As my readers read this piece, Usman Khawaja is out there at the SCG one final time for Australia, in what will be his last Test match. Each time I see him bat or on the field, I am reminded of his press conference the day before.
While I am not here to judge Usman, the question I want to ask is this: does he feel any joy having played cricket for Australia for a good decade and a half? Does he feel pride in wearing the Baggy Green for as many as 88 Test matches? Or was he answering questions to himself each day he was on the park? Was the feeling ever one of gratitude and satisfaction, or was it a constant competition with his inner self—to be the best version of himself and to answer all the critics out there who were after him? If he was constantly being judged, did he ever feel pride and joy? How will he look back at his career—as one that passed in trying to break down a set narrative, or one that left him enriched as a human being?
Needless to say, racism and racial profiling are realities of our world. But they are not limited to cricket. For every Usman Khawaja, there is also a Rishi Sunak. For every question asked, there is also an Amartya Sen, who became the Master of Trinity College, Cambridge. In my own career, having lived in Australia between 2005 and 2007, I did face these challenges. But that did not stop any of us from embracing the system and being happy to do so. Had I not been happy in Oxford, for example, I wouldn’t have gone there or wanted to go there. For someone as accomplished as Usman, the bat is his eventual identity—not his surname.
At the end of the day, the very same system he mentions selected him to play 88 games for Australia. His teammates applauded every hundred he scored and every catch he took. When he celebrated a wicket taken by Pat Cummins or Mitchell Starc, he did so as an Australian cricketer, proudly wearing the Baggy Green—not as a Muslim immigrant from Islamabad who found life difficult in Australia. Usman mastered the system, and maybe that is his real legacy: that despite all the ills, there can still be an Usman Khawaja who has a voice and is respected globally. If he can, others can—that is the real message.
I remember Dave Warner and Michael Clarke introducing me to Usman way back in 2013 in Chennai. Both said to me that here was someone hugely talented and deeply passionate about the sport. I wasn’t introduced to a Muslim immigrant who had made Australia home. Rather, I was introduced to an Australian cricketer who wanted to make it big in Test cricket.
Usman is a winner for me—one who has battled all odds and come out triumphant. I would want him to give himself some credit for that and be happy. To look back with gratitude rather than mistrust. Sport allows him to do so, and maybe he will do it one final time at the SCG.
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