Two Worlds, One Street
Delara Cama
Family trip to India in 2018 at age 13
Landing in New Delhi, I didn’t know what to expect. My family had always warned me: “Wait till you see India, you will understand,” or “You’re going to have a culture shock.” Their words echoed in my mind throughout the whole 13-hour flight, which filled me with nerves for the unknown and curiosity for the knowledge I knew I was going to gain.
Stepping out of the airport did not ease those nerves. The sky was a smoky orange, colored by the setting sun and thick layers of smog. A surreal, almost ominous glow painted the horizon, and the air was thicker than I had ever breathed before.
Once we got onto the main road, it sounded like New York City on steroids. Horns blared without pause, sirens pierced through my ears, and stray dogs wandered carelessly through bumper-to-bumper traffic. It was chaotic. It was overwhelming. Yet there was something exhilarating underneath it all. The sensory overload was just the beginning of the lessons India would teach me.
I knew it would take some adjusting to the noise and chaos; however, it wasn’t the surface-level intensity that stayed with me alone, it was something deeper that stuck. My family had always taught me about the poverty and underdevelopment that were present throughout India. I was prepared for that. However, what truly struck me wasn't the presence of poverty; it was the discrepancy. It was the proximity and closeness with which everyone lived together, wealth and poverty, privilege and survival. They were neighbors. The disparity did not fade; instead, it grew louder with each drive. Along the sides of the streets lived families, children barefoot, covered in dust, and just located up a hill and a long driveway stood beautiful homes and luxury hotels overlooking it all. Two different worlds that shared the same street.
At first, I couldn't understand how a luxury hotel could overlook children living under tarps. How could people walk past each other each day, living in completely different worlds, yet still sharing the same road?
I grew up thinking that privilege was in fancy cars, a big house, and materialistic clothes. But visiting India taught me that privilege is not always as obvious and blatant. Privilege is the ability to have choices. It's about not thinking twice about having access to clean water or having the ability to complain about attending school. Privilege is having access to working toilets and access to menstrual products. It's the option to have distance, and not see struggle if you choose not to.
That realization stayed with me long after leaving the country. Privilege isn’t just something you have or don’t have; it's also what you choose to ignore. Being in my little town in New Jersey, I could always look away. In India, I couldn’t. It forced me to confront the discomfort I was sheltered from. My trip to India wasn't just about visiting a country once home to my family and grandparents. It was a lesson and a wake-up call about what I took for granted. It showed me what I had at home, what I didn’t know, and what I cannot forget.
The discomfort I felt deepened my interest in justice, not only within the United States but on a global scale. India revealed the realities of global inequality, and I think of a powerful quote by Ginetta Sagan, “Silence in the face of injustice is complicity with the oppressor.” Those who benefit from injustice and stay silent are complacent and help in the continuation.
International travel didn’t just make me a tourist, but a witness to the injustices in the world. It deepened my passion for activism and government and has strengthened my sense of accountability. A plane ticket taught me not to ignore or look away but to pay attention and be okay with being uncomfortable. Those lessons continue to guide me as I pursue my political science degree and passion for justice and equality.
