Melancholic Migrants > Forum Home

The two readings, Angry Queer Somali Boy by Mohamed Abdulkarim Ali and We Have Always Been Here by Samra Habib, vividly portray the complexities of navigating queer and trans brown experiences. These works blend personal narratives with broader reflections on identity, migration, and resilience, each offering a nuanced perspective on what it means to belong as a queer or trans person of color.

In Angry Queer Somali Boy, Ali’s narrative captures the raw realities of being a queer Somali immigrant in Canada. His struggle to reconcile his sexuality with his cultural and religious background creates a tension that permeates the story. Ali’s descriptions of displacement—whether geographical, emotional, or social—are hauntingly powerful. The narrative’s strength lies in its unflinching honesty; Ali does not shy away from exposing the pain of alienation, the challenges of survival, or the moments of personal reckoning. This rawness, combined with a defiant tone, makes his story not only deeply personal but also a bold assertion of existence within systems that seek to erase identities like his.

In We Have Always Been Here, Samra Habib approaches the queer and trans brown experience with a reflective and poetic lens. Her narrative focuses on the intersections of her identity as a queer Muslim woman and her journey to self-acceptance. The beauty of her storytelling lies in the moments of discovery and empowerment. Whether describing her experiences in queer spaces around the world or her longing for a spiritual connection within Islam, Habib explores what it means to create a space for herself where none seemed to exist. The book celebrates chosen family, self-love, and the power of reclaiming one’s narrative in a world that often marginalizes queer and trans brown voices.

Both works resonate with the theme of “We Have Always Been Here,” underscoring the endurance and visibility of queer and trans brown identities throughout history and into the present. Ali’s defiant tone and Habib’s lyrical prose complement each other, presenting different facets of the queer and trans brown experience. Together, they highlight the importance of representation, the resilience required to navigate systemic exclusion, and the beauty of finding one’s place in a community. These stories are as much about survival as they are about joy.

Language and its loss deeply affect the melancholic migrant, as seen in Rajiv's struggle to connect with his heritage while contending with the fragmentation of his linguistic and cultural identity. For Rajiv, learning a standardized Hindi represents both a personal and ancestral journey. It symbolizes his effort to reconnect with the languages of his family and ancestors, who lost much of their linguistic and cultural roots due to colonialism and indenture. His Aji's Bhojpuri songs hold cultural significance, representing a connection to the past, yet they are dismissed as "broken" in the diaspora. This dismissal mirrors the marginalization Rajiv himself feels, reinforcing the loss and alienation that many migrants experience when their native languages are undervalued or suppressed (p. 36).

Rajiv's trouble with standardized Hindi stems from the tension between authenticity and societal expectations. Despite his deep interest in reconnecting with his roots, the academic and cultural emphasis on "proper" Hindi overlooks the nuanced hybridity of diaspora languages like Bhojpuri. This hierarchy of languages reflects broader colonial legacies where non-standardized dialects are seen as inferior. For Rajiv, navigating these linguistic expectations not only challenges his proficiency but also highlights the broader marginalization of diasporic identities. This tension is further complicated by his personal identity as a queer Indo-Caribbean individual, adding layers of exclusion and the need for reclamation within his linguistic and cultural heritage (p. 36).

@eva_rajzman said in Colonialist capitalism or capitalist colonialism:

“The fruit of our labour was used to build your nation”

This discussion provides a compelling analysis of how capitalist and colonial systems intertwined to exploit Asian labor for Britain’s economic gain while simultaneously marginalizing and abandoning those same workers. Your connection to the Asian Dub Foundation’s Debris and its lyrics, “The fruit of our labour was used to build your nation,” captures the extractive relationship between Britain and its colonies. The exploitation of Ayahs and Lascars, as detailed in Visram and Gilliat-Ray & Mellor’s writings, exemplifies how colonialism’s logic extended beyond land acquisition to the systemic commodification of human labor. Ayahs and Lascars were treated not as people but as disposable commodities, useful only as long as they served Britain’s economic interests, and then left destitute and excluded from society.

Your point about how colonialism and capitalism are deeply intertwined is particularly striking. The idea that “capitalist hunger” drives colonial practices offers a critical perspective on imperialism. Often understood primarily as military conquest, imperialism also represents the highest form of economic domination, using cheap labor and resource extraction to fuel capitalist expansion. The East India Company’s reliance on cheap local labor to maximize profit is a clear example of this, showing how the British colonial apparatus commodified both land and people. This reinforces your observation that colonialist and racist ideas were not separate but integral to this process—without the dehumanization of Asians as “cheap labor,” such systems could not have functioned.

The paradox you highlight between the exploitation of labor and racism is also well-illustrated. The lyrics “we’re only here ‘cos you were there” resonate strongly with Visram’s depiction of British families importing servants for their convenience and then abandoning them when they were no longer useful. This contradiction continues today, as seen in the gentrification of formerly working-class or immigrant neighborhoods like Cardiff’s Muslim area. The commodification of multiculturalism as a “charm” for outsiders, while displacing the very communities that created it, mirrors colonial logics of extraction and erasure. Your comparison to gentrification in other cities adds a contemporary lens to this discussion, showing how colonial and capitalist dynamics persist in modern urban contexts.

An additional layer to consider is the cultural and psychological legacy of this economic imperialism. The abandonment of Ayahs and Lascars not only left them destitute but also alienated from both the societies they served and their homelands. Similarly, modern gentrification reproduces cycles of displacement and alienation for marginalized communities, reinforcing a sense of cultural erasure. This invites a broader reflection on how imperialism, in its economic form, continues to shape global and local dynamics, embedding structural inequities that persist long after military conquest has ended. By framing imperialism as economic domination rather than merely military conquest, we can better understand its enduring and systemic impact.

Anna, your post effectively highlights how Orientalist perceptions of Islam influenced the experiences of Black Muslim enslaved people, creating unexpected hierarchies within the dehumanizing system of slavery. The idea that African Muslims were seen as "half-civilized," while other Africans were viewed as uncivilized, underscores the complexities of colonial attitudes toward religion and culture. This perception, despite Islam’s association with "debauchery," allowed some enslaved Muslims to gain relative advantages, such as improved treatment or opportunities for freedom. The example of Job Ben Salomon, who assisted British commerce and ultimately secured his freedom, exemplifies how some individuals strategically navigated these hierarchies to their benefit. This agency, even under extreme oppression, reveals the resilience and resourcefulness of African Muslims in leveraging their status to challenge their circumstances.

The concept of "de-Islamization" as both a tool of oppression and a strategy for survival adds another layer to this analysis. While white Anglo-Americans used it to strip enslaved Muslims of their identity and integrate them into Christian frameworks, many complied outwardly while maintaining their faith or using their roles to secure freedom. This mirrors strategies like taqiyya (check out my previous reply to shouzab in the "Out of Andalus" discussion post), showcasing how religious dissimulation served as a means of resistance. Additionally, the commodification of religion, where African Muslims were valued for their utility in trade and Christianization efforts, highlights the intersection of economic exploitation and cultural dehumanization. This nuanced discussion underscores how enslaved African Muslims used resilience and adaptability to navigate a brutal system, leaving a legacy of resistance within a profoundly oppressive context.

Your discussion post offers an insightful exploration of the experiences of Moriscos, the concept of taqiyya, and the intersections of Islam with Protestantism and Latino identities. I particularly appreciate the analysis of Maria Ruiz’s self-denunciation and how it connects to the broader theme of self-preservation under oppressive systems. Your interpretation of her actions as strategic, aimed at taking control of the narrative and preempting accusations, is compelling. This perspective aligns with historical examples of marginalized groups navigating hostile environments through calculated actions to survive and protect themselves. However, it also invites questions about how much agency Moriscos like Maria Ruiz truly had in shaping their narratives within such an oppressive system. Could her self-denunciation also reflect the internalized pressures of a system designed to strip individuals of their autonomy and dignity?

The connection you make between the Moriscos’ experience and the Shi‘i Islamic concept of taqiyya is particularly insightful. Highlighting taqiyya as a survival mechanism during Imam Jafar as-Sadiq’s time and its parallel in the lives of Moriscos brings to light the enduring theme of religious dissimulation as a response to persecution. It’s worth considering how this concept, while providing a means of survival, also shaped the identities of those who practiced it. For example, did living dual lives under taqiyya complicate or enrich their cultural and religious identities, particularly in contexts where assimilation was both enforced and resisted?

Your analysis of Islamic iconoclasm and its parallels with Protestant beliefs is another fascinating aspect of Cook’s discussion. The association of iconoclasm with disloyalty to Catholicism illustrates how cultural and religious practices were politicized to enforce conformity and justify exclusion. This raises broader questions about how shared practices across religious traditions, such as iconoclasm, can become markers of division rather than unity under certain socio-political conditions.

Moving into the more recent dynamics involving Latino Muslims, your discussion of the Nation of Islam (NOI) and organizations like the Latino American Dawah Organization (LADO) highlights important shifts in solidarity and inclusivity. The story of Manuel 2X and the appeal of the NOI’s social improvement programs for Latinos reveals how religious movements address not only spiritual needs but also systemic inequalities. It’s intriguing to consider how this initial solidarity between Latinos and African Americans in the NOI evolved with the “Sunnification” of the movement. This transformation, moving from racial exclusivity to broader inclusivity, reflects the dynamic nature of religious and social movements and their ability to adapt to changing contexts.

One original point to consider is how these shifts in solidarity and inclusivity within religious movements like the NOI and LADO could serve as models for broader interfaith and intercultural collaboration. The transition toward inclusivity in the NOI, for example, underscores the potential for religious communities to transcend racial and ethnic divides in addressing systemic inequalities. Another point is the role of shared struggles, such as those faced by Moriscos and modern Latino Muslims, in fostering solidarity. These historical and contemporary examples remind us that survival under oppression often necessitates both strategic individual actions, like Maria Ruiz’s self-denunciation, and collective resistance, such as the work of LADO and PIEDAD.

Your discussion excellently bridges historical and contemporary contexts, illustrating how themes of self-preservation, solidarity, and inclusivity resonate across time. It invites deeper reflection on the ways marginalized groups navigate and challenge systems of oppression, using both individual agency and collective action.

Pierre, your discussion post offers a rich analysis of how racism and self-hatred manifest in various contexts, drawing on the works of Kendrick Lamar, Maimouna Youssef, Bald, and Frantz Fanon. The connections you make between the internalization of racism and its impact on self-perception are compelling, particularly in your discussion of Lamar and Youssef’s music. Lamar’s critique of how racism leads to both external hatred and internalized self-loathing is powerful, and your interpretation of his line, “you hate me just as much as you hate yourself,” underscores how systemic racism not only dehumanizes its targets but also corrodes the humanity of the oppressors. Youssef’s exploration of her relationship with her hair and identity further demonstrates how white supremacy creates a distorted lens through which Black individuals often see themselves, echoing Fanon’s insights on the weight of being “fixed into nonbeing” by the gaze of the other.

The transition into Bald’s analysis of South Asian immigrants and their navigation of American society adds another layer to this discussion. The contrast between Khan’s and Singh’s approaches to naturalization speaks to the broader issue of how marginalized groups often face pressure to assimilate into dominant cultural norms to gain acceptance or success. Singh’s rejection of traditional Sikh expressions to achieve higher social status reflects the costs of assimilation, while Choudhry’s advocacy for the working class demonstrates a different, more grounded form of resistance. Your question about whether Singh would have advocated for the working class if he had been part of it invites a critical reflection on how privilege and positionality influence activism and representation.

Your analysis of Fanon is equally thoughtful, particularly the way you engage with his concept of being "fixed" by the white gaze and the burden it places on Black individuals. Fanon’s distinction between Black visibility and Jewish invisibility is intriguing, and your question about visibly Jewish individuals who express their faith raises an important point. While Fanon sees Jewish people as being able to avoid objectification through their appearance, visibly Jewish individuals, like those who wear religious garments, may also experience a similar “enslavement” to their physical identity. This comparison invites a deeper exploration of how different forms of visibility and embodiment shape experiences of racism and othering.

I really enjoyed how this post weaves together diverse perspectives to highlight how racism operates on multiple levels—external oppression, internalized self-hatred, and societal pressure to conform. A possible next step could be to explore how these dynamics intersect across the examples you’ve provided. For instance, how do the experiences of South Asian immigrants, as described by Bald, intersect with Fanon’s framework of being objectified and fixed by others? Similarly, how might the music of Lamar and Youssef provide a modern continuation of Fanon’s reflections on asserting oneself in the face of dehumanization? These connections could further deepen the already insightful analysis you’ve provided.

Pierre, your post beautifully examines how systemic biases in Western frameworks marginalize and misrepresent Muslim women and Latinos, as discussed by Zine, Hoodfar, and Muñoz. The critique of the veil bans in France as hypocritical is especially powerful, as it highlights the double standard in Western secularism: while claiming to oppose oppression, it enforces its own form of control by dictating how Muslim women express their faith. This denial of agency underscores how Muslim women are subjected to Orientalist views that render them perpetual outsiders, even within the societies they inhabit. Your point about Québécois narratives, which frame Muslim women as inherently incompatible with “peace and respect,” shows how this exclusion is justified through rhetoric that racializes cultural values, effectively “othering” immigrants and their descendants.

Hoodfar’s insights on the double bind faced by Muslim women—having to navigate both sexism and racism—are particularly relevant. The anecdote about the hijabi student being denied a job application form powerfully illustrates how stereotypes are institutionalized, with the veil interpreted as a marker of inferiority or inaptitude. This connects to your broader point that these women are often rendered invisible unless portrayed in a negative light. It’s a stark reminder of how systemic racism and sexism intersect to perpetuate exclusion, even among those who claim to champion diversity and equality.

Your integration of Muñoz’s concept of disidentification expands the discussion effectively, showing how Latino identities, much like Muslim women’s experiences, are reduced and homogenized by Western narratives. The media’s role in simplifying Latino identities, or framing them through an exoticized lens, parallels the misrepresentation of Muslim women as monolithic victims. The call for disidentification as a form of reclaiming representation is a compelling solution, as it challenges these reductive frameworks by allowing marginalized groups to define themselves on their own terms.

Overall, your post emphasizes the need for self-representation as a way to disrupt colonial and ethnocentric narratives. It invites further discussion on how these efforts might be supported and amplified in a world where colonial institutions still dominate public discourse.

Anya, your analysis effectively highlights the intersection of racism and sexism in Western American society's treatment of Punjabis, particularly when it came to relationships with white women. The focus on the "strongest prejudices" against these relationships underscores how they were perceived as a direct threat to deeply entrenched racial and patriarchal hierarchies. The use of a term like "unworthy" to describe Punjabi men reflects how racial ideologies dehumanized them and sought to exclude them from forming relationships that crossed these socially constructed boundaries. The violent response, such as the incident with the shotgun, exemplifies how far society was willing to go to enforce these boundaries, showcasing not just personal prejudice but the systemic enforcement of racial superiority.

Your discussion also does an excellent job of addressing the lack of agency afforded to women in these dynamics. The societal contempt for darker-skinned individuals extended not only to Punjabi men but also to white women who were vilified for choosing relationships outside their race. This highlights how white supremacy and patriarchy worked together to control women’s autonomy and reinforce the dominance of white men. The example of the clerk refusing to issue a marriage license due to differences in skin color further emphasizes the institutional nature of this racism, showing how personal consent and choice were overridden by societal prejudice.

Overall, this post effectively ties together the systemic nature of racism and sexism in Western America, illustrating how these ideologies reinforced one another to maintain a rigid social order. By focusing on both the dehumanization of Punjabi men and the restriction of women’s choices, it provides a nuanced understanding of how personal relationships became battlegrounds for broader societal control and exclusion.

Non-white settlers on Indigenous land occupy a complex position, as they are often survivors of colonial violence while simultaneously living on stolen land. Their roles in food justice movements should focus on solidarity, decolonial praxis, and supporting Indigenous sovereignty. This involves actively participating in dismantling colonial systems that commodify and exploit land and labor while ensuring their own practices do not replicate these dynamics. Non-white settlers must also take accountability for their positionality by grappling with the layered histories of colonization, migration, and displacement that inform their presence on Indigenous land. Their participation in food justice requires cultural humility and collaboration, prioritizing the protection and amplification of Indigenous agricultural and culinary practices rather than appropriating them. Building kinship with the earth means respecting Indigenous cosmologies and aligning with calls for land back and ecological stewardship.

The ongoing colonization of Palestinian cuisine by Israelis parallels these dynamics, illustrating how food becomes a site of cultural erasure and resistance. Israeli appropriation of Palestinian dishes like hummus, falafel, and maqlouba reflects a broader colonial project that seeks to assert dominance and rewrite history. By stealing Palestinian food, Israeli narratives construct a false indigeneity, erasing the Palestinian presence while asserting a fabricated connection to the land. Palestinian food, deeply tied to land and cultivation, represents more than sustenance—it is a living archive of resistance, memory, and belonging. This culinary theft mirrors the broader theft of Palestinian land, water, and resources, reinforcing the settler-colonial project.

To resist these forms of appropriation, food justice movements must center decolonial resistance by reclaiming and protecting foodways, challenging colonial narratives, practicing ethical consumption, and building transnational solidarity. Supporting Indigenous and Palestinian farmers and chefs in reclaiming their food systems while ensuring their knowledge is protected from commodification is critical. Additionally, actively contesting myths of settler indigeneity and the depoliticization of food through education, art, and advocacy reinforces these efforts. Non-white settlers and allies can also reject complicity in settler-colonial food systems by prioritizing local, Indigenous, and ethically produced foods, recognizing the histories tied to these practices. Food justice is deeply intertwined with cultural and ecological resistance, offering opportunities for transnational solidarity between Palestinians and Indigenous peoples globally. Food is not merely sustenance but a profound site of memory, identity, and liberation, making its protection essential in resisting colonial theft and honoring the sovereignty of the communities to whom it belongs.

Alice, I really enjoyed reading your discussion post as both a visual artist and an urban studies major. Your discussion post compellingly unpacks Larochelle's analysis, shedding light on how educational discourse in Quebec was not just descriptive but actively mythologized and racialized Indigenous and Black bodies to serve colonial ambitions.

Your connection to visual observation as a central ethnocentric framework is particularly striking. As you note, it wasn’t merely about describing Indigenous and Black peoples but about encoding their bodies and ways of life within a racialized hierarchy. This visual framing aligned with broader Western colonial practices where sight and categorization were used as tools of domination. By framing Indigenous peoples as "vanishing" and Black individuals as "static," these texts not only denied their agency but also sought to fix them in a temporal and cultural limbo that validated French-Canadian colonial dominance.

The paradox you identify—Indigenous peoples being both essential to and excluded from French-Canadian identity—is a powerful example of the calculated flexibility of colonial ideologies. By appropriating Indigenous elements, French-Canadians could claim a form of symbolic indigeneity that bolstered their claim to the land while erasing the actual sovereignty and presence of Indigenous peoples. This dynamic resonates beyond Quebec, echoing similar patterns in settler colonial contexts globally, where indigeneity is appropriated as a national symbol but denied political and territorial recognition.

Moreover, the infantilization of Black individuals you discuss highlights another layer of exclusion. By framing Blackness as perpetually marginal and childlike, the textbooks not only justified exploitation but also solidified a racialized boundary of belonging within Quebec society. This infantilization echoes a broader colonial narrative that sought to naturalize racial hierarchies by portraying Black people as incapable of self-determination, reinforcing their exclusion from narratives of progress and citizenship.

Finally, your analysis points to the insidious power of educational materials in shaping societal structures. Education is often assumed to be a neutral or progressive force, yet Larochelle’s work exposes how deeply it can be implicated in perpetuating systemic inequities. The geography textbooks you discuss laid the ideological groundwork for exclusion and dominance, showing how colonial power operates not just through overt violence but also through the subtleties of pedagogy and representation.

Your discussion invites us to think critically about the enduring legacies of these colonial frameworks in contemporary educational systems. How might we interrogate current curricula to uncover similar myths that perpetuate exclusion and hierarchy? And how can education, geography, and visual arts be reimagined as a tool for decolonization and empowerment rather than subjugation?

The hypocrisy you point out in how Eastern aesthetics are consumed in the West is really interesting. As you noted, these aesthetics, appropriated by upper-middle-class Americans as symbols of sophistication and liberation, become commodities that can be "owned, eaten, and discarded." This appropriation, however, strips these aesthetics of their cultural and historical significance. The fact that the same markers—clothing, food, or spiritual practices—are deemed liberatory for white Americans but oppressive when embraced by women from these cultures underscores the deeply ingrained Orientalist double standard. This duality perpetuates the myth of the "oppressed Eastern woman," whose agency is erased by the Western gaze while simultaneously celebrating Eastern aesthetics as tools for self-reinvention among white women.

Your observation about the relationships between South Asians and Black communities highlights a vital, under-discussed aspect of diaspora and marginalization. The chikondars’ networks rooted in Black communities demonstrate the ways marginalized groups can collaborate and create shared spaces of survival and resistance. These interactions challenge the dominant narratives that often portray marginalized groups as isolated or in competition with one another. However, as you point out, there is a tension here. While these networks reflect solidarity, they also reveal the fragility of alliances when one group seeks acceptance from the dominant white society, sometimes at the expense of others. This dynamic raises important questions about how systemic racism shapes inter-community relations and complicates efforts at solidarity.

The example of Ibrahim Choudry advocating for African American civil rights is a powerful reminder of how some individuals and groups actively resisted these divides. His work shows that cross-community solidarity is not just possible but essential in the fight against systemic oppression. It highlights the importance of mutual advocacy among marginalized groups and pushes back against the narrative of separation often perpetuated by white-dominated frameworks.

Finally, the portrayal of interracial marriages between African American women and South Asian men offers a radical counter-narrative to the dominant media and historical representations. These relationships defy the racialized and gendered expectations that uphold white supremacy, challenging the erasure of complex and non-normative relationships. By foregrounding these unions, Bengali Harlem disrupts the idea that interracial relationships must always center whiteness, showcasing the rich and overlooked histories of love, solidarity, and kinship between marginalized communities. But also, Bengali Harlem reveals the ways aesthetics, solidarity, and resistance intersect in the lives of marginalized communities. It challenges us to rethink how narratives are constructed and whose stories are told, offering a more nuanced understanding of the shared struggles and connections among oppressed peoples.

Cathy, this was a beautiful analysis, and I agree with you, the song's voice is undoubtedly rooted in the perspective of the child, who begins to grasp the depth of her parents' experiences and sacrifices. The lyrics seem to trace a journey of recognition and empathy—a realization of the parents’ identities beyond their roles as caretakers. This perspective resonates strongly in immigrant households, where parents often embody resilience and silence about the past, creating an invisible barrier for their children to fully understand the gravity of their sacrifices.

The imagery in the lyrics—"I can touch your memories," "I can almost feel the hopes you left behind," and "I can almost touch the soil beneath your whisper"—suggests that the child is piecing together a narrative through the landscape of her parents’ homeland. The act of visiting the parents’ country becomes an act of connection, allowing her to see fragments of their former lives and the dreams they carried. This physical journey mirrors an emotional one, as the child tries to bridge the gap between their past and her present.

Yet, as the child sings, “But I can't hear you,” it suggests an acknowledgment of the limits of her understanding. Despite her efforts to see and feel her parents’ past, the depth of their experiences—marked by loss, hope, and resilience—remains partially inaccessible.Kind of like the common phrase: "You are listening but you are not hearing me." This line underscores the gap between generations, shaped by displacement, cultural transitions, and unspoken pain.

Your use of Sara Ahmed’s distinction between mourning and melancholia adds a profound dimension to this interpretation. The parents, as you describe, appear to be in a state of mourning. They acknowledge their loss—the homeland, dreams, and lives they left behind—but they have also found a way to move forward. Their gratitude for their current lives and their children’s well-being suggests they’ve found peace in their journey, embodying what Ahmed calls “a return to life.”

The child, however, may still occupy a space of longing, grappling with a mourning of her own: the loss of a connection to a homeland that was never fully hers but which shapes her identity. Her visit to the homeland becomes both an act of healing and a reminder of what remains out of reach. This duality—understanding yet not fully comprehending—is a poignant reflection of the intergenerational experiences of displacement and migration.

The song reflects the complex interplay of memory, connection, and loss. It is a meditation on how physical spaces—homelands—carry emotional weight, shaping identity and belonging across generations. The child’s voice is one of empathy and gratitude but also of yearning, as she navigates the inherited legacy of her parents’ sacrifices while striving to make sense of her place in this narrative.

@kaeli_asha said in Making a HOME:

Embodying one's roots is in large part about embodying the body. It's where our spirit and heart resides. How does space inform that?

Your post beautifully captures the complexity of navigating whitened spaces while striving for authenticity and connection. I’d like to expand on the themes of estrangement, community, and resistance you’ve raised.

The sense of estrangement that comes with being an immigrant or part of a displaced lineage resonates deeply. Whitened spaces often impose an unspoken expectation of assimilation, subtly—or overtly—demanding that individuals suppress parts of themselves to "belong." This is where the violence of such spaces lies: it is not always overt but is felt in the ways they fail to reflect or accommodate the fullness of diverse identities. As you point out, being attuned to the structural and energetic dimensions of white supremacy is essential to understanding this experience.

Your emphasis on community and cultural connection as a source of grounding and resistance is vital. These connections provide a spiritual force, as you say, that reaffirms one's identity in spaces that might otherwise seek to erase or diminish it. Whether through shared language, cultural practices, or artistic expressions, these acts of reconnection are powerful forms of self-preservation and defiance.

I also appreciate your point about embodiment as resistance—not fully integrating or adapting as a way of holding onto the most essential parts of oneself. This is a radical act in spaces that demand conformity, especially when we’ve often been socialized as children to mimic those around us. As adults, reclaiming and embodying our roots becomes a process of healing and self-assertion. It’s not about rejecting adaptation entirely but choosing what parts of ourselves we refuse to compromise, even in the face of structural pressures.

The profound importance of cultivating spaces—physical, emotional, or cultural—where kinship and authenticity can flourish is what makes a home. These spaces not only help us navigate whitened environments but also strengthen our ability to "move differently" with resilience and purpose.

Your discussion post provides a sharp analysis of the Commission’s procedures and their inherent power dynamics, as well as the framing of the hijab in colonial and contemporary contexts. I’d like to extend this discussion by exploring the implications of these hierarchies and the intersections of race, gender, and colonial desire.

The Commission's reliance on open dialogue as a vehicle for inclusion may seem progressive on the surface, but as you point out, it merely recasts existing hierarchies in a more palatable form. The expectation for racialized groups to "justify their presence" and offer reassurances about their compatibility with Québécois identity reveals the unequal distribution of power. This process frames belonging as something granted by the Franco-Québécois majority, rather than a fundamental right of all individuals within society. By centering the fears of the majority, the Commission shifts the burden of proving worthiness onto racialized groups, effectively perpetuating exclusionary narratives under the guise of tolerance.

The framing of Muslim practices, particularly the hijab, further entrenches these dynamics. As you note, the hijab is hyper-visible in both colonial and contemporary imaginaries, serving as a focal point for debates on identity and secularism. This parallels Alia Al-Saji’s insights into how the hijab has historically been racialized and objectified within colonial discourse. The hijab becomes not just a symbol of resistance but also a site of colonial obsession, where the act of "unveiling" symbolizes dominance, control, and possession.

In the context of the Commission, this colonial gaze resurfaces in secularism debates, where Muslim women’s choices are over-determined by the majority’s anxieties about cultural purity and modernity. The hijabi Muslim woman is constructed as both a threat to and a test of the majority’s "tolerance." Yet, as Al-Saji notes, this framing erases the agency and individuality of Muslim women, reducing them to symbols that either affirm or challenge the majority’s identity. The preoccupation with the hijab as a marker of "backwardness" mirrors colonial attempts to control and "fix" the cultural other, often through narratives of liberation that are steeped in paternalism and Orientalism.

What’s particularly insidious is how these dynamics allow the majority to position itself as progressive and tolerant, while simultaneously perpetuating systems of exclusion and control. The secularism debate, for instance, casts the majority as defenders of modern values, obscuring the structural racism embedded in these policies and public discourses. This framework not only marginalizes Muslim communities but also reinforces the broader racial hierarchies within Québécois society, maintaining the Franco-Québécois majority’s dominance.

Ultimately, the parallels between colonial and contemporary representations of the hijab highlight how deeply these power structures are entrenched. The hijab, overloaded with meanings imposed by the majority, becomes a tool for reinforcing colonial-style hierarchies in modern contexts. To truly move beyond these dynamics, there must be a shift away from frameworks that place the majority as arbiters of belonging and identity. Instead, policies and dialogues must center the lived experiences, agency, and voices of racialized groups, recognizing their equal stake in shaping the society they are part of.

In Jasbir Puar's analysis, the turban becomes a site of intersection between the organic body and external racial, cultural, and political discourses, which profoundly challenges the concept of the body as a unified, self-contained entity. Through the turban, Puar illustrates how racist imaginings and cultural anxieties about difference work to fragment and destabilize the perception of Sikh bodies, rendering them not just "other" but also disjointed and incomplete in the eyes of a racist and xenophobic public.

Puar describes the turban as more than "just a turban"—it is an extension of the body, both materially and symbolically. For Sikh men, the turban is a deeply significant marker of identity, tied to religious observance, cultural heritage, and personal dignity. However, in the post-9/11 cultural landscape, the turban has been imbued with meanings that are both racialized and sexualized. It becomes a "sticky" object in Puar’s terms, one that attracts a variety of violent and contradictory associations, from hypermasculinity and militarism to effeminacy and deviance. This "stickiness" complicates the perception of the Sikh body as whole and sovereign.

One way this plays out is through acts of deturbaning, where Sikh men are forced—either through physical violence or institutional mandates—to remove their turbans. This act is not merely about disrobing but about a symbolic and visceral attack on the person’s bodily and cultural integrity. Deturbaning reduces the Sikh body to an assemblage, forcibly separating the turban from the body while simultaneously erasing its spiritual and cultural significance. The turban becomes an appendage that is violently detached, unmaking the coherence of the Sikh identity. For example, Puar points to the widespread assaults on Sikh men following 9/11, where the turban itself was targeted—unwrapped, clawed at, and humiliated as an extension of the body. Such acts of violence are deeply intimate and emasculating, reflecting both a profound misunderstanding and a purposeful dehumanization of Sikh identity.

Moreover, Puar ties the racialization of the turbaned body to broader mechanisms of surveillance and control. She explains how the turban, now associated with terrorism, becomes a "sticky" signifier of fear, circulating in affective economies of suspicion. It draws racist attention not as an incidental marker of identity but as a fetishized object, one that symbolizes an amalgam of monstrosity, terror, and cultural backwardness. This circulation of fear produces boundaries and categories of inclusion and exclusion that disrupt the organic wholeness of the Sikh body. The turban becomes a site where the body is no longer just flesh and blood but also data, information, and surveillance—a body fragmented by the gaze of the state and society.

Puar also notes the historical context of this fragmentation. She argues that the turbaned Sikh man, once celebrated as a hypermasculine "warrior" figure in colonial British military narratives, has now shifted to a symbol of "failed masculinity" within Western nationalist discourses. He is rendered both excessively patriarchal and effeminately queer in ways that defy normative gender expectations, further fracturing his representation in the cultural imaginary.

Thus, in Puar's framework, the racist imaginings of the turban do not merely mistake or misinterpret it; they actively reconstruct the turban and its wearer as fractured and monstrous entities. The turbaned body is no longer seen as whole or coherent but as a contested and politicized site, where organic and inorganic elements intersect to challenge its subjectivity and sovereignty. This fragmentation serves the dual purpose of racializing and sexualizing Sikh men, disqualifying them from normative humanity and citizenship while subjecting them to violent scrutiny and control​.

Thobani’s critique of Canadian multiculturalism challenges the idea that it is a benign policy aimed at managing diversity. Drawing from Himani Bannerji, Thobani asserts that multiculturalism constitutes difference by actively constructing people of color as politically identifiable through their cultural backgrounds. This redefinition of race as culture allows Canada to maintain white supremacy while presenting itself as tolerant and inclusive, particularly in contrast to the assimilationist United States. By essentializing cultural communities as “neatly distinguishable,” multiculturalism ignores internal complexities such as class, gender, and sexual orientation, thereby reinforcing stereotypes and marginalizing people of color. Furthermore, the policy's focus on cultural difference allows for the projection of anxieties of whiteness onto racialized groups, casting white Canadians as tolerant and cosmopolitan while constructing non-white communities as parochial and intolerant.

Thobani also highlights the geopolitical and economic motivations underlying multiculturalism. Post-war immigration from the "Third World" was encouraged to meet labor demands and strengthen ties with comprador classes in newly independent nations. This process masked the ongoing realities of racism and colonialism, allowing Canada to maintain exploitative global relationships while claiming to be inclusive. Additionally, multiculturalism undermines Indigenous self-determination by framing Indigenous peoples as just another cultural group, erasing their unique political claims to sovereignty, and positioning them within a hierarchy that privileges the Anglophone-Francophone model of the "founding nations."

These critiques of multiculturalism are particularly relevant to modern Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion (DEI) efforts. Like multiculturalism, DEI initiatives often emphasize celebrating cultural differences without addressing the structural forces—such as racism, colonialism, and capitalism—that perpetuate inequality. Thobani’s observation that multiculturalism essentializes cultural communities mirrors critiques of DEI programs that tokenize marginalized groups, reducing complex identities to simplistic categories while failing to challenge the systems that marginalize them in the first place.

Moreover, Thobani’s argument that multiculturalism reconfigures race as culture to sustain white dominance resonates with criticisms of performative DEI efforts. Organizations may adopt DEI frameworks to present themselves as inclusive without disrupting entrenched power dynamics. For instance, promoting visible diversity, such as hiring a more racially diverse workforce, often sidesteps deeper institutional reforms needed to dismantle systemic inequities. In this way, DEI can become an aesthetic exercise, reinforcing the status quo rather than driving meaningful change.

That brings us to the question: who does DEI serve? The institution or the people?

In grade 11, my art teacher revised a text I had written about one of my Palestinian textile art pieces, an art form that embodies my identity and homeland. I had written: I was born in America and grew up in Canada, but I am Palestinian. In his editing, he crossed it out and remarked, "If you were born in America, doesn’t that make you American and not Palestinian?"

Seeing this was shocking—it was a deliberate severance of the bond between me and my heritage, imposed by a white teacher who didn’t grasp the depth of Arab identity. For Arabs, identity is inherited from our parents, regardless of where we are born. I am Palestinian.

I am Palestinian because my lineage, eight generations of family names, traces directly to the village of Yibna in Palestine. All were born there, except my father, who was born in Rafah, Gaza.

To me, my homeland isn’t defined solely by its physical boundaries but by the family connected to it, those who were exiled, who fought for it, who died for it, and those living in the diaspora. Geographic distance does not sever my connection to my homeland.

Namazie challenges a similar idea of “homeland”—a concept my teacher unknowingly questioned—where homeland is not confined to imperialist-drawn borders but is instead defined by one’s identity and experiences. It can be something intangible, unknown, a “home rooted in the unrooted.”

While my homeland still exists, I also view pan-Arabia as an extension of it: a space not bound by recognition or definition, existing within our collective consciousness as our true homeland.

On Monday, November 11, a coalition of 17 McGill and Concordia University student organizations hosted a fundraising event for Gaza and Lebanon titled *Food & Falastine Fundraiser: Middle East and North African Youth.

The title’s second part sparked some debate, as feedback indicated it might be restrictive, suggesting that support for Palestine is not exclusive to Arab or Middle Eastern and North African youth.

Arab political identity is deeply intertwined with historical struggles, often fractured by European colonial powers such as the British and the French. As Houda articulates, to identify as Arab means embracing a collective identity that transcends imposed borders.

At McGill University, many Arab students come from privileged backgrounds, often from the UAE, and may not be highly politicized due to their socioeconomic status and upbringing. However, over the past year, amid the intensifying crisis in Gaza, there has been a growing urgency for Arabs in the diaspora to reconnect and mobilize for the broader national liberation movement. Yet, a challenge persists as some of these individuals remain distant from the struggle back home. This is significant because the Palestinian liberation struggle is inherently a shared fight for all Arab youth. Our collective identity is inseparable from the fate of our people in our homeland. As Asal explains in Identifying as Arab, “collective identity is always constructed and relational, rooted in history and social dynamics” (16).

Malcolm X once said, “We cannot think of uniting with others until after we have first united among ourselves. We cannot think of being acceptable to others until we have first proven acceptable to ourselves.”

This is why the event was titled to center Middle Eastern and North African youth—aiming to foster unity among Arab youth and encourage organization under a shared banner.

@aleena_anas said in So, she's not really American?:

For white Americans, the hijab is a symbol of otherness which is therefore seen as a symbol of foreignness which is in opposition of American identity and homogeneity.

I think this is a really interesting discussion to have, and I wanted to share a funny encounter my mom had when we were living in North Carolina in the early 2000's. My mom is fully Palestinian and a hijabi, she's from an area in Palestine (Lifta, Jerusalem), where they're known to have more "European" features as light skin, coloured eyes and light hair colour and a small nose. My dad is the complete opposite, he's from a district in the port city of Yaffa (Yibna) and he has darker skin, brown eyes, and thick hair. One Sunday afternoon in North Carolina, my parents were walking together and my mom was wearing an all-black abaya set. A woman approaches my mother assuming she's a nun and asks my mom to bless her. This is unsurprising for North Carolina as it's a Christian white-majority state so seeing a white hijabi woman, they didn't think to connect it to anything foreign but except to connect it with what they can recognize. However, I'm sure that when the woman later realized my mother wasn't a nun (my mom didn't tell her--I'm hoping that she found out herself) she immediately became a foreigner in their eyes.

Moreover, the concept of internalized racism among Muslims reveals complex layers of identity struggle, especially when markers like the hijab come into play. The societal pressure to conform to Western norms often intensifies after significant events such as 9/11, which cast a spotlight on Muslim communities in ways that heightened scrutiny and suspicion. This results in an internal tension where Muslims may subconsciously view Western standards—embodied by whiteness—as superior or as a benchmark for acceptance and success. This internalized sense of 'otherness' can lead to compromises in cultural expression and self-presentation, as Muslims may feel compelled to downplay or abandon visible aspects of their faith to fit into a society that values whiteness as the normative ideal.

This dichotomy between white Muslims who choose to embrace visible aspects of their religion to distance themselves from whiteness, and those who avoid public displays of their Muslim identity to align with societal norms, is fascinating. While I hadn’t previously considered the former, the latter is a more familiar and prevalent dynamic.

In British integrationist discourse, particularly across the right-wing and center-left, there exists a deliberate manipulation of material realities and ideological beliefs to rationalize racism. This spatial argument, often wielded by both conservative and liberal voices, reframes the effects of systemic inequality as deliberate acts of self-segregation by Muslims, thereby blaming these communities for racism. However, when analyzing the material conditions that contribute to residential patterns, a vastly different picture emerges—one that integrationist discourse systematically erases to uphold the idea that Muslims are inherently resistant to British values and integration.

Materially, the formation of Muslim-majority neighbourhoods cannot be reduced to mere “choice” but rather is rooted in the legacies of Britain’s colonial past, industrial decline, and racialized economic policies. These communities were often pushed into dense, economically deprived areas by factors beyond their control, including deindustrialization that disproportionately affected immigrant populations, white flight that restructured urban demographics, and institutionalized racism in housing and employment. Such structural forces create “spatial divides” not as evidence of Muslim rejection of British values, but as manifestations of a racial hierarchy deeply embedded in British society.

Yet, integrationist discourse manipulates these divides to project an ideological narrative. Right-wing commentators have long framed cultural diversity as an existential threat to British cohesion, suggesting that Muslims “choose” to separate themselves into insular “ghettos” out of a desire to maintain distinct values at odds with British nationalism. Following the 2001 riots and the post-9/11 global climate, liberal commentators began echoing these sentiments, asserting that excessive tolerance of multiculturalism had allowed Muslims to isolate themselves, thereby cultivating extremism and anti-British sentiment. In this ideological framing, the formation of Muslim neighbourhoods is stripped of historical and socio-economic context and recast as a “deliberate choice” to reject British identity.

This narrative accomplishes several aims. First, it deflects attention from the structures that perpetuate segregation and racism, such as exclusionary housing policies and discriminatory practices in education and employment. It permits the blame for racism to be shifted onto Muslim communities themselves, suggesting that the dismantling of racism depends upon their willingness to “integrate” or “assimilate.” Figures like David Goodhart, for instance, downplay racist hostility towards asylum seekers as a rational response to cultural differences rather than an expression of prejudice. In this way, concerns about Muslim communities are positioned not as racist but as legitimate anxieties about national security and social cohesion, thus normalizing racist sentiments as defensible reactions to perceived threats.

Moreover, this ideological maneuver absolves individuals and institutions in power from accountability for the systemic racism they uphold. It offers a convenient scapegoat in Muslim communities, claiming that if these communities would simply “integrate” more fully, racism would naturally dissipate. Yet this perspective ignores the fact that racism is not a reaction to diversity alone; it is a deeply rooted system of discrimination that persists regardless of integration. Integrationist discourse, then, serves to maintain Britain’s racial hierarchy under the guise of promoting a cohesive society, allowing those in power to evade scrutiny while deflecting blame onto the marginalized.

Ultimately, British integrationist discourse weaponizes spatial divides to uphold and justify institutional racism, placing responsibility on Muslim communities for their own exclusion while ignoring the structures and policies that enforce these divides. This spatial argument reveals the paradox at the heart of integrationist discourse: a demand for assimilation that itself relies on the perpetuation of racial and cultural hierarchies.