Palestinian-American actor and playwright Sadieh Rifai confronts the mental toll of occupation, war, and the American dream in her world premiere, The Cave. · BOOKS & ARTS Interview · Chicago Palestinian-American actor and playwright Sadieh Rifai confronts the mental toll of occupation, war, and the American dream in her world premiere, The Cave. Poster, and photos of the play, courtesy of A Red Orchid Theatre (AROT) . The Mind is a Theater of War Sadieh Rifai has performed on Chicago’s premier stages, working with the likes of Pulitzer Prize- and Tony Award-winning playwrights Tracy Letts and Stephen Karam. Following the preview performances of her playwriting debut at A Red Orchid Theatre (AROT), where she is an ensemble member, we spent precious dwindling hours discussing theater as a collaborative form, the Islamophobia of the 1990s, and what it means for her to stage a play that explores (among other things) the haunting afterlife of violence under occupation, in the shadow of Israel’s genocide in Palestine. Ahsan Butt Tell me what it was like being in the room with Tracy Letts workshopping August: Osage County , which, of course, went on to win the Pulitzer Prize for Drama. How did you get there? Sadieh Rifai When I first came to Chicago, I auditioned for the school at Steppenwolf, where the ensemble members taught viewpoints, and Sheldon Patinkin, who helped invent Second City, led the improv sessions. It was an incredible experience. After I finished there, I was asked to audition for a new play by Tracy Letts, August: Osage County . I had no idea how important it was going to be. I auditioned, but they wanted a Native American woman for the role. Still, they asked me to participate in the workshop. It lasted about a week and included Michael Shannon, who would later become my fellow ensemble member at AROT, Mike Nussbaum, the oldest living actor before he passed, and Amy Morton, one of my favourite actors. Sitting at that table, I learned so much. Tracy opened up about the play, explaining that it was based on his life—his grandfather had committed suicide, and this was the story of that. I remember him saying that when he showed the play to his mother, she told him, “Thank you for being so kind to my mother.” That always stuck with me because if you have seen the play, you would think that woman is a monster. But Tracy was so vulnerable in the room. The title of the play came from a poem written by his mentor. Before that, I had always assumed that playwrights did not want even a single word changed—that every line had to be said exactly as written. But in that room, I saw true collaboration. Amy Morton would ask, “Can I cut this word? It is getting caught in the sentence.” Tracy would say, “Cut it, cut it.” There were things he fought for, but in other moments, he was so open. That experience made me aware of what I wanted to create one day. I wanted to write my own story. But I did not yet have the confidence to do it. Still, it was my dream to build something like what they had in that room. AB Did you always want to be in theater? SR At my wedding, my younger brother told a story about our childhood. We grew up in our grandparents’ house in Galesburg, Illinois, which was an old schoolhouse. It had an auditorium, classrooms that became our bedrooms, and even lockers. The building was run-down but magical. There was also a stage. We used to put on puppet shows, slipping behind the curtains to perform. He asked, “Do you remember this?” When I said no, he just went, “Great, glad I brought it up.” My brother is incredibly smart. He could do no wrong as a student. I, on the other hand, am dyslexic. I was never a good student, never understood. But one day, my mother took me to see Jesus Christ Superstar . Ted Neeley was performing—he was the original Jesus—and Carl Anderson, the Judas from the movie, was there too. Afterwards, we got to talk to Ted Neeley. He was the nicest guy, telling us about filming in the Middle East. I think my mother knew early on that I was not going to be some kind of scholar. The things that interested me were always art, music, and theatre. And acting, though I was not good at anything yet, there was a part of me that just knew I could do it. We also lived in Vegas when I was young. My mom was a change-girl, and my dad worked in another hotel. She would take us to see this show called Splash— women dressed like mermaids, holding their breath underwater, and performing synchronized swimming routines. We also saw Sigfried & Roy , all the magic shows, David Copperfield . For us, until it became a dangerous place, when my cousin was murdered, it was like the schoolhouse: magical. Milla Liss, H. Adoni Esho, Aaliyah Montana, and Kirsten Fitzgerald in The Cave by Sadieh Rifai at A Red Orchid Theatre. Photo by Evan Hanover. AB Your play, The Cave , follows a mixed family like your own, a Palestinian father and Swedish-American mother with two kids, who also move from Las Vegas to a more suburban, white town after the murder of their nephew (the kids’ cousin). The father, Jamil—under the strain of the tragedy, their new life, the specter of a coming war, and past experiences he’s never talked about—begins to hear voices. Some may see it as a post-9/11 play because Islamophobia is such a prevalent theme, but the play is set in the ’90s, during the first Gulf War. For those of us, who are…a bit older, we remember what that time was like. What was your experience during the period in which the play is set? SR I still remember one of my teachers taking me in front of the classroom and saying, “This war is happening and Sadieh’s family believes Sadaam Hussein is in the right. And we are fighting that. So just know that is what her family believes.” There were other instances where she wouldn’t allow me to sit near other kids. I knew she didn’t like me and that’s a weird thing to know when you’re a kid. It’s difficult to explain to people who don’t want to believe it. But my parents believed me. They had a parent-teacher conference and whatever happened behind closed doors with that teacher led to me and my brother being home-schooled for a while. We knew we were being blacklisted within the community. At first, everyone was friendly. But then we stopped getting invited to birthday parties, and parents wouldn’t let their children play with us. I don’t know if we’ll ever know the reason. Maybe it was because they saw my dad dressed in a thobe and assumed he was radical. Maybe they were afraid of Islam. But a friend of mine, Sara, recently showed me a 1990 Atlantic cover—a brown man with a beard, the words “The Roots of Muslim Rage” plastered over his face, an American flag reflected in his eyes. Seeing that image was important to me because that was the climate back then. The propaganda was thick. Of course, after 9/11, it only got worse. AB What was your dad’s attitude toward assimilation? SR My father never wanted his children to erase their culture. He wanted us to fit in, but he also wanted to ensure we understood what it meant to be Palestinian. We had loads of Palestinian shirts. Even if we got sent home for wearing them, he would say, “Wear the shirt. If they send you home, we will change you.” He wanted us to learn Arabic, go to Friday prayers, know the Quran, understand the beauty of the religion. And we were interested in McDonald’s and the mall. Even when he tried to do things we enjoyed, like taking us to the mall, he would still have to pray. I remember him stepping into the JC Penney bathroom and coming out to do a short prayer. And I remember turning red, convinced everyone was looking at us. Now, I think that is beautiful, but at the time, I was embarrassed. Natalie West, John Judd and Aaliyah Montana in The Cave . Photo by Evan Hanover. AB What drew your parents together? SR Honestly, they both had a lot of growing up to do. They met young. There was an excitement in meeting someone so eager to learn about another culture. And my mother was unlike any woman he had ever met. She did not take shit from anyone. She rode motorcycles. She grew up in Knoxville, Illinois—this tiny place—with a lot of poverty. She had no wealth, no prestige. And then my father came into her life and saw her for who she was. There was nothing on paper that said they should match, but they just got each other. They loved razzing each other. They laughed a lot. When you spend your whole life with one idea of what the world is, and someone comes along and completely changes the narrative, that is thrilling. They learned from each other. AB There are many biographical similarities between your father, Shawki, and Jamil, the father in the play. Is Jamil your father? SR Jamil isn’t my father, but they share traits. They are also at different points in their lives. I do remember my dad at the time the play is set, but not in the way he is now. There was such a heavy burden on his shoulders then; he was a different person. My dad now is very light. He is more of a storyteller and prankster. He can tell a joke, and it will last ten minutes, with the punchline being Ross Perot—so old and outdated—and he will be crying with laughter. But that was part of who he was then too. My mom tells this story: when she met my dad’s brothers for the first time, she wanted to make a good impression, so she asked my dad how to say “It is so nice to meet you” in Arabic. My dad told her a phrase. She went up to each of my uncles and said it. My dad was laughing so hard. She turned to him and asked, “What did I just say to them?” He said, “You told them they have shit on their mustache.” AB That’s so interesting to me as a writer. There’s a memory aspect to it, because Jamil isn’t who your father is now, and it feels like there’s maybe a fog around that period…and then it’s also necessarily an act of creation, because you have to fit the character to the play. SR I had a conversation with a friend, a director in the ensemble, Shade Murray. I was having a hard time writing dialogue between Bonnie and Jamil. I said, “I cannot remember the things my parents would talk about.” He said, “You do not have to write your parents. You are married. You know what it is like to be in a marriage. You know what those conversations are.” I noticed that I was pausing the writing to try to find what they would have said—something I did not have access to because we were sent out of the room for difficult conversations. Aaliyah Montana and H. Adoni Esho in The Cave . Photo by Evan Hanover. AB Jamil has a romanticism about Palestine. Did your father as well? SR My dad was born in Hebron, seven years after the Nakba. He was one of ten kids. He only speaks in short stories, never with detail. But he told me once that he was holding his newborn sister when his mother said, “Run.” He said people had come into the house. There was screaming. They had guns. And he held his sister, running, not knowing where he was going. He would have been four. That was one of those moments that changed him, experiencing real fear. Having his mother tell him to leave—not knowing if that meant it was the last time he would see her. He tells another story from when he was older. A soldier came up to him and said, “I want to meet with you, Shawki,” They were trying to get information from him. They kept offering him tea, coffee, cigarettes. He said he felt that if he accepted anything, he would be cooperating with them, that he would be used as a spy or a pawn. So he put three cigarettes in his socks to make it clear he did not want anything from the soldier. When he first came to the United States, my uncle picked him up from the airport. They were driving when a police officer pulled them over. My dad immediately reached for all of his paperwork. My uncle said, “Shawki, I was speeding. They are not here to check your paperwork.” My dad realized then that there were no checkpoints everywhere. He had assumed every state had them. So he would just drive, drive, and drive. There was safety in that. But he never wanted to lose his citizenship. He had to go back every four years. By that time, he was already an American citizen, but he needed to fly back and stay long enough to renew his citizenship. Many people could not afford to go back and lost theirs, but he always made a point of it, no matter our financial situation. He loves Palestine and hates it. There is the desire to be there—and then, when he is there, the realization that he is under occupation. Photos of Sadieh's father, Shawki, courtesy of her. AB How did you write this play? SR I was at a low point in 2020. I was not working as an actor. At one stage, my husband and I moved to Indiana, and I took a job at Trader Joe’s. I struggled with depression, and it became overwhelming. I kept listening to podcasts where actors and directors would say, “Just write it; write the bad play.” But the idea had lived in my head for so long that I was afraid to put it on the page. I did not even know what software to use. I did not feel intelligent enough to structure it properly. Then I started, slowly. A paragraph, then another. Eventually, I had a scene. Then I thought there should be a scene before it, or after it. It was such a gradual process, and it took a long time. I was terrified to show it to anyone. Kirsten Fitzgerald, our artistic director at AROT, and my friend Jess McCloud kept encouraging me: “Just write it, even if it is bad—you will have written a play.” Kirsten even said, “If you need some money, we can find some through AROT to help you keep writing.” That allowed me to reduce my hours at Trader Joe’s. AROT kept asking when I would have some pages, and I kept saying it is not ready. That went on for a year. When I finally handed in a first draft, it was not even a play—just twenty chaotic pages. But they trusted me and told me to keep going. They gave me another check, and I wrote another draft, then another. I think I am on draft thirty now, and I still have rewrites to finish before tonight. Guy Van Swearingen and Aaliyah Montana in The Cave . Photo by Evan Hanover. AB Does your acting experience help? SR As an actor, I know when something is overwritten. If a line does not fit naturally in your mouth or keeps slipping from memory, it means something is off. During workshops, I can hear when dialogue should be condensed or when more context is needed. I am always thinking from the actor’s perspective because I have been that actor in the room. When actors make a “mistake” and swap out a word, it is usually because they have instinctively chosen a better one—something that flows more naturally. AB Your career, and the plays you have been involved in, tell a dark and compelling story about America. You were in the world premiere of The Humans by Stephen Karam, a Pulitzer Prize finalist and Tony Award winner for Best Play. I saw it in Los Angeles, and it unsettled me. There is an explicitly haunting moment, but more than that, the play feels like a failed exorcism of post-9/11 American anxiety. The Cave carries a similar ambient anxiety, but its source is inverted—it is the experience of the “other” in America. What is your relationship to this country? SR I consider myself very lucky that Stephen Karam is a friend. I love him dearly, and he is a genius. When we first received the script for The Humans , we knew it would have a major Broadway run, but we began with a Chicago production, where Stephen made significant revisions. I remember getting goosebumps reading that play. He had already written successful works, but this one was deeply personal, full of uncomfortable moments. We all knew from that first table read that it would resonate powerfully. It takes you on a journey you are not prepared for. But my relationship with America is complicated. You are referring to these quintessentially American plays, yet I have also played Dorothy three times. I loved playing her, even though I knew I did not look like her. I wanted to capture her hope, innocence, and dream-like qualities. Even in The Humans , they are all Irish. Stephen told me there are darker Irish people in Ireland! I love that I have been able to play these roles, albeit with a caveat. As for American culture, it is everything I know—SNL, Sesame Street. If I am overseas and Arachnophobia is playing in Arabic, I can sit through it and understand it completely. The language is irrelevant; I know the beats. I am American—for better or worse. AB Are you feeling pressure putting this play up? SR I do not sleep at night. Some of the things I think about—things AROT would rather I did not dwell on—my mind refuses to let go of. They are investing a lot of money into this play. It’s a large cast. It’s a world premiere, which means no one knows what this play is yet. Even the word “Palestinian” appearing in flyers and emails is enough to be seen as taking a side. We have two young actors—amazing young women—and I feel an instinct to protect them. When I see news reports about fake bombs being planted at venues where Middle Eastern singers are set to perform, about death threats and targeted violence, it is really scary. It was suggested that, since I love podcasts, we should pitch my family’s story to This American Life . My immediate fear was for my father and family in Texas. Not only am I worried about this new play going up, about whether it will be received well in the city, or about the theatre potentially losing money, but I am also worried about people being harmed. And I do not want to disappoint anyone. During rehearsal, someone asked me, “Are you afraid people will think Jamil is a bad man?” That is something I have thought about for over a decade. I do not want anyone in this play to fit into simple categories of good or bad. People are a combination of millions of things that make them human. The last thing I want is to paint someone in broad strokes—as a good person, or a good father. What matters to me is that we see Jamil trying. Milla Liss, H. Adoni Esho, Kirsten Fitzgerald, and Aaliyah Montana. Photo by Evan Hanover. AB Given the last year of day-after-day, live-streamed genocide, during which most American theaters have proven their irrelevance, what do you feel and what do you wish for the future of the form and its institutions? SR The silence speaks volumes. It’s the realization, within your own group of people, of who doesn’t stand by you. I have watched babies in incubators cry and starve until they are black and decaying. I feel as though I’ve seen the worst in humanity. As someone who seeks the good in people, it is the worst sort of darkness I can imagine. I had a friend say, “You can’t spend hours watching those videos,” and I thought, how dare you . All we can do is witness: witness somebody’s pain, understand that it's real, somebody screaming for their children. That’s all I can do right now, besides marching and boycotting. In fifteen years, I hope there will be no hesitation in putting these stories on stage. That when the genocide is in history books and taught in schools, theatres will feel compelled to tell Palestinian narratives as part of their regular programming, rather than treating them as a special selection. There are many theatres eager to stage plays by non-white playwrights. AB Will you feel a bitterness if that future comes to fruition and theaters begin tackling this genocide fifteen, twenty years from now? SR It is something I long for so much that I hope I would only feel relief. The history of being a woman has taught me that we fought for centuries to secure the rights we have now. I know others struggled before me, and I hope, when that time comes, we will acknowledge that there was a period when our voices were silenced, when we were afraid to tell these stories. I hope to sit in those theatres and see how far we have come. The Cave opened on January 30 at A Red Orchid Theatre in Chicago . The regular run begins on February 13 and continues till March 16. SUB-HEAD Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Interview Chicago Palestine A Red Orchid Theatre Sadieh Rifai American Dream Theater of War The Cave Palestinian-American Actor Playwright Occupation Gulf War Conflict Nakba Theater Play Islamophobia History Mental Health Premiere Storytelling Memory Middle East United States Assimilation Migration Culture Biography Community Family Tracy Letts August: Osage County Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. 10th Feb 2025 AUTHOR · AUTHOR Facebook Twitter LinkedIn Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. 1 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 On That Note:

Violent clashes along the Assam-Mizoram border have a 150-year-old history. The recent border flare-ups may appear most visibly in the superficial disputes of state parliaments, but they have, in truth, roots in both militarism and political economy—particularly the illicut trade of the areca nut—that undergird the construction of ethnic identities. FEATURES Assam, Mizoram, and the Construction of the "Other" Violent clashes along the Assam-Mizoram border have a 150-year-old history. The recent border flare-ups may appear most visibly in the superficial disputes of state parliaments, but they have, in truth, roots in both militarism and political economy—particularly the illicut trade of the areca nut—that undergird the construction of ethnic identities. Joyona Medhi · Abhishek Basu In July 2021, violent clashes along the “no-man’s land” border between Assam and Mizoram erupted, the latest in a conflict that dates back to over a century . This time, however, the clashes were accompanied by a battleground along party lines. In the lead up to India’s 75th Independence Day, Mizoram, the only remaining non-Saffronised, Congress-backed state in the northeastern region of India, seemingly became a target for India’s ruling party, the BJP, and its project to establish politically motivated “peace.” The seven sister states in the northeastern part of India are well acquainted with sporadic bouts of violence along their borders. The dispute along the border between Assam and Mizoram centers around contentious claims about where the exact border lies. Mizoram claims 509 square miles of the inner-line reserve forest under an 1875 border demarcation, a claim Assam rejects based on a demarcation in 1933. In turn, this contentious space has long become a locus for the political aspirations of both regional and central ruling parties and powerful groups. Following the violent clashes in July 2021, news reports quoted villagers in Mizoram as describing the situation as “a war between two countries.” The optics were indeed strange: two police forces of the same country—albeit different states—engaged in a violent shootout against each other. 48 hours before the first clashes, India’s Home Minister Amit Shah had met with the Northeast Democratic Alliance (NEDA) to discuss the possibility of a border settlement. Over the next few weeks, the series of police firings that began in Kareemganj, Hailakandi, spread to the Cachar district of Assam. The renewed conflict has deeper roots: on a macroscopic level, contemporary political, cultural, and economic structures continue to bolster the active construction of enemies, within and without, for both the Assamese and the Mizo populations. What appears to be behind the violent clashes along the 165km-long fluid border—alarming in breadth and scope—in the region is a complex game of both ethnic identity politics as well as the central government’s agenda of putting an end to the Burmese supari or areca nut (often called betel nut) trade, an economy in which locals from both states are involved. The import of Burmese areca nut is now illegal in Mizoram , but continues to feature in vested economic and political interests that make up the fragile peace along the Assam-Mizo border. Assam has unresolved border disputes with all four of the largely tribal states that have been carved out of it since Independence. This past November, at the border with Meghalaya, the Assam Police killed six people . In each case many diverse communities in the hilly and forested northeastern region are imbricated, with many array of exports; in each case, the conflict is oversimplified in mainstream media narratives which ignore how identity and political economy become intertwined, and few point out the common charge placed on Assam: that much of its incursions occur without consent and punishment, and regularly trammel either already-codified or customary rights that communities have over their lands. Recently, much was made of an agreement between Assam and Mizoram in the form of a joint statement. While the statement by both the state governments to amicably resolve the matters of unrest along this border have reached the third round of talks, a high-level delegation from Mizoram expressed that "there has been huge unrest among the areca nut growers in Mizoram on account of problems being faced in the transportation of their produce to Assam and other parts of the country." The joint statement also seemed to flatten the nature of the conflict, simply stating that "economic activities such as cultivation and farming along the border areas would be allowed to continue regardless of the administrative control presently exercised by either state at such locations... subject to forest regulations and after informing the deputy commissioners concerned." The problem of the in-between in this region, however, cannot be mitigated with such generalities which highlight a kind of identity performance about border disputes that tie into political parties' agendas. This past December, the opposition in the Parliament of Assam staged a walkout , aggrieved about the perceived lack of action against Mizoram after a school in Cachar district of Assam was allegedly occupied by Mizo students. Meanwhile, the plight of local areca nut farmers goes generally unnoticed in Parliament. December 2022, six vehicles carrying areca nut into Mizoram were set ablaze , allegedly by Central Customs and Assam Rifles, which regularly prevent the export of areca nut from Mizoram and Tripura by seizing them at the border. Regardless of the party responsible, an areca nut growers' society in Mizoram, Hachhek Bial Kuhva Chingtu Pawl (HBKCP) argues that farmers are suffering because the Assam Police are unable (or unwilling) to verify if areca nuts from Mizoram are local or foreign. The Mizoram government too has come under fire for its laxity with smuggling, or care for farmers. Despite the entangled politicking and trade relations between Assam and Mizoram, however, there is a deeper history of the Mizo peoples being seen as the “other.” This has only intensified in recent years, as has the illicit trade of the areca nut. Whether borne out of an acute sense of cultural or political difference, the stereotypes that circulate in Assam deploy the Mizos’ native language, their Western convent education, or their land use, to construct notions of fundamental differences in identity. Who “they” refers to, however, as is often the case, is vague and context-dependent. The Assamese in general seem to mean the Mizos, but locals often mean politicians, police mean locals, and locals may also mean their wives, many of whom hail from villages across the border. In 2021, we visited the village of Lailapur, in the Cachar district of Assam, where residents had pelted stones at policemen from Mizoram who had previously clashed in 2020 with residents of Vairengte, a town in Mizoram’s own Kolasib district, exemplifying how any border is insufficient to explain the blurred nature of the conflict. Imtiaz Akhmed a.k.a. Ronju, was born and grew up in Lailapur. He is one of several truckers who ferry goods such as areca nut and black pepper between Assam and Mizoram (goods that are smuggled into India from Myanmar, Thailand, Malaysia, or Indonesia). He also has a Mizo wife, and claims that their son has the cutest mixture of the facial features of the two sister states, while simultaneously asserting that there are fundamental differences between the Assamese and Mizo peoples. A few locals of Lailapur who helped set up an electric pole for this shed/post of the Assam police officers wait for permission to go and have lunch at their homes on the other side of the police barricades, in Lailapur. Courtesy of Abhishek Basu. From Ronju’s perspective, the areca nut trade is at the core of the conflict on a local level: “What can we do if the betel nut is cheaper on that side? They [the Mizos and the Burmese] have been in this business for long enough to establish a monopoly. A kilo of betel nut sells for INR 128 there, while it's INR 300 here.” But despite the monopoly, working in Mizoram has its advantages for Ronju. “I have big connections with ministers [in Mizoram] who make life easier for me by way of permissions. I get supari here for the Assam State Police at times too! Currently, my truck, loaded with tatka [tight] Burmese supari, is waiting at the border because of the blockade. The Mizos themselves will help unload it on this side though,” he cackled. Ronju emphasizes difference, but his family and work hint at complex aspects of lived reality in towns along the border. Of course, the complexities are often cynically flattened by local political parties who rely on enflaming the conflict. Soon after the initial clashes last year, Assamese politicians and ministers arrived in Lailapur. The press, both local and national, flocked to them in front of a police barricade. The Organizational Secretary of the Assamese political party Veer Lachit Sena (VLS), Srinkhal Chaliha told the media, “We will not tolerate any threat. The Assamese people will give an appropriate reply!” Locals and groups most impacted by the clashes observed the spectacle. They crowded on both sides of the narrow highway that leads to Lailapur and ends at the Assam Police barricade, located 5 kilometres away from the actual border. Several witnesses shook their heads in disappointment over what they perceived to be the Assam government's cowardice: to many, not giving statements at the border itself, or not strongly condemning repeated acts of aggression from the Mizo side of the border—where many local civilians are believed to have been seen by the Assam State Police officers—seen equipped with light machine guns (LMGs) provided to them by alleged extremist groups backing the ruling Mizo National Front (MNF) government. It is important to note that Mizoram is the only state among the seven sister states of Northeast India that has yet to turn saffron, or be in alliance in any way whatsoever, with the right-wing BJP (despite short-lived alliances with the BJP and MNF part of the BJP-led coalition at the Centre, in Mizoram the party has historically allied itself with Congress ). The strong response expected from the Assamese government to counter repeated jibes from the Mizos, however, never materialized. Ronju, a local businessman, explained: "One call from the Mizo Church and MZP (Mizo Zirlai Pawl, a powerful student organization with a long and antagonistic history with the Centre and a shared relationship with the ruling MNF), and you will find village after Mizo village come together in solidarity, bearing arms like LMGs (lightweight machine guns) that too! There's nothing like that here in Assam. We're too divided." He added that he was proud of having driven through the perilous Mizo terrain all the way to Aizawl, the capital of Mizoram, several times. Ronju, who is a seemanto-bashi or a border resident, holds similar views as many of the locals standing along the highway leading to the barricades. They expect the Assamese government to take a strong stance in the face of perceived Mizo homogeneity and solidarity, as well as support from the Church. The juxtaposition of Mizo identity and Assamese nationalism is reflected in geographical landmarks along the border: the last Indian symbol on the Assamese side is a temple and on the Mizo side, a Church. Many locals on the Assamese side of the border as well as the second in command of the CRPF (Central Reserve Police Force, India's largest Central Armed Police Force) battalion posted in Fainum, Assam, talk about Mizos as if they were a warrior tribe. They believe that Mizos kill on a whim; accentuate their cultural differences, food preferences and eating habits; and speak Mizo instead of Hindi or English. Such sentiments strengthen the perception that there are fundamental differences between the two communities, despite their obvious closeness either in proximity, occupation, or familial ties. "They believe they are Mizos first. For them, the [Indian] nation is secondary. Someone needs to sit down and reason with them," says S. Debnath, Barak Valley resident and former member of the Forum for the Protection of Non-Mizos. Debnath believes Mizos feel like this because of particular state practices: “There's the case of the Inner Line Permit mandatory for anyone wishing to enter Mizoram, which makes them [the Mizos] feel like they have a sovereign right to their land. They allow the Burmese in when it comes to the business of Burmese supari, but not people like us who are from other states of India." Mizoram also enjoys other affordances that allow Mizos to take autonomous decisions, like the Inner Line Permit (ILP), which evidently frustrates the residents of the Hindu-majority Barak Valley of Assam. Debnath, like several others, does not consider metrics such as Mizoram's literacy rate, population size, and economic growth that are used to explain their sovereign status—most of which comes from tribal autonomy guaranteed over the Lushai Hills, provided for in Schedule Six of the Indian Constitution. Mizoram has one of the country's highest literacy rates. Its Oriental High School is among the first convent schools established by the British in Silchar, an economic hub in the contested Barak Valley of Assam. The school also has residential quarters for their mostly Mizo staff and teachers who form a large part of the closely-knit Mizo community in Assam. Since the Mizo Church is reluctant to involve itself in the local politics of the region, the staff and teachers at Oriental High School have been asked not to share their political opinions and to stay entirely professional. Rati Bora, another seemanto-bashi , has two sons who work on farms on either side of the border. Her son who works on the Mizo side earns more than his brother, presumably because Mizoram’s economy is one of the fastest growing in the country. On July 26, 2021, Rati Bora heard the shots fired by policemen on both sides of the border and feared for her life. Her sons begged her to evacuate. She left home with her family members and elderly parents and headed for her sister’s house in the neighboring town of Silchar. The incident was terrifying for border residents like Rati at that time. Now, however, the local tea shops opened by a few families dwelling right beside the police check post in Dholakhal are flourishing, she says. Rati Bora overlooking her patch of green, now taken by the CRPF to establish camps and diffuse tensions between the two states of Assam and Mizoram. Singhu, Assam, India. Courtesy of Abhishek Basu. We watched as four local boys from the Cachar district of Assam struggled to set up an electric pole. The pole would serve as a post for the state police that would be stationed there at night for a few weeks. Later as the boys crossed the police barricade to eat their lunch of bhaat (rice) at their homes, we watched as onlookers stared at them with suspicion. Young men from bordering villages must always keep their aadhar ID cards on themselves, and even guests visiting their homes must carry their identification documents. The performativity of nationalism takes on a certain intensity for residents of this region. Locals like Ronju and Rati are intimately familiar with this performance, and with an eye to the cross-border trade, tend to hold a more nuanced view of the changing economy of Silchar. “[Despite the suspicion and discrimination], at least now seemanto-bashis from Lailapur and Sighua villages are getting some recognition,” says Rati. “Previously girls wouldn't ever want to get married to boys from here, like my two sons. Now at least there's a chance. It's not so remote anymore… there are so many SUVs and Boleros zipping by,” she says, referring to the many politicians she had seen in her area. Taking us away from the blame game at play in this region is the plight of the injured policemen of the Assam State Police, a few still waiting for doctors to remove pellets shot from the handmade guns of Mizo locals. Stuck in a rut because of delayed discharge papers and an inaccessible, unresponsive healthcare system, the policemen have issued multiple statements on maintaining peace and order in the region that are very similar to those of their politicians. Some policemen wrap the pellets removed from their bodies in delicate tissue paper and keep them in their pockets as a token of pride. Some of them eagerly share videos they recorded on their smartphones or shared by villagers on the Mizo side of the border. Until a time comes when the region’s employment issues are solved instead of vague assurances that the help mandated by the Employment Guarantee Act; until a time comes when roads are developed, middlemen are erased, the indigenous industry is promoted excluding the existing large tea and oil businesses; until a time comes when Assam helps itself and not its vote-banks, it will not be able to hide behind the central government’s exclusionary tactics of us and them. Like the rest of India, the northeast too may well fall into the trap of not asking the right questions to those in power, especially at a time the Indian economy is reeling from the shortages of resources in the wake of the COVID-19 crisis. It comes down to the possibility of the Assamese being able to reclaim everything considered “illegal” about the Burmese areca nut trade. This involves cracking down on people like Ronju, their very own, who act like oil in these cracks. It is not enough to just roll the areca nut by placing it below your tongue, it is to recognize that cultures when living in proximity, obviously are bound to inform and resemble each other. We saw many a xorai or a casket-like plate in almost every Assamese household we went to, and were offered the traditional areca nut and paan, or betel nut palm. Such an act is a symbol of “welcoming outsiders,” they told us. This contrasts starkly with an occasion in one of our interviews with Debnath where he lowered the volume on the television upon hearing a TV anchor complaining about protests organized by Mizo student organizations against the draconian Indian Citizenship Act: the same legislation designed to kick out “outsiders” from Indian soil. For the Mizos, it is Bangladeshis who are the outsiders and indeed they often consider even the moniker of “Bangladeshi” disparaging. Meanwhile, for Debnath, it is the Mizos who are more of an “other,” more so than those who agree to live illegally in India. The dynamics between the Mizos, the Bangladeshis, the mainland Assamese, and the active construction of the “other” is at the heart of this story and the continuing clashes. To fully understand what’s going on at Lailapur, it is important to understand that this polarized strand of history is deeply etched in the memory of the Mizos of this generation. At the same time, it is undoubtedly true that there are two competing narratives—one told by the natives and the other by government officials. The first tells a tale of the oral ethnocultural history of the tribe linked to the land and forests: the narrative of many Mizos and organizations like the MZP. The second is the “official” history of state formation: the Assamese state narrative, if not that of India writ large. ∎ In July 2021, violent clashes along the “no-man’s land” border between Assam and Mizoram erupted, the latest in a conflict that dates back to over a century . This time, however, the clashes were accompanied by a battleground along party lines. In the lead up to India’s 75th Independence Day, Mizoram, the only remaining non-Saffronised, Congress-backed state in the northeastern region of India, seemingly became a target for India’s ruling party, the BJP, and its project to establish politically motivated “peace.” The seven sister states in the northeastern part of India are well acquainted with sporadic bouts of violence along their borders. The dispute along the border between Assam and Mizoram centers around contentious claims about where the exact border lies. Mizoram claims 509 square miles of the inner-line reserve forest under an 1875 border demarcation, a claim Assam rejects based on a demarcation in 1933. In turn, this contentious space has long become a locus for the political aspirations of both regional and central ruling parties and powerful groups. Following the violent clashes in July 2021, news reports quoted villagers in Mizoram as describing the situation as “a war between two countries.” The optics were indeed strange: two police forces of the same country—albeit different states—engaged in a violent shootout against each other. 48 hours before the first clashes, India’s Home Minister Amit Shah had met with the Northeast Democratic Alliance (NEDA) to discuss the possibility of a border settlement. Over the next few weeks, the series of police firings that began in Kareemganj, Hailakandi, spread to the Cachar district of Assam. The renewed conflict has deeper roots: on a macroscopic level, contemporary political, cultural, and economic structures continue to bolster the active construction of enemies, within and without, for both the Assamese and the Mizo populations. What appears to be behind the violent clashes along the 165km-long fluid border—alarming in breadth and scope—in the region is a complex game of both ethnic identity politics as well as the central government’s agenda of putting an end to the Burmese supari or areca nut (often called betel nut) trade, an economy in which locals from both states are involved. The import of Burmese areca nut is now illegal in Mizoram , but continues to feature in vested economic and political interests that make up the fragile peace along the Assam-Mizo border. Assam has unresolved border disputes with all four of the largely tribal states that have been carved out of it since Independence. This past November, at the border with Meghalaya, the Assam Police killed six people . In each case many diverse communities in the hilly and forested northeastern region are imbricated, with many array of exports; in each case, the conflict is oversimplified in mainstream media narratives which ignore how identity and political economy become intertwined, and few point out the common charge placed on Assam: that much of its incursions occur without consent and punishment, and regularly trammel either already-codified or customary rights that communities have over their lands. Recently, much was made of an agreement between Assam and Mizoram in the form of a joint statement. While the statement by both the state governments to amicably resolve the matters of unrest along this border have reached the third round of talks, a high-level delegation from Mizoram expressed that "there has been huge unrest among the areca nut growers in Mizoram on account of problems being faced in the transportation of their produce to Assam and other parts of the country." The joint statement also seemed to flatten the nature of the conflict, simply stating that "economic activities such as cultivation and farming along the border areas would be allowed to continue regardless of the administrative control presently exercised by either state at such locations... subject to forest regulations and after informing the deputy commissioners concerned." The problem of the in-between in this region, however, cannot be mitigated with such generalities which highlight a kind of identity performance about border disputes that tie into political parties' agendas. This past December, the opposition in the Parliament of Assam staged a walkout , aggrieved about the perceived lack of action against Mizoram after a school in Cachar district of Assam was allegedly occupied by Mizo students. Meanwhile, the plight of local areca nut farmers goes generally unnoticed in Parliament. December 2022, six vehicles carrying areca nut into Mizoram were set ablaze , allegedly by Central Customs and Assam Rifles, which regularly prevent the export of areca nut from Mizoram and Tripura by seizing them at the border. Regardless of the party responsible, an areca nut growers' society in Mizoram, Hachhek Bial Kuhva Chingtu Pawl (HBKCP) argues that farmers are suffering because the Assam Police are unable (or unwilling) to verify if areca nuts from Mizoram are local or foreign. The Mizoram government too has come under fire for its laxity with smuggling, or care for farmers. Despite the entangled politicking and trade relations between Assam and Mizoram, however, there is a deeper history of the Mizo peoples being seen as the “other.” This has only intensified in recent years, as has the illicit trade of the areca nut. Whether borne out of an acute sense of cultural or political difference, the stereotypes that circulate in Assam deploy the Mizos’ native language, their Western convent education, or their land use, to construct notions of fundamental differences in identity. Who “they” refers to, however, as is often the case, is vague and context-dependent. The Assamese in general seem to mean the Mizos, but locals often mean politicians, police mean locals, and locals may also mean their wives, many of whom hail from villages across the border. In 2021, we visited the village of Lailapur, in the Cachar district of Assam, where residents had pelted stones at policemen from Mizoram who had previously clashed in 2020 with residents of Vairengte, a town in Mizoram’s own Kolasib district, exemplifying how any border is insufficient to explain the blurred nature of the conflict. Imtiaz Akhmed a.k.a. Ronju, was born and grew up in Lailapur. He is one of several truckers who ferry goods such as areca nut and black pepper between Assam and Mizoram (goods that are smuggled into India from Myanmar, Thailand, Malaysia, or Indonesia). He also has a Mizo wife, and claims that their son has the cutest mixture of the facial features of the two sister states, while simultaneously asserting that there are fundamental differences between the Assamese and Mizo peoples. A few locals of Lailapur who helped set up an electric pole for this shed/post of the Assam police officers wait for permission to go and have lunch at their homes on the other side of the police barricades, in Lailapur. Courtesy of Abhishek Basu. From Ronju’s perspective, the areca nut trade is at the core of the conflict on a local level: “What can we do if the betel nut is cheaper on that side? They [the Mizos and the Burmese] have been in this business for long enough to establish a monopoly. A kilo of betel nut sells for INR 128 there, while it's INR 300 here.” But despite the monopoly, working in Mizoram has its advantages for Ronju. “I have big connections with ministers [in Mizoram] who make life easier for me by way of permissions. I get supari here for the Assam State Police at times too! Currently, my truck, loaded with tatka [tight] Burmese supari, is waiting at the border because of the blockade. The Mizos themselves will help unload it on this side though,” he cackled. Ronju emphasizes difference, but his family and work hint at complex aspects of lived reality in towns along the border. Of course, the complexities are often cynically flattened by local political parties who rely on enflaming the conflict. Soon after the initial clashes last year, Assamese politicians and ministers arrived in Lailapur. The press, both local and national, flocked to them in front of a police barricade. The Organizational Secretary of the Assamese political party Veer Lachit Sena (VLS), Srinkhal Chaliha told the media, “We will not tolerate any threat. The Assamese people will give an appropriate reply!” Locals and groups most impacted by the clashes observed the spectacle. They crowded on both sides of the narrow highway that leads to Lailapur and ends at the Assam Police barricade, located 5 kilometres away from the actual border. Several witnesses shook their heads in disappointment over what they perceived to be the Assam government's cowardice: to many, not giving statements at the border itself, or not strongly condemning repeated acts of aggression from the Mizo side of the border—where many local civilians are believed to have been seen by the Assam State Police officers—seen equipped with light machine guns (LMGs) provided to them by alleged extremist groups backing the ruling Mizo National Front (MNF) government. It is important to note that Mizoram is the only state among the seven sister states of Northeast India that has yet to turn saffron, or be in alliance in any way whatsoever, with the right-wing BJP (despite short-lived alliances with the BJP and MNF part of the BJP-led coalition at the Centre, in Mizoram the party has historically allied itself with Congress ). The strong response expected from the Assamese government to counter repeated jibes from the Mizos, however, never materialized. Ronju, a local businessman, explained: "One call from the Mizo Church and MZP (Mizo Zirlai Pawl, a powerful student organization with a long and antagonistic history with the Centre and a shared relationship with the ruling MNF), and you will find village after Mizo village come together in solidarity, bearing arms like LMGs (lightweight machine guns) that too! There's nothing like that here in Assam. We're too divided." He added that he was proud of having driven through the perilous Mizo terrain all the way to Aizawl, the capital of Mizoram, several times. Ronju, who is a seemanto-bashi or a border resident, holds similar views as many of the locals standing along the highway leading to the barricades. They expect the Assamese government to take a strong stance in the face of perceived Mizo homogeneity and solidarity, as well as support from the Church. The juxtaposition of Mizo identity and Assamese nationalism is reflected in geographical landmarks along the border: the last Indian symbol on the Assamese side is a temple and on the Mizo side, a Church. Many locals on the Assamese side of the border as well as the second in command of the CRPF (Central Reserve Police Force, India's largest Central Armed Police Force) battalion posted in Fainum, Assam, talk about Mizos as if they were a warrior tribe. They believe that Mizos kill on a whim; accentuate their cultural differences, food preferences and eating habits; and speak Mizo instead of Hindi or English. Such sentiments strengthen the perception that there are fundamental differences between the two communities, despite their obvious closeness either in proximity, occupation, or familial ties. "They believe they are Mizos first. For them, the [Indian] nation is secondary. Someone needs to sit down and reason with them," says S. Debnath, Barak Valley resident and former member of the Forum for the Protection of Non-Mizos. Debnath believes Mizos feel like this because of particular state practices: “There's the case of the Inner Line Permit mandatory for anyone wishing to enter Mizoram, which makes them [the Mizos] feel like they have a sovereign right to their land. They allow the Burmese in when it comes to the business of Burmese supari, but not people like us who are from other states of India." Mizoram also enjoys other affordances that allow Mizos to take autonomous decisions, like the Inner Line Permit (ILP), which evidently frustrates the residents of the Hindu-majority Barak Valley of Assam. Debnath, like several others, does not consider metrics such as Mizoram's literacy rate, population size, and economic growth that are used to explain their sovereign status—most of which comes from tribal autonomy guaranteed over the Lushai Hills, provided for in Schedule Six of the Indian Constitution. Mizoram has one of the country's highest literacy rates. Its Oriental High School is among the first convent schools established by the British in Silchar, an economic hub in the contested Barak Valley of Assam. The school also has residential quarters for their mostly Mizo staff and teachers who form a large part of the closely-knit Mizo community in Assam. Since the Mizo Church is reluctant to involve itself in the local politics of the region, the staff and teachers at Oriental High School have been asked not to share their political opinions and to stay entirely professional. Rati Bora, another seemanto-bashi , has two sons who work on farms on either side of the border. Her son who works on the Mizo side earns more than his brother, presumably because Mizoram’s economy is one of the fastest growing in the country. On July 26, 2021, Rati Bora heard the shots fired by policemen on both sides of the border and feared for her life. Her sons begged her to evacuate. She left home with her family members and elderly parents and headed for her sister’s house in the neighboring town of Silchar. The incident was terrifying for border residents like Rati at that time. Now, however, the local tea shops opened by a few families dwelling right beside the police check post in Dholakhal are flourishing, she says. Rati Bora overlooking her patch of green, now taken by the CRPF to establish camps and diffuse tensions between the two states of Assam and Mizoram. Singhu, Assam, India. Courtesy of Abhishek Basu. We watched as four local boys from the Cachar district of Assam struggled to set up an electric pole. The pole would serve as a post for the state police that would be stationed there at night for a few weeks. Later as the boys crossed the police barricade to eat their lunch of bhaat (rice) at their homes, we watched as onlookers stared at them with suspicion. Young men from bordering villages must always keep their aadhar ID cards on themselves, and even guests visiting their homes must carry their identification documents. The performativity of nationalism takes on a certain intensity for residents of this region. Locals like Ronju and Rati are intimately familiar with this performance, and with an eye to the cross-border trade, tend to hold a more nuanced view of the changing economy of Silchar. “[Despite the suspicion and discrimination], at least now seemanto-bashis from Lailapur and Sighua villages are getting some recognition,” says Rati. “Previously girls wouldn't ever want to get married to boys from here, like my two sons. Now at least there's a chance. It's not so remote anymore… there are so many SUVs and Boleros zipping by,” she says, referring to the many politicians she had seen in her area. Taking us away from the blame game at play in this region is the plight of the injured policemen of the Assam State Police, a few still waiting for doctors to remove pellets shot from the handmade guns of Mizo locals. Stuck in a rut because of delayed discharge papers and an inaccessible, unresponsive healthcare system, the policemen have issued multiple statements on maintaining peace and order in the region that are very similar to those of their politicians. Some policemen wrap the pellets removed from their bodies in delicate tissue paper and keep them in their pockets as a token of pride. Some of them eagerly share videos they recorded on their smartphones or shared by villagers on the Mizo side of the border. Until a time comes when the region’s employment issues are solved instead of vague assurances that the help mandated by the Employment Guarantee Act; until a time comes when roads are developed, middlemen are erased, the indigenous industry is promoted excluding the existing large tea and oil businesses; until a time comes when Assam helps itself and not its vote-banks, it will not be able to hide behind the central government’s exclusionary tactics of us and them. Like the rest of India, the northeast too may well fall into the trap of not asking the right questions to those in power, especially at a time the Indian economy is reeling from the shortages of resources in the wake of the COVID-19 crisis. It comes down to the possibility of the Assamese being able to reclaim everything considered “illegal” about the Burmese areca nut trade. This involves cracking down on people like Ronju, their very own, who act like oil in these cracks. It is not enough to just roll the areca nut by placing it below your tongue, it is to recognize that cultures when living in proximity, obviously are bound to inform and resemble each other. We saw many a xorai or a casket-like plate in almost every Assamese household we went to, and were offered the traditional areca nut and paan, or betel nut palm. Such an act is a symbol of “welcoming outsiders,” they told us. This contrasts starkly with an occasion in one of our interviews with Debnath where he lowered the volume on the television upon hearing a TV anchor complaining about protests organized by Mizo student organizations against the draconian Indian Citizenship Act: the same legislation designed to kick out “outsiders” from Indian soil. For the Mizos, it is Bangladeshis who are the outsiders and indeed they often consider even the moniker of “Bangladeshi” disparaging. Meanwhile, for Debnath, it is the Mizos who are more of an “other,” more so than those who agree to live illegally in India. The dynamics between the Mizos, the Bangladeshis, the mainland Assamese, and the active construction of the “other” is at the heart of this story and the continuing clashes. To fully understand what’s going on at Lailapur, it is important to understand that this polarized strand of history is deeply etched in the memory of the Mizos of this generation. At the same time, it is undoubtedly true that there are two competing narratives—one told by the natives and the other by government officials. The first tells a tale of the oral ethnocultural history of the tribe linked to the land and forests: the narrative of many Mizos and organizations like the MZP. The second is the “official” history of state formation: the Assamese state narrative, if not that of India writ large. ∎ SUB-HEAD ALSO IN THIS ISSUE: Kareen Adam · Nazish Chunara A Dhivehi Artists Showcase Shebani Rao A Freelancer's Guide to Decision-Making No Man's Land: The disputed region near Singhua saw violent clashes between the forces of Mizoram and Assam leading to the death of 6 Assam policeman on duty on the 26th of July 2021 in Singua, Assam, India. Courtesy of Abhishek Basu. SHARE Facebook Twitter LinkedIn Reportage Assam-Mizoram Border Dispute Betel Nut Trade Northeast India Hachek Bial Kuhva Chingtu Pawl Areca Nut Northeast Democratic Alliance Amit Shah Sister States Nagaland Arunachal Pradesh Meghalaya Tripura Assam Rifles Mizoram Assam Cachar District Myanmar Burma Black Pepper Lailapur Nationalism BJP Inner Line Permit Silchar Veer Lachit Sena Ethnically Divided Politics Political Agendas Political Parties Mizo Zirlai Pawl VLS Mizo National Front Mizo English as Class Signifier Convent Education CPRF Central Reserve Police Force Forum for the Protection of Non-Mizos Seemanto-bashi Employment Guarantee Act Mizo student organizations Indian Citizenship Act Performative Nationalism Manipur JOYONA MEDHI is currently working as an Academic Associate in IIMC, New Delhi, India. With a background in media sociology, she looks for every opportunity to go long-form especially with her writing, interviewing and research. She's also conducted in-depth interviews along the Indo-Bangladesh border as a Direction Associate for the documentary Borderlands . For her proposed PhD project. She's looking to develop a more sensitive and nuanced language around the way we see photographs, photographers and the photographic process today. Her reportage and writings on art have been published in magazines like The Firstpost, Quint, Smashboard, Zenger News, Burn Magazine and Art and Deal . ABHISHEK BASU , originally from Tatanagar in Jharkhand, is a freelance art/documentary photographer, who works for various publishing houses on experimental story telling techniques, book design, curation and multimedia. His quarterly tabloid initiative, Provoke Papers , focuses on migration and labour relations. It takes root in a series titled How green was my mountain, which is his 4-year-long documentation of the coal mines of Jharkhand's Jharia district, 60 kms. from his hometown. Taking to Abbas’s advice, “buy a pair of shoes and fall in love with it”, Abhishek’s subjects span the wide variety of where life and his understanding of it have taken him. If there had to be a universal thread/subtext to his works it would be his exploration of the starkness of the human condition attempting to make you see it for what it is. His work has been published in magazines like Himal Southasian, The Wire, Burn Magazine, The Firstpost and Quint . 25 Feb 2023 Reportage Assam-Mizoram 25th Feb 2023 LIFE ON LINE Umar Altaf 27th Jul Crossing Lines of Connection Arshad Ahmed · Chanchinmawia 14th Oct Tawang's Blessing Pills Bikash K. Bhattacharya 7th Jun Chokepoint Manipur Makepeace Sitlhou 3rd Oct Disappearing Act Anonymous 2nd Apr On That Note:

“Food organization at Columbia’s Gaza Solidarity Encampment began as the effort of just seven students organizing the chaotic assortment on the tarp, but it quickly evolved into a network attracting several student groups, professors, community members, and even other encampments, including the NYU and City College encampments.” THE VERTICAL Food Organizing at Columbia's Gaza Encampment AUTHOR AUTHOR AUTHOR “Food organization at Columbia’s Gaza Solidarity Encampment began as the effort of just seven students organizing the chaotic assortment on the tarp, but it quickly evolved into a network attracting several student groups, professors, community members, and even other encampments, including the NYU and City College encampments.” SHARE Facebook ↗ Twitter ↗ LinkedIn ↗ ALSO IN THIS ISSUE: AUTHOR Heading 5 Heading 5 Heading 5 Heading 5 AUTHOR Heading 5 Dispatch New York Palestine Food NYPD Gaza Columbia University Gaza Solidarity Encampments Apartheid Divest Divestment BDS Police Action Police Butler Lawn Repression in Universities Food Organizing University Administration NYU City College Arrests Anti-Israel Protests Jewish Voice for Peace Passover Jewish Culture Kosher We the People The People’s Initiative: NYC Stuudents for Justice in Palestine SJP Columbia Daily Spectator Anti-Zionism Coalition Building Accountability Apartheid Solidarity Internationalist Solidarity Complicity of the Academy Demonstration South Lawn Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. DISPATCH Dispatch New York 24th Sep 2024 Several hours after the New York Police Department (NYPD) had arrested their friends, Myra and six other people found themselves staring at a disorganized tarp laid on Columbia University’s Butler Lawn. The tarp held items donated by community members and student supporters, ranging from granola bars to water bottles to oranges. At the second Gaza Solidarity Encampment , formed in response to the arrests, it was rapidly becoming difficult to locate anything in the large, growing collection of food resources. “We all wanted some organization, and we wanted to feel like we were actively doing something, so we started organizing the tarp,” Myra said. “It felt really good because you could see the distinct difference [between] unorganized and organized.” Myra is an organizer with Columbia University Apartheid Divest , a coalition of over 100 Columbia student groups advocating for the university to divest from companies supporting Israel’s assault on Gaza, and to cut ties with Israel by suspending academic programs with Israeli universities, such as the dual-degree program with Tel Aviv University. Citing disciplinary measures taken by the University against pro-Palestinian student protesters as a safety concern, Myra has requested to remain anonymous. In April, the Columbia Daily Spectator reported on David Greenwald’s admission at a recent congressional hearing that ten students were suspended after an unauthorized “Resistance 101” event on campus. Greenwald is a co-chair of the Board of Trustees at Columbia. The tarp marked the start of Myra’s work as a food organizer for the Gaza Solidarity Encampment—a position that saw her working with several other people to organize food for over 200 students at the height of the encampment. This food organizing took place over a period of several days after the encampment’s first week. Despite the widespread international coverage on student encampments , the mechanics of sustaining them have seldom been discussed. Some of this invisibility stems from fear of administrative retaliation. Fatima, another food organizer with Columbia University Apartheid Divest, noted that even the fact that she and Myra were requesting anonymity to keep themselves safe felt disproportionate to the nature of their work. Fatima has requested to be identified solely by her first name due to concerns about how the Columbia administration would retaliate. “We are literally just feeding people but we have to take such precautions,” Fatima expressed. Though food organization at Columbia’s Gaza Solidarity Encampment began as the effort of just seven students organizing the chaotic assortment on the tarp, it quickly evolved into a network attracting several student groups, professors, community members, and even other encampments, including the New York University and City College encampments. This was partly due to the difficulties student organizers faced in getting food and other encampment resources—such as tents, hand warmers, etc.—to campus. Columbia restricted access to only university ID-card carriers the day that the encampment started, which meant only students, faculty and other essential workers could enter campus. On the first day of the encampment, public safety officers searched bags to see if students were bringing any materials—such as tents—for the encampment with them. Even groceries were not allowed through the gates on the first day of the encampment, despite the fact that some students were living in campus dormitories with kitchens. However, according to Fatima, the Gaza Solidarity Encampment had a “beautiful problem of abundance” even during its earlier days. Students would bring leftover food from the dining halls. Despite the gates, community members, students, professors, and designated “runners” would bring food from other areas of the city and pass to other students to sneak onto campus. One student called the encampment the “least food insecure” that they had ever been during their time at Columbia—a signifier of just how much food the encampment was gathering from community members. While the encampment received numerous food donations from restaurants, students, and faculty, organizers were at times compelled to prioritize locating vegan, vegetarian, halal, and kosher food due to student groups within the encampment that followed dietary restrictions. Given that the encampment was taking place during Passover, organizers also found themselves working to figure out how to get kosher and Passover food for Jewish students while simultaneously ensuring it was compliant with BDS principles. “The unfortunate fact of Jewish life is that connections with Israel are especially tied to the products you purchase, so it was definitely very difficult to find meals for people,” stated Remi, another student solely identifying by their first name due to safety concerns. Remi is an organizer with Jewish Voice for Peace, one of the two groups suspended by Columbia in November 2023 for holding an “unauthorized” demonstration calling for Columbia’s divestment from Israel. Remi relates that while making and finding food for Jewish students at the encampment was difficult, it was ultimately possible due to the help of several community members. “We ended up relying on a lot of just nice Jewish families around the city who wanted to cook and donate food for different dietary needs,” Remi said. They added that due to all the support from students and community members, the encampment was able to create a “kosher table” filled only with kosher food for Jewish participants. For many non-Jewish students, the encampment was the first time that they had ever been to a Jewish cultural event. “Inviting people in through food, through the things we eat…being able to share that with people and being able to disentangle violence from our culture and being able to offer that to people, I think that was really special and meaningful,” Remi said. Serving the integral purpose of sustaining people in the encampment, food also became an avenue for students to form a community with one another during a turbulent time—and, as Fatima, Myra, and Remi each noted, this community extended well beyond Columbia’s gates. Fatima explains that when food organizers started realizing that they had an overabundance of food, they immediately started contacting mutual aid organizations such as We the People and other student encampments in New York City. The goal, Fatima said, was to redistribute the food and supplies they didn’t need, especially warm meals and other perishables. Terrell Harper, who also goes by “Relly Rebel,” co-founded the mutual aid collective We the People in 2021. Harper first met student organizers in the Gaza Solidarity Encampment while protesting outside Columbia’s gates to support students and their cause. He said that after speaking with the organizers and discussing the collective, the organizers offered to supply food and meals for We the People’s bi-weekly community food distributions. Harper estimates that the Columbia encampment provided We the People with over 800 meals in a period of approximately two weeks. Harper added that it was hearty food too—containers full of hot meals, including chicken, rice, vegetables, sandwiches, and even desserts were brought in cars to Harper’s home or We the People’s various distribution sites to hand out. The NYPD dismantled the Gaza Solidarity Encampment on April 30th, 2024, but Fatima, Myra, and other organizers are still continuing their work to feed their community. Along with other encampment organizers, Fatima and Myra have helped to create The People’s Initiative: NYC , a collective of students, restaurants, and mutual aid groups, including We the People and The 116th Initiative. Their initiative aims to host free community meals throughout the summer and into the school year. Just as in the encampment, the people behind The People’s Initiative: NYC continue to center Palestine in their work. “Food plays a pivotal role in Palestinian culture—it connects diasporic people from across seas and ties them together with ribbons of smoke streaming out of a taboon oven,” their website’s homepage reads, “we follow in their footsteps, using food to connect communities across the city.” “Sitting by loving, committed, and revolutionary peers with a plate of joy is the way we will keep our people strong,” the site reads, “WE KEEP US SAFE. WE KEEP US FED.” ∎ Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 Next Up:

"The People's Progressive Party in Guyana was a multiracial socialist party with very hopeful beginnings, cognizant of our history as colonized descendants of the enslaved and indentured. But it's a tragic casualty of Cold War politics. We now have two political parties that are essentially racialized." COMMUNITY Indentured Labor & Guyanese Politics "The People's Progressive Party in Guyana was a multiracial socialist party with very hopeful beginnings, cognizant of our history as colonized descendants of the enslaved and indentured. But it's a tragic casualty of Cold War politics. We now have two political parties that are essentially racialized." Gaiutra Bahadur The People's Progressive Party in Guyana was a multiracial socialist party with very hopeful beginnings, cognizant of our history as colonized descendants of the enslaved and indentured. But it's a tragic casualty of Cold War politics. We now have two political parties that are essentially racialized. RECOMMENDED: Coolie Woman: The Odyssey of Indenture by Gaiutra Bahadur. The People's Progressive Party in Guyana was a multiracial socialist party with very hopeful beginnings, cognizant of our history as colonized descendants of the enslaved and indentured. But it's a tragic casualty of Cold War politics. We now have two political parties that are essentially racialized. RECOMMENDED: Coolie Woman: The Odyssey of Indenture by Gaiutra Bahadur. SUB-HEAD ALSO IN THIS ISSUE: Kareen Adam · Nazish Chunara A Dhivehi Artists Showcase Shebani Rao A Freelancer's Guide to Decision-Making Watch the interview on YouTube or IGTV. SHARE Facebook Twitter LinkedIn Interview Guyana 2020 Guyanese Election People's Progressive Party Cold War Politics Black-Indian Tensions in Guyana Cheddi Jagan Black Solidarities Forbes Burnham Coolitude Fictional Essay Khal Torabully Avant-Garde Destabilizing History Irfaan Ali David Granger Ethnically Divided Politics Indentured Labor Labor Indo-Caribbean Georgetown Gaiutra Bahadur is an essayist, critic, and journalist. She is the author of Coolie Woman: The Odyssey of Indenture , which was shortlisted in 2014 for the Orwell Prize, the British literary prize for artful political writing. Her work has appeared in the New York Times Book Review, New York Review of Books, The New Republic, The Guardian, The Nation, The Virginia Quarterly Review, Lapham’s Quarterly, Dissent, The Boston Review, The Los Angeles Review of Books, Ms. Magazine, Foreign Policy, The Washington Post and The Griffith Review . She is currently an Assistant Professor in the Department of Arts, Culture, and Media at Rutgers University in Newark. 11 Oct 2020 Interview Guyana 11th Oct 2020 Chats Ep. 8 · On Migrations in Global History Neilesh Bose 4th May Nation-State Constraints on Identity & Intimacy Chaitali Sen 17th Dec FLUX · Poetry Reading by Rajiv Mohabir with Marginalia Rajiv Mohabir 5th Dec Romantic Literature and Colonialism Mani Samriti Chander 13th Nov Six Poems Rajiv Mohabir 31st Oct On That Note:

Facing the jarring revival of chauvinist storylines in mainstream motion pictures, a new era of feminist film is cleaving its way into festival and global acclaim. Two such films—Don’t Cry, Butterfly (2024) and Santosh (2024)—debuted at the Toronto International Film Festival to a welcome reception. Celebrated for showcasing revelatory Asian women’s narratives from distinct perspectives, the features ebb and flow artfully between absurdity and reality, demarcating their respective protagonists’ experiences reclaiming autonomy, dignity, and justice in spaces and psyches consumed by patriarchy. Facing the jarring revival of chauvinist storylines in mainstream motion pictures, a new era of feminist film is cleaving its way into festival and global acclaim. Two such films—Don’t Cry, Butterfly (2024) and Santosh (2024)—debuted at the Toronto International Film Festival to a welcome reception. Celebrated for showcasing revelatory Asian women’s narratives from distinct perspectives, the features ebb and flow artfully between absurdity and reality, demarcating their respective protagonists’ experiences reclaiming autonomy, dignity, and justice in spaces and psyches consumed by patriarchy. Iman Ifthikhar, Untitled (2025). Digital painting. Artist Toronto AUTHOR · AUTHOR · AUTHOR 2 Mar 2025 nd · BOOKS & ARTS REPORTAGE · LOCATION A Man's World “What can one do, Geetanjali? Sadly, it’s a man’s world,” roared Ranbir Kapoor’s quasi-alpha, male avenger in Sandeep Reddy Vanga’s blockbuster picture Animal (2023) . The film’s problematic psyche enveloped by an uber-massy exterior invigorated the pen of many critics. Several of them deciphered—in accordance with Vanga’s implied admissions—the film’s intrinsic toxicity as an attempt by the director to double down on his ethically-questionable brand of filmmaking, in response to those who questioned the philosophies of his previous films. His contempt towards his critics, the Hindi film industry, and its audiences is effectively ventriloquized through Animal’s glossy protagonist’s several loud, misplaced outbursts directed at society’s collective failure in recognizing the importance of the “ alpha male” —a stand-in metaphor for Vanga’s bratty brand of manchild protagonists. Following the shattering acclaim that Animal has enjoyed, the rhetorical question that Kapoor’s character screams at his wife, also becomes one that the film mocks the industry with. What can the audience, the critics, or the filmmakers do? Unfortunately, it is a man’s world. The answer presents itself in two films which screened at the Toronto International Film Festival this year. One Vietnamese and one Indian, both helmed by two distinct debutante women directors , where the protagonists are two distinct women holding their own against the patriarchy, while cleverly counteracting genre expectations (in essence, the opposite of Animal ). Dương Diệu Linh’s Don’t Cry, Butterfly (2024) and Sandhya Suri’s Santosh (2024) had triumphantly traveled the festival circuit before arriving at TIFF. Both films are equally poignant in their portrayal of patriarchy as an infestation: Linh’s quite literal and Suri’s more metaphorical, allowing for novel insights into the extent to which ours is, in fact, unfortunately, a man’s world. Still from Don't Cry Butterfly (2024). Image Courtesy of TIFF. Dương Diệu Linh’s Don’t Cry, Butterfly Linh’s fascination with the domestic and emotional perils of middle-aged Vietnamese women neatly threads through her filmography . Her debut feature follows a similar syntax as it documents the desperation of a wedding planner, Tam (Lê Tú Oanh), after she catches her husband philandering with a much younger woman during the broadcast of a nationally televised soccer game. This peculiar predicament sends Tam down an introspective spiral, forcing her to consult the services of a feng-shui master who advises her to make several lifestyle and appearance changes to save her decaying marriage, much to her daughter Ha’s (Nguyen Nam Linh) chagrin. An unwelcome companion to this crisis is a leak in Tam’s bedroom ceiling which persists endlessly, eventually metamorphosing into a tar-like sentient substance only visible to the women in the building, growing in size as Tam’s marriage gradually becomes comatose. The film’s quirky comedic overtone is thus assisted in willful contrast by a reliance on the supernatural, which cleverly conveys the thesis to the audience without conscribing to pre-existing genre tropes. Linh’s hyper-fixation on the specificity of Tam’s situation underscores the culturally informed mechanism through which Don’t Cry, Butterfly addresses the broader issue of patriarchy. The infestation, standing in as a symbol for patriarchal ambivalence, mimics the toxic phallocentric culture which allows Tam’s husband, Thanh ( Le Vu Long ), to slog around the house sans accountability or apology. There is a distilled direction in Linh’s style of storytelling which allows her to effectively sashay between the dry humor dominating the film’s dialogue and gripping moments of supernatural terror. While she employs the fantastical elements quite sparingly, she ensures their effect is well-informed, creating a horror-comedy that delivers across both departments. Linh also infuses the film with welcome observations about Vietnamese customs and society, creating a work that is global despite (or perhaps, because of) its nuances. “If we chop the dicks off of all cheating men, the whole country will be filled with eunuchs,” remarks Tam’s friend, in a statement where the ethos transcends borders. Don’t Cry, Butterfly is a stellar showcase of independent cinema, intelligently employing form and fiction to serve something beyond its broad thesis. You are reminded to trust the tale as told by the teller, absorbing all that the story has to offer you. Sandhya Suri’s Santosh Suri ’s Santosh, albeit not as creatively fluid, still effectively upturns expectations in pursuit of a grander purpose. Her previous narrative short, The Field (2018) , also produced by the British Film Institute (BFI) , functioned similarly, exploiting the beats of a conventional thriller to highlight the innocence of an extramarital affair in rural India. Her debut feature, Santosh , is centered around the eponymous character (Shahana Goswami) who, through a government scheme aimed at helping widows, replaces her deceased husband in the local police force. The “khaki” uniform adds heft to Santosh’s identity, which was previously reduced to doomed daughter-in-law and hapless widow. There is a purpose to her step in this new job where she operates in service of a greater truth. Her occupational idyll, however, is shattered when the murder of a Dalit girl exposes her to the malignance of those in power. Inaction by her superiors in addressing the victim’s family's concerns causes major uproar in the media, and a female inspector ( Sunita Rajwar ) is brought in to placate the situation. Suri, much like Linh, posits the primary crisis not as a means of tackling the problem, but as a portrayal of its entrenchedness, while branching out with equal enthusiasm towards subsidiary issues. The extent to which caste-based discrimination penetrates the fabric of Indian society rests at the forefront of the film’s ideas. But nestled within are communalism, patriarchy, police negligence, and an overall decay in India’s legislative, executive, and judicial institutions. The labored pacing, especially in the chase sequences and the static positioning of the camera, works in service of such multi-layered messaging, as the film delicately explores its ideas in lieu of arguing for them. This attributes a documentary quality to the film, where it presents the events in a rather quotidian manner, allowing for a measured confrontation with reality, rather than an exploitation of the events for contrived emotion. Still from Santosh (2024). Image courtesy of India Currents. The premise, which is reminiscent of Anubhav Sinha’s social thriller Article 15 (2019), avoids conscribing to the showmanship of cop films as idealized by those like Sinha’s but more prominently by those of Rohit Shetty in Hindi cinema. There is no euphoric release where Santosh batters the villains to a pulp. There is no “gotcha!” moment where Santosh wields the law to best the killer, locking them up for life. There is no monologue about the oppressive caste system or the abysmal statistics regarding women’s safety in India. Santosh trusts the viewer with its messaging, reinforcing the grim subject matter with an equally grim portrayal. The closest the film comes to giving us a heroic smash-the-patriarchy moment is a measured but revolting scene in which Santosh spits out her barely chewed meal to discomfort the gaze of a man staring at her. Despite its aspirations and twists in emotion and notion, the story eventually becomes predictable towards the end. The casting of an otherwise lovable Sunita Rajwar as a domineering inspector also falters in places owing to the relatively harmless characters she has taken up recently. Regardless of its shortcomings, however, Santosh stands out as a testament to a fearless brand of filmmaking that exhibits a flawed India, where the only thing separating the cop and the crook is a “khaki” uniform and a government-issued firearm. A refreshing deviation from the mainstream The meticulousness of both Don’t Cry, Butterfly and Santosh stands in stark contrast to the populist, pulpy, and policed cinema that is mass-produced in their respective countries, and in the absence of a commercially successful precedent, it becomes a monumental task to fund films like these. It thus becomes extremely crucial that films like Don’t Cry, Butterfly and Santosh , and filmmakers like Linh and Suri, who have been nurtured by Western institutions like Berlinale and the BFI, get this recognition in front of international audiences as it paves the way for such an “arthouse” brand of cinema to exist alongside the mainstream. The inter-continental efforts required to produce these films also stands as testament to the idea of global filmmaking, which is helping amplify regional voices, and preventing them from being strangled by the rigidity of their national cinemas and governments. Now, it remains to be seen whether either of Linh’s or Suri’s films are received with as much domestic fanfare as they were internationally. With both having been picked up by mid-size primary distributors, there is still hope that non-festival audiences get to enjoy these truly novel films. Nevertheless, there is a lot to be done: after all, it is, sadly, a man’s world. ∎ SUB-HEAD Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Facebook Twitter LinkedIn Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. 1 Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Review Toronto Chauvinism Motion Picture Film Cinema Feminism Film Festival Dont Cry Butterfly Santosh Toronto International Film Festival Art Criticism Absurdity Autonomy Rhetoric Duong Dieu Linh Sandhya Suri TIFF Indian Currents Filmography Vietnamese Indian Independent Cinema British Film Institute Caste-based Discrimination Arthouse Berlinale A Mans World Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 On That Note:

“I really got into organizing through the Palestinian solidarity movement. I co-founded my school's chapter of Students for Justice in Palestine. The same people who used to walk by me in the student union when we were organizing for an academic boycott—those same people have reached out to me since to say they wish they had gotten involved, that they feel differently now. Really, the Black Lives Matter movement opened a lot of people's eyes to the interconnectedness of state violence.” INTERACTIVE Zohran Kwame Mamdani on Palestine in 2021 “I really got into organizing through the Palestinian solidarity movement. I co-founded my school's chapter of Students for Justice in Palestine. The same people who used to walk by me in the student union when we were organizing for an academic boycott—those same people have reached out to me since to say they wish they had gotten involved, that they feel differently now. Really, the Black Lives Matter movement opened a lot of people's eyes to the interconnectedness of state violence.” Zohran Kwame Mamdani There is a pervasive and commonly vocalized sense that the dire state of Gaza and the actions of Israel since October 2023 have created an unprecedented level of public support for Palestine. And perhaps the scale of public support—or, more accurately, its endurance—is indeed unprecedented. But in an interview from the SAAG archives held on 5th June 2021, NY State Assemblymember Zohran Kwame Mamdani shared his own feelings as a longtime SJP and DSA organizer for the Palestinian struggle, as well as in his political role, that with the uptick of violence in Gaza in 2021, he found immense positive signs of shift within society, the first instances of prominent politicians being on the backfoot with protesters and organizers, and other instances of what he had previously considered unthinkable. For Mamdani, much of the roots of this uptick in pro-Palestinian sentiment and the delinking of anti-Zionism and anti-Semitism lie in part with the Black Lives Matter movement and the education of society writ large due to mass movements for racial and economic justice over the past decade, and longer. Mamdani and Naib Mian invoke the dichotomy that motivated the event for which they spoke— In Grief, In Solidarity . Mamdani’s sense of how power is and should be wielded, both inside and outside the “halls of power,” as it were, is held simultaneously with how deep the institutional roots between Israel and the US really go, for instance with the links between the NYPD and IDF’s brutal tactics, or most police departments in the US for that matter. This slice from our archive illuminates to a large degree that while change can feel faster than it is, histories of deeply grievous injustices and those of positive change are longer than we perceive them to be. Histories and ideas of collective action are invoked here, too: Mamdani’s idea of solidarity in action—whether deployed over a shipping container or outside a courthouse and wherever it may be—is deeply capacious. When Mamdani says that “we have not yet hit the ceiling of support for Palestinians,” he evokes a sentiment of today. Three years later, we still haven't. There is a pervasive and commonly vocalized sense that the dire state of Gaza and the actions of Israel since October 2023 have created an unprecedented level of public support for Palestine. And perhaps the scale of public support—or, more accurately, its endurance—is indeed unprecedented. But in an interview from the SAAG archives held on 5th June 2021, NY State Assemblymember Zohran Kwame Mamdani shared his own feelings as a longtime SJP and DSA organizer for the Palestinian struggle, as well as in his political role, that with the uptick of violence in Gaza in 2021, he found immense positive signs of shift within society, the first instances of prominent politicians being on the backfoot with protesters and organizers, and other instances of what he had previously considered unthinkable. For Mamdani, much of the roots of this uptick in pro-Palestinian sentiment and the delinking of anti-Zionism and anti-Semitism lie in part with the Black Lives Matter movement and the education of society writ large due to mass movements for racial and economic justice over the past decade, and longer. Mamdani and Naib Mian invoke the dichotomy that motivated the event for which they spoke— In Grief, In Solidarity . Mamdani’s sense of how power is and should be wielded, both inside and outside the “halls of power,” as it were, is held simultaneously with how deep the institutional roots between Israel and the US really go, for instance with the links between the NYPD and IDF’s brutal tactics, or most police departments in the US for that matter. This slice from our archive illuminates to a large degree that while change can feel faster than it is, histories of deeply grievous injustices and those of positive change are longer than we perceive them to be. Histories and ideas of collective action are invoked here, too: Mamdani’s idea of solidarity in action—whether deployed over a shipping container or outside a courthouse and wherever it may be—is deeply capacious. When Mamdani says that “we have not yet hit the ceiling of support for Palestinians,” he evokes a sentiment of today. Three years later, we still haven't. SUB-HEAD ALSO IN THIS ISSUE: Kareen Adam · Nazish Chunara A Dhivehi Artists Showcase Shebani Rao A Freelancer's Guide to Decision-Making Follow our YouTube channel for updates from past or future events. SHARE Facebook Twitter LinkedIn Live New York Palestine Intifada Gaza Dissent Occupation Israel Apartheid State Power Methods of Resistance Mass Protests Anti-Israel Protests Black Lives Matter Students for Justice in Palestine SJP DSA Democratic Socialists of America Inequality Racial Justice In Grief In Solidarity Power Dynamics IDF NYPD IDF and American Police Departments Police Brutality Political Prisoners Refugees Anti-Zionism Dehumanization Islamophobia Dismantling Oppressive Structures ZOHRAN KWAME MAMDANI is a Ugandan-born American Democratic Socialist politician. He is the assembly member for the 36th district of the New York State Assembly, in Queens. 5 Jun 2021 Live New York 5th Jun 2021 The Tortured Roof Vrinda Jagota 2nd May Occupation and Osmosis Ryan Biller 26th Oct Food Organizing at Columbia's Gaza Encampment Surina Venkat 24th Sep What Does Solidarity Mean? Azad Essa · Heba Gowayed · Tehila Sasson · Suchitra Vijayan 8th Apr FLUX · Kshama Sawant & Nikil Saval on US Left Electoralism & COVID-19 Nikil Saval · Kshama Sawant 5th Dec On That Note:

“Formal preoccupations are presumed to be a part of the European avant-garde, even though what form and form can be has been deeply influenced by writings from other parts of the world, and the West's straitjacketed understanding of the Renaissance being exposed to that.” COMMUNITY Origins of Modernism & the Avant-Garde in India AUTHOR AUTHOR AUTHOR “Formal preoccupations are presumed to be a part of the European avant-garde, even though what form and form can be has been deeply influenced by writings from other parts of the world, and the West's straitjacketed understanding of the Renaissance being exposed to that.” SHARE Facebook ↗ Twitter ↗ LinkedIn ↗ ALSO IN THIS ISSUE: AUTHOR Heading 5 Heading 5 Heading 5 Heading 5 AUTHOR Heading 5 Interview Avant-Garde Origins Modernism Anthology Traditions Vaikom Muhammad Basheer Avant-Garde Form Auto-Fiction Wendy Doniger Multimodal Stream of Consciousness Rabindranath Tagore Tagore as First Impulse of Modernism Literary Activism Impoverished Histories Contradiction Criticism Intellectual History Internationalist Perspective Performance Art Satyajit Ray Avant-Garde Beginnings in India Varavara Rao Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. DISPATCH Interview Avant-Garde Origins 4th Oct 2020 Author Amit Chaudhuri in conversation with Associate Editor Kamil Ahsan on his previous works, his preoccupations with the banal and the label of "autofiction" that haunts contemporary appraisals of his work. Further, they discuss modernism in India, in particular Tagore's children's books as possibly the first impulse of modernism writ large. In surveying the history of literature and art in colonial India, the consequences of Europe's mistaken claim to originating the avant-garde is a profound ahistorical act, one that patently must be rectified. RECOMMENDED: Sojourn by Amit Chaudhuri (New York Review Books, 2022). Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 Next Up:

ADVISORY EDITOR Aishwarya Kumar Aishwarya Kumar is a feature writer for ESPN and National Geographic. She is based in Hartford. ADVISORY EDITOR WEBSITE INSTAGRAM TWITTER Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 LOAD MORE

MUSICIAN-COMPOSER Shahzad Ismaily SHAHZAD ISMAILY is a largely self-taught composer and musician, having mastered a wide array of instruments. Ismaily has recorded or performed with an incredibly diverse assemblage of musicians and has also composed regularly for dance and theater. He was a two-time nominee at the recent 66th GRAMMY Awards, for both Best Alternative Jazz Album for Love in Exile (Verve Records, 2023) with Vijay Iyer & Arooj Aftab, and Best Global Music Performance for the track "Shadow Forces" from Love in Exile . Most recently, Ismaily is part of the new quartet Beings which will release its debut album There is a Garden (No Quarter) in July 2024. MUSICIAN-COMPOSER WEBSITE INSTAGRAM TWITTER Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 LOAD MORE

FILMMAKER Suneil Sanzgiri SUNEIL SANZGIRI is an artist, researcher, and filmmaker. Spanning experimental video and film, animations, essays, and installations, his work contends with questions of identity, heritage, culture, and diaspora in relation to structural violence and anticolonial struggles across the Global South. His first institutional solo exhibition Here the Earth Grows Gold opened at the Brooklyn Museum in October 2023. His films have circulated at film festivals and institutions globally, including at the International Film Festival Rotterdam, New York Film Festival, Hong Kong International Film Festival, Criterion Collection, among others. FILMMAKER WEBSITE INSTAGRAM TWITTER Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 LOAD MORE

WRITER Raniya Hosain RANIYA HOSAIN is a writer and doctoral student in Postcolonial Literature at the University of Cambridge. She is Editor at Spacebar Magazine . WRITER WEBSITE INSTAGRAM TWITTER Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 LOAD MORE

WRITER Shah Mahmoud Hanifi SHAH MAHMOUD HANIFI is Professor of History at James Madison University where he teaches courses on the Middle East and South Asia. Hanifi’s publications have addressed subjects including colonial political economy and intellectual history, the Pashto language, photography, cartography, animal and environmental studies, and Orientalism in Afghanistan. WRITER WEBSITE INSTAGRAM TWITTER Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 LOAD MORE