In recent years, south Asian immigrants — primarily from India, Nepal, Bangladesh, and Pakistan — have increasingly become the focal point of political and social hostility in Portugal.

Though relatively small in number, they have assumed large presence in political discourse, particularly during national elections.

This community has emerged as a convenient target for segments of the political right, most notably supporters of the far-right nationalist Chega party whose rhetoric frequently frames immigrants as a threat to national identity, economic stability, and public security. Targeting them from education fairs to Muslim festivals has created a human rights crisis for them. 

This targeting is not accidental.

It reflects a broader pattern in which visibly distinct, economically vulnerable groups are cast as “outsiders.”

South Asian immigrants, often perceived as culturally different and originating from less affluent countries, are especially susceptible to such narratives. Their marginal social position makes them easy scapegoats in times of economic uncertainty and political polarisation.

Portugal has long projected an image of tolerance and openness. However, underlying xenophobic and racialised attitudes (historically muted) appear to have resurfaced in contemporary political discourse.

Under the current political climate, these sentiments are no longer confined to the fringes but are increasingly normalised.

Despite their significant contributions to Portugal’s social security system and labour market, south Asian immigrants are frequently portrayed as burden and threat to the social cohesion.

Rightwing actors have amplified misleading claims that these communities exploit welfare systems or contribute disproportionately to crime.
 

No evidence, just a feedback loop

Such narratives are not supported by empirical evidence but gain traction through repetition, particularly on social media platforms where misinformation spreads rapidly.

The result is a feedback loop: political rhetoric fuels public prejudice, which in turn legitimises further exclusionary policies. Online spaces vividly reflect this hostility — comment sections on news articles related to immigrants are often saturated with xenophobic discourse, revealing how deeply these narratives have penetrated public consciousness.

Contrary to political claims, south Asian immigrants are not “stealing jobs” or draining public resources.

On the contrary, they form a crucial segment of Portugal’s labour force. They are disproportionately represented in sectors such as agriculture, construction, and food delivery—areas characterised by demanding physical labour, low wages, and limited upward mobility. These roles are essential to sustaining Portugal’s economy, particularly in the context of an ageing population and labour shortages.

Yet, the very workers who sustain these sectors remain socially invisible and politically marginalised. Their contributions are acknowledged neither in public discourse nor in policymaking.

The consequences of this rhetoric are not confined to the digital realm.

While online hate speech is often the most visible manifestation, there are growing concerns about its translation into physical violence and institutional bias. Reports of harassment, discrimination in workplaces, and hostility in public spaces suggest a broader climate of exclusion.

Institutions have not remained immune. The Portuguese immigration agency, AIMA, has faced criticism for humiliating immigrants for not speaking Portuguese, excessive scrutiny, and administrative practices that disproportionately affect south Asian applicants.

Many migrants find themselves trapped in prolonged legal uncertainty, unable to regularise their status despite fulfilling requirements.

A critical turning point in this narrative was the police operation in Martim Moniz, a multicultural neighborhood in Lisbon. Conducted under the government of Luís Montenegro, the raid was widely perceived as disproportionately targeting immigrant communities, particularly south Asians.

The spectacle of the operation — highly-publicised and framed in securitised language — contributed to the construction of south Asian immigrants as a “national enemy.”

Such actions not only reinforce public fears but also legitimise discriminatory attitudes. When state institutions appear to single out specific communities, it sends a powerful signal about who belongs and who does not.

The shift in political tone has also translated into policy proposals.

Efforts to tighten nationality laws and restrict immigration pathways disproportionately affect south Asian migrants, many of whom already face structural barriers.

These changes risk institutionalising inequality, placing certain groups at a systemic disadvantage compared to other applicants, particularly those from within the European Union.

At the same time, the bureaucratic realities — such as long queues, delayed appointments, and inconsistent processing — further exacerbate the vulnerability of immigrant populations. While these issues affect migrants broadly, their impact is often more severe on those with fewer resources and less social capital.

Importantly, the effects of this hostile climate extend beyond low-wage workers.

South Asian students in Portuguese universities report experiences of exclusion and discrimination. This trend raises serious concerns about Portugal’s international reputation as a destination for higher education and skilled migration.
 

Anti-immigrant irony

The current wave of anti-immigrant sentiment carries a deep historical irony. Portugal itself has a long history of emigration.

During the 20th century, many Portuguese citizens migrated to countries such as France and the United States in search of better economic opportunities and to escape authoritarian rule under the Estado Novo regime.

This legacy of migration is central to Portugal’s national identity. To now adopt exclusionary attitudes toward newcomers is to overlook a fundamental aspect of the country’s past.