People are often surprised when they see I have a tattoo. The follow up question after being told it’s real is almost always, “What is it?” I usually just say that it’s "aum" (?), the sound from yoga—a symbol of Hinduism. But every time I say that, I’m doing a disservice to myself. Yes, it is the sound often made in yoga. But that’s not the reason I got it—my experience with yoga is limited to the gym class I took last semester, where I took full advantage of the six classes I could miss. Yes, it is a symbol of Hinduism, and while that is my religion, that’s not why I got it. Today, in honor of Genocide Awareness Month, I want to share with you the story of why I got my tattoo.
My parents are from Kashmir, in the north of India. Some of you may have heard of Kashmir—three wars between India and Pakistan have been fought over it, and it’s still a dangerous area to venture. In 2000, former president Bill Clinton called Kashmir “the most dangerous place in the world”. Most of my family fled from there in the late 1980s and early 1990s, when Islamic insurgents began to engage in a sort of ethnic cleansing in the area by killing Kashmiri Pundits, or Hindus. The stories that I’ve heard from my family make it hard to breathe sometimes. Neighbors turning on each other. Friends shot in their own homes. Escapes in the middle of the night. The realization that they could never go home.
Because of the history and the way they were kicked out, my parents understandably didn’t want me to visit Kashmir. They were afraid I’d come back in a body bag. Their birthplace was and still is a war zone. But finally, the summer after my sophomore year of high school, my parents decided to plan a short trip to Kashmir during our visit to India.
My grandmother always referred to Kashmir as "janath"—paradise. It’s the most beautiful place in the world. The trees are so tall that it’ll strain your neck to look at their tops—so wide that it would take two or three people to hug them. Snow caped mountains encircle the valley like peaceful guardians. The air is fresh—pure. It was breathtaking. You’d never guess how bloodstained that dirt is.
But I’d never been so terrified in my life. Every 15 feet, there was a soldier with a gun bigger than I was strapped to their back. Everywhere I went, I was stared at with so much suspicion. One day, we had an armed escort while visiting a temple complex on the outskirts of the city, and I made a comment that someone would try to kill us just because they’d think we were more important than we were. I was only half joking.
On one of our last days, I stopped at a small cart selling trinkets and bought a simple little bracelet—plastic blocks with aum inscribed onto them, held together with stretchy string. That bracelet became my most prized possession.
Fast forward to the last month of senior year when, like the idiot that I am, I lost it. A stupid misplacement while on a school trip, and it was gone. I hated myself for losing something that meant so much, and that day, I decided that I would get a tattoo to represent it—something that I could never lose. I willed myself to wait till my 20th birthday to make sure it wasn’t a passing fancy.
I caved two months before that birthday, but I haven’t looked back since. It represents so much to me—it’s hard to articulate it in words. It stands for my parents leaving behind their entire lives—family, friends, community, history, comfort—and coming to America in their 30s to build a better life for me and my sister. It stands for the values they ingrained in me—integrity, humility, pride for the thousands of years of history that flow through my veins. It’s a constant reminder that nothing is worth compromising my ideals or who I am. And it’s also a constant reminder of the dangers of hate.
Every day there’s a report about a new, hate-driven incident, whether it’s as far away as the Kenyan massacre or as close as the noose of the Bryan Center plaza. I don’t understand how people can treat each other like animals. And I really can’t understand how they can justify it with religion or sense of superiority.
I’m terrified that the next time I visit Kashmir, the tattoo on my wrist will make me a target. But we cannot let hate dim our pride for who we are. Without knowing me or what I do and what I can do, they hate me? That’s okay. My tattoo is a symbol not just of yoga or Hinduism, but of my choice to not be limited by someone else’s malevolence. The world is a scary place right now, but those people that are driving the hate want us to be frightened. They want us to hide who we are because it’s not like them, so they don’t understand it or are scared of it.
I genuinely believe that hate is a product of ignorance and fear of the unknown or different. By holding our heads high, we refuse to give them the satisfaction of diminishing ourselves to make them feel better. And by propping each other up, I trust that one day those who hate will come to understand that differences should not be threatening.
In a world where ignorance still runs rampant, every day is a battle. But the fight for ourselves and each other—the fight to be able to hold our heads high and proud and equal- it sure as hell is one worth fighting.
Ananya Zutshi is a Pratt senior. Her column runs every other Tuesday.
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