On a trip to the Louvre, where I decided to wear Shalwar Kameez for the sake of comfort, two security personnel laughed amongst themselves when they saw me, one of them remarking, “Oh you guys like art too?”

Even though I had a camera in hand and was going into the Rembrandt exhibition, all he could see was my traditional dress. As if being an ignorant Economics major wasn’t enough, their words made me feel even more that I didn’t belong in the art gallery.

Before coming to NYU Abu Dhabi, I rarely wore Shalwar Kameez. In the 18 years that I was alive, I had worn it for a cumulative of 24 hours, spread out over multiple Eid festivities and weddings.

As the semester progressed, however, I found myself resorting to my collection of kurtas every now and then. They would be the only set of clean clothes when I’d wake up on Sunday mornings for my beloved 9 a.m. classes. One of those days, as I walked into the building clad in my plum colored Shalwar Kameez, the Public Safety officer stopped me at the entrance and asked me to show him my ID.

That was a normal procedure — Public Safety officers are entitled and, in fact, instructed to ask any student for their ID at any given point. I didn’t think too much about it then, for I thought that my unsightly appearance at 9 a.m., coupled with my poorly ironed Shalwar Kameez, made me come off as an outsider trying to infiltrate and disrupt the serenity of our campus. Ever since that incident, I have gone to classes in a worse physical state but dressed in western clothes. I haven't been stopped again.

One day, after bawling my eyes out thanks to an Introduction to Computer Science assignment, I found myself at SALT wearing Shalwar Kameez. On account of my social awkwardness and anxiety, I rehearsed my order eight times in my head, hoping to get done with the social interaction quickly, pay and eat.

“Could I have the Hook sliders with cheese fries and a Coke, please,” I blurted out when the time came.

“So these will be sliders, okay? They’re like small burgers. Is that fine?” responded the lady at the counter.

I replied in the affirmative, finding her reply somewhat humorous. I assumed that she had to go through the hassle of explaining this to all customers. Yet as I stood there waiting for my food, I learned that this was not the case. The customers after me weren’t subjected to the same line of enquiry. Not a single one of them.

I came back and complained to a friend on campus, explaining extensively how the only visible difference between me and those ordering after me was that I was a brown guy dressed in Shalwar Kameez, which is predominantly associated with laborers. He assured me that I was being an overly sensitive snowflake, reading too deeply into a meaningless event.

Nevertheless it lingered on my mind for quite some time, and still does. It is only natural to feel offended when, after 16 years of education, after having white culture shoved down your throat your entire life, someone so casually assumes that you don’t even know what a slider is. I did not mispronounce a single word, nor did I say anything that would suggest that I did not know what I was ordering. That only leaves a few reasons for her patronizing explanation and one of them fits the theme of this essay: discrimination.

I have lived my entire life in Pakistan, which is why I tend to dwell on moments of discomfort that I experience abroad. In places like the U.S., in my experience at least, you feel quite uncomfortable as a brown tourist in a predominantly white space. Here in the UAE, where brown people outnumber the rest, I still feel the same degree of discomfort. When I walk into some of the relatively fancier places in the city that are frequented more by non-desis, I feel out of place.

Imagine walking into the Emirates Palace for dinner wearing some worn out pyjamas. Obviously, the waiters cannot deny you service, but they look at you the same way people would look at an amateur tennis player trying to enter Wimbledon: almost apologetically. Those diners who appear the most affluent will most definitely get all the attention, while your table is tended to the least. If you complain about a dish, they will begin to lecture you on how that is the way it’s cooked, and give you a scornful look because they think you’re just trying to get some freebies. I have felt all these things far away from the Emirates Palace, in places infinitely more modest and more frequently when I’m wearing Shalwar Kameez.

It is not uncommon for people to look down upon those who work blue collar jobs, or to treat them in a disrespectful manner because of their seemingly lower socioeconomic standing. A large number of South Asians work blue collar jobs in the UAE, and this tends to result in the entire community having a subordinate status. Regardless of our social class, many of us are subjected to prejudiced and discriminatory behavior. Even in professional environments, I have had multiple stories narrated to me of people being underappreciated, undervalued and underpaid in comparison to their equivalent white colleagues.

I have also heard stories narrated by other Pakistani students at NYUAD where they were treated differently when they wore their traditional dress and were often naturally assumed to be laborers because they are South Asian. Admittedly, some of us, through the blessing of our past colonial overlords, speak fluent English and are therefore treated with more respect. But what about those who are actually laborers or taxi drivers?

If anything, these incidents and many more that would take too long to list, have brought me closer to my culture and traditional dress. Every time I walk into a moderately high end establishment dressed in Shalwar Kameez, I feel like a rebel, as though I am disrupting the order.