If the System Was So Biased, Why Did It Make You a Star
In recent weeks, two celebrated public figures chose the closing phase of their careers to level serious accusations against the very systems that elevated them. Australian cricketer Usman Khawaja, announcing his retirement, spoke of racial stereotypes and described Australian cricket as “still very white.” Around the same time, India’s most globally recognised composer, A. R. Rahman, suggested that his career slowdown may be linked to religion. These claims raise a simple but unavoidable question. If the system was fundamentally stacked against you, how did it repeatedly choose you, reward you, and showcase you at the highest level?
Usman Khawaja’s journey is often framed as one of adversity, but the facts tell a story of extraordinary institutional acceptance. Born in Pakistan and raised in Australia, he rose through one of the most competitive cricketing systems in the world to become a long-term Test opener, an Ashes regular, and even captain the national side. This was not token inclusion or reluctant tolerance. Selection panels, coaches, boards, sponsors, and teammates placed sustained trust in him over more than a decade. Yet the claim that Australian cricket is structurally biased surfaced only at the moment of retirement. Structural discrimination does not typically wait fifteen years, multiple Ashes series, and leadership roles before revealing itself.
The contradiction is even sharper in A. R. Rahman’s case. For decades, he was not merely accepted by India’s cultural ecosystem but celebrated across religion, language, and region. National awards, state honours, global acclaim, and mass public reverence followed. His music defined entire eras of Indian cinema. When industry tastes shifted, newer composers emerged, and market dynamics changed, the explanation offered was not evolution or competition but religion. A system that allegedly marginalised him somehow made him the most decorated composer of his generation. That gap between accusation and reality cannot be ignored.
What links these two cases is timing. The grievances did not surface during struggle, exclusion, or early resistance. They emerged at the point where careers naturally plateau or decline. During peak years, when contracts were renewed, roles expanded, and applause was constant, the system appeared to function without complaint. Bias becomes visible only when relevance begins to fade. That pattern matters, because genuine systemic discrimination usually blocks entry and progression early. It does not politely wait for decline before announcing itself.
Every profession follows a cycle. Athletes age, injuries accumulate, reflexes slow. Artists face changing tastes, shifting audiences, and relentless competition from newer voices. Not every reduction in opportunity is injustice. Sometimes it is simply time. Recasting that inevitability as discrimination may offer emotional comfort, but it distorts reality and avoids harder questions about adaptation, form, and context.
There is also an element of legacy management at play. The end of a career is when reputations are frozen in public memory. Framing decline as injustice shifts the story away from performance and relevance toward morality and oppression. It is easier to exit as a wronged figure than as someone overtaken by change. Identity becomes a shield, insulating reputation from uncomfortable but ordinary truths.
This habit carries a wider cost. When elite insiders who enjoyed exceptional access and success claim victimhood without specific evidence, it breeds public cynicism. It weakens the credibility of genuine discrimination claims made by those who never received a platform, never got selected, and never broke through precisely because of bias. Casual accusations from the powerful dilute the voices of the powerless.
Institutions deserve scrutiny. Bias should be confronted where it exists. But there is a clear difference between naming concrete incidents, policies, or decision-makers and declaring an entire system morally corrupt after benefiting from it for decades. One invites reform. The other sounds like resentment repackaged as activism.
No system is flawless. But a system that repeatedly selects, rewards, honours, and elevates someone to national and global prominence cannot be dismissed as fundamentally racist or communal without proof. Disappointment at decline is human. Loss of relevance is painful. But neither is evidence of oppression. If the system was truly biased, the question remains unanswered. How did it make you a star at all?
