Issue 2 - The Displacement

january
2020
other collective
magazine
the
issue

in this
ISSUE
intro
feature
opinion
narratives
arts + culture
editor’s letter
mother ganga: effects of pollution on the holy river 6
lira rathee
once for yes, twice for no 8
teja dusanapudi
finding a place 10
deepa singh
delhi’s widow colony: an assessment of anguish 12
radhika marwaha
the complex construction of palestinian identity 14
hla elkhatib
bollywood: chasing culture 16
sona bhargava
same religion, different interpretation 18
taimoor qureshi
china’s project of ethnic repression against uighur
muslims 20
aarya chidambaram
diaspouric tones 22
ariana boostani
breaking boundaries: artists of the diaspora 24
shayan kaveh
dry skin + bookmarked page: save up for this!!!!!! 26
kiana borjian
beyond identity boxes and nation state borders: kurdish
artists in diaspora 28
kimia akbari
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editor-in-chief
Kimia Akbari
managing editor
Sanskriti Sharma
finance manager
Radhika Marwaha
social media manager
Yalda Saii
editors
photography editor
Teja Dusanapudi
Maayez Imam
Hannan Waliullah
website manager
layout + design editor Madiha Javed
Tamara Shoubber
copy editor
the
Shana Khan
STAFF
writers
Aarya Chidambaram
Ariana Boostani
Deepa Singh
Hla Elkhatib
Kiana Borijan
Lira Rathee
Shayan Kaveh
Sonali Bhargava
Taimoor Qureshi
illustrator
Ayaa Osman
photographers
Megana Bobba
Sanghavi Srinivasan
Taswar Kabir
3

DITOR’S
A stranger on the riverbank, like the river ... water
binds me to your name. Nothing brings me back from my faraway
to my palm tree: not peace and not war. Nothing
makes me enter the gospels. Not
a thing ... nothing sparkles from the shore of ebb
and flow between the Euphrates and the Nile. Nothing
makes me descend from the pharaoh’s boats. Nothing
carries me or makes me carry an idea: not longing
and not promise. What will I do? What
will I do without exile, and a long night
that stares at the water?
- Mahmoud Darwish, Who Am I, Without Exile?
It is difficult to capture the many existing
forms of displacement in only 30 pages of
writing. Only with passion and dedication
can we hope that this body of work
encompasses its expansive implications
and addresses the different ways in which
our communities experience displacement.
This multifaceted term must be
deconstructed in order to better understand
its literal and abstract interpretations. At its
core, displacement is a separation. It is not
neutral and muted as the empty distance
from an origin point, it is a very charged
distance. Whether inflicted upon someone
through violence, imposed on them as a
decision they had no control over, or even
a voluntary distance that they opted into,
the separation displacement causes is
never neutral, nor is it experienced in
the same way by all displaced subjects.
Distance experienced in material reality
bears different circumstances than the
distance within the abstract, intangible
reality of the mind and the heart,
although the latter’s consequences
may be equally dire as the former’s.
Perhaps what the external and internal
forms of displacement have in common is
the experience of loss, deprivation, and
longing. It is these characteristics that
might so deeply engrave displacement
into people’s experiences to the point that
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it is inescapable and irreversible. Displaced
subjects may find that even if they’re able to
retrace that distance back to the origin point,
it may not bring closure or a form of belonging.
The experience of deprivation can
be from freedom of expression, practice,
mere existence, occupying space, having
a sense of belonging, and feeling whole.
Deprivation forces displaced subjects to
bear the losses that come about in the
absence of these inherent needs and desires.
These losses, in turn, can cause a visceral
form of longing for an alternative realm.
Involuntary displacement can be
experienced like erased memories from a
mind that cannot possibly recollect what those
memories are, but feels the hollow space of
which they formerly occupied. Displaced
subjects may be able to mend the hollow scars
of displacement through the construction
of an alternative realm; a third space. This
new realm can act as a way to reconcile
the irreversible impact of displacement,
enabling the displaced subjects to transcend
the inevitable dysphoria of displacement
to make way for the emergence of a space
beyond the margins. A realm unbound
to the binary nature of homeland and
hostland, beyond confusion, beyond despair.
Unfortunately, some scars inflicted
by displacement are not so hollow, and
their redemption is far more arduous.
These confrontations can forever alter
the way displaced subjects make meaning
of their surroundings and imbue their
reality with significance in ways that might
only be understood by other displaced
people. These wounds of material
reality demand our collective action.
While the impact of displacement may
not be reversible, perhaps it can just be
reconciled. Through mediums like this body
of work, the aftermath of displacement can
be reconciled through a call to action, source
of reflection, or place of comfort to identify
with. Perhaps these stories will enable the
creation of a new realm that is unbound to
and unfazed by the deprivation, loss, and
longing within the confines of displacement.
With hope, these stories will offer solace
and empowerment by informing ways in
which consequences of displacement can be
reconciled, and the production of a new realm
will be possible both in material
reality and
Kimia Akbari
Editor-in-Chief
that of the heart.
5

OLLU
Traveling along the Ganga River in India
throughout millenials one would see people
bathing in, drinking from, and praying at the
river. Considered the holiest and purest river in
India, the Ganga has drawn in Hindus from all
over the world for centuries, and continues to
do so today.
Rithik Sachdeva, a first year
undergraduate student at UC Davis who
often visits his family in India, describes his
own experience visiting the Ganga River as a
calming and spiritual journey where he could
be introspective, and spiritually wash away his
problems.
“Generally you soak your feet in the
water,” Sachdeva said “Then you bring this copper
bowl that you use to pull in the water and then
pour that water back into the river. If someone
dies, or if someone is born then we go there and
the priests there write down your family history
and they have the scrolls from way way back so
they can trace you back generations.”
For centuries, the river, a personification of
the goddess Ganga, has held a deep significance
in the lives of Hindus— from birth to death over
generations. It is a place of purity and calmness;
MOTHER
GANGA:
EFFECTS OF POLLUTION ON THE HOLY RIVER
by lira rathee
a river whose waters can heal the sick and
provide a home for the ashes of the dead. Indian
civilization’s reverence for this river is due not
only to its spiritual aspects, but also its physical
properties: throughout history, the river has been
a major potable water source for both drinking
and for agricultural use. However, as India
develops itself into a larger industrial power, it
consequently continues to produce more waste
and sewage. This pollution often goes directly
into the Ganga River. As a result, the Ganga is
now becoming known for something else— being
one of the world’s most polluted rivers.
Sachdeva remembers drinking from the
water about a decade ago but has stated that in
the last few years, he has not been able to drink
from the water due to the extreme pollution.
Rituals of drinking from the water are now often
avoided by many who are worried about getting
sick. This change in the water’s physical purity
has disrupted the connection between both the
river’s spiritual and physical meanings.
However for many, such as Sachdeva,
while the Ganga’s physical body may
be polluted, the river’s spiritual
importance remains unchanged.
To him, and Hindus globally, the
Ganga continues to be a place
of peace and spirituality. Some,
despite the pollution, continue to
bathe in and drink from the water.
Others find alternate ways to
appreciate the river, such as only
soaking their feet in it, or simply
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TION
observing the river from the outside.
Dr. Sudipta Sen, a Professor in the
Department of History at UC Davis, and the
author of Ganges: The Many Pasts of an Indian
River, describes the Ganga as having two bodies:
one spiritual and one physical.
“[The spiritual body is] the one that cannot
be sullied, the celestial,” Sen said. “[But although
one] cannot pollute an idea, [one] can certainly
pollute a body of water.”
He describes the issues of pollution
SPIRITUAL
IMPORTANCE
the main hurdles in cleaning the river, she argues,
is that since the river is a public good and
doesn’t fall into just one jurisdiction, the central,
state, and municipality governments must work
together to enact change. This makes the issue
of pollution of natural resources as not just an
issue of the Ganga River or of India as a country,
as not concerning just the river itself, but
concerning the entire Ganga River Valley. He
outlines the physical displacement of many
who lived along the river due to projects such
as the Tehri Dam - one of the world’s highest
dams, and a major source for hydroelectricity in
India. Its construction resulted in protests from
the thousands of people who were forced to
move from their homes as well as from multiple
environmental groups all over India who were
concerned about the impacts of the dam on the
surrounding river valley. In addition, the effects
of pollution from industrial wastes and sewage
have made the river water unfit for consumption
thereby creating problems with lack of access of
water for drinking and agricultural uses.
What can be done to clean the river? Ishani
Saraf, a graduate student in the Department
of Anthropology at UC Davis, has
conducted research on waste
but as an issue for all.
“If the most celebrated and most revered
river is in this state, can you imagine what state
other rivers are in?” Dr. Sen says.
It is clear that the environmental effects of
pollution have and will continue to directly affect
the entirety of our planet. The Ganga River’s
pollution has not only physically displaced
the many people who have called the banks
of the river their home for centuries, but has
also created a disruption in the two bodies of
the Ganga; the spiritual importance, although
still wholly present, is no longer reflected in its
physical body. The river, affectionately called
“Ganga Mata”, or “Mother Ganga” is in a dire
environmental state where its heavy pollution
makes it dangerous to bathe in or to consume
from its waters. And although the river will always
remain a holy and sacred entity for Hindus, its
physical health must be addressed to ensure
management and urban that the river can continue to flow for centuries
reform in Delhi. One of to come.
7

NCE FOR Y
by teja dusanapudi
The
motherland has two
tongues: the one we speak and
the one we see. There is the language of
words, with unique phrases and even more unique
vulgarities, versus the language of the body, of perfectly
tilted heads nodding back and forth, of mobbed hands
grabbing for the check. We, immigrants and the descendants
of immigrants, tell our stories in both of these vernaculars; we
pass down our histories through our hands as much as our lips.
Tilt. Shake. Side to side. As one of the most common gestures
in India–and one of the most perplexing to foreigners–the head
bobble is a movement that means far more than what it signifies.
With its very own Wikipedia page, the head shake is recognized
across the globe as archetypally Indian; it is a physical representation
of the culture of a subcontinent. As a simple gesture, it would seem easy
to replicate. And yet, judging by the popularity of articles, blogs, and
videos on the internet offering decodings of such seemingly inscrutable
movements, the head bobble is apparently as difficult to understand as
it is compelling for Western audiences.
But for anyone hailing from the subcontinent, the movement is
second nature, an instinctual act. We see it in our grandmothers
telling stories of our parents to us, in the uncertainties our uncles
show at weddings when asked for another drink, in ourselves
as we mimic our family and reminisce in the language of our
people. It is, as writer Priya Pathiyan suggests, neither a
yes or a no, but an assertion of friendliness and respect.
Behavioral consultant Pradeep Chakravarty goes on
to assert that such an ambiguous act reproduces
the same culture it originates from; as
a result of India’s “traditional
agrarian
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ES
economy…. [people]
don’t openly convey refusal
or disagreement… because
you never know when you will
need their help.”
The head bobble, then, has
more in common with a sleight of
hand than any kind of nod; in plain
sight, occurring everyday in one
of the world’s largest populations,
it is physical evidence of what
we have come to characterize as
a collectivist society, a culture
centralized around group harmony
over individual discord. Rather
than a definitive answer, the move
presents a sort of equanimity,
equally applicable in agreements
as in disagreements. Paradoxically,
a head nod communicates nothing
while simultaneously enabling a
wider range of communication. It
is a cultural product that spreads
the values of its origins.
The inability for other
Western cultures to accept such
a movement comes, perhaps,
from mismatched sensibilities–a
willingness to act in personal
interest above other goals. But
what, then, does that imply
for us, for the
people of two cultures,
two cultures so different
in values that our very
movements are inscrutable to
the land we live in?
Because the head nod is
by no means limited to land, only
culture. Inherited along with the
collectivist values it reflects, the
shake is used by people of South
Asian descent even if they’d
never been to the mainland.
Rather, surrounded by friends
and family, the act is transmitted
within a country far away from
its origin, learned from everyday
interactions.
And so whether Indian
or Indian-American, whether
speaking the language of the
motherland or not, the head
shake is still understandable
across such barriers of language.
But in its presence in the
X-American, two cultures are
forced to inhabit the same
movements: one body inherits
the simple, clean nods of yes and
no, and at the same time learns
how to move the neck in a figure
eight to say both.
9

FINDING
PLACE
A
by deepa singh
“Coolie” in many South Asian languages commonly
refers to an individual that carries heavy loads and does
unskilled tasks. For Indian laborers working on plantation
estates in British colonies circa 1890-1902, this simple word
was shaped into a derogatory slur that eventually became
a part of their identity. The word “coolie” began to take a
literal form as workers carried the pain and suffering their
British oppressors imposed upon them.
The British were in need of labor, and a compliant
population willing to work for cheap for their sugar
plantations. British-hired recruiters would use outright
fraud and deceptive methods like making Indians “fear[ful]
of being beaten up, prosecut[ed] for kidnapping before
unsympathetic magistrates or having their licences
cancelled,” to coerce them into agreeing to travel to
unknown locations as laborers. The Fiji Islands were one of
the colonies where the laborers would travel.
During this time, approximately 60,995 Indians voyaged
to Fiji. Of the first Indians to go to Fiji, “45,833 went from
Calcutta and 15,132 from Madras.” Then the reality hit them:
this was a trap. A long journey of hard labor and unfair
working conditions awaited them.
In 1921, despite knowing the risks, people from Gujarat
and Punjab joined the groups travelling to Fiji seeking
economic opportunities. Records reveal that Fiji had the
highest suicide record of indentured laborers among the
British colonies. In an unfamiliar land away from everything
and everyone they considered their own, many Indo-Fijians
began experiencing, “ homesickness, jealousy, domestic
unhappiness”. This coupled with an inability to return
home to India all contributed to the “coolie” diaspora’s
suffering. This level of trauma, transferred to generations of
Indo-Fijians to come, is a driving force behind the struggle
of Indo-Fijian identity construction today.
As of 2018, 37.5% of the Fijian population is of Indian
descent. Many Indo-Fijians immigrated abroad to become
a part of other diaspora communities. Moving out of
Fiji’s borders brought a new challenge for Indo-Fijians:
attempting to converse with others a history and an identity
that still remains an unfinished puzzle for the diaspora.
With the question of identity being widely discussed,
the conversation and self-discovery of identity has fallen
on younger generations, some of whom take great pride
in their Fijian heritage. Pallavi, aka Fijiana, is a Fijian rapper
living in California. In her song, “Identity,” she speaks about
Indo-Fijian diaspora’s lack of representation, and the “coolie”
diaspora globally. “I noticed the need to constantly insert
the ‘coolie’ narrative since people around me constantly
forgot about it,’’ Pallavi said. Even at a South Asian Activist
camp Pallavi attended, there was still clear room to learn
about Indo-Fijian issues. This fight for acknowledgment of
Indo-Fijian history drives the need to wear Fijian culture’s
forgotten customs as a badge of honor. Pallavi naturally
tapped into her music career as a medium to showcase
more representation of the “coolie” diaspora.
“I have been focusing on my Fijian Identity because
I noticed that when I let people think of me as Indian
or Indo-Fijian, it kind of erases my ancestors [from Fiji]
and their struggles,” Pallavi said. This ideology sprouts
from people automatically grouping Fijians with Indians.
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Furthermore, Pallavi’s desire to honor
and remember Indo-Fijians’ plight
is rooted in systematic erasure
of the Indio-Fijian experience
within wider British colonial
intervention despite being as
brutally used as indentured
laborers by the British as
other commonwealth
populations.
“Being ‘coolie’ is like
navigating the South
Asianness which I carry
on my skin, in my
features, etc., whereas
the other culture [Fijian
culture], the struggles
and the journey isn’t
that easily seen, so I
think [I] have to talk
about that more,”
Pallavi said. Indo-
Fijians don’t choose to
forget or discredit their
South Asian heritage.
Rather, it’s the
complexities in the “coolie”
history that motivates
cultural selections between
Fiji and India. For newly arrived Indians
to Fiji, the Indian culture reminded them of their old
homes, and provided sanity in a place that felt insane to
them. Naturally, adjustment to the new environment,
newly gained relationships with native Fijian culture, and
cultural similarities all allowed for the Indo-Fijian or Fijian
culture that had emerged. For Indo-Fijians living abroad,
an additional layer of complexity comes from the culture
of their new home. Some Indo-Fijians maintain balance by
omitting the traditional Indian culture and incorporating
aspects that their forefathers decided to carry on.
Ultimately, the relationship became an effort to consciously
formulate an identity to pay respect to the hardships of
Fijian forefathers.
This unsteady search for identity all depends upon
the experiences heard or seen about the Fijian “coolie”
diaspora. The younger Indo-Fijian generation relies on the
oral histories of older generations to help them construct
their own identity. “I don’t think we had that kind of privilege
and ability to carry these kinds of stories. Most stories
ended at my grandma, and I don’t even know if anything
said is accurate,” Pallavi said. This lack of information limits
young Indo-Fijians’ curiosity about their roots in India. Thus,
even with the desire to tie themselves to a location in India,
the inability to find a relation forces them to lean heavily on
their Fijian heritage to ground them.
Indo-Fijian history is a puzzle. And with so many pieces
erased forever, younger generations must fit together their
information of the past and the present to create a new
puzzle altogether. Call them Indo-Fijian, call them Fijian,
or even call them “coolie”, people like Pallavi have taken
on the mantle of educating others about the Fijian “coolie”
narrative. They have taken the conversation back into their
hands and have decided that it’s time to pull the rug off and
put a mirror in faces that previously chose to not recognize
the diaspora by automatically grouping them with another
community. The displacement to Fiji left their ancestors to
find a new place to call home, now their descendents are
here, finding a place in the world.
11

DELHI’S WIDOW COLONY:
AN ASSESSMENT OF ANGUISH
by radhika marwaha
In 2017, Dr. Sandeep Sabhlok —then a resident at the University of California, San Francisco— was conducting a
“I
psychometric evaluation to study the mental health status of his patient when she experienced a 30-second flashback; a
specific symptom for Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD).
was taken back to the moment when I saw my husband burning on the ground,”
his interviewee said.
Sabhlok was assessing subjects for PTSD and Multiple Depression Disorder (MDD) in Tilak
Vihar, West Delhi, India. Now infamously called “Widow Colony,” this settlement was built by
the Indian government to compensate and relocate over 3000 widows after the loss of their
family members in the 1984 Sikh genocide. Most of the women — who came from Mongolpuri,
Sultanpuri and Trilokpuri in Delhi — readily accepted the government’s offer to provide for their children and ensure their
safety. Those who rejected, returned to Punjab or emigrated out of the country.
Instigated by prominent political figures of the ruling party, the Indian National Congress (INC) — Jagdish Tytler, H.K.L.
Bhagat, and Lalit Maken, the genocide was a response to the murder of the former Prime Minister, Indira Gandhi, by her
Sikh bodyguards -- Satwant Singh and Beant Singh, on Nov. 1, 1984.
Earlier in June, Gandhi had ordered a military attack on Sikhism’s holiest shrines, the Harmandir Sahib Gurdwara, in
Amritsar, India. Innocent Sikh families were caught in the tension between the Indian government and political activists
who had taken refuge inside the Gurdwara during the busy Gurpurab festivities. These activists were demanding economic
progress and religious and linguistic preservation for India’s Sikh minority of 1.9% in the state of Punjab, where 57.69% of the
population identifies as Sikh.
In an array of atrocities inflicted upon Sikhs across the country, copies of the Sikh holy scripture, Guru Granth Sahibji,
were burned and urinated on. Sikh temples in Delhi and other cities— where hundreds of families were taking refuge— were
hunted down and attacked. Conservative estimates record around 700 civilian deaths, but reported figures could range up
to 20,000.
To highlight the trauma and mental displacement that the widows experienced, Manmeet Singh, producer of the
documentary, Widow Colony: India’s Unsettled Settlement (2009), also interviewed Sikh women in Tilak Vihar, who told
stories of their family members who were dragged out of their homes and gang-raped on the streets. Their brothers,
husbands, and fathers were beaten and unturbaned by angered masses.
“The word rape comes with a great amount of discomfort, [and so does being] beaten up with rebars and having cut
hair,” Singh said.
Sikhs cover their heads as part of the Bana or the military uniform outlined by their religious Gurus and as a mark of
respect for their religion. To them, losing their turbans and letting their uncut hair down in public is synonymous with losing
their Sikh identity.
“For some Sikhs, they [would] accept death with no qualms, but they won’t give up their identity,” Singh said.
According to Singh, young boys’ mothers were forced to braid their hair to camouflage them as girls and protect them
from the mobs. This memory lingers on in the aftermath of the massacre, instilling a fear of identifying as a Sikh.
Singh’s documentary highlights mothers and children who lament the loss of their homes.
Some of them do not want to go back for fear of vivid memories. Nevertheless, each
year during the anniversary of these attacks, the entire community comes
together to honor the lost lives of their loved ones.
Upholding the value of Chardikala which teaches
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artwork by Ardaas Hora
Sikhs to be
optimistic in the
face of adversities,
the women in the colony
live through life and its everyday
emotions courageously. Whether it is by working
tirelessly for hours in the Nishkam community sewing
center or through job opportunities provided by
other businesses, the women have managed to put
the pieces together. However, the widows still suffer
pronounced mental distress.
“When I was doing the evaluation, I almost felt like I
was a psychiatrist holding mental health counseling sessions
because no one had ever asked [the women] about their
health,” Sahblok said.
A significant setback for Sabhlok’s study was that these
instruments were not designed to fit the Indian context. Of the four
PTSD symptoms -- intrusion, avoidance, negative alterations in cognition or mood,
alterations that allow activity-- the avoidance cluster was most difficult for the women to fathom.
and
“WON’T GIVE UP
THEIR IDENTITY”
In response to questions like “In this past month, how much were you bothered by avoiding memories, thoughts, or
feelings related to the stressful experience (here, November 1984)?” women told Sabhlok that the killings were ingrained in
their minds; they were a vital part of their lives. Low scores on the avoidance cluster caused the results to be scientifically
inconclusive.
Cultural contextuality is essential for such screening instruments given the rising worldwide risk of displacement
for vulnerable populations. Women in Widow Colony have been battling the repercussions of both mental and physical
displacement for over thirty five years now. Despite their different approaches to highlighting the experiences of widows in
Tilak Vihar, both Singh and Sablokh concur that every individual can contribute to rebuilding the realities of the women.
For Sahblock, being able to measure the trauma is the first step in healing.
“With India at a risk of becoming a bed of ethno-religious violence, and with the stigma within the Indian culture of
mental health issues, I think it is very important that we highlight this in our community for vulnerable people, who
are often unable to get care,” Sabhlok said.
13

The Complex
Construction of
Palestinian Identity
by hla elkhatib
Music strum with the oud, freshly cooked Mansaf
and dakbe dancing come to mind when picturing
Palestine, according to second-generation Palestinian-
American college student, Mohammad Jubran. In a
perfect world, this image would be the only truth.
With a military occupation of over 50 years,
Palestine’s reality is one that weighs heavily on the
identities of Palestinian-American young adults. Often
times, along with participating in activism, Palestinians
maintain their identity through imagining a liberated
homeland where Palestinians are free to return.
Without the ability to visit or return to their homeland,
Palestinians claim their identity only through memories,
stories, and photographs passed down from previous
generations in their family. The simultaneous physical
and mental displacement forces Palestinian youth to
struggle with identity construction.
This struggle is deeply felt by the likes of Jubran,
whose grandparents were forcibly displaced into
Jordan after Al-Nakba: the Palestinian exodus. Jubran’s
parents grew up in Jordan and eventually immigrated
to America as adults. While growing up in Los Angeles,
Jubran visited Jordan every summer.
Although he was able to see his family, Jubran had
little room to develop his Palestinian identity. Many
Palestinian young adults embrace their heritage while
living in the diaspora. However, their displacement still
causes confusion. As a child, Jubran felt disoriented
while juggling three different identities.
“I didn’t know I was Palestinian until the end of
middle school and beginning of high school,” Jubran
said. “As I got older, I actually began to delve into my
identity a lot more. The displacement really erases
your actual identity. I grew up thinking I was Jordanian
because that is all I experienced until I began asking
questions.”
Although he only visited his homeland once as an
infant, Jubran says his current connection to Palestine
is “strong and spiritual.” Like many displaced Palestinian
young adults, he depends on his own memory and
awareness of Palestine to keep this piece of his identity
strong.
First-generation college student, Jumana Esau,
says that her family’s displacement into Jordan caused
confusion for her growing up particularly because she
identified as Jordanian as much as she did Palestinian.
This is quite common -- approximately 70% of Jordan’s
population is made up of displaced Palestinians, many
of whom consider Jordan a second homeland. Living
in Jordan for five years caused Esau to develop a deep
connection to the land.
“I’m very grateful to Jordan because it’s a small
parcel of land with barely any resources of its own,
taking in all these refugees,” Esau said. “I would not be
where I am today if my parents didn’t go to Jordan.”
Although Jordan acted much as a
safe haven, Esau believes it caused her
connection to Palestine to become
muddled because she was never able to
meaningfully experience Palestine first
hand while growing up in exile.
“When I was young, I was skeptical
it [Palestine] even existed because when
you’re young, you only believe
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what you see,”
Esau said. “As I got
older, my perception
has gone from
questioning if this
place exists to I know
this place exists but
I don’t know where or
how I fit in.”
It’s common to see
Palestinian youth fully embrace
their Palestinian identity as they get
older, and develop their own connections
with their homeland. Constructing and maintaining
Palestinian identity directly lie in the hands of
Palestinians who keep their roots and history alive.
Since Palestine is constantly being denied the basic
right of existence, the passion for the homeland and
culture, coupled with participating in activism, are often
some of the only things Palestinian-Americans have to
hold onto. Much of this passion is often displayed in the
form of fierce activism targeted at raising awareness for
the Palestinian cause.
Palestinian college student, Cenna Abboushi, is
one of the many who eagerly participate in protests and
other types of activism. Abboushi has been an activist
since the age of 15 and most recently has participated
in raising awareness through Anti- Zionism week at her
university. Similarly to Jubran and Esau, Abboushi also
struggled with her identity as a child due to the
displacement of her family into Jordan.
Since she grew up thinking she
was half Jordanian and half
Palestinian, Abboushi
did not always feel a
connection to the
activism around
her.
“When I was in
elementary school, people
in my school would protest for
Palestine and I didn’t always know if I
was allowed to be helping them because I
thought I wasn’t full Palestinian,” Abboushi said.
The effects displacement had on Abboushi didn’t
allow her to truly connect with her full identity until
she was old enough to discover it herself. With age,
however, she was able to secure her identity in part due
to activism.“Activism helps me remember my identity
even though I live here [America] where it’s hard to
avoid assimilating into American culture. I am able to
educate others about my culture instead of just the
other way around” Abboushi said.
This passion for activism fuels the hope of freedom
and allows for the integrity of Palestine to live on
regardless of the realities of war and occupation
Identity construction proves to be a complex
journey for many displaced Palestinians. Whether
it’s Jordan or another neighboring country, forced
exile leads to generational confusion that can take
years to unravel. Nevertheless, Palestinians maintain
their identity strongly through their passion for the
homeland.
“Power lies in representation. The only thing we
have to hold onto is our passion for our homeland,” Esau
said.
15

OLLYWOOD: CH
perfect connection to
an NRI’s heritage.
Rising from
My favorite pastime was,
humble beginnings in the
and still is, going down the
early 19th century, Bollywood,
rabbit hole of Bollywood
the second largest film industry
music videos on Youtube.
in the world, is the global face
When I was young, the
of Indian culture. With a plethora
flashy dance numbers and
of talented actors and actresses
themes of romance and joy
performing flashy musical numbers
represented India for me.
set to cheesy love stories, it is easy
Bollywood movies were
to watch Bollywood simply as a
introduced into my life in high
source of entertainment. But as
school, when I began to grow closer to
a third-generation NRI, much
friends who were much more “Indian” than
of my connection to my
I was in the sense that they regularly traveled to
heritage has
India, practiced many more Indian traditions, and grew
up watching Bollywood films with their family,
a leisure activity that my family had never
stemmed from Bollywood
indulged in. This contributed to a growing
and its surrounding culture. Growing
connection to my culture, as although
up in a majority white community in
Bollywood dance and music had been
Southern California, specifically Ventura
a part of my life, visual media was no
County, the predominant way I maintained
brought to the forefront. In this way
a sense of Indian identity was through dance
glamorous aspects of Bollywood w
and music. With the lack of role models with my
what I focused on.
same ethnicity in both daily life and the media,
But I was illusioned to the
save for my own family members, turning to
and tribulations the majority of
cultural media became a way for me to feel
population endures because the g
pride in who I was.
side of the country was the side I c
As a booming film industry immersed
Not until I grew older did I recognize
in culture, as a music and film genre,
in India was far from what is portraye
and as a dance style, Bollywood
I began to realize that the music videos
provides a seemingly
up watching were vastly different from the
Indian families overseas endure ea
One crucial flaw I and others found with the indu
16 other collective

ASING CULTURE
by sona bhargava
doesn’t treat
its heroines
with equity and respect. Instead, it
misconstrues representations of Indian women.
Bollywood has created a couple of strict
stereotypes that the film industry tends to stick
to: most notably, the damsel in distress. The 2014
Salman Khan movie Kick attempts to integrate
the character type of Indian women in STEM
with Shaina Mehra, played by Jacqueline
Fernandez. In the film’s description,
Mehra is labeled a psychiatrist even
though she is seen exiting the
working field and is ultimately
overshadowed by the male
protagonist despite her
level of education and
w
, the
ere
poverty
India’s
lamorous
hose to see.
that daily life
d in Bollywood.
and films I grew
realities that many
ch day.
stry is that Bollywood
intelligence made
clear by the film.
Another classic
example is
seen in
the film
Three
Idiots
(2009),
where
Kareena
Kapoor’s
character, Pia, is
portrayed initially as
an intellect, as she is
the daughter of a college
principal and a medical
student herself. Yet, she also
fits into this ‘damsel in distress’
stereotype when she chases after
the male protagonist, Rancho.
Though NRI women have a
plethora of personalities, appearances, and
successes, they must accept a stereotypical
representation of themselves, or none at all.
Bollywood assumes its role as an easy medium
for cultural validation. Being overseas and seeing
only these few stereotypes of women onscreen, the
independent Indian woman is not showcased, and the
effect of this on my own life was me believing that most
Indian women
were in actuality
this way in India. For NRI men, their
cultural views of women are implicitly informed
by these films as well, and to say nothing about this
unconscious discrimination would be to ignore
the woes of the industry.
With the industry growing at an
ever-increasing rate, it is vital that
representation be accounted for in
Bollywood. While it is a comforting
pastime to watch and listen
to Bollywood for pure
entertainment purposes, it is
vital that NRI’s, and those
in India as well, pay
attention to the real
crux of the issues
surrounding the
industry.
17

My religion gives me guidance and inner peace. Islam
has always been a source of wisdom and comfort to rely
on regardless of how dire my situation’s circumstances
are. However, I frequently find contradictions between
how I practice my faith vs. how others practice. While
most of my family strictly eats halal meat, I find myself to
have an awful addiction to the number seven at Chickfil-a.
But what I have come to realize is that my way of
practicing my faith does not make me any less Muslim
than them. As a second-generation Pakistani-American,
the environment I have grown in has forced me to adapt
my religion around my life priorities.
My experiences are similar to those of my father’s.
As a Pakistani immigrant, my father’s circumstances led
him to develop a reformed practice of his faith which he
continues to abide by to this day. My Baba gradually came
to realize that he did not have the capacity to pray five
times a day while committing to a full time job. “America
was very tough for Muslims back then...mosques were so
far away from the city, [Los Angeles], and there weren’t
any halal stores,” Baba said. “I was working all day like a
robot to support family back home— like everyone—so I
guess I started to practice my religion according to my
convenience.”
My father’s story is representative of what many
immigrants experience: having to leave their home
country in search of an opportunity to provide for their
family. Although Baba maintained his strong connection
to his faith after immigrating, he had to prioritize
providing for his family over his religion. He simply didn’t
have either the resources or the time available to practice
Islam the way he did back home. It would be difficult to
pray five times a day while committing to a full time job,
LOVE &
but Islam meant much more to him than the number of
times he prayed in one day. His faith was a source of
comfort and peace for him at a time when he was on his
own, and burdened by the responsibility to be the sole
supporter of his family here and in Pakistan. My father’s
way of practicing Islam is definitely not the only way.
Some may think my father isn’t necessarily a devout
Muslim because he misses his namaz, or prayer, once a
day. But ultimately, both Baba and I have endless love and
passion for our religion. We simply practice our faith in
different ways.
About four years ago, I asked my friends from my local
mosque if they wanted to grab something to eat after our
typical Friday prayer. And because it wasn’t too far away,
I suggested Chick-fil-a. Never in a million years would I
have thought that I would soon feel embarrassed by
asking such a simple question. However, since the chain
18

offers non-zabiha meat, my own friends began to question
my faith. They were quick to assume that I wasn’t a devout
Muslim.
This experience, and many similar ones, have made me
feel as if I was unfaithful to not only my religion, but also to
myself. I often felt that people judged me as less of a Muslim
for minor infractions rather than my actual spirituality. It
was because of Baba, however, that I felt like Islam was
an essential aspect in my life that directs me to having
willpower to keep pushing through any time where I feel
defeated. From whenever Baba’s business wasn’t doing well
all the way to whenever he would have a slight cold, Baba
would pray, make dua, and feel as if he is unstoppable. And
I wanted to follow Islam exactly the way he did as it seemed
to always bring immense inner peace and guidance.
I may not relate to my father’s story of being displaced,
but we share a struggle for authenticity. I’ve realized that
it’s unfair to not only Muslims who were born in or who
migrated to the US, but also people of the diaspora to feel
like they aren’t as deeply connected to God despite being
separated from homeland communities that would offer
that validity. Religion offers displaced immigrants like my
father a way to feel like they’re still at home. To feel like
they will always belong to a greater good no matter where
they go.
“Allah has given me everything,’’ Baba said.
by taimoor qureshi
RELIGION
19

On Nov. 9 2019, Alfred was on a bus to
Washington D.C., mindlessly browsing the internet
when he saw his name on a Chinese news site. In an official
statement by the Xinjiang Uygur Autonomous Region (XUAR), the
Chinese government wrongfully accused him of being a member of a terrorist
organization, the World Uyghur Congress.
Alfred is a twenty-two year old Uighur Muslim born and raised in East Turkestan, officially
known as the XUAR. In 2015, he came to the United States to pursue a college education in
Economics, and later switched to Computer Science.
It has been two years since he has been able to speak to his parents. Alfred’s mother and father, a
math teacher and journalist for the state television respectively, were detained inside internment camps.
His mother was detained from December 2017 to early 2019. He has been unable to contact over a dozen
of his imprisoned relatives and loved ones in East Turkestan, including those who remain outside the camps.
Chinese authorities have banned Uighurs from contacting relatives outside of the immediate region. Even if
granted the chance to speak with them, Alfred fears that reaching out to anyone back home “will get [them]
detained.”
Internment camps are just one aspect to the Chinese government’s slow, calculated project of ethnic repression
and internal displacement of the Uighur Muslims. Mass detention of Uighurs is relatively new, but anti-Uighur policies
and actions are not. Although they have lived in the region for thousands of years, Uighurs of East Turkestan were brought
under Chinese rule in 1911.
In 1949, the region attempted to declare independence, but the movement was crushed soon after. Then, demonstrations
in the 1990s led to a temporary independent status. The Chinese government swiftly responded by curtailing any seperatist
sentiment. A series of violent protests in 2009 to 2014 continued to escalate tensions which ultimately culminated in the most
severe crackdown yet— the opening of the internment camps.
Today, China exploits the Uighurs’ plight to paint their narrative as a terrorist threat to national security. Alfred frames
this issue as one of cultural imperialism and colonization, not of Islamophobia. Targeting Uighurs has more to do with China’s
interest in controlling the oil-rich East Turkestan, and erasing Uighur identity than with suppressing their Islamic faith.
“If the current situation was due to Islamophobia or China’s treatment of Muslims, there would also be camps in Ningxia
[another autonomous region, in north-central China],” Alfred said. “There are over 10 Million actual Chinese Muslims called
Hui, who practice way more strict form of Islam, and there is no single camp there, and they are not subject of internment
camps and other crackdown like in Uyghur Autonomous region.”
Alfred’s story —from his childhood in Xinjiang to his current efforts to bring justice to the Uighur community —
shines light on the Chinese government’s campaign of forced ethnic assimilation.
“Even before the crackdown, there were [Uighur] people who disappeared--people who said something or did
something, or showed any sort of resistance against the central Chinese government,” Alfred said
By 2005, the Chinese Government required classes from elementary school to university to be taught only in
Mandarin. Government workers and educators, such as Alfred’s mother, were not allowed to wear headscarves.
Uighur language and cultural classes were restricted throughout the education system.
Uighurs have a rich cultural history filling Xinjiang with traditional dance, music, and art spaces. Muqam,
a style of classical music, has been collected into an epic called “the Twelve Muqams” and is considered an
“Intangible Heritage of Humanity,” by U.N.E.S.C.O. But over time, openly practicing these traditions became
more and more dangerous. When such “re-education” camps first opened in 2014, the immediate
targets were those who actively participated in cultural or religious spaces.
If one were to openly practice their Islamic faith, pray, or fast, they were in
danger of detainment. Moreover, those who had any association with foreign
nations—whether they had relatives abroad or had studied
20 other collective

abroad—were at greater risk.
Even during Alfred’s younger years, China was gradually
becoming a surveillance state, specifically targeting Uighurs and
other ethnic minorities. Police checkpoints were set up every `
100 meters. Police were granted the power to enter and reside in
Uighurs’ home for extended periods of time without permission
or previous warning. Phones were frequently confiscated and
randomly checked by police. Internet firewalls often prevented
communication with loved ones. Alfred managed to get a green
card in order to study in America, but many Uighurs are barred from
leaving their own cities without a permanent resident card.
Even so, when reports of the internment camps emerged, he
was shocked at how such atrocities could occur “in the 21st century.”
China’s efforts of forced integration of Uighurs had gone on for
decades, but had never undertaken a project of mass incarceration
on this large of a scale.
Such ”re-education” significantly centers around criminalizing
Islam, and punishing Muslims who practice their faith. Prisoners are
forced to eat pork, drink alcohol, and take courses which aim to turn
them away from Islamic cultural and religious practices. They are
barred from praying, or donning traditional garb.
Jessica Batke, a former State Department research analyst,
reported that detained Uighers are tortured through waterboarding,
isolation, starvation, and sleep deprivation.
Alfred was afraid to speak out about his family’s treatment in
XUAR instead choosing to keep his Uighur identity hidden.
“I stayed silent for a while--I even stayed away from the Uyghur
community in the United States,” Alfred said. “I followed every one
of their rules. But my parents still became victims.”
Contact with relatives back in China makes Uighurs more likely
to be targeted by the government; Alfred is still fearful that anything
he may say or do will provoke the government and put his family in
harm.
On Nov. 17 , Chinese nationalist newspaper, the Global Times,
published an article condemning Alfred, claiming his relatives
were “ashamed of the scum among their families,” and his activist
abroad. They claim his mother, “lives a normal life and is not under
detention,” and wants Alfred to “not be manipulated by others.”
His father, who has also been accused of “harboring a criminal and
inciting national enmity or discrimination,” and has been detained
for a sentence of nineteen years and ten months. Alfred is schocked
by these false accusations
”To be honest I don’t even know how I feel now. All I hope is my
father can be released as soon as possible and my family can get
some rest and treatment,” he said.
Alfred, along with other Uighur immigrants, has met with US
Secretary of State Mike Pompeo to discuss China’s repression of
Uighurs, and how the U.S. will address this human rights issue. On
Dec. 3 2019, the U.S. House of Representatives passed the Uyghur
Human Rights Policy Act which calls for sanctions on members of the
Chinese government. The U.S. is also one of twenty-three countries
that signed a multilateral statement at the UN General Assembly’s
Third Committee in Oct., condemning Chinese treatment of Uighurs.
Fifty-four countries stand in opposition, including Russia, Egypt,
and Pakistan. They defended Chinese internment camps as counter
terrorist efforts intending to protect human rights. The geopolitics
these letters reflect speak to the complexity and global reach of
China’s actions, and will likely inform future reactions to the current
situation. Still, Alfred hopes that the global community will condemn
China’s actions, and put an end to these atrocities.
by aarya chidambaram
CHINA’S PROJECT OF ETHNIC
REPRESSION
AGAINST UIGHUR
MUSLIMS
21

IASPOURIC
ONES
The term diaspora is something many of us can connect to or so electronic producer, Diaspoura hopes, having chosen
their name to reflect community experiences. Diaspoura grew up in South Carolina and first came to Davis in May 2019
to record with UC Davis radio station KDVS. I was fortunate enough to interview and connect with them, and learn about
their diasporic experience as a queer artist. Diaspoura’s performance revealed the freedom independent artists have
over their identity, rewarding nonconformity in oppressive systems of identity, making it a memorable performance. As an
artist, being transparent about queer identities can be very difficult; it may displace them further from an already displaced
community. I relate to Diaspoura’s experience of understanding discovering this liminal state of identity, and it was inspiring
to hear about how music gave them the ability to express their identity truthfully and connect queer people together, which
is why music is such a powerful thing. I caught up with Diaspoura after their performance in October to explore their musical
career and discuss the topic of displacement.
What inspired you in using the name Diaspoura?
“I remember reading my first ever account of a South Asian diasporic feminist. My college professor showed me a scholar
named Chandra Mohanty, and in the essay, she was talking about the experience of living in America and being from India. I
wasn’t born in India, but the word...how it bridged people...it felt like a void had filled. [I] started looking [the word Diaspora] up
to find more people talking about this. I was so fascinated, this was in 2015 or so, that I literally just started publishing things under
the name hoping people would see it and be like ‘cool, they’re here talking about this shit too... and the music is good’. And now I’m
seeing new people and articles every day who are normalizing the word ‘diaspora’. It just shows that building community across borders
and oceans - it’s needed.”
How did getting into art and music let you express your identity
better? What were your hardships identifying as those and showing
your art and being public about it?
“As a revolutionary, art is a great way to plug people in and it’s shown to be a form of resistance to me - to be able to make content about
the struggles that I have, and then organize around it. It’s helped me own my identities, and break out of this weird shame cycle that I was
socialized with. In controlling societies, we are told to be quiet about our experiences and what we’re upset about, and when we vocalize
them normally, it’s hard for people experiencing shame or guilt to receive that information, but art is a good way to communicate. People
will listen, re-listen, and double-take, like ‘oh, I feel this too!’ It’s a great way to rebuild the public narrative. But I do want to add, musicians
have the power to contribute to movements beyond narrative-building. In this way, I’m thinking, ‘OK, so my music is bringing people
with a shared narrative together. What’s next after building community? What are we all doing when we’re all together?’
I’m on tour on the West Coast right now in part to host workshops to explore this topic! I am grateful to host them
with my artist friend and organizing comrade, Joseph Quisol, and we hope to continue in 2020! Book us
please.”
by ariana boostani
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How does your experience of being queer displace you
from an already displaced community?
“It is really hard noticing and speaking on your own trauma. In this light, it’s hard for me to publicly delve
into it for a quick and free interview, but I will say that the transparency in my public image has helped me
understand who in my extended biological family is on my team. I have two cousins who reached out this
year and let me know like ‘hey what you’re doing is cool, keep doing it’, and it was really, really relieving.
That relief is even a trauma-informed response, one that says we’re not normally both acknowledged and
validated within our extended family. I am grateful for my parents’ effort in growing acceptance and
support of my wholeness each year; my mom started practicing pronouns last summer and we will
hopefully move into the sex-positivity ballgame in 2020, haha.”
How was the barrier
to making music inspiring?
“Platforms create barriers for artists because they
are designed and marketed as headless entities. Tech heads
design them so that nobody really knows who’s developing the
stuff and what their lives are like, and namely, the insane amounts of
money Big Tech investors, leaders, and workers earn off the backs of
independent artists, musicians, and writers. Once I had taken the first dose
of platform suspicion, I started writing about the experience of being an
independent, assessing my grief and fear by song-writing.”
Diaspoura uses their experience as an artist to advocate for
social changes; They hold workshops about unlearning oppressive
systems through their patreon website, which directly fund
their art and mission. Support Diaspoura by checking
out the website they created and listening to
their music on Bandcamp or Spotify!
23

EAKIN
B UNDARIES:
Hours spent on makeup and wardrobe, sweat and
anxiety poured into weeks of practice, and the restless
nerves before a performance – ManyFacedGodX enters
the stage. Dressed in a handmade bodysuit and realityaltering
makeup, Dornika Kazerani is no longer themselves.
They have manifested a new face for their godly powers
to possess. For this performance, ManyFacedGodX strips
themselves of the image of their body and immerses
the crowd in pure experience as they dance freely. The
Sunday after November 2nd show, Kazerani wrote on their
Instagram:
“As long as I move,
I am in my river –
A snake in the waves.”
Like other artists of the diaspora, Kazerani
performs to liberate their truest self. Kazerani has joined
a collective movement within the diasporic community to
create a third space for immigrant artists to explore the
relationship between hostland and homeland. Performing
in the nightclubs of Berlin, university, and festivals, Kazerani
is part of spaces that allowed them to not only fit in, but to
transcend. They are able to share art that goes beyond the
surface to express the intersection of cultures.
Born in Tehran, Iran, Kazerani moved to Berlin,
Germany at 22 to study fine arts at The Berlin University of
the Arts. Kazerani received a classical education in sculpture
during high school in Iran, but their recent projects have
evolved into an interdisciplinary form of writing, visual arts,
and performances that draw on their experiences as an
Iranian woman. Kazerani has delved deep into diverse forms
of expression including body work, drag, and experimental
music.
Having lived through an American and Iranian
upbringing, Kazerani felt the deep impact of displacement
when they moved to Berlin. “You get so used to a surrounding
with certain rules and dynamics until they are ingrained in
your being,” Kazerani said. “And then you’re put somewhere
where everything is different, but those rules and dynamics
are still in your body and its memories.”
Kazerani’s desire to understand the restrictions
imposed by society on identity and self-expression inspire
their art. In Berlin, Kazerani creates art that addresses
displacement, body trauma, and mental health – all issues
that they feel they need to heal for themselves. Recently,
they have been performing with a group of drag kings
called the Venus Boys in the Berlin bar Silver Future. The
Venus Boys use drag to represent, challenge, and subvert
masculinity in a performance where the world is for a
moment suspended into fantasy. On the stage, they invent a
world in which definitions are different, rules are perverted,
and the story is their own.
Through the art of dance, drag, and character-creating,
Kazerani explores resistance and resilience. “I am expressing
myself with the freedom to explore, without the taboos and
social limitations that could have existed for me in Iran.”
Thousands of miles away in Oakland, California,
Saba Moeel, known by her artist name Cult Days, harnesses
the power of social media to expand representation. Cult
Days family moved to the US when she was three to escape
Iran during the Iran-Iraq War. Now the artist behind
Instagram’s @PinkCatDaily, Cult Days channels her
experiences with spiritual and comical cartoons that
chronicle the stories of Pink the cat. Cult Days
says she intends to create a bigger movement
than just an Instagram page. Since launching
the account in 2016, Pink Cat has rocketed to
116 thousand followers and gained enough
momentum for Cult Days to open a
headquarters in Richmond, California.
Growing up as a Muslim, Southwest
Asian woman in Oakland, Cult Days’
community was diverse, but without
anyone like herself. Cult Days spoke to
the experience of growing up without
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a community of celebrities, musicians, and artists who are
Middle Eastern or Muslim.
“My parents didn’t really want to be in the US,” she said.
“No one wants to go to the country that is the cause of why
you need to leave your own country. They left generations of
wealth, their entire network, family, cousins – the people who
share their experiences in the world.”
Despite living in racially diverse cities such as Oakland and
Chico, California, Cult Days’ struggled to find a community
representative of her experiences. This lack of representation
drove Cult Days to create art, fashion, and music that allowed
her to share her culture with those who let her be a part of
theirs.
“People don’t know anyone like me. But I know a lot of
people like them,” Cult Days said. “It’s my job to present to
people who I am – I was born in Iran, I’m Muslim, but I also
grew up in the Bay Area with all the influence of the Bay Area.”
This is where the cartoon of Pink, a Middle Eastern,
Muslim cat, comes in. The cartoons of Pink often depict
religious or social situations in cartoons
written in English, Farsi,
Arabic, and Korean. These have become immensely popular
among the young Southwest Asian, North African and
Muslim communities. Pink has emerged in social media as
an influential voice for these groups that often go unheard
in American art communities.
Cult Days is mobilizing Pink to strengthen her
artistic movement and eventually one day create an
“e-nation.” With the new Pink Cat headquarters, Cult
Days has a physical space for artists and professionals to
collaborate and spread a peaceful message of inclusion,
diversity, and brazen honesty through social media. For
Cult Days, the Internet served as her original third space to
spread a message through creativity.
“It’s going to be poignant,” Cult Days said. “It’s going
to be educational about what we’re doing right or wrong.”
To Cult Days, Pink Cat is a deity. She said, “She is the
Internet. She can stream this huge amount of information in
the real wild-wild west, the Internet.” Cult Days described
her relationship with Pink as the Slim Shady to her Eminem.
Pink Cat can brunt the consequences of saying things Cult
Days wouldn’t necessarily, but she feels should be shared.
The Pink Cat cartoons share Cult Days’ message to be
honest about who you are, to pursue growth, and not lose
faith.
Far from their homelands, Kazerani and Cult Days
have never let go of their origins. They use their art to
provoke questions against the status quo and share their
unique perspectives with the world. Pushing audiences to
challenge their perspectives over social media and on a
stage, these artists are giving their communities a voice to
bring new narratives into society’s collective conscious.
A TIsts f the
d Aspora
by shayan kaveh
25

salivating over
these earrings:
evil eyes
threaded atop
geometric shapes
like the lollipops swimming in a plastic bowl
at Chase Bank.
My protection
will be so public - ancestors swinging
below my ears, whispering affirmations
during my morning routine,
ululating in the Fast & Easy Mart.
I spend at least two hours daily
debating which earrings I am trusting
to keep the evil at bay
I have hungered over
each earring on this site
seeking desperately some guidance
They are so long
I can suck on them
in class when I’m nervous
which is perfect because
you are only truly safe
when you are ugly
for thirty six dollars
plus tax and shipping
which one should i choose
when they are all so lusty
but unfortunately I can’t ask anyone
since I don’t have their protection now and no one can be truly happy for me
purchasing something so beautiful they are bound to curse me
I know this all sounds ironic but did you know
the word “glamour” used to refer to magic, as in
a spell that could change your appearance?
ookmarked page:
ave up for this!!!!!!
26 other collective by kiana borjian

I practice every night
softening my skin, shivering
while circling pomegranate-scented lotion
from my fingerprints to my dry calves.
Lotion bought in bulk,
tiny hot pink flowers gnawing
on the big beige bottle. What is softness if not
the churning and molding of plastic,
flesh bubbling into hollow shapes
you can fill with any number of things?
dry skin
by kiana borjian
When my dad lost his father, he found a new
one
in martial arts. Rows of men calf-deep
in the cold of the Pacific ocean, cutting
through
the air, angling their legs elegantly to
swivel and kick. He teaches me
arm-strengthening exercises:
bones making promises, I’m not sure to whom;
bruises
falling slow
like snow.
Dad tells me not to stand
during the pledge of allegiance.
These lessons are to be used solely
for self-defense. But what is fun
if not a violence you can share?
My impenetrable arms are my prized possession
& my party trick. I show them off, dare the boys
to clash forearms with me, ask them
who wants to fight?
A man asks where my family’s from I
make him guess. He says Iraq I say close
When he bends me over I taste petroleum,
and when he strokes me
my body turns to a dead fruit tree
longing for former ground.
I rub lotion into my forearms,
imagining how nice it would be
to push someone
who looks like me into this dirt,
see what it looks like:
27

Beyond identity
boxes and nationstate
borders:
Kurdish Artists
in Diaspora
by kimia akbari
At an estimated 30
million, the Kurds are among
the world’s largest stateless population. They are dispersed
across four corners of the modern nation-states of Turkey
(Northern Kurdistan), Syria (Western Kurdistan), Iran (Eastern
Kurdistan), and Northern Iraq (Southern Kurdistan), where
the autonomous Kurdistan region is located.
The scattered nature of their community has burdened
Kurds in diaspora communities with a sort of double
displacement: while they reside in a hostland far away,
their homeland’s population is physically fragmented, and
its existence attempted to be erased and denied. Second
generation Kurds in the diaspora carry the weight
of these circumstances as they grapple with
defining their position in relation to their multiple
identities. Their work pairs artistic expression
with activism to create wider visibility of their
homeland’s culture and struggle.
Sayran Barzani (@sayran) is a Los Angeles
based jewelry designer whose intricate
pieces are inspired by her Kurdish roots
and the regional Southwest Asian North
African (SWANA) cultures while including
a “western flair.” Her pieces combine
geometric shapes and bright colors
with traditional cultural symbols such as
the evil eye, the Egyptian eye of Horus,
and the Hamsa hand. She describes her
jewelry as “where east meets west:” a
notion she personally identifies with in
terms of her cultural identity.
Sayran found it challenging to understand
her identity while growing up in America, and
she felt equally alienated when going back to
visit Kurdistan.
“I’ve been visiting Kurdistan for the past decade...
the longest [visit] was three months when I was eighteen,”
Sayran said. “The first time I went, [the experience] was in my
face in a sad way. I was ready to come back here, and [I was]
ungrateful of the experience. Looking back, that was the best
experience I had and didn’t appreciate it.”
Her feelings changed, however, when she revisited about
a decade later in 2017: “I accepted [I’m] never going to be
100% like the people there, and never going to be 100%
American, and accepting that allowed me to experience the
country for what it really was.”
While growing up in Dallas, Sayran and her sister were
two out of the three Kurds in her entire school. She recalls the
hurtful childhood experience of having to explain where she
28 other collective

was from, only to be met with confusion
from her classmates.
“I remember in fifth grade someone
asked me, ‘where are you from?’ and
I had to point because technically
[Kurdistan] is not on a map, and they
would say, ‘Oh, you’re from Iraq.’ I didn’t
know what to say. I didn’t say it–I was such
a shy girl–but I remember thinking, ‘No,
Saddam Hussein almost killed my family [and]
gassed my grandma’s village’,” Sayran said. “But
as a child, you can’t put those things into words. As
a kid, I was so desperate to see it on a map, I remember
thinking at one point that maybe they spelled it wrong,
maybe it’s Kyrgyzstan.”
Jiyan Zandi is a creative director, artist, photographer,
and founder of Local Brown Baby(@localbrownbaby), a
media platform that celebrates cultural heritage, reclaims
historical narratives, and tells the stories of empowerment
through personal, local and global struggles. She describes
her work at the intersections of content production, fashion,
and lifestyle with both a social justice perspective, and a
focus on cultural representation and celebration.
Born to a Kurdish father and Mexican mother, Jiyan grew
up in San Diego, Calif., another city with a large Kurdish
community.
Jiyan learned about her Kurdish heritage from her father.
“The way [my father] taught us was through food, music,
dance–through very vibrant culture references,” Jiyan said.
“That’s the way that I got my Kurdish side; it was from a very
artistic perspective.”
One of the reasons for the creation of Brown Baby was
to express the many dimensions of her identity through an
artistic medium. “I didn’t really understand myself, and my art
has always been that way of figuring it out and showing how I
feel in my mind,” Jiyan said. “One of the photos I would take
is me in a Kurdish dress holding a Hip-Hop magazine.”
For Jiyan, self-portraits and art are a way of expressing
the juxtaposition of the different worlds she navigates.
“[For] my dad, his homeland is Kurdistan, and he’s here in
the United States, and those are just two places he navigates,”
Jiyan said. For her, the experience is far from binary: “You’re
never Mexican enough, and you’re never American enough
and you’re never Kurdish enough,” she added.
Through Brown Baby, Jiyan hopes to create a space
for women who share this complex experience.
“You have to create the spaces that you wish existed,
and that’s what Brown Baby has done. It [has] connected me
with the right people who [had] similar experiences that I
did growing up as a Kurdish girl in America–growing up with
pop culture and being
misunderstood,” Jiyan said. “I
grew up with 90’s Hip-Hop but also my
dad would tell me stories of his homeland and
play Kurdish cassette tapes in the car. What do I
make of all of that?”
Nuveen Barwari is an artist whose multidisciplinary
work is also inspired by her heritage. Nuveen is an MFA
candidate at the University of Tennessee, Knoxville and the
founder of Fufu Creations(@fufucreations), an apparel and
art company. A native to Nashville, Tennessee, Nuveen is
part of the largest Kurdish community in America. Growing
up in Nashville and attending school for five years in Dohuk,
Kurdistan, her identity is something that she describes as
“continuously changing”. Throughout the years, she has come
to identify as a Kurdish woman living in America.
“Growing up, I was thinking: wow, this is so cool, I have
cousins that live all over the world, and I get to visit them,”
Nuveen said. “When I grew up, I realized [that] this is not
cool at all. We’re so displaced; the Kurds are scattered
everywhere.”
As these artists create work representing their diasporic
experience and culture, they also garner inspiration from the
incredible immigration stories of their families, who came as
refugees to the United States in the 1970s.
Sayran’s family came to the United States to flee the
Ba’athist party’s Arabization campaigns, a series of violent
raids throughout northern Iraq aiming to wipe out the region
of non-Arab ethnic minorities. In 1974 her grandfather, Jamal
29

Bekhtyar, painted
a political poster
about the
tragic violence
imposed on
the Kurds by
the Ba’ath party.
“The Ba’ath party
saw [the poster]
and wanted my
grandfather dead,”
Sayran said. “They
got him at some point,
but he escaped jail and
ended up getting shot
in the leg.” Following this
incident, Sayran’s grandfather
fled Sulaymaniyah in Iraqi Kurdistan,
and traveled by foot to Tehran, Iran. Here,
they lived in a tent for a year before receiving their
paperwork for political asylum and relocating to North
Dakota through a church sponsorship.
The incredible experience of her family has led to Sayran’s
own activism for the Kurdish community. Sayran launched an
exclusive Rojava earring set with 100% of the profits going
towards emergency aid provided by organizations such as
Heyva Sor and the Lotus Flower. The funds aided the Rojava
region in northeast Syria when nearly 300,00 people were
displaced as a result of Turkeys offensive into northeast Syria
in October 2019.
Nuveen’s family were also made refugees as a result of
the violence taking place in northern Iraq. Nuveen’s father,
Muhammad Said Barwari, was part of Peshmerga, Kurdish
guerilla fighters leading the rebellion against the Iraqi
Ba’athist regime. Like Sayran’s family, Nuveen’s father
also fled to Iran, unable to go back due to his political
status as Peshmerga, and ended up coming to the
United States in 1977.
Jiyan’s father, Salah Zandi, immigrated
to the United States as a political refugee in 1977.
“Saddam Hussein promised he would give [Kurds]
autonomy. He didn’t; he betrayed them,” Jiyan said.
“During that time, my father had to flee to Iran
with [Mustafa] Barzani.” Zandi was a Peshmerga
fighter since he was 17 years old, eventually moving
his way up to a political strategist. “My dad was [a]
guerilla fighter in the mountains. They didn’t have a
lot.” Jiyan’s father was later sponsored by the Agape
Foundation and immigrated from Iran to New York first and
eventually moved to San Diego.
Jiyan gains inspiration from her father’s incredible
and arduous immigration story to uplift the Kurdish struggles
for independence.
“It’s a way of validating that we might not be on a
map [and] the only thing you might hear on the news is about
war and violence; but I’m here to show you that there’s so
much more: there’s this beauty, there’s so much complexity,
and there’s so much color to this world that you only know
through this black and white media binary.”
The validation of these stories is a powerful
sentiment that resonates with Nuveen’s work as well. She
explores this through the depiction of mobility between the
United States and Kurdistan.
“There’s a duality happening with the hot Cheetos
[and rugs]. I think about the time and place[s] the hot
Cheetos would travel from America to Kurdistan when I lived
there. There is this cultural exchange happening. There’s
this constant east and west exchange. I create a lot of these
alternative borders in my work. Some [pieces] don’t have
borders; [for those pieces] I’m leaving the borders open.”
30 other collective

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31

OTHER COLLECTIVE
a student-run magazine dismantling
orientalist media perspectives
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Other Collective
@other_collective