They were innovators, scientists and mathematicians.

They held a monopoly over knowledge, land ownership, intellectual professions, social institutions and political authority.

They dominated society by setting the rules for the default standards of language, of behaviour, of customs and traditions.

Sound familiar?

They are my ancestors, from where I come as a middle-class, upper-caste Indian, the creators of a system so resilient it survived centuries after centuries of invasions and colonization by the Greeks, the Mughals, the Europeans, the British.

Born in post-colonial India, I grew up with strong female role models — Hindu goddesses, warrior queens, feisty politicians, professional aunts and a mother determined not to allow my sister and me to be treated differently from our brother.

Like many women seeking to shape a modern India that was equitable, I grew up challenging traditions about our place in society, questioning norms about viewing marriage as an achievement or the deep value placed on chastity.

When I supported our domestic worker against her drunken husband, when I lectured women from nearby villages about HIV/AIDS or exhorted them to have fewer children, I based my efforts on the premise that all people needed was a little leg up to get on a level-playing field.

You could say I was a well-meaning white feminist.

Invisible to me were the barriers and mental prisons formed by the matrices of caste, skin colour, and centuries of dependency piled on top of the misogyny the women experienced.

Sometimes you notice the rug only when it is pulled from under your feet.

I moved to beautiful Canada.

Moving here had the effect of literally flying to the top of the Earth and looking at the world from a new vantage point. It gave me perspective.

Canada felt like my calm partner, and India a tempestuous ex. Life there was vibrant, full-throated, no holds barred. You shouted, you cried, you laughed out loud. Here, for a new immigrant with a job, life appeared tranquil, pleasant and for the most part predictable.

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I had never not belonged where I lived, and here, too, I felt included in inclusive Canada. I didn’t see the difference between the mostly white Canadians around me and myself — I thought I was essentially like them, with darker skin and a few religious rituals.

The first strike against that notion, or at least one that registered, came at a car dealership where the salesman shut me down saying he did not negotiate with Indians when I asked if that was the best price he could offer. I didn’t recognize it then but it was when my racialization began.

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Over the years, came other instances of individual racism. The shoe salesman who told my visiting father every single shoe he wanted was not in stock, the woman who invited me over but whose husband didn’t show up in his own house because he didn’t like immigrants, the people who didn’t take me seriously because I sound different.

I believe everybody, no matter of what background, has experienced being put down for something in that background, some with more far-reaching repercussions than others. My exposure to colourism/shadeism in India and the systemic racism I saw here quickly made it obvious that what I faced was nothing compared to what even darker-skinned people experienced or what Black people faced. This society is centred around whiteness — proximity to whiteness brings privilege, and anti-Black racism is not a historical shame. It is a vile and vicious present-day malaise.

Then came the discovery that blindsided me. The unpeeling of layers hidden underneath Canada’s calm revealed the anguish of the Indigenous peoples of this land. I knew an ancient civilization existed here, but I had thought Canada was a benign rearranging of the cultures; adventurers came, treaties were signed and hello, 150 years.

I had thought of Indigenous people as a scattered group of what are called “tribals” in India or the orang asli in Malaysia — people of a bygone era, living on their own remote lands, untouched by modernity.

What I have learned is they have more in common with us, the millions from colonized lands who have known and felt the tragedies that the colonizers wrought on our people, reading stories and hearing them from the mouths of our parents and grandparents.

This revelation of contemporary colonialism feels like the pages from my history books have come alive, challenging me to participate now, giving me a chance to take sides this time, connecting me to the people who were once mistaken for my forefathers. This brought about a seismic shift in my understanding of where I, now a “non-white,” was situated in the social and racial landscape; if I was once white, by attitude, I was once native, too, in fact.

The pain of Indigenous and Black people doesn’t exist for my learning or betterment; only mine does. I cannot burden others to educate me. So I try to listen with an open heart and do my job, to make uncomfortable those liberal-minded Canadians whom I know to otherwise nurture a deep sense of fairness and civic duty, but whose privilege shields them from facing this morally unsustainable treatment of people.

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When I celebrate Canada 150 it will be not for what has been accomplished but for the promise of its potential to lead the world to equity.

Here I am then, once again, poking holes in deeply rooted ideas, questioning traditions about people’s place in society, this time in Canada.

I have found my feet.

I am home.

Shree Paradkar tackles issues of race and gender. You can follow her @shreeparadkar

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