When I was 11, my sister and I would hang out with her half-British, half-Finnish friend at the basketball courts close to our neighbourhood in Tammisalo, a suburb of Helsinki, Finland. A gang of Finnish girls came upon us one day. I admit it doesn’t sound too scary now, but there were six of them, drunk and menacing, and we felt completely isolated.Their redheaded ringleader asked us who we were and people studiously looked the other way as she gave us a tongue-lashing. After we gave them fake, de-Indianised names — our phirang friend had nothing to worry about, the genetic dice were loaded in her favour — and spoke in our best English accents, they backed off a bit, not seeming to think much of two Indian-looking British girls. That’s their problem, they shrugged, not ours.Our problem was that at the height of the Somalia crisis, around 1992, a number of European countries, including Finland, had opened their doors to refugees. Scandinavian youth — or the neo-Nazi element, at any rate — didn’t take too kindly to the sudden influx of poor, brown/black people. They were worried about their jobs and their bloodlines. Not surprisingly, the redhead mentioned the bit about jobs and that their schools were being degraded.Looking back, I’m sure we could have handled ourselves differently. We didn’t have to be so intimidated, so brow-beaten, so Third World. But at that time we were scared. Of the anger and frustration that seemed to emanate from these girls, who thought we were ruining their lives, stealing their jobs, who probably didn’t know and definitely didn’t care that Somalia and India are two different countries. They only saw the colour of our skin.This incident has stayed with me mostly because I’m ashamed. Of the relief I felt when they accepted our faux British identities. And of how desperately I wanted them to be true. Of how I used to wish that I could be a different colour. I wanted to be blonde and blue-eyed.I’m cringing as I write this, because it’s not a great reflection on me, especially given that my parents represent India abroad. It’s painful to think about it, but then I was just a member of a great big tribe of foreign service brats. Third culture kids, who move to uncharted territory every couple of years, hoping to make friends, dying to fit in.The biggest fear? To be judged and found wanting. The worst way to be judged? On the basis of your skin colour, or the slant of your eyes.I wish I could go back and stand up for myself. Not just that one time, on the basketball court, but every time I looked in the mirror and wished I was whiter. Because, of course, that meant the racists had the last laugh.
