After swapping Wellington for London, Preyanka Gothanayagi was surprised to find people treated her like an actual person.

When I left Wellington for London six months ago, I did it for all the usual “brain drain” reasons. Higher wages, better opportunities, more castles etc. What I didn’t expect was the ultimate argument for not coming back home: in swapping Oriental Parade for the Thames, I now personally experience less racism.

Growing up in Auckland as an immigrant meant always having to explain myself. From our food, to our religion, to why my hair was oily, to why we only use our left hand to wipe ourselves after using the loo – everything was questioned, examined, defended. I even remember my friend’s mother asking me about whether or not I was to have an arranged marriage, after she watched a documentary on TV2 about it. I was 10 at the time.

It wasn’t cool to be different, and worse still to be Indian – all anyone seemed to know about us was that we own all the dairies, and we’re all Apu from The Simpsons (“Thank you, come again!”). For a lot of us, it felt like our only two options were to lean into and laugh at the stereotypes, or disengage from our culture altogether.

Even my name wasn’t safe – I spent most of my school years explaining it was pronounced pre-YOUNG-car, not pray-yank-ah. A smartass (Asian!) friend riffed off my last name (Regunathan) and started calling me “Regularbutterchicken”. In the end I gave up and just went by the two-syllable Preya. Except that was still too much for the local Hell pizza, so in their case, I swapped to Maria.

This still didn’t save me when I hit high school. Come exam time every year, an external supervisor would take the roll. And every year, without fail, he’d stop when he reached my name. “I’m not even going to try to pronounce the next name,” he would say, surveying us. “But this person probably knows who they are.”

I’d raise my hand and say, “Yes sir, that’s me.” It was embarrassing to be called out like that in front of my peers, but the worst bit is that I’d learned to expect it. By this point, I’d accepted that because of my heritage, basic respect didn’t apply to me.

These experiences aren’t unique, and they didn’t stop once all us “ethnic” kids left high school.

Recently, my friend was called “exotic” by a coworker. Another was asked what their office should serve for morning tea for visiting muslim dignitary (my friend’s not muslim, just brown). My cousin’s CV was rejected over and over again until he changed his name from “Rajesh” to “Joe”. My manager was told her English was so good that when you heard her, you wouldn’t even know she’s Chinese (she’s 5th generation NZ). On and on and on it goes.

“The funny thing about racism is that I almost didn’t hire you,” an old boss of mine once told me. “I was worried that you wouldn’t speak English well.”

“So why did you?” I asked him.

“We’re an equal-opportunity employer,” he said, possibly forgetting the degree in English Lit from Vic on my CV.

Despite growing up here, I’m still not really seen as “local” (shoutout to the woman who asked if I was a tourist because I look “too happy”, and then tried to gift me a copy of the Bhagavad Gita). It’s not malicious – a lot of it comes from well-meaning people, who are just curious about experiences outside their own.

The problem is that in exercising this curiosity, it often minimises the experiences we have in common. It’s what my cousin and I call insidious racism, where assumptions about our culture minimise our ability to be seen as individuals. The whole represents us, and we represent the whole – which is why when one Indian-New Zealander fails, it can be treated as an indictment against all of us (good luck and godspeed, Nikhil Ravishankar!).

So for me, moving to London was a huge culture shock.

On our very first day, my tall, male, caucasian-presenting partner and I went to sort our new mobile phone plans. To my surprise and delight, every vendor we talked to talked. To. Me. They answered my questions. They even made eye contact. It was like I was actually a person.

This was weird for us. My partner and I were used to him being the default, which is why we make all bookings under his name (Josh), and ensure he deals with all tradespeople, mechanics, and angry neighbours concerned our ethnic food is attracting cats to the bins. It’s easier, and a time-save.

But this wasn’t a one-off. From the workplace, to the markets, to the guy who came to fix the plumbing, in London I suddenly felt I was being taken seriously. As months went by without anyone asking me if I speak Farsi (not even an Indian language), I felt a shift in how I carry myself. I began to walk taller. Claim more space. Womanspread on the tube, even. My identity was no longer constantly being questioned, and it gave me the grace I needed to stop feeling so defensive about who I am.

A hyphenated identity is very, very common here – I feel unique, but also like I fit right in. Modern London is a melange of accents and ethnicities, of languages and cultures. No one seems to care where you’re from. They’re all too busy decking everything with Christmas lights and commiserating about the terrible weather. Not one person has asked where I’m from (except for one guy who thought my accent was Irish). If I do mention I’m from New Zealand, I’m taken at my word.

I want to be clear that that doesn’t mean that the UK has no racism. London is a bubble in a sea of rising tensions over immigration. Nigel Farage, currently staring down his own personal antisemetic scandal, is stoking economic resentment and redirecting it straight towards immigrant communities. Just a few months ago, Tommy Robinson led a 100,000 strong “Unite the Kingdom” rally in London (the subtext being, “against people who don’t look like us”).

Some days, it feels like anti-immigrant sentiment is the only thing in the news, and it is bleak. But what I’ve found is that when racism is blatant and impersonal, I don’t take it so much to heart.

Once, when I was walking down Victoria street in Auckland, I was yelled at to “go back to where you fucking come from, fucking Indian shit”. (Again, that would be Auckland). After the initial shock and fear wore off, it was easy to let it go. Him yelling at me was more about his worldview than me as a person; I prayed he recovered soon, and got on with my life.

Far less easy was when I told my Pākeha friend that racism exists in New Zealand, and she didn’t believe me.

New Zealand is really the only home I’ve ever known. There’s more Kiwi culture in me than I’ve ever realised before. I’m homesick, hoarding Whittakers chocolate bars and Trident hot and ppicy noodles (if you know you know). I miss the beach, the bush, the cities. I miss Z station pies and accessible politicians and darkly funny drink-driving ads.

But in New Zealand, I was first and foremost Indian. 

Here in London, I get to be an individual, with all the nuances and complexities that that entails. I get to say I’m a New Zealander, with no further proof necessary. It’s just ironic that I had to move across the world to finally feel like one.