Finally, I’m the No.1 target for racists

2 weeks ago 4

Opinion

September 1, 2025 — 11.56am

Sunday was a special day for me. My whole life, I’ve been always a bridesmaid, never a bride when it comes to racism.

I grew up in the eastern suburbs of Sydney, where racism was usually aimed near me but never fully hit me on the head. Friends would brush it aside – “I know he said that, but he’s such a nice guy”. Others swore they weren’t racist – “I like Asians, but I like to feel like I’m in Australia.”

Anti-immigration protesters prepare to march from Belmore Park towards Victoria Park in Sydney.

And then there were the ones who got offended if you dared to call any of it racism. The ones who clutched denial like a designer handbag.

Outlandish racists rarely went for me. I was more the type to attract casuals – racism lite (which I hear is soon to be rebranded as insidious racism). The sort of people who test the waters with “jokes” and side-eye, then act innocent when you don’t like it.

So I learnt to live in the bridesmaid’s dress. Always near the action, never the centrepiece. Always holding someone else’s bouquet of prejudice. But suddenly, I’m the bride.

The March for Australia rally took place not far from my home. And the flyers didn’t even bother with subtlety.

“More Indians in five years, than Greeks and Italians in 100. This isn’t a slight cultural change – it’s replacement plain and simple.”

I’ve finally been promoted. I’d like to thank the organisers for choosing me, after years of being overlooked. Bridesmaid no more – I’ve made it to the altar.

I’m Tamil, Burgher and Australian, which means I’ve spent my life in a kind of identity tug-of-war. Do I hide behind what will always be my whiteness – the way I speak, my careful manners? Or do I stand in my brown skin, as visible as any South Asian Uber driver?

Because I used to be one. I know exactly what happens when there’s a surge. South Asian drivers follow that red zone like bees to honey. So picture this: after the March for Australia wrapped up, a sea of protesters pulled out their phones. Every ride home would depend on the very people they spent the afternoon marching against.

You can protest at “too many Indians”, but try getting home without a brown face behind the wheel. You’ll be waiting a long time.

But here’s what the flyers never say: Indian immigration hasn’t hollowed out Australia – it’s stitched into it.

International students keep universities alive. Skilled migrants fill jobs that would otherwise sit vacant. Doctors, engineers, IT workers, small-business owners – whole sectors are steadied by brown hands.

And I can already hear the chorus: “They’re taking our jobs.” Really? The ones driving Ubers at 2am? The ones working double shifts in hospitals, so you don’t sit for 12 hours in emergency? The ones paying international student fees that keep universities from collapsing? These aren’t jobs being stolen – they’re roles being filled, services being kept alive, bills being paid.

What the flyer calls “replacement” is just contribution with a brown face.

Since my parents can’t be at my “wedding”, I’d like to take a moment to mention their contribution. My mother was graceful and understated, my father a roaring trailblazer. Me? I was indecisive. Do I sit at the back of the bus, quiet and unbothered, or pull a Rosa Parks and plant my brown arse right up front? In the end, I compromised. Middle of the bus. Whiteface forward. Hoping no one noticed me.

But the flyers yesterday told me my compromise was a waste of time. No matter where I sit, they’ll still be counting heads. And mine is one too many.

Many of those marching swear they’re not racist. They’ll tell you they just want to preserve “the Australian way of life”. They’re not against migrants, you see – they just want fewer of them. Which is like saying you love pizza, just not the crust or the cheese.

Their game isn’t about housing or cost-of-living crises. It’s about minimising people who look like me. The quiet part has finally been said out loud.

And the truth is, it doesn’t matter how politely I speak, how many degrees I earn, or how well I assimilate. On their flyer, I’m still just another brown tick in the “too many” column.

So let me say this clearly: I am a person of colour in Australia who had a legitimate fear of leaving the house on Sunday. Not in my charming, agoraphobic, mentally ill way. But in a very real way.

Minorities deal with racism differently. Some deflect it – “Don’t look at me, look at them, I’m with you.” Some shrink themselves down, staying quiet, invisible. Others grab a loudspeaker at a refugee rally. And some, like me, have tried all of it and choose to stay inside on days like yesterday, praying the chants fade away.

Support is available from Lifeline on 13 11 14 and Beyond Blue on 1300 22 4636.

Denise Sivasubramaniam is a Sydney-based writer exploring cultural diversity, identity, and mental health. She publishes essays on her Substack, Notes from the In-Between.

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