By Karen Lim
2020

By chance, we are born into this world at a given time and location. This is something that no one, no matter their status now, as a developing fetus, has any control over.

However, the location and time which you are born into makes a world of difference over how your life will be. Will it be difficult simply to stay alive? Will you get a chance to reap what you sow? Not to say, will people discriminate against the person that I was born as? Will they discriminate against my race, my ethnicity, my gender, my sexuality, and my identity?

Every country has its problems, and in the United States, we like to point fingers to the problems of other countries, saying we are not as bad as them. Would we be surprised to know that we have similar problems, just in different forms? One thing that America and Australia have is their inhumane detention of asylum seekers. A problem that has existed for a long time but has been highlighted more in the past few years due to it being one of the main topics discussed for the American Presidency elections.

Villawood is about the experiences of people in an Australian immigration detention center. It takes the difficulties that immigrants and asylum seekers face when they come to Australia, and portrays them in a comic form, so that it is easier to digest. Asylum seekers and immigrants come to Australia for several reasons, but it all boils down to trying to have a better life. They all have their own reasons. Some are trying to escape the Taliban. Some just want a normal life. Some want to escape the repression from their government for simply being themselves. Some people just want to stay alive.

Politics tend to dehumanize these people into horrible people simply trying to take advantage of their good will. They call them names, keep them in horrible conditions, humiliate them, and deny them simple human rights.

In addition to that, they are not protected by the law. What crime have these people committed for us to not treat them as equals, or even as humans? Simply being born in a different country. Fleeing their countries to stay alive? Should they be sitting ducks and simply stay where they were although they knew what would happen if they did? The problem here is that we do not see these people as people.

If you were to put yourselves in their shoes, what would you do in a life-threatening situation? I would hope that your self-preservation instincts would kick in then. It is messed up that the public feels dominance over these people due to their different conditions. When one lives in a society that actively repressed them, they sometimes find themselves falling to fit into the mold of what others say about them. Other times, because of assumptions and discrimination, they find themselves being put into that mold even when they have done nothing wrong. It is an uphill battle from the start.

Detention centers mistreat the people living there, both mentally and physically. (Zion) Physical harm, although messed up, can heal. Harm to your mental health can stay with you for the rest of your life, and can even cause you to try to end it. Detention centers are a breeding ground for mental illnesses. (Ahmed) You are left to battle loneliness, discrimination and any harm the guards and other people there may inflict on you, while also left in a world of uncertainty. You also do not get any privacy. Will I be left here until I die? Will I be able to see the outside, to live a normal life, or to see my family and loved ones again? Is that possible? Those in healthcare positions in these facilities are bound by their job codes. (Zion) They are there because of their job, trying to provide care to patients, but the system makes it hard to do so. They are trying to help those who are stuck in a place that breeds more harm to the patients, and can do nothing to get these patients out of this situation. Outside of the detention center, if someone has a problem, an attempt can be made to solve it by leaving the toxic place or person. In this situation, they cannot leave, nor distance themselves from anyone. They are not the ones in power.

Detention can be a cause for mental illnesses itself. (Zion) The facility itself is dehumanizing. The guards put the idea that they can do whatever they want with them, and still not get caught or reprimanded. This can throw a person in a hopeless spiral. No matter what they do, what is the difference? Nothing will change. As for children in this situation, their childhood will consist of being in what is little less than a different type of jail.

Most of these people have done nothing wrong, and simply want a better life. Is wanting a better life a crime? Is that not all of us? Simply because we were fortunate enough to be born into better situations, does not mean we are better. It could have easily been us in their shoes, or them in ours. Has the time not come to stop this ongoing cycle of treating people from other countries as always having ill-intent? Innocent until proven guilty should extend to everyone, with better and humane conditions.

Works Cited

Safdar, Ahmed. “Villawood.” The Shipping News, Medium, 5 Mar 2015. medium.com/shipping-news/villawood-9698183e114c.

Zion, Deborah, et al. “Psychiatric Ethics and a Politics of Compassion.” Journal of Bioethical Inquiry, vol. 9, no. 1, 2011, pp. 67–75.

By Melany Barros-Mesias
2020

How are Caribbean culture and the concept of culture (in general) perceived by the narrator or author in A Small Place and Poetics of Relation?

The marketing of impoverished countries demonstrates a peripheral view of the local reality. In short, it disregards the history of how their people established and nationalized their respective traditions. Through the efforts made by Jamaica Kincaid and Édouard Glissant, their bias or neutral recognition of culture elaborates on how political and economic structures have led tourism and multiculturalism to thrive around the world.

Kincaid in her written piece, A Small Place, takes the approach of speaking on behalf of the population that welcome tourists into the Caribbean, specifically Antigua (3). She utilizes imagery to explain the perspective of how tourists perceive the island as “beautiful” and “deliciously hot”, but opposes slightly with discussing how the weather has led to drought being an existing issue for Antigua (4). As she proceeds to lead “you” the tourist, she goes over various details “you” are oblivious to such as the actual price of riding a taxi or how Antigua’s health system fails to assist its respective beneficiaries (5,7). To see how through her storytelling, she manages to detail many flaws missed in the first impression of the island. Many tourists often overlook the effort and time it may take to have produced certain craftsmanship that, in reality, is a luxury to citizens that live there. This information truly allowed for readers to receive insight onto how tourists are not impacted through the failure and deceit of the country’s economy. Instead, they contribute to the financial system that continues this cycle of poverty to exist for Antiguans. The economy tourists fuel benefits this product they are going to experience, which is the illusion of an elegant and tropical vacation.

Kincaid also introduces the tourist to the library she is familiar with (8). She describes it as being under reparations, due to the earthquake that had left it damaged for over a decade. She recalls its connection to the colonial times, mentioning how Antigua achieved independence from Britain (9). In the text it states, “Antiguans are so proud of this that each year, to mark the day, they go to church and thank God, a British God, for this.” The metaphor of a “British God” is an indicator of how this community felt possessed even through their belief system. Antiguan independence is disregarded due to how Europeans and North Americans have described their conquests of the West with wealth from exploited labor (10). The British took advantage and exported people from Africa to islands like Antigua to be able to have free labor. Therefore, Britain, being the mother country, colonized and adjusted this population to their hierarchy (24, 25). By mentioning this, Kincaid highlights that everything that makes up Antigua also is a reminder of how difficult it was to achieve freedom. This moment of slavery and oppression was the foundation for how the Antiguans conquered their homeland. It is undeniable how the political structures that Kincaid describes favor a history of being colonized and controlled rather than freedom.

Glissant in, Poetics of Relation, discusses this concept of whether people can ever, metaphorically, be “rooted” to one location (11). Meaning, that it is questioned whether a birthplace can truly identify someone holistically. He describes distinct forms of nomadism, initiating with an example of circular nomadism in the Caribbean (12). He distinguishes the Arawak communities as having to navigate from island to island, or laborers in their pilgrimage to work in different farms. This instance creates a better understanding for why nomadism exists. To see that exclusion is avoided through not having ties to one given place, reveals how liberating it can be to not feel oppressed. Glissant discusses how people, that have had their territory conquered, experience a painful quest as they must learn to reject their colonizer’s ownership of their land (17). Instead of giving into oppression, Glissant sees how the Arawak population is able to place their focus on surviving on a day-to-day basis (12). It could be food or working for pay, but their life experiences are what define who they are. While Glissant provides many examples afterwards that relate to other regions, it begins to support the theme of change versus tradition. Typically, society is very much driven by a higher power, but he challenges this idea with individual rule. With this subtle anarchy, many may consider the idea chaotic while this author is able to depict it as a way to show how to compromise our identity without the baggage that history may carry. Therefore, it is evident in how slightly bias Glissant is with his writing; however, he introduces larger concepts involving multiple cultures.

Glissant also mentions that by opposing economic and cultural forces, totalitarianism is avoided entirely (19). He identifies how generalization is a form of totalitarianism and this has led for there to be one set of rules that indicates countries as the model way to lead (20). By presenting these concepts, Glissant goes beyond the Caribbean to indicate that multiculturalism has come to exist and will help in the evolution of people to not feel oppressed by one given government or economy. He manages to juxtapose this patriotic manner Kincaid references in her writing. This has allowed for there to be these two perspectives of what it means to connect and solely identify to one’s birthplace than to draw from so many. In Kincaid’s writing that shows pride for Antigua, she also portrays anguish from having her history be entirely based on colonization. Glissant debates this with the concept of not creating a connection or sense of belonging with land. A territory’s history of flaws, within its political and economic structures, will only lead to self-inflicted oppression (19). This author truly reminds readers of how restrictive our societies are with standards of rank and power. This idea he shines light on is symbolic of how global communities are becoming blended. Caribbean customs are derivative of many Western societies and this is valid in proving how culture develops.

Throughout both texts, the expression of how Glissant and Kincaid identify the systems that exist in the Caribbean shows how it was not as simple as there being positive or ambiguous aspects about its culture. Instead, there is this idea of bias and how issues based on the past can be mentally approached through one’s experience. Glissant creates this transformative piece of writing that contradicts a black and white lens about culture. He opens it to this idea of economic and political systems constantly changing how we view life. Kincaid was directly opposed in giving a valid perspective of what an Antiguan may experience to survive. She compares the population’s lifestyle to the closed mindset of a tourist, clarifying how ignorant the world is to systemic issues that exist all around the world. In seeing these two works differ, it shows how perspectives are meaningful to further understand how traditions are defined in different respective spaces.

Works Cited

“Errant: Definition of Errant.” Oxford Dictionary. www.lexico.com/en/definition/errant.

Glissant Édouard. Poetics of Relation. University of Michigan Press, 2010.

Kincaid, Jamaica. A Small Place. Daunt Books, 2018.

By Yael Kirschner
2020

Anti-Semitism is an age-old idea that unfortunately continues to manifest itself differently each year. For clarity, I will be using the International Holocaust Remembrance Association’s (IHRA) definition of anti-Semitism which has been adopted by many countries and universities. The definition is as follows, “Anti-Semitism is a certain perception of Jews, which may be expressed as hatred toward Jews. Rhetorical and physical manifestations of anti-Semitism are directed toward Jewish or non-Jewish individuals and/or their property, toward Jewish community institutions and religious facilities.” In Teju-Cole’s, Open City, there is a conversation between the main character Julius and a character Farouq. During this conversation, there are anti-Semitic remarks made by Farouq, but what is even more compelling is the context in which these remarks were made. Cole artistically and ironically put these remarks in a specific setting to create and express a profound idea; one group’s persecution impacts all of society negatively.  To prove this as true, we must first analyze how Farouq’s remarks were anti-Semitic in this conversation, and subsequently discover how the way that his remarks were placed purposefully by Cole not only highlight anti-Semitism in the modern age, but prove a much larger point for all of humankind.   

The conversation under speculation takes place in a Portuguese restaurant in Brussels. Farouq, Julius, and Khalil are having an intense conversation about Jews’ suffering in the Holocaust, and amid this whole debacle, Farooq expressed his feelings about Jews as a whole. He said, “Don’t get me wrong, I am not personally against Jews. There are many Jews in Morocco, even today, and they are welcomed as part of the community. They look just like us, though, of course, they do better in business. I think sometimes I should become a Jew, just for professional reasons. I’ll be able to get everything done” (Cole 111-12). The IHRA definition of anti-Semitism also provides examples for what it includes. One of the examples is, “Making mendacious, dehumanizing, demonizing, or stereotypical allegations . . . Jews controlling the media, economy, government or other societal institutions.” The remarks of Farooq in this passage, directly fall into this category of economic anti-Semitism. This type of commentary was used by the Nazi Regime in World War II to help turn people against their Jewish neighbors. “Jews control the banks” or “Jews run the media” are a few of many examples that are often expressed in relation to anti-Semitism and Farooq’s remark is no different. These comments are unfortunately all too common and what is even more upsetting is that they didn’t shock me, due to amount of anti-Semitism that occurs regularly. What I was intrigued about was the context that Cole placed these slurs in. 

The Jewish people have faced persecution since the time that the Bible stories occurred, all the way up to these past few years, where hate crimes against Jews are at a record high. This is why Farouq’s comments don’t come with much shock. According to the Jewish Telegraph Agency, although Jews only comprise 2-3% of the American population, “In 2019, hate crimes against Jews comprised 62% of all hate crimes based on religion, up from 58% in both of the previous two years.” What is most important about this trend is that it is not only vital for Jews to actively combat anti-Semitism. In Deborah Lipstadt’s book, Antisemitism: Here and Now, she explained that an attack on any group of people, whether it be Jews, Palestinians, or Hispanics, is an attack on all of society. As she put it very eloquently, “when expressions of contempt for one group become normative, it is virtually inevitable that similar hatred will be directed at other groups… No healthy society harbors extensive antisemitism – or any form of hatred” (Lipstadt xi). She further explained that the same goes vice versa; Jews must be a part of change and be sensitive to another group’s persecution as if it were their own- because it is. With this mindset and understanding, it is clearer how the remarks by Farouq in a very specific context highlight this exact concept. 

The comments that Farouq made are ironically placed after two specific scenes. “I’ll tell you why the six million matter so much: it is because Jews are the chosen people. Forget the Cambodians, forget the American blacks, this is unique suffering. But I reject this idea. It is not unique suffering. What about the twenty million under Stalin? . . . All death is suffering. Others have suffered, too, and that is history: suffering” (Cole 110).  Farouq is claiming that the Jews’ suffering does not matter any more than another group’s persecution. I, myself, whose family suffered greatly during World War II, agree with this concept, although, I view it differently. Just as the suffering of Cambodians matters; the suffering of Jews matters. It is not that none are unique or that one group is unique. It is that they are all unique, because each group’s suffering is a hamartia of all of society and will inevitably cause it to crumble. The irony of Farouq having said this is that it sounds as though he believes in equality of justice, but where is the equality later on in his anti-Semitic rhetoric? Farouq is clear that he does view six million as “a terrible tragedy” (Cole 110), but he is also clear that he believes “the six million are not special.” This is where I disagree, the six million are special, as are all groups’ suffering. 

Moments later, Khalil’s phone rang and he had to abruptly leave. Once he does, Farouq said, “he is my best friend. He actually owns the phone shop . . . . So, he’s my boss. But he doesn’t believe in being boss . . . . We are from the same town . . . . he gives and doesn’t think twice about it” (Cole 111).  It is then only a few lines after this, that Farouq made the previously analyzed anti-Semitic remarks. It would seem at first glance that this tangent about Khalil is just merely a tangent, but Cole put it in between Farouq’s discussion of the equality of suffering and his later anti-Semitic remarks, making a bigger statement about the entire problem. If any suffering becomes less important it shows a fatal flaw in all of society and it leads to the remarks that Farouq made. The commentary made by Farouq about Khalil showed an honest sense of friendship and support even though Farouq was technically in a position of being inferior to Khalil. Within this dialogue, Cole illuminated the insidious nature of anti-Semitism. While Farouq recognized that his own friend treats him incredibly well, even though Khalil is his boss, Farouq unevenly applies that same kindness to other faiths in more extreme situations. When a group of people is persecuted, it is usually because of something that differentiates them from “everyone else,” which then ironically leads to the downfall of that same “everyone else.” The key to a healthy society is having everyone, alike and different, give to one another. Give their respect, give their helping hand, give their mind clear of judgment. Like Farouq says about Khalil, “he gives and doesn’t think twice about it.”

Open City, in its totality, sometimes seemed as though the side conversations don’t have a purpose or are just there for the storyline but that is untrue. Cole purposefully placed specific conversations contextually to represent a larger point about some of the world’s biggest problems. The conversation between Farouq and Julius highlighted the microcosms that make up the whole problem of anti-Semitism. These difficulties, if left unsolved, will aid in the rise of prejudice against Jews and non-Jews alike, creating an unsafe world full of intolerance for everyone. It is when we turn to one another, in compassion and love, never ignoring any group’s suffering, that we will create a stable society. 

Works Cited

Cole, Teju. Open City. Random House, 2011. 

Lipstadt, Deborah. Antisemitism: Here and Now. Penguin Random House, 2019.

Sales, Ben, et al. “Anti-Semitic Hate Crimes Rose by 14% in 2019, According to the FBI.” Jewish Telegraphic Agency, 16 Nov. 2020, www.jta.org/2020/11/16/united-states/anti-semitic-hate-crimes-rose-by-14-in-2019-according-to-the-fbi. 

“Working Definition of Antisemitism.” IHRA, www.holocaustremembrance.com/resources/working-definitions-charters/working-definition-antisemitism.

By Theo Frye Yanos
2020

Seven days have passed since Lakeland. The texts from Celine are left unread, and I have hardly talked with my parents since his confession. But with time, through all the lip-biting and chain-smoking my thoughts have matured into a kind of clarity. A dedication to pacify the anxiety taking over my life no matter the cost.

At the counter of the 42^nd Street Library’s reading room, I finally pick up the book I am looking for. A thick tome with an authoritative title: Book of the Dead: Becoming God in Ancient Egypt. I am suddenly struck by a moment of doubt – why am I here? Am I just feeding my father’s obsession more, giving credit his mania? I take the book quickly to an empty seat. It’s not like I could convince myself to turn back at this point, anyway.

The text known to the ancient Egyptians as the Book of Going Forth by Day served as a type of guide- or hand-book that provided the dead with critical religious knowledge to successfully navigate the perils of the netherworld and the afterlife… The Book of the Dead is a compendium of spells, often thematically organized, that have various origins… (Scalf 7)

Memories distant and recent race through my head. My father on the phone mentioning his measles diagnosis. Again, by the lake, when I thought he would tell me he was dying. For his whole life he has been a man living with a fatal diagnosis never fulfilled, preoccupied with the afterlife as an escape from the nightmares of his present.

Perhaps he had been suppressing something in his reading of the Book of the Dead. The Egyptians never said reaching the afterlife was easy. Numerous creatures would come to attack my father on his journey to the divine realm: snakes, pigs, crocodiles, and locusts (Scalf 135). Papa’s many victims brought to life to give him scars a thousand times more deadly.

Even my father, who had no qualms about scaring his daughter every night reading from the book, never told the part that came after the weighing of the heart. “I am not a violent man,” he made me read. “I have never slain any men or women. I have done no evil.” But in the end, when they find that his heart weighs more than the feather? The crocodile-lion-hippopotamus creature Amemet, Devourer of the Dead, would consume his guilty soul and thus deliver his “second and final death” (Scalf 184).

I put the book down and look away. Something about the phrase “final death” sends shivers down my spine, and I get a sudden feeling of being caught doing something very wrong. But before putting the book away, I brush by a page that catches my eye. It is the spell 30B, found inscribed on a small sculpture called a heart scarab.

O heart of my mother! Heart of my being. Do not stand against me as a witness. Do not oppose me in the tribunal. Do not weigh against me before the keeper of the balance. For you are my ka which is in my body … (Scalf 188)

***

I arrive home on a near-empty 2 train, in a rare mood of singular focus. I feel as if I am walking blindly up a staircase, unsure if there is another step or just a drop into the abyss.

Knocking on the door, my mother opens it and greets me. “Manman,” I tell her first thing after taking my shoes off. “Yon ti koze. We need to talk.”

We go into her bedroom and she shuts the door. I let out a deep sigh.

“Manman, you said that Papa is like a seed thrown in rock…” Getting the words out is much harder than I expected. “but is Papa a good seed?”

“Ka,” I hear her voice faltering, “I don’t know. But he’s our seed. He’s my husband and he’s your father, and I find a way to love him.”

“But…” I struggle to find the words, afraid of already losing the argument. “Manman, you know I loved him too. I would have done anything to save him from death, but now I know the truth. He’s not a broken man, he’s not humble, he’s not like the statue at all. He’s a man on the run. He’s a man obsessed with what’s beyond but he could never face the trials it takes to get there. He could never face the snakes or the locusts. He could never face his past.”

“My love, you know I never wanted him to read you that book, right? You know I never wanted him to name you Ka?”

“But you let him do it!” my voice becomes tinged with anger. “And he never stops acting like I’m his Ka. But his Ka is inside him. They’re his evils, and he has to face them alone.”

“Ka, I don’t know what to tell you. The past is the past, you can’t change it.”

I take a deep breath. “Why do we never go to Haiti?”

She looks at me, panicked. “My daughter, what are you saying?”

“Just answer the question, please.”

“Ka, don’t act a fool! We never go to Haiti because there is a man there who will kill him! Do you hear that? Your father will die! Not in your Egyptian fantasy, but in real life!”

The words hit me, and I burst into tears. My mother comes by my side as I embrace her and cry over her shoulder, six years old again. “I’m sorry Manman, I’m so sorry…”

But suddenly the door opens. It is my father. “Luisah…” he says with a heavy sigh, “Ka is right.”

“Agwé?” my mother stares at him, shocked.

“No, no,” I make out, trying to choke back the rest of my tears. “Please, Papa, stay here, I won’t want you to die.”

“No, Ka. You must listen to me. Bay kou bliye, pote mak sonje. The proverb means, the giver of the blow forgets, the bearer of the scar remembers. Ka, I have been trying for too long to forget my blows… ” he covers his teary eyes. “It is time I go back, alone.”

Suddenly there is nothing I would rather do but protect him, whatever it would take.

“But Agwé,” my mother interrupts, “how could you go alone? I cannot let you.”

“I won’t be alone.” Then he turns, and stares me directly in the eyes, barely holding back tears. “Ka, there’s one more sculpture I need you to make me.”

 “Papa…” I stand up and give my father a slow, sad embrace. I already know what he is referring to. “Promise you won’t throw it into a lake this time?”

“I promise.”

Analysis

I decided to write this continuation to The Book of the Dead because I loved the story, and felt that there was still more to be explored. Specifically, I wanted to see if working within the terms of the father’s obsession with the Book of the Dead, using the Foy Scalf’s analysis book as a secondary source, could allow for a change of heart in both himself and Ka. My story is ultimately optimistic in its outlook: as Ka begins to understand the trials of the afterlife as a metaphor for the nightmares from Haiti, she realizes that there is no path forward for her father that does not involve a possibility of death. This ultimately breaks down her hatred for him, as it does his resistance to her, and they are able to love each other once again on terms of honesty. But this will ultimately lead to a dismal future, where Agwé meets old enemies in Haiti armed only with a heart scarab made by Ka. The scarab is a sad reminder that he is no longer running away from his past, and that his only remaining protection is as fantastical as his obsession with the book and its mythology.

Works Cited

Danticat, Edwidge. “The Book of the Dead.” The Dew Breaker. Vintage Books, 2005.

Scalf, Foy, editor. Book of the Dead: Becoming God in Ancient Egypt. University of Chicago, 2017.

By Hannah Lilly
2020

Jamaica Kincaid’s A Small Place discusses the effects of tourism and colonization on Antigua, a previously occupied country, and Gilles Deleuze and Felix Guattari’s “What is a Minor Literature?”discusses the effects of deterritorialization and reterritorialization on cultures, literature, and people. It is evident through analysis of Kincaid and Deleuze and Guattari’s work that colonization promotes the formation of minor literatures and cultures through deterritorialization, which is further extended using tourism as a source of revenue. Even after liberation, countries that rely on tourism economies are subjected to cater to the people who colonized them, and their culture becomes mistaken for the tourist attractions implemented merely for visitors.

Minor literature is defined as a work of literature a minority creates within a major language (Deleuze and Guattari 16). Minor literatures and cultures appear when countries with standing languages and cultures are brought together with a new group of people and dominated by the other group. A prime example is in 20th century Prague, where authors such as Franz Kafka grew up with German, Czech, Hebrew and Yiddish influence, and were forced to choose between using an oppressor’s language to express themselves or keep true to their culture and risk their voices being misinterpreted or not heard. Another example of a work in a minor literature is Jamaica Kincaid’s A Small Place, as Kincaid speaks of Antigua’s history of tourism and colonization in English rather than Creole. When talking about the Antigua she grew up in, Kincaid states, “That Antigua no longer exists. That Antigua no longer exists partly for the usual reason, the passing of time, and partly because the bad-minded people who used to rule over it, the English, no longer do so” (21).

This quote reveals how stark the differences between the past and present Antigua are due to liberation. This is a prime example of deterritorialization, as the culture became so influenced by British domination that Antigua became a minority in its homeland, and therefore a minor literature. The deterritorialization that occurred due to colonial rule severed cultural traditions; while Kincaid’s work in the minor literature along with efforts to preserve Antiguan culture promote reterritorialization, Britain and other powerful countries still have a cultural impact on Antigua through their increased power in the economic and social world.

As previously stated, British colonization not only has lasting impacts on Antiguan culture, but additionally Antigua’s economy and perception by the world. Previously, Kincaid stated that she “met the world through England, and if the world wanted to meet [her] it would have to do so through England” (33). During colonization, the people of Antigua were told of different countries with a leaning bias towards Britain, and most people did not have the luxury of travelling the world to decide for themselves. Additionally, the world viewed Antigua as a British colony, and it was therefore mainly perceived in relation to Britain. This section is vital, as it highlights the relationship between colonization and tourism – today, when tourists travel to Antigua to “experience the culture,” they are often fed a mirage of Antigua, which is

forced onto both the natives and the tourists by richer, more powerful countries such as England and the United States. These countries implement this through a modernized form of mercantilism. This is apparent when Kincaid states,

When you sit down to eat your delicious meal, it’s better that you don’t know that most of what you are eating came off a plane from Miami. And before it got on a plane in Miami, who knows where it came from? A good guess is that it came from a place like Antigua first, where it was grown dirt-cheap, went to Miami, and came back. (14)

This quote highlights the dynamic between tourist countries and richer countries – the parallel to mercantilism reveals how richer countries benefit off tourism by exploiting smaller countries of their goods and resources, similarly to how Britain would purchase spices, ores, and other natural resources from its colonies for a lower price. Putting the narrative in the point of view of a tourist additionally exemplifies the notion that the tourist country’s purpose is to serve the people other countries, signifying the off-centered power balance. It is evident that prior to liberation, colonizing countries used their colonies’ people and resources for their direct benefit; after liberation they continue to do so, but in more discrete manners.

It is vital that the power dynamic in the economic world be leveled for smaller countries such as Antigua, as tourism economies often falsify the traditions of countries such as Antigua and reterritorialize their cultures the same way colonization did. Deleuze and Guattari believe that “Mouth, tongue, and teeth have their primitive territory in food, and in devoting themselves to the articulation of sounds, they deterritorialize themselves” (19).In dedicating specific places for tourists to visit, natives are deterritorializing their culture for economic stability. It was initially believed that after being freed from British influence in Antigua, the country would be

able to reterritorialize itself back to its original roots. However, as a result of the rising tourism economy, a new “culture” emerges to increase profit from tourists, and native culture becomes a smaller culture in Antigua. In the past, people viewed Antigua merely as a colony of Britain, and if tourism economies persist as major sources of revenue, today people will only view Antigua as the tourist sites they see in resorts and online. Antigua once again becomes a minor culture in its home country.

In A Small Place, Jamaica Kincaid explores the connections between tourism and colonialism, and discusses how tourism holds the roots of colonization, and Deleuze and Guattari exemplify how deterritorialization affects cultures and people. Countries such as Antigua that were colonized and then freed were put at a disadvantage financially, and were therefore forced to resort to tourism as a means for revenue. The creation of the “tourist culture” for revenue not only benefits richer, more powerful countries at the expense of smaller countries, in the mercantile example of food importation from and to the island, but it additionally creates a false perception of native culture and tradition. As a result of the tourist economy, Antigua is deterritorialized, and there is a divide between the Antiguan culture the outside world perceives and the culture of native Antiguans.

Pictured above is a group of tourists on the Great Wall of China. Recently, there have been concerns about the Great Wall experiencing rapid deterioration from tourists taking bricks with home with them as souvenirs. I chose this photo because it exemplifies how tourism can be detrimental to a country’s culture and history. Like in Antigua, a monumental part of China’s culture is being deteriorated due to tourism.

Works Cited

Guattari, Felix, and Gilles Deleuze. What Is a Minor Literature?, vol. 11, 1983, pp. 13–33.

Guy, Dylan. “15 Photos Of Famous Vacation Spots That Show Travelers’ Expectations Vs. Reality.” BoredomTherapy, 24 Jan. 2017, boredomtherapy.com/s/travel-expectations-vs-r eality?as=799&asv=1&bdk=0. Accessed 19 Dec. 2020.

Kincaid, Jamaica. A Small Place. Daunt Books, 2018.

By Cheko Ghenet France
2020

Immigration has always been an important topic but it has increasingly gained more attention, mostly negative attention, due to the Trump administration. Being an immigrant myself, the topic has always been a sore spot for me. Especially when I hear about all of the bad treatment that immigrants face and the utter lack of human compassion that some people have towards them. I have read many news clippings, articles, and even books on immigrant life. However, Villawood was like nothing I had ever seen before for reasons that I will address later on. I will be discussing what Villawood is and the significance of its format, identity, and what has to change for the better treatments of immigrants.

 Villawood is, for lack of a better word, what one might call a cartoon about an immigration detention center, located in Australia. I say for lack of a better word because the word “cartoon” seems too light for such a serious work of art. Cartoon is often associated with works of fiction that is meant for entertainment. But that itself is significant because most people take the importance of immigrants much too lightly. They might be ignorant to how serious of an issue the bad treatment of immigrants is or they write it off as “not my problem” and ignore it all together. For this reason, it feels like choosing to make it into a cartoon is a statement in itself. Aside from that, by making it into a cartoon, the author, Safdar Ahmed, is honoring the immigrants in Villawood who often shared “without always putting it into words, some refugees drew about their past experiences” (Ahmed). Not only that but as a classmate pointed out, the cartooning brings a human element to the immigrants’ stories. The facial expressions in the cartoon are so expressive and so relatable that it works to humanize a group of people that are often dehumanized in ways that writing alone could not achieve.

When examining immigrants and their treatment, one has to wonder what identity really is. Immigrants are people who the nation does not identify as one of their own. In this case, immigrants are those who are not Australian. In a video monologue by Anna Deavere Smith called “Fires in the Mirror,” there was a disturbing part titled “Isaac” where one Jewish guy had to prove his German identity to the Nazis.

The Germans suspected his forged Aryan papers and decided he would have to prove by his actions that he was not a Jew. They put him on a transport train with the Jews of his town and then gave him the task of herding into the gas chambers everyone in his trainload. After he had fulfilled that assignment with patriotic Germanic efficiency the Nazis accepted the authenticity of his identity papers and let him go. (Demarcations, 7:04-7:47)

One can infer from Fire in the Mirror and Villawood that identity is not so much based on what one thinks of themselves but rather how one is viewed by the others that really matter. It is a way of separating the “us”” from “them.” In Fire in the Mirror, it was not until Isaac murdered his own people that the ruling power accepted him as one of their own and allowed him to live. In that scenario, what it took to be a German was not anything embedded but rather blue eyes, blond hair and an utter disregard to the Jews. Even in Villawood, identity is something that could be obtained through actions. Although you may not have to massacre your own people, if you go through proper legal channels you can obtain Australian citizenship, letting you be accepted and viewed as an Australian, regardless if you identify as one or not.

In order for the treatments of immigrants to be better, one must humanize immigrants in the same way that the governments have dehumanized them for so long. They need to be viewed in the same way that one view their neighbors, family and friends instead of being viewed as outsiders removed from the collective “us” who are the citizens. It is because so many people fail to see them as humans that cruel things can be done to them. In a cartoon Maus about the Holocaust, there was a quote by Adolf Hitler where he said, “The Jews are undoubtedly race, but they are not human” (Spiegelman, iii). This way of thinking desensitized the “Aryan race” to the mass murder of the Jews they once called their friends. They no longer saw them as humans but instead thought of them as subhuman called Jews. The way they wrote them off as Jews is the same way that immigrants are now being labeled as simply “immigrants.”  It is in the same manner that one might address a group of birds as a flock. “The immigrants were shot while crossing the border,” gets as much of a shock or a reaction as hearing, “a flock of birds where shot by hunters.” As crazy as this might sound, it is not far from the truth.

It’s obvious the humanization of immigrants is important but the question becomes how does one humanize them. Works of art like Villawood share the struggles that immigrants go through and give readers a fresh view on a topic that has been worn out. This revitalizes those who have grown numb to hearing tragedies regarding immigrants and moves them to see things differently. Using different media and platforms is also important so that it spreads to more people. “Fire in the Mirror” does a great job of taking people’s life stories and transforming it into a work of art through monologues. It is a fresh way of interviewing people and displaying their stories that differ from the traditional articles, essays and books on the people’s lives. There are also some great works done by immigrants that help to spread positive messages about their people. One artist is named Felipe Baeza. While doing some research on him, I came across an interesting article called “13 Artists On: Immigration.” In it he says, “When it comes to migration, the discourse rarely focuses on the stories of real people trying to succeed; instead, the conversation is dominated by criminality and punishment” (Lescaze). It is artworks that focuses on the real people that will help to show immigrants’ humanities.

The issue of immigration is not one that can be solved in a day and neither is the treatment of immigrants. As long as there are humans there will always be those who are ostracized and mistreated for being different. Throughout history this has shown to be true. First there were Native Americans, then Africans, then Jews, now immigrants and Muslims, in the US. Just thinking about it is enough to discourage the most optimistic and strongest of heart. But just as how there are those who look to put down those who are different from themselves, there are those who fight for justice and advocate for an understanding between people. What matters now is how individuals get involved and what they choose to do about it.

Works Cited

Ahmed, Safdar. Villawood. Medium. https://medium.com/shipping-news/villawood-9698183e114c.

Smith, Anna Deavere. Fires in the Mirror, part two. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=milFnPD0t0I.

Lescaze, Zoë. “13 Artists On: Immigration.” New York Times, 19 June 2018. https://www.nytimes.com/2018/06/19/t-magazine/immigration-art.html.

Spiegelman, Art. Maus. Rowohlt-Taschenbuch-Verlag, 2004.

By Alexander Herrara

Minor literature is the voice of a people so far ostracized that they face what Deleuze and Guattari describe as the impossibility of writing in a major tongue. The option to write in a native language is confined to two possible states: rendered null through anonymity, or nonexistent through the theft of the native tongue. To write of our existence in the native tongue limits the audience greatly, thereby limiting the potential for outreach and empowerment. Yet many lack even that choice: all too common throughout history is the genocide of the native peoples defending their homeland. Many are forced to speak in the tongue of the thief, and a thief is those groups who have robbed generations of their culture, beliefs, and even language. Yet there is a power in the minor literature, despite its birth state belonging to those who feel powerless. The innate capacity for collective utterance. Such writing resonates with the reader and in truth can speak in a way that only a lost language can. It can grant a state of empowerment to the reader, giving comfort and validation on a level that is unable to do so from within. Jamaica Kincaid’s A Small Place is a novella that demonstrates the power of collective utterance. It is exemplary of the power which minor literature can grant to both author and reader alike.

Gilles Deleuze and Felix Guattarri, a French philosopher and psychotherapist pairing, break down minor literature into three characteristics. The first characteristic is the deterritorialization of a language. The second characteristic “is that everything in them is political” (16). All minor literature is political in the sense that in such a “narrow space,” with such a disproportionate representation in the viewing, the literary work is the understanding of the minority and as such is “plugged into the political.” Lastly, the third characteristic is that of collective utterance. “everything has a collective value” (17). That resonance within the community validates author and reader alike, through shared experiences. Deleuze and Guattarri cite a lack of “master” writers in the community which can represent them as a whole, as such in minor works the individual validates the author. In the process, the experience itself is also attributed as a characteristic of the culture. As a minor group we share common experiences that unite us; often stories of immigration, periods of adjustment, but also in experiences as a minor nation. Jamaica Kincaid’s A Small Place focuses on a small island nation Antigua and the author’s experiences in a post-colonial nation.

The history of Antigua follows a familiar sequence of events for most Caribbean nations. A certain explorer by the name of Christopher Columbus arrived at the small island, exploiting the natives and resources found. Through the spread of European diseases, the island’s native population plummeted, if not made completely extinct, and was substituted with African slaves. The European colonizers vary from island to island: for Antigua, they were colonized by the British Empire. My homeland, the Dominican Republic, was split by French and Spanish into two colonies which grew to be separate nations. Though Antigua and the Dominican Republic are their own distinct nations, the shared origins allow for the collective utterance. A conversation in the language and culture we’ve been robbed of, and it is theft to be sure of. Jamaica Kincaid reflects on the love for England and refutes, “But what I see is the millions of people, of whom I am just one, made orphans: no motherland, no fatherland, no gods, no mounds of earth for holy ground, no excess of love which might lead to the things that an excess of love sometimes brings, and worst and most painful of all, no tongue” (31). Kincaid lists the losses experiences by Antiguans through the colonization of their island, with each element added the frustration within reader and author alike escalates. The pain of minor literature, the aftermath of colonization, a shared toll on an entire nation’s history and minorities across the world. Jamaica Kincaid incites the reader to recollect on their own history, to reflect on the theft of culture, and commune with our shared pain. In the present tense, it is difficult to reflect on what you’ve lost since it’s difficult to identify what’s been lost before our lifetime. We’re born accepting present circumstances and society as it is, with little thought as to what shaped it. Through Jamaica Kincaid we’re reminded of our history; that the original natives are gone, the enslavement of our ancestors, our societal structure, our national products, the language we speak, the God we worship were all decided by the culprit. It’s aggravating, infuriating even, Jamaica Kincaid captures the reader in a whirlwind of passion, in its exhilarating but likewise liberating winds. We’re able to form a connection with the author, place ourselves completely through their perspective (for it is ours as well), and have a conversation in the language of the lost. To have the frustration acknowledged and even encouraged is liberating. Such a stance removes the guilt or denial that one is not in the right to feel in such a manner. The actions taken generations before our own are still directly impacting the development of individuals and entire nations. Yet the perpetrators have long passed away, their sentence lay unclaimed. A blinding search for justice with no clear convict to set one’s eyes on, this is frustration which (on some level) all of us must face. Even Jamaica Kincaid shares such frustration “Do you ever wonder why some people blow things up? I can imagine that if my life had taken a certain turn, there would be the Barclays Bank, and there I would be, both of us in ashes.” (26). The Barclay brothers are long gone, but their legacy of profiting off the enslavement of individuals (financial or otherwise) perpetuates to this day. Through minor literature, the frustration is acknowledged, granting forth a sense of validation: that we are not wrong to feel this type of way. In the process the aggravation subsides, understanding is reached, and we are free from guilt thereby empowering ourselves with the ability to change. All the while, the third characteristic is fulfilled: a collective utterance that speaks to the truths of the novel, thereby establishing A Small Place as minor literature.

Minor literature is one of the most empowering forms of writing that is available. The innate ability to grant validation stems from the last of the three main characteristics of minor literature, as defined by Deleuze and Guttarri: the collective utterance of minor literature. Authors like Jamaica Kincaid raise their communities onto a stage, and under the spotlight reveal painful truths. Antigua and many other island nations all exist under the pretenses of European colonizers, our laws, our language, even Deities are all shaped after them. Yet the aggravating nature of such an existence is brushed under the rug. In the Dominican Republics’ colonial zone, right before a massive mansion (likely built with slave labor) is a statue commemorating Christopher Columbus. The infamous explorer who, upon accidentally landing on the island of Hispaniola, began the massive chain of events that would forever alter history itself. The plundering of island goods, exploitation of natives, a long-lasting legacy for completely eradicating culture and language. This is well known, however in the very island which he plundered stands a tribute to his legacy. Despite the circumstances of the colonized, there is a hesitance to express such aggravation. Through literature, authors find an audience and readers refuge. The true secret of minor literature is that it is only minor in recognition.    

Works Cited

Deleuze, Gilles, et al. “What Is a Minor Literature?” Mississippi Review, vol. 11, no. 3, 1983, pp. 13–33. JSTOR, www.jstor.org/stable/20133921. Accessed 21 Dec. 2020.

Kincaid, Jamaica. A Small Place. Farrar, Strauss and Giroux, 1988.

By Sk Ayon
2020

“I only came here to save my life and Australian politicians are destroying me”

Yusef from Villawood by Safdar Ahmed

Yusuf from Villawood: Notes from an Immigration Detention Centre is one of many refugees who are detained in the Villawood Detention Center. These refugees are held while fleeing from political instability abroad from regions such as the Middle East and Southeast Asia. Although they escape to Villawood for a better life, their lives never improve. They cannot escape the subhuman treatment that characterizes their existence. The poor treatment of refugees causes their lives to become politicized. In addition, politicization within minor literature and culture is a topic that is also discussed in Gilles Deleuze and Felix Guattari’s book Kafka: Toward a Minor Literature.  By looking at the inherent political nature of the lives of refugees, the art they create, and the protests they hold through the lens of minor literature described by Deleuze and Guattari, the lives of the refugees in Villawood are inherently political because they have been treated as nonhumans and thus, their humanity and political legitimacy is challenged by the power structures that oppress them.

Refugees’ lives are inherently political because the inhumane treatment they encounter erodes their humanity and leads to the political urgency to regain it. As said by Rajan, a Sri Lankan refugee, “In Sri Lanka they torture people physically but here they do it mentally” (Ahmed, ch. 3). Refugees escape their homeland to escape abuse and live like a respected human. Poor treatment of these refugees occurs wherever they go. They are abused in their homeland while the detention facility staff rarely show them any respect. Even though refugees are humans, they are not treated as such. This is seen in the death of Ahmad, one of the refugees in Villawood. Ahmed writes how Ahmad experienced severe chest pain and yet, the staff watched Ahmad suffer and die (ch. 2). If a person saw another person on the verge of dying, they would do anything that they can to help. The staff member, however, laughs at the dying man in his last moments. This demonstrates how the staff member does not consider Ahmad to be human. Thus, this denial of humanity leads to the question of the value of refugee lives. For their lives to matter, refugees need to demonstrate importance of their lives, leading to the politicization of their lives. By being denied their humanity, refugees face inherently political lives because their lives become focused on regaining the humanity denied by the power structures aimed to oppress them.

This politicization of the lives of refugees leads to political themes proliferating through the art they create because their life experiences have been purely political. The art created by Villawood refugees contains a lot of political imagery. Ahmed notes that during art workshops, refugees create art that demonstrates the horrors of the political instability that they have endured (Ahmed, ch. 1). From Taliban beheadings to state prisons to abuse, these drawings are politically charged. These drawings demonstrate the entanglement of refugee lives with political struggles. It also displays the necessity of drawing their art. Deleuze and Guattari state that it is impossible for people of minor literature to not write (16). Minor literature is inevitably written because after prolonged periods of oppression, their voices will eventually be heard. These refugees have faced abuse and repression throughout their lives. At some point, their will to express their experience will overcome the oppression of their voice. Through this will, they create political art with a lot of meaning. The art contains their voice and experience with life and since their lives are inherently political, their literature would be political in nature as well.

This relates to the second characteristic of minor literature as described by Deleuze and Guattari. They note that compared to great literatures, everything in minor literature is political. While major literature has connections to the individual, minor literature exists in a narrow space and is plugged into the political (16). Minor literature cannot have questions of the individual because the people of the minor literature are not considered individuals. As stated before, these refugees are not seen as humans by their oppressors. To understand this, we need to understand the actions that the other refugees took after Ahmad’s death. After his death, the other refugees would hold mourning services for Ahmad until one day, a staff member disbarred them from entering. Proceeding this event, the refugees put up posters of Ahmad with the title “Killed by Immigration” (Ahmed, ch. 2). Ahmad’s death is not an individual political experience. Rather, it is a collective experience that is relatable for the refugees. They have been dealing with political issues throughout their lives. They have been denied their humanity by numerous different authorities. To them, Ahmad is not only a brother that they lost to this political strife, but also a reminder of the dehumanization that they face. By taking away their individual humanity, refugees are reduced to nothing. To stay relevant and fight for their humanity, their literature and work must be political. Their work is political because they are not recognized as individuals and therefore, must use their collective experiences in a way to regain their humanity.

The refugees engage with this political aspect of their lives in the form of protests so that they can express their suppressed voices and ask for recognition as humans. They engage in their cultural practices, defy authority, engage in hunger strikes, and perform self-harm among other activities for their protests (Ahmed, ch. 4). This is done with one purpose in mind: gaining attention. The Villawood staff do not view refugees as humans. When they engage in self harm and hunger strikes, they are testing the mortality of their bodies by defying the system that shackles them. Even if the staff denies the refugees their humanity, the refugees’ protests show that they can experience pain and hunger as well as joy from their cultural activities just like humans. The protests function as lines of flights for refugees which an important idea discussed in Deleuze and Guattari’s work. “What is at stake is not a matter of ‘liberation as opposed to submission – it is a matter of line of flight, escape. . .an exit, outlet.’” (13). The main goal of minor literature is not to be freed, but to have the collective voice be freed. Refugees want to have their voices heard. They want to break into the major institutions that oppress them. When the refugees engaged in self harm and hunger strikes, it was not performed to free themselves from detention. Instead, it is a vehicle to project their voice so that their oppressors could hear them. They are tired of being denied their humanity and want recognition. Thus, through protests, refugees engage in lines of flight that free their voices so that they can gain recognition and political importance as people.

Through the inhumane treatment of refugees, the political art that they create, and their collective resistance through the lens of Deleuze and Guattari’s idea of minor literature, it can be seen how the lives of refugees are a political battle for recognition as human beings. Even today, ICE in the United States is separating families at the border and treating immigrants as subhuman while China is committing mass genocide of Uighurs, a minority group. No matter what, there will always be power structures that oppress a subset of minorities. This leads to the value and the improbability of minor literature. Whether it be through art or interviews, people of the minor tongue use the major tongue to disrupt the norms and gain political relevance themselves. By doing so, they can break free from oppressive power structures and regain the one thing that is most important to them: their humanity.

Note: I chose this image because it demonstrates the line of flight aspect of the refugees and minor literature in general. Although the handcuffs shackle them, the lines of flight allow them to escape.

Works Cited

Ahmed, Sadfar. Villawood. Notes from an Immigration Detention Centre. Medium, 5 Mar. 2015, medium.com/shipping-news/villawood-9698183e114c. Date Accessed: 17 Dec. 2020

Deleuze, Gilles and Félix Guattari. “What Is a Minor Literature?” [from Kafka: Toward a Minor Literature.] Translated by Robert Brinkley, Mississippi Review 11.3 (Winter/Spring 1983), pp. 13-33.

By Siema Alam
2020

Visuals place a focus on what is current; an image transcends language barriers, allowing the whole world to watch. But what happens when all that is shown is only a fragment of the fuller story? What happens when people are the ones being watched? Do visuals then suffocate, or do they invoke awareness? What if that awareness makes people ignorant? What is the value of vision? In Safdar Ahmed’s graphic narrative Villawood, Ahmed uses drawings to depict his experience in an immigration detention center. Ahmed portrays the past and present of refugee stories, allowing him to spread awareness about hidden experiences. Ahmed is one of many creators who use visuals as a technique to spread awareness about refugees. Nilüfer Demir’s photo of Alan Kurdi also pushed the world to look at the humanitarian crisis. It is clear that these forms of visuals spread awareness about important issues, but there is a dichotomy in visual narrative. Visuals are a complex optic as they are used for narrative and freedom, but also utilized for surveillance and prejudice; the empathy towards visuals may be short-lived, but simultaneously, the optic can be used as long-term resistance to surveillance. In understanding and acknowledging these intricacies, how far can visuals go to aid the world’s awareness about humanitarian issues?

A visual narrative can be used for freedom. In Ahmed’s narrative, he discusses how invasive it can be when asking someone about their life’s biggest trauma. But Ahmed notices that refugees are “keen to speak about the here and now” (7), and also struggle with their mental health, so he sets up an art workshop as a way to make friends and learn about people. Often, refugees draw about their experiences from the past, without using words (Ahmed 11):

Ahmed includes a short caption for his drawings to provide context. But even without words, the audience can look at these drawings and see feelings like those of artist K Waran’s, and his experience of war. The image conveys a message about the choice of refugees: there is no choice. If refugees do not leave their country, they face either of the two experiences drawn above: imprisonment or death. Art is a way that visuals can be used for freedom—the freedom is the artist’s ability to draw whatever they choose to. By Ahmed providing a space for refugees to express themselves, he supplies them with a sense of agency through art.

Refugees are free to express themselves however they want to, in a place where they are under surveillance and have no real sense of freedom. The power of visuals is that it also allows viewers to “learn of others’ experiences and understanding of the world, which can add to one’s own understanding of the world or create opportunity for the understanding of others” (Cavnar-Lewandowski 25). Ahmed’s action of providing art made by refugees helps bridge the experiences of persecution to the outside world. Since these refugees cannot speak for themselves, Ahmed displays their works to give them a voice. This allows a broader audience to gain insight into a world which they would have otherwise never seen, allowing them to interpret drawn visuals.

While visuals can help bridge the distance between two worlds, the ability to interpret so freely can be used as a method for surveillance and unjust reasoning. Ahmed discusses the story of “Ahmad Ali Jafari, a Hazara refugee from Afghanistan” (14):

Ahmed mentions, “mistaking him for someone else, the department of immigration accused him [Ahmad] of having a criminal record abroad. He was brought from the community into Villawood for that reason” (15). While Ahmad’s drawing above depicts the frustration of being in a detention center, it does not truly tell the entire story. In this instance, the optic of the department of immigration “mistaking” Ahmad for someone else—as in them perceiving him as a criminal—costs Ahmad his freedom. In this sense, the openness of interpreting how refugees appear to officers is detrimental to innocent lives; visuals can be used for unfair justification of maltreatment and surveillance. The way Ahmad appears is the cause of his demise. So, later in the story, when Ahmad was complaining about strong pain in his chest, an officer entered the room (Ahmed 18):

The officer had the opportunity to believe Ahmad’s suffering, but instead, he watches Ahmad and chooses to laugh at his pain. As Ahmed mentions, the officer may have been using a stereotype—refugees trying to cheat the system (Ahmad trying to get his own room)—in his choice to respond to what he is currently seeing. The officer’s freedom in the ability to interpret and perceive, in this instance, caused the death of innocent Ahmad. The power of optic is that people can interpret their view however they want to, and in this freedom, some can choose to use stereotypes to be ignorant.

With the idea of negative surveillance by guards, there still is value to using an optic. Surveillance can be used to force the world to watch—this is exactly what happened when photos of Alan Kurdi, a three-year-old Syrian refugee, was released:

The young boy’s body was washed onto the shore after a failed attempt to seek refuge. Why did this image move so many people? Journalist Blessy Augustine notes, “Kurdi’s isolated body lying face down and motionless on the beach made for a more dramatic image. Such images make us feel connected to what is happening elsewhere, without actually understanding what is happening. And so, on another level, by reducing a complex situation to a few accessible elements, the image helps us channel our horror and rage. It has the capacity to push us towards action” (3). This image is similar to K Waran’s image of the war, as it depicts the horrors and fears that refugees face, and the power figure of an officer in a simple manner. Ahmed and photographer Demir hope to use the optic to force people to see, empathize, and take action. For Demir, this photograph “brought much-needed attention to the Syrian war and the plight of its refugees, which resulted in short-term but important increases in individual aid and refugee policy changes in many countries” (Slovic 640), however, “this empathic response was short-lived.” While the optic can be used to stimulate social change, the length of that change tends to be short-lived. The double-edged sword of the optic is that it helps people stop for a moment to look and interpret. This means people could learn about refugee stories or choose ignorance; however, visuals occur in a quick moment, without much context. What the audience fails to see is the ongoing war and crisis and what they can do about it—they only see a fraction of the story. So, understanding the dichotomy of the power of optics towards narrative and surveillance, what is the true value of visuals? Perhaps Ahmed and Demir are opening windows to look into humanitarian crises using visuals, which is indeed remarkable and beneficial for refugee communities. Another factor that comes into play is the resistance to surveillance by using surveillance to expose injustice. Demir does this by sharing this politically charged image of Alan Kurdi, and the other refugees put late Ahmad’s photo on the walls of Villawood (Ahmed 24):

The refugees understand that the department of immigration is always watching, similar to how Demir knows that everyone will see the image of Alan Kurdi, so they put up Ahmad’s image and stated who killed him. Surveillance as an optic then shifts from a medium that is used to instill fear and suffocation, into a method that persistently exposes the truth, much like the use of optic of art to expose marginalized experiences.

Using visuals allows people from all backgrounds to understand complex social issues from a new perspective. Ahmed’s graphic narrative spreads awareness about refugees in Australia while giving them a platform to express their struggles. While the visual of art allows refugees to feel freedom, the ideas surrounding visuals are complex. The vast nature of visual and flexibility in perception can be used for any type of justification. For the refugee Ahmad, the way officers viewed him led to his unjust imprisonment and demise. Even when there are images that the world can see, people can choose to look at it for only an instant— their empathy is short-lived, like for Alan Kurdi; however, given all these risks, the vast nature of the optic can be molded into persistent resistance. While the optic remains as something complex, creators like Ahmed open a window into a world that people were previously blind to; it can be fearsome that the entire world is surveilling, but what is valuable to the spread of visuals is that very fact—the whole world is watching.

Works Cited

Ahmed, Safdar. Villawood. Notes from a detention center. Medium, 5 March 2015. December 2020. medium.com/shipping-news/villawood-9698183e114c#.dkkzlvlln.

Augustine, Blessy. The vulture in the frame. 8 January 2018. The Hindu Business Line. December 2020. www.thehindubusinessline.com/blink/watch/the-vulture-in-the-frame/article9901741.ece.

Cavnar-Lewandowski, Zoé and Gavin, Kelsey. “The Potential of Refugee Art to Inspire Empathy and Social Action.” LMU/LLS Theses and Dissertations (2017): 299.

Demir, Nilüfer. “KiyiyaVuranInsanlik.” The Guardian, September 2015, www.theguardian.com/world/2015/sep/02/shocking-image-of-drowned-syrian- boy-shows-tragic-plight-of-refugees. December 2020.

Slovic, Paul. “Iconic photographs and the ebb and flow of empathic response to humanitarian disasters.” National Academy of Sciences (2016): 640-44.

By Sarah McKoy
2020

Over the course of this semester, we have tackled several different readings, written by authors from all over the world. Most of the readings (if not all of the readings) were minor literature — literature that discusses the experiences of minorities, as told by minorities. During my time in this course, I had the opportunity to read about the struggles many of these minorities experience. Interestingly, as I read all of these stories, one thing I noticed was that they all had something in common — conflict. Given this, I pose a colossal and possibly unanswerable question — could we ever live in a world with no conflict? In order to attempt to answer this question, I want to further investigate how conflict arises — where these misunderstandings come from. Then from there, determine whether or not these conflicts are resolvable.

I feel this idea of misunderstanding is best illustrated (quite literally) in Safdar Ahmed’s Villawood. In this creatively drawn short graphic story, Ahmed gives the readers an insight into the lives and experiences of refugees that are being held in an immigration detention center in Australia. The accounts of these refugees are honestly quite terrible. The first chapter is entitled “First Impressions,” which I believe not only stands for the first impressions of the Villawood detention center facility, but also for the first impressions (or more so the preconceived notions) of the refugees by the people of Australia — using phrases such as “queue jumpers,” “economic migrants,” “illegal arrivals,” and “country shoppers” to describe them. Ahmed makes commentary on how these refugees are dehumanized, by showing us how visitors to these detention centers ask them intrusive and personal questions, (“What’s your story? Why did you leave your country?”), knowing that if the roles were reversed, these visitors wouldn’t dare answer such personal questions. The detention center workers, as well, seem to have little to no regard for the people they are responsible for ‘taking care’ of. In one particular horrifying incident, a man named Ahmad died due to the lack of care in this facility. Ahmad had a psychologist report that supported his case to have a room to himself. However, this report was disregarded by the detention officers, and he was forced to be with two other roommates. One night, he complained of chest pains, and none of the officers believed him. Although he eventually got medical help, he ended up dying. He was only 26 years old. This was just one of the many reports of abuse from Villawood. However, I think this story in particular displays how conflict can arise from misunderstanding — how the officer didn’t comprehend the severity of Ahmad’s condition, resulting in his sudden and tragic death. The story of Villawood shows how conflict arises from misunderstanding — through the way that the refugees are dehumanized upon arrival, and how this lack of human compassion leads to the mistreatment of these prisoners.

The accounts of the experiences of these refugees, unfortunately, seemed all too familiar. I remember reading this story, and briefly mistaking it to have taken place in The United States — and to be fair, all you have to do is change the name of the camp and this story could’ve taken place in any First World country. This leads me to my subsequent point — why do First World countries treat their refugees so poorly? Does the cruel treatment of refugees stem from something deeper than just pure animosity? Is there possibly a strong argument for both sides of this conflict?

Like Australia, The United States has a negative attitude towards immigrants. The word ‘immigrant’ itself seems to have a negative connotation attached to it — but why? Like many preconceived notions and stereotypes, they have a deeply rooted history. In Amada Armenta’s nonfiction piece, Protect, Serve, and Deport: The Rise of Policing Immigration Enforcement, she dedicated a chapter to explaining how the immigration system in The United States works. Within this chapter was a history on the immigration system. Back when the United States were still the 13 British colonies, England would try to use the colonies as “dumping ground for ‘sick,’ ‘lazy,’ ‘immoral,’ or otherwise unwanted residents” (16). They made a “practice of punishing felons by sentencing them to indentured servitude and transport to America.” Once the colonies gained independence from Britain, they wanted to make laws that would prevent the entry of unwanted people into the country. At first, the plan was to have each state establish immigration laws. However, the southern states strongly vetoed this movement, due to the fact that these laws could create an argument against importing slaves — and since the federal government had already made an agreement that they couldn’t prohibit the importation of slaves, they couldn’t challenge the South’s opposition. As a result, America created naturalization laws instead of immigration laws at the federal level. These laws were eligible to “free white aliens” with a “required residency period to five years” (17) (later on the Alien and Sedition Acts were developed that updated the required residency to 14 years and “established the president’s right to deport dangerous and treasonous noncitizens). Without the federal government’s legislation on immigration at the state level, communities had to decide on their own how they wanted to form their rules. As a result, their laws encouraged the immigration of some, while keeping out “undesirables.” At the time, undesirables were considered to be those who were poor (since poverty was considered a “moral failing”), those who were convicts, and (most ashamedly) those who were “racially inferior.” This idea of keeping out undesirables has stuck with The United States immigration policy ever since. Throughout our history, we have barred many ethnic and racial groups from entry — from the laws that limited Irish immigration, to the ban of Chinese immigrants, and currently the ban on Muslim immigrants. Americans have always had this fear (and therefore a preconceived notion) that those who wish entry into the United States are “sick,” “lazy,” “immoral,” “unwanted residents” in their native country, and only are here to take advantage of our system. To this day, most First World countries carry this belief that their borders must be protected. Although I may not personally agree with the reasoning, there is a valid argument to be made that explains the behavior which contributes to the poor treatment of refugees.

Having fleshed out the conflict amongst refugees and First World country, I pose my conclusive question — could we ever live in a world with no conflict? As of now, there is certainly no definite answer. However, given the evidence above, and on top of that, witnessing the current state of our world, there seems to be no end to conflict in sight. It is difficult to have compassion for every human being on Earth, probably impossible. It takes a great amount of self-awareness to challenge your beliefs and to expand your world-view. In a world of imperfect beings, it would be a great and insurmountable feat to avoid a clash amongst one another. Nonetheless, it is infeasible to know what the future holds.

Works Cited

Ahmed, Safdar. Villawood. Medium, 30 Mar. 2018, medium.com/shipping-news/villawood-9698183e114c#.dkkzlvlln.

Armenta, Amada. “Who Polices Immigration?” Protect, Serve, and Deport: The Rise of Policing as Immigration Enforcement, U of California P, 2017, pp. 15–35. JSTOR, www.jstor.org/stable/10.1525/j.ctt1w8h204.6. Accessed 18 Dec. 2020.

By Salih Durmić
2020

For the purpose of responding to the objectification and dehumanization of refugees, often as racialized subjects, this essay rhetorically refers to the dominant racial identity of Australia and its history of European migration with the words “white people.”

The “great” superpowers of Europe have a long and brutal history of imperialism. The English, French, Spanish, Italians, and Dutch empires were big on expansion and colonization for a variety of reasons, whether it be financial, political, or religious. However, none of these empires had a positive image in the eyes of the people they conquered. Oftentimes, they would send missionaries to preach Christianity. Some would try to “civilize” the barbarians they now rule. They would establish large feudal enterprises by extorting the cheap labor and essentially robbing the indigenous people of their nation’s natural resources, all in order to profit off of it in the developed world. Overall, history has revealed to us that wherever the white man sets foot, he needs to familiarize that territory. And one place where the English really succeeded in doing so was in Australia.

Australia, prior to British settlement, was a large island with the Aboriginals living on it. The Aboriginals are the indigenous people of Australia, but they didn’t live under one rule. The people were divided into tribes and groups that spoke different languages and had different customs. However, they got along for the most part. They were able to communicate amongst each other and lived a simple yet fulfilling life. When the British arrived, they sent three fleets of prisoners to live there and serve the rest of their sentences as manual laborers. This took place in the late 18th century and over time Australia evolved to the developed nation that it is today. Similar to the United States, Canada, England, and Germany, Australia is one of the prime destinations for people in search of a better life. Refugees and emigrants from countries which lack solid opportunities for education and work tend to try to move to countries like Australia.

In Safdar Ahmed’s Villawood, we are given a first-person viewpoint of the Villawood Immigration Detention Centre in Sydney, Australia. Villawood is a place where the Australian government keeps illegal immigrants such as war refugees, asylum seekers, and people who overstayed their visas or maybe broke a law while they were on their visa. We see that these people live in horrific conditions. They are mistreated by the prison guards and are really just subhuman to the eyes of the Australian government. Most of them haven’t even committed any serious crime besides illegally entering because they weren’t welcome back home. However, they are treated like violent criminals who are a danger to society. In the cartoon, we can see one where the Australian politicians are calling them “queue jumpers” and “country shoppers.” Right after, we see how Kurdish Iranians inmates at Villawood explain that they are illegal in their own countries of birth. Iran doesn’t give them access to basic rights such as healthcare. Seeing things like this really makes you feel sorry for these people, because they had no say in the situation they would be born into and how their own home country would label them. The biggest irony in this whole story is how the White Australian guards and case workers look at these people as illegal arrivals, when they too are not supposed to be there. They should be back in England or Ireland where their ancestors were born before illegally moving to the Aboriginals territory. By their own thinking, they shouldn’t be in Australia. We can see from Villawood, that white people love to target those who are different and feel like they deserve the best for themselves. White people hate that which is foreign and use excuses such as them being possible terrorists or something similar to justify their hatred.

The second text, which gives us another interesting perspective on this topic of immigration and acceptance is called “Australian Babel: A Conversation with Karrabing.” This text is actually a dialogue between six women where they discuss the Aboriginal Australian cultures and languages in the Arnhem Land on the northern coast. Before the dialogue, there is an excerpt from the Bible, Genesis 11:1-9. The book of Genesis in the Bible covers the early history of humanity as well as the creation of the universe by God, and the origins of the Israelites. This specific passage is about the story of the Tower of Babel. Some important context of this story is that the word babel means a confused noise made by a number of voices. So, what happens is that a long time ago humans all spoke one language and lived together. They settled in modern day Iraq and decided to build the tallest tower that would reach the heavens. When God saw what they were doing, he decided to confuse them by making them all speak different languages and scattered them across the Earth. This story is the origin of different communities of people and languages according to the Christian religion. After the Genesis excerpt, the dialogue of the six women is shown. However, in the first four pages the dialogue is in the Australian Pidgin language, and then in the next four it is rewritten in English. The Australian Pidgin is the combination between Aboriginal language and English. A pidgin language is a sort of combined common language between two languages, so that different people can better understand each other. It is a similar concept to a Creole. In the dialogue, the women are discussing how the Aboriginals all lived near each other but spoke different languages. Povinelli says, “The countries we are talking about are not very far from each other. Like if we were healthy people we could easily walk from Mabalug to Banagaiya if the tide was out” (6). Then Sandra Yarrowin adds on one word: “Karrabing.” Karrabing means tide out. When the tide was out, the Aboriginals could easily cross to the neighboring territory where a different group lived. Their languages were different yet they all understood each other. They weren’t homogeneous but respected each other and often intermingled comfortably. However, the white settlers didn’t like this when they arrived. They began to force English upon everyone and made them adopt their own culture. The women conclude that the white man wanted power, and the way to get that was to make everyone follow one way, his way. However, we can see that Karrabing is the real way because that is the way God wanted us to be according to Genesis. Having one language in society is not as ideal as different ones that interact with each other.

In conclusion, these two texts, despite initially seeming very simple, hold a very deep and complex meaning. Villawood seems fun as it is a cartoon that looks appealing and easy to read. However, in the year 2020, people are still locking up others just because they are trying to live a safe life. Is this really a crime? Interestingly, all the inmates we see are non-white and for the most part Muslims. White Australians are not even trying to hide their true feelings towards these political refugees who are suffering from wars they have no control over. In the Australian Babel, we can see that the white folks of Australia do not even have the right to judge others on their illegal means of coming to Australia. They too did the same, and intentionally destroyed a beautiful culture and way of life that the Aboriginals maintained for centuries. Why do white people hate aliens and that which they represent? This is something we will never know.

Works Cited

Ahmed, Safdar. Villawood. Medium, 2015, medium.com/shipping-news/villawood-9698183e114c/.

Lewis, Angela and Cecilia Lewis, Joclyn MacDonald, Elizabeth Povinelli, Linda Yarrowin, and Sandra Yarrowin. “Australian Babel: A Conversation with Karrabing.” Specimen: The Babel Review of Translation, 2017.

By Yuren Rangel
2020

Trauma and how to deal with it has been a recurring theme throughout this course, and various authors have approached the topic from different angles. Yet, I chose Safdar Ahmed’s Villawood: Notes from an Immigration Detention Centre because although the author himself didn’t experience the trauma he depicts, the medium through which he chose to tell the detainees’ stories gives us a new way of reading and understanding the stories and messages the author is conveying. This medium, the graphic novel, I believe is very appropriate and suited for conveying traumatic experiences to audiences for many reasons. For one, we as humans are innately built to have visual stimulation and work better off it, which graphic novels offer in abundance and with intricate meaning. For instance, there is ample use of symbolism that is easier for the author to employ constantly and for the reader to pick up on as they read. Also, there is an almost direct connection that can be established between the readers and the victims of trauma, as seen in the inclusion in the detainees’ drawings in Villawood. Lastly, the use of images gives an alternative to the victims to express their trauma without reliving it in constructed and sometimes insufficient words.

From birth, many of us born with the gift of sight rely on visual input to learn and connect with the world, only to learn to read, write, and interpret analytically later in our school years. In this way, graphic novels combine these two aspects of our understanding of the world to convey stories and, in this case, trauma from angles that can seem more intuitive to us. In an article published in The English Journal, Kathryn Strong Hansen writes in defense of the graphic novel and its use in classrooms, and she makes a very outstanding point among many. She explains artists communicate a lot through this type of novel and through the visuals these novels can “be an excellent vehicle to teach the concepts of symbolism, foreshadowing, metaphor, and many other literary devices” (Hansen 62). This notion of teaching through images is what I think makes graphic novels well suited for transmitting trauma: they cut through the textual complexities of having to learn devices beforehand and teach you along the way, all while also transmitting a strong storyline with meaningful content. In the act of circumventing tedious lectures on literary devices and getting straight to the story and its techniques, sort of learning along the way, “winging it” so to speak, the reader gets more out of reading and the message of trauma is left with the reader on a deeper and more personal note. Not only did they learn and see certain devices in action, but they did so while absorbing content on traumatic events.

In one example, the use of color is available and used strategically in Villawood: Notes from an Immigration Detention Centre. Ahmed doesn’t saturate his story with a spectrum of colors, but two that are noticeable and really eye-capturing are red and blue, specifically a light, softer shade of blue. Ahmed uses the two colors in certain scenes, which in the end string together the scenes by color to connect the various stories of the detainees, sort of creating a bigger picture from the many panels and scenes. Red, as many know, evokes a feeling of danger and harm, and Ahmed makes use of this in scenes where the officers abuse and violate the detainees’ rights: when a female officer denies detainees entry to the visitor center to attend the deceased Ahmad Ali Jafari’s mourning services (Ahmed, ch. 2); when a manager warns a detainee not to lodge a complaint against an officer who first lodged a complaint against him unjustly (ch. 3); and in the final scene when a case manager rudely dismisses a detainee’s excitement to leave the facility by saying, “Yeah well it’s just more paperwork for me” (ch. 4), among numerous other examples.

Blue, in turn, plays on its softness to give readers a sense of peace and hope, which is how Ahmed uses this color, such as coloring sheets of paper blue when he gives the detainees the opportunity to draw their own story and express themselves through it (Ahmed, ch. 1), or when Ali Jafari writes on a piece of napkin a few inspiring couplets in his mother tongue, Urdu (ch. 2). Yet, one example where the novel really resonated with the topic of conveying trauma is Khadija’s blue-colored hijab. Khadija is a teenage girl who’s been detained at the center with her family for over two years. She begins her integration to Australian society by going to a local school, but she faces constant abuse in the center. She’s escorted to and from school and has limited access to the internet, hindering her studies and, as she later discovered, depriving her or anyone else in the facility of access to human rights websites that could help refugees int their cases for asylum. I say that Khadija’s blue hijab is a resonant example because through reading her story we know that she endures a lot and already has from fleeing her country, but in seeing her blue hijab (which also alludes to a common identity symbol that many refugees, especially women, are discriminated for) we’re reminded that she’s just a child and is innocent in this situation, having done nothing wrong but follow her parents to a safer country. Additionally, as previously mentioned, the blue’s softness stands as a sort of beacon of hope, which is unfortunately surrounded and drowned by the dull, monochromatic scenes that sadly allude to her and her family’s future, further solidifying in us the idea of trauma and that there isn’t always a guaranteed, happy ending.

To further exemplify how a graphic novel’s visual representation of literary devices bypasses (frankly) tiresome lectures on them, I wanted to turn to an acclaimed graphic novel by Art Spiegelman, Maus. The novel narrates the adversities and tragedies Spiegelman’s father, Vladek Spiegelman, had to go through during World War II and the Holocaust. Throughout the novel, Spiegelman depicts characters as animals according to their group affiliation: Jews as mice, ethnic Poles as pigs, and Germans as cats (which was a smart move, in my opinion, alluding to the predator-prey relationship pushed during the war between Germans and Jews). Although seeming cute and like an attempt to appeal to readers, this depiction based on ethnicity and affiliation sends the broad message of inherent divisiveness pushed by Nazi Germany that was still carried into Spiegelman’s representation of Jews in the present, post-war period. This technique by the author is easy to pick up by readers and to be applied in a literal sense to the trauma carried over from Holocaust survivors to their modern, living descendants.

Aside from visually and explicitly presenting messages to the readers, what can also be presented explicitly and directly are the thoughts and emotions of those same trauma victims. In Villawood, Ahmed includes direct drawings, which can do more justice to the victims than linear quotes, from detainees he met that depicted their pain and tragic experiences from the countries they fled. Taking “The Sri Lankan War” and “Execution” by K Waran (Ahmed, ch. 1) as

examples, they’re very blurry and have very little precise detail, but the few ones that are present are explicit and spare the viewer no mercy in depicting the horrors Waran lived through. Bodies are clearly seen, corpses as well, and in the second drawing, a pool of blood next to a very visible, expressionless face. Further inspecting these drawings from a reader’s perspective, so much can be felt by these two simple images that would require many lines of complex words: we as an audience are forced to confront and face the distressing images head on, simulating what goes on in the minds of the refugees daily, and we get a sense of chaos and distress with the messy filling of the bordering. This same trend can be seen with the rest of the drawings: there’s an explicit subject expressing the horrors that replay in the refugees’ minds, but even if you try to focus on another aspect, somewhere on the side of the image, there’s a reminder of the atrocities lived. In that sense, we as the audience feel the inescapability of the refugees’ trauma and get a glimpse into their sad stories.

Lastly, looking at the previous statement on how the reader can build a sense of sympathy for the refugee and try putting themselves in the shoes of the refugees’, so to speak, we can approach this idea of the graphic novel better expressing the trauma of victims from the angle of the subject. Victims of trauma, in this case the refugees and now detainees, may find it easier to let out their trauma and communicate it with the world through creating visual images. Even the author acknowledges that letting the refugees draw out their experiences rather than selecting the correct words seems a better option for them, getting to know them better and, for many, a way to overcome the language barrier. Looking back at the example drawings by Waran and further analyzing them, I saw that he was very explicit in depicting the horrors of the Sri Lankan War, but in his drawings, he just referred to the atrocities and not the actual place itself (aside from the first drawing’s title). Drawing from personal knowledge and experiences, many immigrants, especially refugees, don’t leave their countries voluntarily and love them very much, but they have essentially no choice but to flee (not leave). Therefore, it can be inferred that Waran is dealing with his trauma and communicating it but chooses to not visually tie to Sri Lanka because it may very well still hold a dear place in his memory.

In sum, it can be readily argued that the graphic novel brings forth many new aspects of a narrative, especially when narrating stories of trauma and painful experiences. Not only do these narratives offer a new platform for communicating these pains, but they also do so in ways that traditional, literary texts may not be able to. The graphic novel appeals to our innate visual sense of reacting and can circumvent the complex use of literary devices, relying on our sight to transmit emotion and ideas. They also offer a two-way benefit for both the reader and the subject: readers can visualize the raw experiences of the subject and can absorb so much from one image, meanwhile the subjects can express themselves fully without being bound to tedious word selection.

Works Cited

Ahmed, Safdar. Villawood. 2015, March 05. Retrieved December 18, 2020, from medium.com/shipping-news/villawood-9698183e114c/.

Hansen, Kathryn Strong. “In Defense of Graphic Novels.” The English Journal vol. 102, no. 2, 2012, pp. 57–63. JSTOR, www.jstor.org/stable/23365398. Accessed 18 Dec. 2020.

Spiegelman, Art. Maus, a Survivor’s Tale. Pantheon Books, 1986.

By Loretta Violante
2020

In the novels Sula and Maru, leading characters Sula and Margaret actively defy conventional gender roles and oppose systems of discrimination.  In their respective communities, both women experience hate and scorn. Despite these attitudes, Sula and Margaret subvert forces of discrimination through their expressions of sexuality, confidence in themselves, and honesty with those around them. While Sula takes aggressive actions that disengage her from her community and eventually lead to her demonization, Margaret has a passive demeanor that thwarts racism and ultimately liberates her people from enslavement. In exercising their agency and defying the expectations that other people set for them, both Sula and Margaret ultimately achieve their desires in life.  

In Sula, author Toni Morrison presents a rich narrative about a neighborhood in Ohio called the Bottom and the lives of the people living there. Sula Peace is one of the main characters in the novel. Sula is strong willed and independent and gets into mischief with her best friend, Nel, from an early age. When Nel gets married, Sula leaves the Bottom and travels around the country, exploring different cities and attending college in Nashville (Morrison 99). In search of love she sleeps with many men, but is unsatisfied and returns to the Bottom in 1937. Her return is met with great skepticism by the community; she is “accompanied by a plague of robins,” and after various incidents the people of the Bottom come to regard her as a harbinger of evil (Morrison 89). The nasty reputation that Sula develops can largely be owed to her defiance of conventional gender roles. She is not interested in getting married or having children, she embraces her sexuality and sleeps with many men, and she is indifferent to the opinions of others.

Margaret, on the other hand, is a major character in the novel Maru, written by Bessie Head. The novel takes place in Botswana, and explores themes of gender, racial discrimination, and class. Margaret is an independent, intelligent woman who belongs to the tribe of Masarwa. As a young child, she is orphaned and raised by a British missionary woman. Once she is older she takes a teaching job in a remote Dilepe village, where Masarwa people are enslaved and greatly discriminated against. Like Sula, Margaret is met with great skepticism by the community that she enters. She actively defies blatant racism and sexism directed towards her through her honesty, passive strength, and ability to transcend discrimination through creativity.

Both Sula and Margaret have trouble fitting into the communities that they enter. Sula returns to her hometown, the Bottom, after many years traveling, and Margaret joins the Dilepe community after being appointed to a teaching post there. Both women arrive to the spaces with conviction and confidence. Upon their arrival, it becomes widely known that the women are well educated and independent. 

Though Sula is met with some skepticism upon her arrival in the Bottom, her poor reputation is something that develops over time due to her consistent disregard of gender roles. From the get go, Sula defies the expectations prescribed to her as a woman. In one of her first interactions with her Grandmother, Eva, Eva questions when Sula will get married, have babies, and settle down. Sula replies, “I don’t want to make someone else. I want to make myself” (Morrison 92). Sula remains unmarried for her entire life and finds pleasure in casual sex. She “went to bed with men as frequently as she could” and eventually sleeps with Nel’s husband (Morrison 122, 105).

Sula’s actions create a great uproar in the Bottom. She infuriates the women of the town, “for she would lay their husbands once and then no more,” and she utterly destroys her friendship with Nel (Morrison 115). The townspeople call her a “bitch” and the men accuse her of “the unforgivable thing- the thing for which there was no understanding, no excuse, no compassion… They said Sula slept with white men” (Morrison 112). Meanwhile, the men who sleep with Sula receive no criticism for their actions. Though fully aware that the people of the town despise her, Sula disregards the double standard and continues to behave how she likes.

Furthermore, Sula defies set gender roles by being powerful, outspoken, and true to herself. It is known that Sula is “distinctly different. … She [lives] out her days exploring her own thoughts and emotions [and feels] no obligation to please anybody unless their pleasure pleased her” (Morrison 118). She is “free of ambition, with no affection for money, property, or things, no greed, no desire to command attention or compliments- no ego” (Morrison 119). Sula’s assurance in herself makes the people of the Bottom deeply uncomfortable. When she makes the decision to put her Grandmother, Eva, into a nursing home, the people call Sula “a roach” (112). Sula’s actions are aggressive and bold, and she actively defies the community values of tradition, heritage, and family. She is unwilling to compromise her vision for anyone, and his demonized as a result. Sula ends up dying alone in her house with no one by her side.

Margaret, on the other hand, experiences discrimination immediately upon her arrival to her new community. Margaret hails from the Masarwa tribe, and was subject to ethnic discrimination throughout her entire childhood. The Dilepe Village where Margaret begins teaching holds especially racist attitudes towards Masrawa people, and all of the powerful and wealthy Dilepe chiefs own “innumerable Masarwa as slaves” (Head 12). Unlike Sula, who grew up in the Bottom and has family there, Margaret does not have the luxury of familiarity or acceptance, and therefore cannot assert herself without risk in the way that Sula often does.

Margaret is an outcast upon arrival for reasons that are far out of her control. She faces particular difficulty in the school that she teaches at. One week into teaching, Margaret notices that her students are staring at her “with fascination and attention.” When Margaret questions the students, and student remarks, “’Tell me… since when is a Bushy a teacher?’” (Head 29). Margaret also faces harassment from the Principle of the school, Pete. When he finds out that she is a Masarwa, he no longer considers her a human being and refers to her as “it” (Head 25). In addition to being overtly racist, he is also sexist, making baseless claims that Margaret is “incapable of controlling her class” and a “bossy little bitch” (Head 29). He seeks to fire her from her position, and states that it will be easy because “She is a woman” (Head 26).

Despite these violent attitudes, Margaret fights for her right to be an equal member of the community, and in doing so, defies the gender and race based expectations that are prescribed to her. Like Sula, Margaret is brave and honest about her identity. She declares openly that she is a Masarwa, “as though she [does] not want to be anything else” (Head 28). She is willing to undergo discrimination and racism rather than betray her moral beliefs.

Unlike Sula, Margaret’s strength comes in a more passive form. When Moleka, the village leader, orders Margaret to return her bed because she is a Masarwa, Margaret explains that it is late and she still needs the bed. In a moment of courage, she calmly denies the order (Head 40). Margaret maintains this passive strength by avoiding aggression, continuing to teach at the school, and disregarding the ignorant attitudes of many of the people around her. She also discovers that she has the ability to transcend her environment through art. While drawing, Margaret can separate herself from the “agonies of life which she had endured in silence” (Head 68). She makes tons of drawings, skipping food and sleep, and remarks that there is “something inside her [that] was more powerful than her body could endure” (Head 69).

Though Margaret is humble and passive, she is aware of her power. Behind her quiet demeanor lies “another personality of great vigour and vitality” (Head 46). Margaret ultimately reveals her strength in her marriage to Maru. Though she is resistant to the marriage and loves another man, her actions ultimately lead to the liberation of the Masarwa people. Margaret’s place in Dilepe society, which she earned through her perseverance and strength, becomes a catalyst for change and pushes against the racist attitudes of the community. The Masarwa people see “the wind of freedom… turn and flow into [their] room.” They examine their condition and say, “We are not going back there” (Head 86). In thwarting the expectations set for her as a Masarwa and a woman, Margaret betters her entire community.

While Sula and Margaret differ, they ultimately harness their inner strength and oppose the systems of oppression that are set up against them. Sula ridicules the expectations that her community, the Bottom, sets for her as a woman. She has sex with whoever she likes and is boldly independent and outspoken. In the end of the novel she is alone, but she lived her life on her own terms. Margaret confronts the racist and sexist attitudes of the Dilepe village through her passive strength and honesty. In the end of Maru she does not marry for love, but she ends up opening the doors of liberation for the Masarwa people. Both women subvert the expectations that are set for them by being true to themselves and living life on their own terms. In defining themselves, rather than allowing others to define them, Sula and Margaret harness their power and find agency in themselves.

Works Cited

Head, Bessie. Maru. Heinemann, 1972.

Morrison, Toni. Sula. Vintage Classics, 2020.

By Kristen Aloysius
2020

Duality is often a medium through which conflicts and questions can be reflected upon. Jamaica Kincaid’s A Small Place explores the conflict within the duality between freedom and imprisonment through a reflection on Antigua. Kincaid discusses Antigua and the widespread effects that colonialism has had on everyday life. In defining and describing Antigua, Kincaid highlights the challenge of duality that presents itself in small places. She notes the freedom and simultaneous suffocation that accompanies life in a small place, pushing readers to understand the reality of this duality and reflect on the role they might play in this cycle. Ultimately, Kincaid’s illustration of problems surrounding duality conveys truths about small places and appears to be a potential escape from the oppression that poses as freedom in Antigua.

According to Kincaid, in a small place like Antigua, the event turns into the everyday. The people in a small place are burdened by the weight of an event until they “eventually absorb the event and it becomes part of them, a part of who and what they really are” (Kincaid 53). As a result, “an exact account, a complete account, of anything, anywhere, is not possible” (53). According to Kincaid, the people in a small place “cannot see themselves in a larger picture” or as “part of a chain of something, anything” (52). These events, whether they be corruption or tourism, are carried by Antiguans and are no longer parts of a complete story but become an ever-changing, eternally incomplete story in themselves. Although there could potentially be a freedom or power that comes with living on the periphery of the world and not being held down by a larger picture, Kincaid clearly illustrates the reality of life in a small place and quickly introduces the concept of duality in trying to define a small place. For instance, Kincaid often changes perspective and how she addresses the audience through the text to emphasize the nature of life in a small place. She begins the text by referring to readers as “you” in her discussion of tourists. This forces readers to reflect on and evaluate the role they play in continuing to reinforce the power structure originally put in place by colonization. In an extension of this perspective, Kincaid then discusses her own experiences using the pronoun “I” and, therefore, identifies herself as an Antiguan for the second section of the text. However, by changing her tone through this part of the text to address Antigua and Antiguans as “them,” Kincaid distances and removes herself from the experiences of Antiguans in the present. In doing so, she characterizes the experiences Antiguans and those from small places go through as very specific to their lives and perhaps isolating as a result. Reflecting on the event turning into the everyday from an outside perspective also allows Kincaid to highlight how Antiguans are in fact “part of a chain of something” but “cannot see themselves in a larger picture” because of the restrictions of small places which make people monuments of both their history and their present (52). Kincaid’s writing, therefore, indicates that there is an imprisonment behind the freedom that initially seems to accompany holding everything that creates who you are within you. In the same way, Kincaid’s description of the everyday turning into an event and the “division of Time into the Past, the Present, and the Future” not existing further develop the duality in small places and may explain why these places function in the way that they do (54). The divisions of time that are set for us create boundaries and paths for our lives, so the absence of these limits in Antigua presents as freeing initially. However, the physical and figurative restrictions of living in a small place prevent forgetting or compartmentalization of memories and time. It is the burden of holding everything-the event and the everyday- that breaks down limits in time. Therefore, the contradiction between freedom and confinement is apparent even in the defining qualities and significance of small places like Antigua.

In addition to how she defines small places, Kincaid presents a question of duality in her descriptions of Antigua and in the effects of it being a small place. Towards the end of the piece, Kincaid states that “Antigua is too beautiful” and that the “beauty of it seems unreal” because “no real day could be that sort of sunny and bright” and “no real sand on any real shore is that fine or that white”(78). The beauty of Antigua has also remained untouched because of an “incredible constant” and “no big historical moment… to leave a mark” on its character (79). This description of Antigua characterizes it as a free place unaltered by the world. Édouard Glissant’s Poetics of Relation also addresses this idea of openness and relation to the surrounding world. He describes the Caribbean and creolization as “approximating the idea of Relation as nearly as possible,” and “allowing each person to be there and elsewhere, rooted and open… in harmony and in errantry” (Glissant 34). In describing the unreal beauty of Antigua and how it hasn’t changed, Kincaid highlights both the “rooted and open” relationship between Antigua and Antiguans. However, she also notes the suffocation that can accompany this relationship. The beauty of the island is compared to “a prison” where “everybody inside it were locked in” and “everybody that is not inside it were locked out” (Kincaid 79). This comparison furthers the sense of confinement that Kincaid previously conveyed in addressing Antiguans as “them.” Kincaid’s use of the word “unreal” also indicates layers to the outward beauty of Antigua by suggesting that it is an illusion. The way in which Antigua is described, therefore, further contributes to the concept of duality in the text and unveils components of the reality of life in Antigua.

Although the conflict of duality between freedom and imprisonment that Kincaid presents in her descriptions of Antigua and small places ultimately points to a lack of freedom, the questions that she raises through this conflict encourage a reflection on our general ideals and propose a possible solution. Kincaid’s presentation of duality creates a sense of hope. In other words, she shows that there is a potential for freedom within the bounds of small places that have been colonized. In her discussion of Antiguans at the end of the novel, she states that they are the “descendants of those noble and exalted people, the slaves” but “once they are no longer slaves, once they are free… they are just human beings” (Kincaid 80). From this statement, the duality that exists in Antigua and all other characteristics of small places could be seen as a path to freedom and existence as just a human being. Despite the suffocation that constraints over time and the everyday may entail, there is a promise of freedom within these limitations. In the context of this line, the problem of duality not only brings up the question of whether freedom and imprisonment can exist independently but also provides the potential for freedom within a trapped place.

Therefore, the duality depicted in A Small Place and expanded upon in Poetics of Relation presents both questions and problems. Through one interpretation of this piece, Kincaid’s description and explanation of life in a small place question whether freedom and confinement are bound to exist together and challenge our notions of what freedom truly is. They also reveal the suffocation that can be brought about by what initially appears to be liberty in small places. In addition, although the duality in the text poses questions and conflicts, it also opens a potential path to freedom. Overall, although duality is not a main theme within the text, Kincaid’s incorporation of this concept further expands the underlying messages and questions within the novella.

Works Cited

Glissant, Édouard. “Errantry, Exile.” Poetics of Relation, 1990.

Kincaid, Jamaica. A Small Place. Farrar, Straus, Giroux, 1988.

By James Zou
2020

Open City by Teju Cole focuses on Julius, a psychiatrist from Nigeria, guides the reader through an inner monologue of his own actions and thoughts. As readers we can see that Julius longs for a connection but has clear apprehensions. This wanting for a bond can be seen from his interactions with Farouq as well as his one night stand. Apprehension is seen when Dr. Saito dies as well as accusations of rape by Moji. It is apparent that this duality in reaction can be explained by Julius’ sense of moral obligations being superseded by his sense of legal obligations. This coping mechanism developed by Julius allows him to be connected to patients, as is the nature of psychiatry, while not having the moral obligations typically associated. This coping mechanism is used in an attempt to fight his loneliness.

Before analysis of Julius’ behavior is made, it must first be made clear what defines an obligation and the difference between moral obligations and legal obligations. According to “H.L.A Hart on Legal and Moral Obligation,” in the Michigan Law Review, Hart says that in order for there to be an obligation there must exist a “social rule” that applies to the particular circumstance. These “social rules” that impose obligations can be distinguished from other social rules by two main features. First, being that obligation-imposing social rules must be supported by serious social pressure (444). For instance, a strong obligation to not commit a crime because of the consequence of going to prison. This deviation from written law causes a physical sanction because of the widely accepted social rule that those who break laws should go to prison.

Secondly, obligation-imposing social rules must be associated with the idea that it is necessary for the maintenance of social life or some highly prized feature of it (445). Going back to the prison example, criminals should be held behind bars because it would not allow them to further deviate, thus making society supposedly safer. Coincidentally, this example would also serve as a legal obligation. Legal obligation is described as having a duty to do whatever it is that the laws specify to be done, and the idea that all persons are legally obligated to follow each applicable law (444). Comparably, moral obligations are much like the social rules that urge obligation, but instead these social rules of morality appeal to the conscience and rely primarily on empathy (455).

Julius’ aversion towards relationships is explicitly stated. “I had no partner, I was alone. The fact arrived, and it calmed me immediately” (117). However, there are many moments where Julius’ can be seen as an unreliable narrator. An instance of this would be his interactions with Farouq. Contrary to what was said, he genuinely seemed to want to connect with him. Julius is seen taking the initiative to speak, and so far this is the first time we’ve seen this constant back and forth conversation. However, this was short lived as the next day this attitude towards Farouq and wanting to speak with him changed. What caused this seemingly drastic change in behaviour?

We can use the obligation guidelines to see the differences between each encounter between Julius and Farouq. Their initial encounter, Julius’ moral obligations towards Farouq were seemingly miniscule, there wasn’t much of a societal pressure between their interactions nor was there a sense of importance in their interactions. Forward to their next encounter, Julius still seems to be okay speaking to Farouq and doesn’t seem to be too troubled by it. They engage in a lengthy conversation about their favorite novels and seemingly connect with each other well.

After this conversation, the dynamics of their relationship has clearly changed. There is now a moral obligation for Julius to be friendly towards Farouq. Julius begins to feel aversion when speaking with Farouq at their next encounter. This reaction immediately transpires upon Farouq calling him a “friend,” it would be at this exact moment when Julius realizes the nature of their relationship and rejects it (Cole 96). It seems that Julius is fine interacting with people whom he has little to no moral obligations towards, but as soon as he realizes a connection is made he immediately contests it. This can be further seen during his one night stand with the Czech woman he encounters in the cafe. His most intimate moments are those of least moral obligations. The contrary is also true. During Moji’s accusation of rape towards Julius, his moral obligation towards Moji is immense. Fueled by conscience and empathy, Julius has strong societal pressures to admit his wrongs, but Julius didn’t respond at all (Cole 222).

This apathetic quality of Julius seemingly disappears during his interactions with patients. Julius’ interactions with patient V in particular, mirror that of a healthy relationship that would be expected from a moral perspective. Throughout the novel, Julius is seen periodically checking in on V or thinking about her situation in some regard. In particular, his reaction to V’s death exemplified the difference. “I could hardly imagine the kind of raw pain her family- her husband, her parents- would be experiencing” (149). As opposed to Farouq and Moji, Julius’ treatment of patient V is the result of his legal obligations as a psychiatrist. This empathetic nature of Julius seems to be misplaced in the regard that it would make much more sense if you acted with kindness and understanding with those close to you. Having an unreliable narrator, we as readers can infer that Julius had some previous trauma or incident that would cause this disinclination of respecting those he has strong moral obligations with (girlfriend is hardly mentioned at all).

This displacement in moral obligations and legal obligations can be a direct result from his past as his coping mechanism and perhaps even the reason why Julius is a psychiatrist. Being a practitioner of medicine, patients share intimate details about themselves. Especially in the field of psychiatry where patients have to share important, often vulnerable, parts of their life-which is something that often comes with strong moral obligations. By being a psychiatrist in a sense, Julius is able to bypass the wall of moral obligations with his legal obligations to have access to these private tidbits of information about the patient. Effectively forming a relationship where Julius has no personal connection nor responsibilities whatsoever but still having that sense of closeness.

Open City is an interesting narrative, where we the readers take on the roles as psychiatrists to evaluate Julius based on what little information we are given from him.

Works Cited

Cole, Teju. Open City. Random House, 2011.

Hart, H. L. A. “Legal and Moral Obligation.” Michigan Law Review vol. 73, no. 2, 1974, pp. 443–458. JSTOR, www.jstor.org/stable/1287782.

By Jack Vellon
2020

Unfortunately, in today’s day and age there are countless stories of refugee struggles and disgusting treatment of them by border control or guards at detention centers.  On television, social media, newspapers, it’s almost impossible to miss how immigrants coming to the U.S. are treated.  From hearing about kids in cages, to labor without pay, or even non-consensual surgeries and operations, the list of terrible things continues.  However, the mental struggles of these immigrants are almost never heard about.  I’ve always wondered how the separation from one’s family, or lack of hope can affect these individuals’ mental well-being.  Is it any different than how they were treated in their own countries?  Do they ever think about returning because it’s not worth it?  Villawood by Safdar Ahmed, highlights these mental struggles (and often times physical struggles) in excruciating detail.  The only difference being that I have mentioned immigrants to the U.S., while Villawood focuses on Villawood Detention Center in Australia, run by Serco.  Serco is a “multinational corporation that also runs prisons in the U.K.,” in Ahmed’s words.  Villawood, however, does not go about telling the stories of immigrants in the most conventional way.  You can find countless articles about this kind of thing, even primary sources like diaries or journals from actual detainees.  Villawood takes the form of a graphic novel.  When approaching Villawood for the first time and taking some cursory glances without really reading the content, I was intrigued.  Had I really been assigned a comic book?  Aren’t graphic novels like this for children?  I remember my old Spider-Man comic books looked like this!  After reading so many advanced, investigative, and sometimes tragic texts in this course, I felt like I was being tricked into reading a much more simplistic version of that.  I couldn’t have been more wrong.  After reading Villawood in its entirety, I was shocked by the effect it had on me.  I realized that I had grasped a lot of its content very easily, but its content still impacted me the same, or even more than if it were prose.  Soon after, I gathered that this was because of its graphic nature.  Why do graphic novels have this effect on me, and presumably many others?  What is it about pictures that make something easier to understand or what is the new dimension added to a text when there are pictures involved?  How do the words and images work together or separately?  Are there descriptive limits to only using words?  These questions are what is driving my essay.  In the case of Villawood, I want to know how graphic expressions can enhance or enrich the understanding of immigrant experience.

Pictures add a new element to a piece of writing.  No longer is something just words on a page, in which the reader moves left to right and up to down over and over again.  There’s an accompaniment now, when pictures are introduced.  Words have inherent descriptive nature, and now paired with images, their descriptiveness is brought to the next level.  For example, just on the third page of Villawood, there’s some information about the size of the detention center, and who the people in it are.  This information is paired with a picture of many blank people, much like the graphics you’d see on a restroom door, all lined up in rows.  This, to me, pictures the way outsiders or prison guards might view the immigrants in the center.  All the same, lined up in order, no differences about them.  Or, in Villawood, they would all be referred to as “Queue jumpers.”  This picture of unidentifiable people pairs well with the words on the page in that they contrast with one another.  The words are describing that the people of the prison are Iranian, Afghani, Sri Lankan, and so on.  However, the guards view them as prisoners and that’s all.  This is just one example how words and pictures can work together to enhance the understanding of a piece of writing.  In a piece such as Villawood, it is imperative that the themes or stories of others are crystal clear for the reader, otherwise it would have no impact on them.  Thus, rendering Villawood to just a story or “quick read,” rather than a cry for help or a critique of privatized prisons. 

Although words and graphics can work together in perfect harmony, there are limits to how descriptive, shocking, or intense words can be.  In the case of describing emotion, Villawood relies on its illustrations to portray loneliness, hopefulness, pain, anger, torture, and really any other feeling you can think of.  If Villawood had been prose, I cannot say that the impact would have been the same.  The graphics included in Villawood have a sort of “shock factor” that really encapsulate the emotions of the immigrants in the prison.  The graphics catch your eye almost immediately, prompting you to read the words to see what exactly the picture is portraying.  Once you do, the picture is all the more shocking.  In particular, Rajan’s story highlights the mental struggles of the immigrants.  Rajan states that, “In Sri Lanka they torture people physically but here they do it mentally.”  This is paired with a disturbing graphic that I assume is portraying the mental state of not only Rajan, but numerous other detainees.  However, if it just were to be Rajan’s statement on its own, I doubt the impact on the reader would have been the same.  The picture gives you a visual description of the mental pain and torture these people unfortunately have to go through.  Much like before, the graphics help Villawood steer clear of just becoming a “story,” as describing emotions are paramount in a text like it.  The anger of the guards, the pain of the prisoners, the black and white tones, all push the reader towards feeling sympathy or anger, which is what the author wants.  This wouldn’t have been possible without the graphics.  It’s no question as to why the prisoners in Villawood describe their trauma through drawings.  If K. Waran’s depictions of the Sri Lankan War had been text in their native language, I would gain no information or understanding of it.  But the brutal pictures they draw already instill emotions like pain and fear, just from some lines on a page.  Pictures are universal in that way. 

A great article from BioMedCentral explains the science behind why as humans, we are so invested in pictures.  The human brain is used mostly to process visual stimuli, and does so at an alarming speed.  The brain “is able to recognize a familiar object within 100 milliseconds.”  Additionally, “people tend to recognize familiar faces within 380 milliseconds.”  So, humans are able to process visual information better than any other kind, really.  Later in the article, it explains that “it takes a lot longer to read a sentence than to analyze a visual scene.”  Humans are always looking for the fastest and most efficient way to process information, and since most humans are visual learners, pictures are what helps them learn and respond to information the easiest. 

So, after reading that, it is no secret as to why the graphics of Villawood enriched the understanding of the plight of these refugees and drew a pretty emotional response from me.  Graphics make Villawood unique in that it portrays struggle, grief, and hardship to the reader almost totally visually.  I do believe that if all the graphics had been taken out and left only the text to Villawood, it would be less effective in drawing an emotional response from the reader.  The graphics do draw that response however, making Villawood a compelling, yet horrifying read.        

Works Cited

Ahmed, Safdar.  Villawood: Notes from an Immigration Detention Center. March 5, 2015.

Balm, James. 11 Aug 2014. “The Power of Pictures. How We Can Use Images to Promote and Communicate Science.” Research in Progress Blog, BioMed Central, 8 Dec. 2014, blogs.biomedcentral.com/bmcblog/2014/08/11/the-power-of-pictures-how-we-can-use-images-to-promote-and-communicate-science/.

France-Presse, Agence. “Second death in six weeks at Australian detention center.” Jakarta Post, 5 Mar. 2019. www.thejakartapost.com/news/2019/03/05/second-death-in-six-weeks-at-australian-detention-center.html.

By El Edmeade
2020

Autonomy, as defined by Webster’s Dictionary, is “self-directing freedom and especially moral independence” (“Autonomy”). It is the complex notion that humans have control of their lives, that they can create and drive their own will. We can reflect on autonomy and think about it in relation to hope and optimism. It seems difficult to have one without the other. In the world around us it’s easy to find and absorb the awful parts of human nature, and question if it’s possible to fix it. Do humans, with their complexities and individual situations, have the autonomy to truly change these ugly parts? Can we look at our future with optimism? Through the course of the latter half the semester, we explored several pieces of literature, many discussing or analyzing autonomy in its many forms/realms. One piece, a graphic novel by Safdar Ahmed, touches on mental, emotional, and physical autonomy. Jamaica Kincaid’s “A Small Place” unravels autonomy in a cultural, historical, even political realm. Edouard Glissant’s chapter titled “Errantry, Exile” analyzes a philosophical and abstract sense of autonomy. By exploring autonomy through the eyes of these authors, one can attempt a reflection on the soundness of optimism and hope for human-kind.

Let’s begin with Villawood, by Safdar Ahmed. The author writes about his experience visiting an immigration detention center in Australia. He meets several people who talk about their experiences with the immigration system which, for many, have been overwhelmingly negative. Ahmed states that he gave asylum seekers materials to draw to express their feelings, and what they depicted is a clear reflection of their mental and emotional states. There is art of the violence they are trying to escape from, images of war, blood, death, and imprisonment (Safdar). It is apparent that these people are worrying about escape, what next steps they’ll be able to take to feel secure and safe. They’re expressing their emotions, ones of fear, pain, sadness and depression. Safdar writes, “everywhere there is evidence of anxiety, depression and self-harm.” This detention center is holding people who are struggling with mental and emotional toil, but they are subjected to this toil yet again. They’re being watched, herded around, not granted privacy, and they’re trying to gain some sense of control by harming themselves. These immigrants, trying to seek freedom and security, feel less than human. How can they believe they can bring themselves to a better place, when the people that are supposed to help them hurt them? They are trying to escape the psychological and physical stressors and find their autonomy.

With relation to autonomy as it’s discussed/represented here, it’s hard to see these humans as having true autonomy. They’re physically trapped, held behind fences and walls and watched, treated by guards like they’re less than. They’re burdened with stress, worry about being denied freedom they deserve, and slowly doubting if they even do deserve it. They’re separated from their families and loved ones, scared and depressed. It doesn’t seem like the immigrants Ahmed writes about, nor the reader, can reflect on this reality with hope.

A Small Place was written by Jamaica Kincaid, an Antiguan author and gardener. She writes an essay/novel critiquing her homeland of Antigua, both its present and its past. She chooses to talk about the country’s duality, in a sarcastic, blunt tone. Kincaid first chooses to talk about tourism, Antigua’s main economic resource, saying, “A tourist is an ugly human being” (14). While seemingly harsh, her language is effective in trying to scrutinize the actions of tourists that come to Antigua. These people aren’t inherently “bad”; in fact they could be the most benevolent people in their own “regular lives.” But Kincaid critiques that they’re able to take a break from their own lives, set aside history, and borrow life from somewhere else – something Antiguans don’t have the luxury to do. The “tourist,” as established by Kincaid, blindly views Antigua as free and healed because of its political “autonomy.” She doesn’t stop there though: she also critiques the people of Antigua. Kincaid talks about how Antigua was when she grew up, a place that was under British rule before its independence. There was almost an acceptance of the way things were – one that Kincaid sees the irony in. She talks about present Antigua, “…self ruled, a worse place than what it was when it was dominated by the bad minded English and all the bad minded things they brought with them” (41). Their history, one they couldn’t control, set them up for a rocky foundation. Kincaid subtly pushes questions of autonomy in the final part of the essay, asking if the Antiguan people are complicit in continuing their condition, or if their past leaves them no room for control.

Kincaid delves into many layers of autonomy through the parts of her essay, but she really seems to draw the conclusion that on a historical level, autonomy in the present is often built on the past. As much as the Antiguan people attempt to change politically, try to celebrate themselves, or ignore the past to create their own future, their autonomy is limited because of their history. The powers that be were built against them, and their culture is no longer their own – it was simply transformed and erased. These systems are perpetuated with tourism, a product they depend on, but hurts them in the process. It doesn’t seem like the Antiguan people Jamaica Kincaid writes about, nor the reader, can reflect on this reality with hope, either.

We are brought to our last text, “Errantry, Exile.” Édouard Glissant, a French writer, poet and philosopher from Martinique, delves into the concept of errantry. He discusses its presence in literature, how it exists in an absolute realm, and its permeation in society – especially in regards to autonomy. Glissant notes that “roots make the commonality of errantry and exile, for in both instances roots are lacking” (11). Here, he focuses on how errantry, defined plainly as “the quality… of wandering,” exists only without a tether (“Errantry”). This seems to be a very abstract way of defining this term, as common sense would say that something cannot be free if it is not free.  However, Glissant also talks about errantry in a more grounded way: “The tale of errantry is the tale of Relation” (Glissant 18). In this, we can interpret that errantry, movement, freedom – autonomy – is determined by context. Who a person is, what they can do, where they are, is based on those around them, who was there before them. Everything influences everything, in a way, Glissant is saying – and nothing is outside the bounds of what is (or has been). The rebel, the outcast, the privileged; they’re all in a system and connected, and their levels of autonomy are dependent on that system. However, Glissant also mentions how, like Kincaid discusses, errantry[MC1]  and autonomy are a luxury for the “tourist,” for one who can choose not to see history and step right over the damage that’s continually snowballing through the present.

It’s easy to perhaps overanalyze the power we have as individuals, some people hyperconscious of their actions/power, others shutting down once their scope is on the big picture. This is in some ways a discussion of fate – and whether we as humans actually have any control over our lives, or if our past will forever determine our present. When we reflect on the past, and think about the present, it’s hard to be hopeful that human nature can fix the present it created – or that it even wants to. There is no true autonomy that can present a true sense of hope. It only exists in the absolute. However, one thing all three authors do mention in this discourse on autonomy is that time places a role. Time only allows the issues regarding autonomy to shift and change. Maybe, for example, the immigrants in the detention center will eventually be given justice: treated like humans, seek refuge, gain freedom. But this can lead to disputing what real justice is. Is simply being given freedom truly enough? We might fix and address one issue, and never quite catch up with another. It seems, therefore, that while “trouble don’t last always,” the kind of trouble will continue to change – and that will happen forever. Perhaps that’s all we can hope for.

Works Cited

Ahmed, Safdar. Villawood. Medium, 2015.

“Autonomy.” Merriam-Webster Dictionary, www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/autonomy. Accessed 11 Dec. 2020.

“Errantry.” Merriam-Webster Dictionary, www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/errantry. Accessed 12 Dec. 2020.

Glissant, Édouard. “Errantry, Exile.” Poetics of Relation, translated by Betsy Wing, U of Michigan P, 1997.

Kincaid, Jamaica. A Small Place. Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1988.

By Daniela Cortes
2020

Our perception of people can change over time as we learn more about them. There can be two sides to people: the person they show you and the person they actually are. In the “Book of the Dead” by Edwidge Danticat, Ka, the narrator, experiences this kind of duality in identity first hand when learning more about her father. From his nightmares to his scars, Ka grew up believing that her father was a victim of violence in Haiti and that his inability to tell her everything was a result of trauma. Ka admires this false perception of her father and his resilience in the face of brutality, and tries to understand his trauma through sculpture. However, the cracks in the wood she saw as trauma from being a prisoner gets flipped on its head as she discovers that her father was the perpetrator of violence rather than a victim. In having this sculpture made to resemble her father while it is also destroyed by him, Ka is confronted with the duality of her father who she sees her father as and the violence he committed in his past, challenging her perception of him.

One way in learning how to uncover the change in Ka’s view of her father is through analyzing how Ka attempts to uncover the trauma experienced by her father. In “More than Hunter or Prey: Duality and Traumatic Memory in Edwidge Danticat’s ‘The Dew Breaker’”, Maria Rice Bellamy addresses how Ka’s sculpture relates to her trying to fill in the gaps of her father’s trauma: “Although the child of post memory’s relation to the traumatic past begins with gaps, silences, and repressions in her parents’ personal histories, other sources . . . ‘structures of mediation’ . . . fill some of the spaces” (178).

Since her father only told her lies or nothing at all, Ka attempted to learn more about her father’s trauma and its impact on her through other sources. “Structure of mediation” refers to historical or artistic sources that would be used in learning more about her father’s personal history such as a text about Haiti under the Duvalier regime. As a result of Ka wanting to know more about her father and the trauma he rarely spoke about, Ka creates the sculpture to better understand him. Bellamy also notes how “Since Ka’s childhood, her father’s history has been available to be read on his body and through his actions, but her efforts to understand and represent him have been hindered by silences, alternative narratives, and lies that obscured the truth and led her to incorrect conclusions” (183). Because she had so little access to the truth about what happened to her father, Ka constructed an alternative narrative that expands on the lies her father told her about being a prisoner, further inflating her false perception of her father.

Thus, Ka’s sculptural representation of her father paved the way of her eventually learning the truth. In describing her sculpture, Ka creates the perfect image of her poor prisoner father who was a victim of cruelty and brutality:

I had never tried to tell my father’s story in words before now, but my first completed sculpture of him was the reason for our trip: a three-foot mahogany figure of my father naked, kneeling on a half-foot square based, his back arched like the curve of a crescent moon, his downcast eyes fixed on his very long fingers and the large palms of his hands. It was hardly revolutionary, rough and not too detailed, minimalist at best, but it was my favorite of all my attempted representations of my father. It was the way I had imagined him in prison. (5)

Accepting of the lie her father told her, Ka depicts her father as a tortured soul. With his nakedness and curled up position, the father is portrayed as vulnerable to emphasize the trauma he had endured. Furthermore, having the father kneeling and his eyes downward makes him appear to be trapped within a prison of trauma. Essentially, Ka has created the idealized image of who she believes her father to be. Even the wood she used was indicative of the ideal vision she had of him, as she states, “I’d used a piece of mahogany that was naturally flawed, with a few superficial cracks along what was now the back. I’d thought these cracks beautiful and had made no effort to sand or polish them away, as they seemed like the wood’s own scars, like the one my father had on his face” (5). Ka glamorizes the cracks within the wood, likening them to the scars of trauma her father has. In idealizing her father through the sculpture, Ka sets herself up for a reckoning that shakes up her image of her father.        

Eventually, this idealized version of her father the victim is challenged by the reality of who he truly was: a prison guard who committed the violence he claimed he experienced. Faced with an idealized version of himself that contradicts the truth, Ka’s father sinks her statue in a fountain, telling her, “‘Ka, I don’t deserve a statue,’ he says again, this time much more slowly, ‘not a whole one, at least. You see, Ka, your father was the hunter, he was not the prey’” (Danticat 15). In ruining the statue, Ka’s father is forced to tell the truth, effectively destroying her idealized perception of him. Faced with the truth, Ka questions everything she knew about her father, connecting the dots with various instances in which he was vague about not visiting or telling people where he lived in Haiti. Ka even questions her mother’s involvement and love for him, “At what point did she decide she loved him? When did she know that she was supposed to have despised him?” (17). Essentially, Ka wonders that if her mother, a very religious woman, can forgive and still love him after learning the truth, can she do the same? Her father, despite the revelation, is still technically the same man who raised and loves her, but his past of violence clouds over everything she thinks about him. Ka still loves her father, but has to reconcile her idealized version of a traumatized father with the violence he enacted in the past that caused the trauma in the first place. The destruction of statue reflects how her perception of her father changed as she is now forced to confront the duality of him being both the traumatizer and traumatized, also signaling the end of her trying to understand his trauma through sculpture.

After learning the truth, Ka states how she has lost her muse: the father who experienced unspeakable trauma in prison. Initially, Ka spent a majority of her life believing her father was a victim, the prey as her father stated. The vague understanding of her father’s past made Ka want to explore his trauma through sculpture, eventually creating an idealized victim of her father. However, the cracks of trauma she sees in her father weren’t from being a prisoner, but being the prison guard who inflicted pain. In ruining her sculpture, Ka’s father was compelled to tell her the truth. Afterwards, Ka is forced to reconcile her idealized image of her father and the truth. Ka’s father is a complex man with a duality in his identity that shielded his daughter from the truth. The violence he participated in did traumatize Ka’s father, but telling the truth to Ka was too much to bear which resulted in alternative narratives and lies. However, these lies culminated in her trying to seek answers through sculpture and eventually learning the ugly truth. The truth exposed a duality that Ka was unprepared for, as the destruction of statue marks a change in her initial understanding of her father’s trauma and her subsequent relationship with him.

Works Cited

Bellamy, Maria Rice. “More than Hunter or Prey: Duality and Traumatic Memory in Edwidge Danticat’s ‘The Dew Breaker.’” MELUS, vol. 37, no. 1, 2012, pp. 177–197. JSTOR, www.jstor.org/stable/41440718. Accessed 6 Dec. 2020.

Danticat, Edwidge. Dew Breaker. Vintage, 2004.

By Addhyaya Sharma
2020

Traveling abroad is a way to add adventure in one’s life, a way to take a break and relax. When we think of such traveling, we usually think of an Instagram feed of a person with pictures in front of the Eiffel Tower or the Pyramid of Giza or any renowned touristic place for that matter. However, there also exists a type of non-mainstream tourism called slum tourism, where thousands of people around the world visit an “un-touristic” place, a place that is greatly impoverished or marginalized. It seems very counter-intuitive as to why someone would be willing to visit a place that may not have elements of touristic attraction, but the industry is still thriving, and more people are getting aware of it. Like any form of tourism, there are definite socio-economic impacts associated with it, but this type of tourism, specifically, raises a debate about the perspectives of the tourist and locals, and the ethics of the entire process.

Let’s see this from a tourist’s view. Why does a tourist want to visit slums? This question is answered by Julia Meschkank in a journal article “Investigations into slum tourism in Mumbai,” which is based on an empirical field study conducted in 2009 in a slum called Dharavi, in Mumbai, India. According to the findings, the primary reason for tourists’ visit to the slum was their basic interest in living conditions of the slum residents and their lifestyle in poverty. To understand this reasoning, we must understand that poverty is relative to different locations. Poverty in, let’s say, USA and India are not the same thing. While the idea of financial strain and struggle is the same, poverty will look different in these countries because of economic and development factors. So, when a person visits a slum, while they may have experienced poverty in their own country, they will still have a completely new experience because it is something they have never seen before. In a slum like Dharavi, where there is poor sanitation and where people earn less than $2 an hour, the tourists are interested to see how locals sustain their living under these conditions. It is a way for the tourists to connect with the locals and share their story to the entire world. Similarly, another reason for tourists visiting slums, as found by the study, was the authenticity of the slum. One may see pictures and videos of a place on the news or the Internet, but it isn’t as real and eye-opening as visiting the place. That way, one can directly immerse themselves in the local traditions and culture and sort out any bogus narrative (if there is any) about the place’s socio-economic status being relayed to the world. In summary, a tourist’s intention while making this trip is to learn about places they would’ve never thought to visit and be a medium to publicize slums to encourage future development.

Now, let’s see this from a local’s view. How does a local feel being visited by foreigners? For a local, seeing the foreigners is an image of everything they can’t have because of their poor economic condition. There is a common saying in slum tourism that slum tours treat the locals like animals in a zoo. They only look at you, pity you, but can’t contribute anything to change your situation in the present. This frustration is presented by Jamaica Kincaid in her novel A Small Place. The novel is about Kincaid’s experiences growing up in Antigua and having to deal with the discrepancy in the quality of life between tourists and the locals of Antigua. Her views on this topic are clearly portrayed in the lines, “The thing you have always suspected about yourself the minute you became a tourist is true: A tourist is an ugly human being” (Kincaid 14). This perspective stems from the tourists’ failure in acknowledging Antigua’s history of being a country devastated by corruption. They have little to no knowledge of how rarely the people’s voices are heard and their needs met. Their ignorance is disrespectful to the locals and Kincaid clearly communicates this idea with literary devices like personal anecdote. For example, in the lines, “so that when tourists turned up, they could buy all those awful things that tourists always buy, all those awful things they then take home, put in their attics, and their children have to throw out when the tourists, finally, die” (48), Kincaid is referring to items that would be bought from a shop built over an old library. This line is very powerful because Kincaid frequently mentions of how significant the library was to her during her upbringing, and now it would hold no meaning whatsoever if it were adjusted to meet a foreigner’s need. It is due to these compromises that locals in slums usually resent tourists, no matter how pure the tourists’ intentions are.

Now that we have perspectives of both the tourists and locals, we can analyze the overall process of slum tourism. Is slum tourism ethical? It’s a very hard question to answer because it brings us back to the different perspectives. If we just look at one side of the equation, our answer will be biased. For example, if we are to hear the tourists’ intentions for touring a slum, we’d say that they are doing a good job of promoting tourism in an impoverished area and creating jobs for the locals. Similarly, if we are to hear the locals’ side, we would hear about invasion of their privacy and the tourist’s ignorance and we’d say that the locals are being used. In the end, all parties involved want development for the slum, but even with the purest of intentions on both sides, it seems that there is no progress. Unfortunately, there is no immediate solution to this problem. This mistrust is a consequence of past tourists exploiting this opportunity to add on to their list of personal achievements instead of actually trying to connect with the locals. The issue is also exacerbated by touring agencies which have taken the path of personal profit such that little to no money trickles down to the locals.

Being an immigrant myself from a country (Nepal) where tourism is one of the major sources of national revenue, I have had the privilege to work with many foreigners as a local and I know that I would appreciate it if they knew about the history of my country. Trust is a two-way street, and it is only achieved when tourists are interested about the places they visit. Therefore, for good long-term relationships in slum tourism, tourists will have to research the places they are visiting, select the touring agencies that best benefit the area, and do anything in their power to uplift the standard of living of the locals which may include small donations or establishment of local charities. I truly believe that this trust can be built, and slum tourism will expand into a bigger industry, creating more jobs and eliminating poverty from marginalized areas.

Works Cited

Kincaid, Jamaica. A Small Place. Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1988.

Meschkank, Julia. “Investigations into Slum Tourism in Mumbai: Poverty Tourism and the Tensions between Different Constructions of Reality.” GeoJournal, vol. 76, no. 1, 2011, pp. 47–62. JSTOR, www.jstor.org/stable/41148435. Accessed 20 Dec. 2020.

By Aislinn Bass-Adams
2020

The tiny plot was what had been set aside now to indicate the spot, but in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, the site had been large, some six acres, as far north as present-day Duane Street, and as far south as City Hall Park. Along Chambers Street and in the park itself, human remains were still routinely uncovered. But most of the burial ground was now under office buildings, shops, streets, diners, pharmacies, all the endless hum of quotidian commerce and government. Into this earth had been interred the bodies of some fifteen to twenty thousand blacks, most of them slaves, but then the land had been built over and the people of the city had forgotten that it was a burial ground.

Open City

Those are the musings of Julius, the narrator of Teju Cole’s Open City, as he walks through downtown Manhattan, passing a memorial on the corner of Duane and Elk Street. The memorial, which is officially known as the African Burial Ground, is considered a National Monument of New York. What it memorializes is the burial site, in downtown Manhattan, of thousands of black New Yorkers, many of them slaves, between the 17th and 18th centuries. It is a grisly part of New York’s history, one that almost seems like a bad horror trope: “The bodies were under the house all along,” but for many people who live and work in Downtown Manhattan, it is a literal reality. There are thousands of people, living and working among “Buildings, shops, streets, diners, pharmacies” which now serve as concrete grave markers for hundreds of yet-to-be-found bodies.

The very fact that Manhattan became a hidden burial ground is in itself a horrific piece of history. When the island was first settled by the Dutch, and still known as New Amsterdam, it was built with slave labor. The Dutch declared conditional freedom to a group of slaves in New Amsterdam in 1640, but refused to allow them to live (and bury their dead) within city limits (“African Burial Ground”). Instead, the now-free black population settled outside of city limits, on the margins of New Amsterdam. It is believed that around this time, the graveyard was first established. The graveyard’s very existence stems from a refusal to allow black dead and white dead to be buried in the same land, and a refusal to allow deceased Africans to rest on the holy land of the first Christian churches in Manhattan. Although the graveyard is believed to have been founded by free Africans, it was not just free Africans who were buried beneath its soil. Of the 419 exhumed bodies on just one corner of Manhattan, well over half are believed to be slaves, a fact established by Howard University’s analysis of burial rites, skeletal structure, genetic tracing from bone marrow, and chemical analysis of teeth. Exactly how the graveyard moved from an early 17th-century free graveyard to a late 18th century slave one remains another lost element of the tragic story of Manhattan’s African Burial Ground. Exactly how the graveyard moved from being a graveyard to a heavily developed metropolitan block is another lost element, which weighs heavily on the mind.

That missing piece of the puzzle is what always bothered me about this metropolitan graveyard. It’s not just the brutality, the unfree existence and unpeaceful and unequal eternal rest. What stays with me is how a graveyard spanning six acres becomes paved-over to begin with, and how it can remain undiscovered until the 1990s. It is the epitome of cruel neglect, allowing property to pass from public to private, allowing grave markers to rot, and paving over thousands of final resting places in deliberate ignorance. To turn a land from a cemetery to parking lots there had to have been, at some point in New York’s history, a decision from its people to let the dead who built their city be paved over and to desecrate their final resting place.

For the graveyard to remain unacknowledged and unrecorded for so much of New York’s history speaks volumes. No one who could write, who could record this fact, chose to do so. Those at the time who knew of the graveyard’s defilement, who had family, friends or ancestors in that graveyard, didn’t have the power to record their sorrow or outrage. There is virtually nothing to study by way of eyewitness history at the African Burial Ground, because there is no living record of the men and women who must have watched in pain as the final resting place of their families, friends and community members was obliterated and eventually turned into a city block. It speaks of a city and culture that simply didn’t care about the deaths of enslaved African men and women, or of the free ones of the same ethnicity. But what an unspeakable horror of neglect it is, regardless of how these men and women may have been viewed while alive, that their graveyard would be so purposefully forgotten.

At best guess, there are still potentially thousands of undiscovered graves in Downtown Manhattan. If a mind-blowing 419 bodies could be exhumed from just one corner of a city block, and the graveyard originally spanned six acres, with an estimated 15,000 burials, one can only imagine how many more men and women are lying under Manhattan’s skyscrapers, pedestrian walkways, maintenance lines, and subway tunnels. It’s an uneasy, unpleasant and frankly unavoidable truth that if you have walked through Downtown Manhattan, you have almost certainly walked over the bodies of the dead, including former slaves, impoverished colonial paupers dumped into mass graves, and the ancient resting places of the Lenape. But it’s especially unnerving and sounds horrifyingly fabricated, to think that Manhattan is a city so deeply entrenched in the darkest parts of the Atlantic Slave Trade’s history, that there are actually skeletons of slaves under its sidewalks.

As cold comfort, one could argue that we are always walking on the dead. Tens of thousands of years of human existence and burial, and hundreds of generations of indigenous tribes living and surviving and dying on the land we now live on, has made it impossible not to consider the possibility. Theoretically, there could be countless remains under all of our feet, many of them already thousand-year-old dust. But Manhattan’s slave graves are undeniably different. For one, they aren’t theoretical graves, hundreds of feet underground. They are carefully buried, facing east, and when a small fraction were discovered at the corner of Elk and Duane street, they were less than 60 feet below the sidewalk. There is also the unavoidable fact that for these men and women, walking above their graves feels especially heinous because of the pain and humiliation they experienced while alive. Howard University’s research study found that almost every skeleton they exhumed suffered from extreme nutrient deficiency (Blankey and Rankin-Hill, 102), and most had visible chemical signatures on their teeth, which displayed years of stress, poor diet, and overexertion (Blankey and Rankin-Hill 97). Perhaps most importantly, isotope decay and burial rites suggested that a majority of the bodies in the graves were very likely born, and died, in bonds (103). Their presence under the ground in Downtown Manhattan is the result of a culture that enslaved and ultimately killed them, and then paved over their graves to make way for metropolitan success. It inflicted upon them a decidedly unfree and unjust treatment in death, after an unfree and unjust life.

But what Julius fails to mention in his thoughts in Open City is the unavoidableness of the entire situation, the final nail in a coffin of unease. Although Manhattan may be laying on a graveyard, the real horror is that there is almost nothing to be done about it. The evil deed is done. The graveyard has already been paved over, developed on top of, and even if the entire city united to try to exhume and relocate the bodies, there is simply too much concrete, landfill, and mass-development to entertain the possibility of locating every slave body under the soil. Even intact bodies, not crushed under the weight of skyscraper foundations or destroyed by dynamite and drills during the construction of subway tunnels, will likely never be found. They will remain under Manhattan’s surface, a lingering stain on its conscience, a permanent reminder of its dark past, until Manhattan itself crumbles and falls.

 (c. 1250)

Works Cited

Blankey, Michael L., and Lesley M. Rankin-Hill, editors. The New York African Burial Ground: Unearthing the African Presence in Colonial New York . Howard UP, in association with US General Services Administration, 2009, www.nps.gov/afbg/learn/historyculture/upload/downVol1-Part1-The-Skeletal-Biology-of-th e-NYAGB.pdf/.

Cole, Teju. Open City. Random House, 2012.

New York: African Burial Ground National Monument (U.S. National Park Service), www.nps.gov/articles/afamburial.htm. Accessed 12 Dec. 2020.

By Amber Dimaculangan
2020

When dealing with traumatic experiences, there is a saying that “time heals all wounds,” that simply pushing forward through life will eventually cause the pain to go away. However, how long does it actually take for this hurt to subside? The circumstances people find themselves in are not all the same, thus warranting different coping mechanisms and the time it takes to heal emotionally. Going through hardship as a group, such as the Antiguans did in Jamaica Kincaid’s novel A Small Place, may form a sense of community within members of that group, bonding over their shared feelings of oppression. Unfortunately, as Teju Cole touches upon in his novel Open City, those on the outside fail to notice many of these groups’ struggles, and their histories are eventually forgotten altogether. The oppressors of these peoples ultimately have two choices: confront the past and change for the better or avoid it for their own benefit. What they decide to do, or not do, directly affects the lives of these communities who are now forced to live by a decision that was out of their control.

For some, the past affects peoples’ lives to an extent that the difference between past and present is almost indiscernible. The history of Antigua as illustrated in A Small Place is a dark one, with colonizers taking over the island in hopes of bettering a place that did not ask to be fixed. They used their power to silence the colonized, and when they left, the effects of this rule remained. Kincaid says, “It is as if, then, the beauty-the beauty of the sea, the land, the air, the trees, the market, the people, the sounds they make-were a prison, and as if everything and everybody inside it were locked in and everything and everybody that is not inside it were locked out” (74). Antiguans are forced to live with the consequences of colonization every single day and have no means of escape, both physically and mentally. The effects of trauma on a community can also affect those within the population more individually. In Open City, the character V tells Julius about the Native American population in New York City and how the number of these peoples living in the Northeast has dwindled over time. She says, “It isn’t right that people are not terrified by this because this is a terrifying thing that happened to a vast population. And it’s not in the past, it is still with us today; at least, it’s still with me” (Cole 24). An entire population was driven out of their homes because of colonizers, and the Native Americans present day are left to deal with the loss of their community. What these people go through is out of their hands, and they are forced to give in to the choices that others have made for them.

In an attempt to bury these issues, oppressors may try to ignore them and leave the affected groups to deal with the hardship by themselves. Outsiders who are privileged enough have the opportunity to relish in blissful ignorance of these problems, for they do not affect them personally. Tourism as a major business in Antigua allows for tourists to view only the beauty of the island, enjoying the aesthetic and nature sites all while ignoring the fact that it was built upon the suffering of the natives. For example, the construction of the Mill Reef Club and shopping center in Antigua can be considered a cover-up, ways to distract travelers from seeing the struggles Antiguans must live with. In reference to a park in New York City, Julius in Cole’s novel says, “Into this earth had been interred the bodies of some fifteen to twenty thousand blacks, most of them slaves, but then the land had been built over and the people of the city had forgotten that it was a burial ground” (199). Underneath the serenity of the park lies the bodies of thousands of black people, and it is no surprise that passerby would rather see this park in the middle of a city rather than a graveyard. History is being pushed away in favor of those who fear the discomfort of confronting the past, and the names of people who died are being forgotten because some are too afraid to acknowledge the past that was detrimental to so many people who still walk the earth today. Through the past being ignored, oppressed groups experience a sort of “loss” of their power to speak up and may cope with this in several ways. Some may seek comfort in gathering with others who share the same past and live with the consequences today. Sigmund Freud’s essay, “Mourning and Melancholia,” highlights the ways in which people deal with loss, defining melancholia as pain dealt with by the ego, or the unconscious mind (246). People belonging to these groups may be in melancholia, internalizing their struggles and associating the hardship they go through with their own worthlessness and feeling of shame. Their having to deal with stereotypes and other forms of disrespect only adds on to these feelings, fueling the negative views they may already have of themselves.

This issue begs the question: how reasonable is it to believe that change can happen? Positive outlooks to this situation exist, and as time progresses, people are becoming less afraid of bringing up the past and all of the atrocities associated with it. It is now desirable to be less ignorant of issues that plague the lives of minority groups, and society is now more willing to deal with the discomfort of confronting horrific pasts like these. Ultimately, though, change comes through the collaboration of both the oppressed and the oppressors. If the oppressors do not wish to cooperate, change can be virtually impossible. The Antiguan government, for example, prioritizes money over all and how the island can make the most profit from their tourism and exports. Little to no attention is brought to the various social, environmental, and political problems that concern the natives. The higher-ups have little regard for their people, and their main concern will always be how to earn money in the most efficient way. The government’s lack of willingness to even acknowledge their people’s issues singlehandedly diminishes the chance of change occurring, keeping the Antiguans stuck living in their prison-like past. Similarly, when Moji confronts Julius about her sexual assault, he has nothing to say to her. He does not apologize and is called out for avoiding this problem for almost two decades. Moji says, “Things don’t go away just because you choose to forget them” (Cole 222). Even in more individual cases, the oppressor’s willful ignorance perpetuates the hurt that the victim feels. Without this needed collaboration, change is difficult to achieve in most situations.

As displayed by the groups discussed in Kincaid and Cole’s works, “forgiving and forgetting” events that happened in the past is not as easy as it may seem. While novels such as Cole’s may be fictional, they still shed light on issues in recent history that people continue to struggle with by writing characters that readers will learn to sympathize with and learn from. It is almost impossible to ignore the negatives that occur in daily life because of traumatic events, and while humans do have the ability to grow and learn from the past, it is necessary that they take advantage of this opportunity to do so, rather than just acknowledging that a problem exists while doing nothing to solve it. As Professor Saito in Open City says, “forgetting doesn’t take long” (Cole 154). It is important that society continues to bring awareness to the wrongs that have occurred in human history and work to achieve a better world, one that everyone is proud to call their home.

Works Cited

Cole, Teju. Open City. Faber and Faber, 2011.

Freud, Sigmund. “Mourning and Melancholia.” Merck, Sharp & Dohme, 1972.

Kincaid, Jamaica. A Small Place. Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1988.

By Avni Pande
2020

The process of immigration to another country is an arduous one, rife with anxiety and the pain of separation from what the individual once knew. It must be even more terrifying to flee one’s home as a result of violence, political struggle, or extreme poverty, and though it becomes a necessity to leave, a feeling of uncertainty for the future may linger on. Even worse, refugees placed in detention camps have to deal with having their dignity and basic human rights forcefully stripped away from them, as depicted in Safdar Ahmed’s graphic novel Villawood, published in 2015. As a result, these individuals silently endure even more suffering, while the rest of the world remains blissfully (and sometimes purposefully) unaware of their journey and struggles. Safdar Ahmed’s Villawood employs art as a way ofshedding light on the oppression and dehumanization of refugees fleeing their country, and paints a picture of the hopes and fears of this group of people.

The art style that Ahmed makes use of is eye-catching, and fully immerses the reader into this story. The novel is prevalently black-and-white, with occasional splashes of bright color (such as red) which call attention to the themes of violence and pain present throughout the work. One of the most prevalent characteristics of these graphics, however, is the decision to include close-ups of the face of each of the refugees introduced in the novel. In the first chapter, Ahmed talks to several of the refugees, who tell him that they have been essentially trapped in the detention camp for years, without any hope of being processed. One particular image and caption depicts the declining mental state and hopelessness of those who see no light at the end of the tunnel, revealing that “everywhere, there is evidence of anxiety, depression, and self-harm.” The image which accompanies this is that of a man holding his head in his hands, forehead creased in worry, and an expression of utter sadness or defeat on his face. Bringing the reader’s attention to the nuances of each refugee’s expression provides a window into their emotions with more detail than with just words, and allowing for an opportunity for the reader to empathize with them. Another significant portion of Villawood is composed of art pieces made by the refugees themselves. They include images of war, persecution, and death, such as those of Afghan men and women being executed by the Taliban. However, rather than an “objective” point-of-view, one gets to see these heartbreaking events from the perspective of those towards whom the violence is directed. Though the refugees are being suffocated inside the walls of detention camps, treated like prisoners, and with their voices taken away, they express themselves through their own art and enlighten those who are ignorant to their suffering. 

Other graphic novels also illustrate the refugee experience through their art styles, and bring awareness to an overlooked group. Shaun Tan’s The Arrival is another story of individuals immigrating to a strange new country. While the country and the characters of the graphic novel are fictional, the style of art is incredibly realistic, as though one is looking at a snapshot from an old album. There are no words, unlike in Villawood, and the graphic novel is entirely in black-and-white. As a result, the reader must focus their attention entirely on the artwork present in the work, and decipher the story from it. Throughout the novel, the journeys of different individuals unfold, revealing the squalid conditions they were escaping from and the difficulties they faced in their new homes. For example, the graphic novel illustrates the journey of a young woman who was forced to work in a dangerous factory as a small child, and later secretly escapes on a train (Tan 54). Not only does the reader get a glimpse of the process of fleeing to another country through the artwork, but also the motivation behind the action, which creates a sense of empathy between the refugee and the person hearing their story. Looking more closely at the style of art itself, the prevalence of light and shadows in the novel can be noted, which is especially clear as the novel is entirely colorless. Certain frames are much darker than others, and provide a shadowy effect, while other frames are much brighter, as though there is light shining directly onto them. The stark contrast between light and dark is utilized in highlighting feelings of uncertainty and fear in artwork which is much darker, as well as more optimistic and hopeful emotions (portrayed with more light and brightness). Overall, the graphics of the novel provide an in-depth depiction of the sense of unfamiliarity that comes with arriving in a foreign country, and allows the reader to almost participate in and experience those same feelings.

Both The Arrival and Villawood use art to humanize the experience of refugees (who are treated poorly in detention camps, set up to fail in an unfamiliar country, and must essentially start life over again, while others are blissfully unaware of the struggles that they are facing). Though each story takes place in one specific country, the obstacles that immigrating individuals face are nearly universal. An uncertain future, an unfamiliar culture and language, and the trauma of living in an impoverished or war-ravaged country are all factors influencing the transition of someone seeking refuge in a new place. On top of that, they have to deal with prejudice and discrimination from individuals who are completely blind to the obstacle they have faced, as well as institutions in that new country which essentially set them up to fail. Detention centers, as indicated in Villawood, which treat refugees like criminals, also make it difficult for people to begin to integrate into society.

Like Shaun Tan and Safdar Ahmed attempt to do in their graphic novels, it is essential for us to shed more awareness on the plight of refugees around the world whose basic human rights are being mercilessly taken away, and who face racism and mistreatment at the hands of residents of that country. These people die in detention centers and have their families taken away from them. All of them harbor the same hope (that both graphic novels tried to display) of more opportunity and an environment that is safe from extreme bloodshed and violence for their loved ones. By learning their stories, we can gain a new perspective about lives which are so drastically different from ours, but just as meaningful.

Work Cited

Ahmed, Safdar. Villawood: Notes From An Immigration Detention Center. Medium, 2015. medium.com/shipping-news/villawood-9698183e114c#.dkkzlvlln/.

Tan, Shaun. The Arrival. Arthur A. Levine Books, 2007.