by literal strangers on the street, and that’s just in the past four months alone.

Every once in a while, a racist housing ad like the one that went viral in March 2023—“No Indian,” it read—will circulate again, and we will be reminded of our otherness in this city. We’ll share the post with each other, leave comments in frustration, talk about it when we see each other next, and swallow the silent resignation that things just are this way.

Last summer, a third body was found in addition to Irshaad Ikbal and Suleiman Khawar’s bodies on the shores of False Creek. Ikbal and Khawar were both presumed to be returning from a night out. This means that three men were found dead in the same place, just a few weeks separated from each other. This spring, less than a year later, Chirag Antil, an international student from India, was shot dead in south Vancouver. Police said he had no connections to criminal activity of any kind. They were also quick to note that the first two deaths were “unrelated” to each other, but to my community, it doesn’t look like a bizarre coincidence. This is all to say, there is no one looking out for us except each other.

My queer and trans Brown friends felt the fear first. They ask to be picked up by a trusted someone after a night out now, feeling afraid to take transit home alone. They ask to stay on the line with friends while out for a walk, and the areas around False Creek and Granville Island became deserts for us. We hold onto each other fiercely.

From hearing fragments of Punjabi on the bus to chatting with Uber drivers who settled in Canada three decades ago, stories about Brownness and Brown people permeate throughout Vancouver. It’s lovely to look at my world and see others who look like me, but I worry about us, too. I hope we keep listening to and believing each other’s stories and caring for each other, all while navigating this strange city with caution.

Love,

Shanai Tanwar