WRITER Ibrahim Buriro IBRAHIM BURIRO is pursuing a Masters degree in Development Studies at the Institute of Business Administration, Karachi. He organizes around issues of ecology, particularly on the subject of the free-flowing Indus River, and has been active in the students' rights movement. Buriro belongs to a remote village in Sindh impacted by flooding. He writes in Sindhi and English. WRITER WEBSITE INSTAGRAM TWITTER Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 LOAD MORE

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ARTIST Josh Steinbauer JOSH STEINBAUER is an award-winning filmmaker, musical composer, and visual artist. His work has been shown in Heaven, Third Ward, No Moon, Gen Art, H. Lewis galleries, Harvard Art Museum and American Folk Art Museum , and published in Nowhere Magazine, Terrain, The Offing, Moving Poems, Scroll.in, BrooklynOnDemand , and the Times of India, amongst others. Some of his portrait drawings are currently exhibited at the Long Island City Artists' (LIC-A) newest show Drawing Beyond the Surface , curated by Jorge Posada. ARTIST WEBSITE INSTAGRAM TWITTER Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 LOAD MORE

· THE VERTICAL Dispatch · Katchatheevu The Uneasy Dreamscape of Katchatheevu A dispatch from a church festival on a largely uninhabited island that has long been the site of a contentious border dispute between India and Sri Lanka. A statue of St. Anthony, patron saint of the fisherfolk of Sri Lanka’s north and India’s south, is nestled in an arch just below the roof of the church. Courtesy of the author. You can almost taste the excitement on the boat as it nears Katchatheevu, people craning their necks out of windows, and perching on the steps to catch their first glimpse of it. For most passengers, it seems to be their first time visiting the island—abandoned, uninhabited, and closed to civilians for all but two days each year for its annual church festival. Standing on some bags to gain height, I catch flashes of the island—a statue of the Virgin Mary encased in glass peeping out from some foliage; with trees for miles, and waves lapping the shore. The four-hour boat journey from mainland Sri Lanka to Katchatheevu is surreal. I’d never heard of Katchatheevu until November last year. From a sparsely-populated Wikipedia page, I’d learned the island was only open for visitors during its March church festival, so I resolved to go. Katchatheevu lies in the Palk Strait between southern India and northern Sri Lanka, a contentious and liminal space that has historically been contested between the two countries. Under British rule, the island belonged to India, and after Independence it became a disputed territory. In 1976, it was ceded to Sri Lanka by then Indian Prime Minister Indira Gandhi in a series of maritime boundary agreements. However, this decision has always been hotly contested by Tamil Nadu politicians ever since, who have long called for the reacquisition of Katchatheevu, ostensibly on the behest of Indian fisherfolk. In 1991, the Tamil Nadu Assembly adopted a resolution for its retrieval. In 2008, then Chief Minister of Tamil Nadu argued to the Supreme Court that the agreements on Katchatheevu were unconstitutional. As recently as last year, the 1974-76 maritime boundary agreements over Katchatheevu have remained hotly contested. Katchatheevu was closely surveilled during the Sri Lankan Civil War, which ended in 2009, suspected to be a base for the Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam (LTTE), a militant group fighting for an independent state in the country’s north, from which they smuggled weapons. Since the end of the war, the island has been controlled by the Sri Lankan navy, with Indian fishermen allowed to dry their nets on its land. But conflicts between Sri Lankan and Indian fishermen continue to rage around the space, with Indians accused of crossing the maritime boundary to poach in Sri Lankan waters. Many poor Sri Lankan fisherfolk returned to these waters after the Civil War, by which time they found a landscape dominated by Indian trawlers they could not compete with. View of the island from the boat. Courtesy of the author These unresolved disputes of land and livelihoods make the seemingly peaceable annual church festival even more intriguing, since regulations on movement to and from the island are abandoned for the festival. Pilgrims from both sides of the strait collide in a rare meeting point of communities who speak the same Tamil language but have historically met mostly under difficult conditions; the line between southern India and northern Sri Lanka became porous during the civil war as people fled Sri Lanka in droves as refugees. In centuries prior, hundreds of thousands of Indian Tamils were brought over to Sri Lanka as indentured laborers by British colonizers. Indian Tamils were denied citizenship by Sri Lanka upon independence; many were deported back to India, with others in a state of limbo for decades. Communities in both countries have thus experienced statelessness and rejection on the other’s land, making Katchatheevu a contested space, all the more significant as a fleetingly-inhabited melting pot of experiences and cultures. It becomes a rare waypoint through which the porosity of borders and violent history of the region can be seen through its visiting Tamil communities. Yet it remains a little-known and incredibly underreported place, with the specifics of its historic legacy rarely discussed in a wider context. Traveling with two friends on the boat, I try to glean as much as I can about Katchatheevu’s history. My friend and I befriend a fellow passenger. She tells us a story about how St. Anthony’s Church, the only building on the island, was built. A fisherman who almost died at sea promised God he would build a church if he was saved. After the fisherman survived, he stayed true to his word, and built the church using materials from Delft island, about two hours closer to Sri Lanka’s mainland. As we disembark onto a temporary and very shaky gangway assembled by the Sri Lankan Navy, which administers the island year-round, we spot a crowd already assembled on the shore—Indian pilgrims. For the church festival, all disputes and regulations are suspended, and pilgrims from both countries land on the island in a rare meeting point of communities otherwise totally separated by the Palk Strait. We are shepherded into four different queues for navy checks—Sri Lankan women, Sri Lankan men, Indian women, and Indian men. The Indian and Sri Lankan sides look each other up and down with bemused curiosity. On the other side of the checkpoints, Katchatheevu is wild and bare, untamed vegetation crowding the sides of a wide and sandy path. The early afternoon sun beats down heavily on us, and juice vendors have wisely set up shop to serve cold drinks to thirsty pilgrims. Families separated by gender wait for their relatives to come through the queue, and I spot an interesting exchange between two pilgrims from India and Sri Lanka that highlights how monumental the festival is as a reminder of the liminal space Katchatheevu occupies. “Where are you from, son?” asks the aunty from Bangalore, clad in a light brown sari, speaking in a dialect quite far removed from Jaffna Tamil. “Jaffna,” replies the young man sitting next to her in a collared shirt and trousers. “Where’s that? Sri Lanka?” the aunty asks. “You don’t know where Jaffna is?” he replies, looking shocked and slightly offended. “Yes, it’s in Sri Lanka. It’s world famous!” After our friend arrives, we trek towards the church to set up camp. Along the way, we spot pilgrims industriously clearing patches of vegetation to find a spot to bed down, and others who have come organized with lunch carriers and huge containers of water, because there is no drinking water available on the island. We select a spot just in front of the church, next to a trio from Colombo, and lay out the bed sheet I’ve brought from home. A few minutes later, a voice over the loudspeaker announces that the prayers will soon begin. St. Anthony, patron saint of the fisherfolk of Sri Lanka's north and India's south. Photography courtesy of the author. The nuns begin to chant repeatedly: “ Punitha Mariye, Iraivanin Thaaye, paavikalaa irukkira engalukkaaka, ippozhuthum naangal irappin velaiyilum vendikollumaame. [Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death].” The church itself is a rich cream color, with a statue of St. Anthony, patron saint of the fisherfolk of Sri Lanka’s north and India’s south, nestled in an arch just below its roof. Another statue, larger and more imposing, is positioned on a podium in front of the church. Dressed in brown robes with fair white skin and brown hair, St. Anthony holds a small child and looks out into the sea of pilgrims as they kneel on the ground and pray, many of the women covering their hair with lace veils and turning rosaries in their fingers. Indian pilgrims work their way through the crowd, distributing sesame sweets. One of the temporary stalls set up by vendors from both countries. Photograph courtesy of the author. I decide to wander through the temporary stalls set up by vendors on an otherwise abandoned patch of vegetation. Enthusiastic sellers assume I’m from India and quote me prices in Indian rupees. One salesman asks me to take his photo, and predicts that I’ll soon be headed abroad. He inspects my palm, and informs me that my first child will be a boy. I spot the tent of Silva, a pilgrim from Bangalore.His tent has both Indian and Sri Lankan flags pinned on the front. He tells me he’s been coming to Katchatheevu for the last nine years. “They’re always in brotherhood, no?” says Silva. “Nobody can divide it. They’re always binding, very lovely people,” adding that Katchatheevu inspired him to visit mainland Sri Lanka. I chat with a fisherman from Rameswaram who’s visiting for the first time with a party of four other people. He tells me Katchatheevu is well-known in his hometown, but not many people make the journey over. Soon, religious songs blaring over the loudspeaker begin to drown out our conversation, and the Walk of the Cross begins. Young boys clad in red and white robes stand at the head of the procession. A wooden cross carried on the shoulders of Reverend Fathers behind them towers overhead. Photograph courtesy of the author. As they walk, songs accompany their steps, and a huge crowd walks around the church’s perimeter as the sun sets, taking us to the beach where groups of men are bathing in the clear blue water, standing and laughing amongst themselves. Every time the cross stops, people fall to the ground behind the cross and begin to pray, and a sermon is delivered from the church’s pulpit by Indian and Sri Lankan clergy, in variously inflected accents that inform us where they might be from. Some sermons are pointedly political. They talk of the Sri Lankan Tamils forcibly disappeared during the civil war. Of mothers still looking for their children. Some mention the ongoing economic crisis Sri Lankans continue to face. Others appeal directly to the pilgrims, telling them to be more loving and accepting of others and the pain they might be facing. It’s during the Walk of the Cross that I spot the original St. Anthony’s Church, the one built by the saved fisherman. It is a sharp contrast to the new church, with a decaying facade with plaster peeling off it, but stark in its simplicity. Pilgrims stream in and out to pray to old statues of St. Anthony placed on a ledge, overlooked by a chipped wall hanging of Jesus on the cross. Others camp in front of it, chatting and watching the Walk. “We’re devotees of St. Anthony,” one man from Thoothukudi, India tells me, perched on a blanket with his friends. “We have a very famous church for him there on the seaside, and we go and stay there every Tuesday… We’d heard about Katchatheevu before but we never had the opportunity to come, so this year when we got the chance we decided we had to come.” They’ve decided to buy soap at the stalls as souvenirs for their family, and joke about how much more expensive tea is in Sri Lanka due to the economic crisis. But the conversation takes a serious turn when they ask me about conflicts between Sri Lankan and Indian fishermen, and they say Indian fishermen are really struggling and have been shot down when trying to fish near Katchatheevu, despite it previously belonging to India. “If it were ours, there would be no shooting,” one of them says. They say that India has “extended a hand in brothership” towards Sri Lanka, but it has been met with “disgraceful behavior” by the latter. However, they’re adamant that India shouldn’t try to reclaim Katchatheevu, saying it’s been “given and that’s it.” Once the Walk of the Cross is over, the mass takes place at the front of the church. I perch next to my friends on the blanket as the Lord’s Prayer and Hail Mary are chanted repeatedly in Tamil. I realize it’s the first time I’ve been to a mass in Tamil, and listen intently to the words, which seem to acquire a deeper meaning in my mother tongue. I find myself deeply, uncontrollably moved, tears streaming down my cheeks as the words wash over me. “Isn’t this so nice?” I say, turning to my friend after the mass finishes. It feels like she’s radiating a deep, calm, glow. Her hands are clasped in prayer. “Yes,” she replies, hugging me. “Thank you for bringing me.” Afterwards, there’s a procession of St. Anthony, with a statue carried through the crowd and around the island, flashing with green and red lights. The church is decked out in beautiful lights that lend it a Christmas feel, and there’s a festive feeling in the air as people go to light candles at a small cave-like shrine next to the church, cupping them carefully to avoid the wind extinguishing them. Throughout the day, there are also intermittent announcements of pilgrims’ prayers to St. Anthony—people asking for foreign visas to be approved, for marriages to be arranged, and for illnesses to be cured. The specifics of people’s names and locations are all divulged, and my friends and I wonder at people’s deepest wishes being revealed so publicly. We then use our meal tokens to claim food provided by the navy—a meal of rice and fish curry. Being a vegan, I’m obliged to go back to the stalls to buy myself a meal of rice and vegetables, unable to eat the food provided. After dinner, I get to chatting with a fisherman from Rameshwaram, who also talks about the lack of fish on the Indian side of the ocean, forcing them to travel into Sri Lankan waters. We exchange numbers and decide to keep in touch. We’ve been chatting on and off all day to the trio from Colombo who have camped next to us, and we end up talking to them until late in the night, exchanging life anecdotes and cackling with laughter while pilgrims snore around us. They tease me about my new friend, saying that I’m about to embark on a cross-border romance. When we finally decide to call it a night, the buzz of life still hasn’t stopped, with people walking around and talking in hushed tones, and the church lights still glowing furiously. “Pilgrims, please wake up and get ready. The mass will begin at 6 am,” a voice over the loudspeaker announces at 4:30 am the next morning. But people are slow to take notice, the mass of sleeping bodies not rousing itself awake until shortly before sunrise. Just before 6 am, the mass begins, and it feels noticeably more formal than the festivities of the previous day, with Indian officials present. Hymn sheets are handed round, and the atmosphere is solemn as people periodically stand to sing from their campsites. The morning mass at 6 am. Photograph courtesy of the author. Just before 9 am, the mass comes to a sudden end, and we’re told to claim our breakfast parcels, this time rice with dhal and soya meat curry. I only eat a little, conscious of the boat journey later, and then the announcements begin, telling us which boats are ready to leave from the island and urging pilgrims to make their way to the shore. The fisherman from Rameshwaram comes to say goodbye to me, prompting more teasing from my friends. People crowd the old and new churches for one last prayer, and I join them before we trudge back the way we came the previous day. At the harbor, the Sri Lankan side pushes and shoves to depart, and we manage to get onto the third boat after almost an hour of waiting. The boat journey this time is relatively more eventful than the first. About ten minutes in, there’s a sudden jolt and a loud bang, with a force beneath our feet that feels like the boat has just hit something. Over the next few minutes, the bangs and jolts intensify, and people begin to scream and cry. The floorboards of the boat have come up on its left side, and the seats jump up and down. I find my hands reaching out for my friends around me, both old and new, and we sit huddled in a circle, praying quietly under our breath while an elderly lady cries and calls out to St. Anthony for help a few rows behind us. I lose count of how many times I throw up on the way back—at one point we run out of bags, so I have to stand on tiptoe to vomit out of the window, sea water hitting my face as my stomach convulses. People call the boatmen to show them what’s wrong with the boat and beg them to go slower, but nothing seems to change. My friends try to contact the navy and we even get to the stage of waving my red kurti out of the window as a danger sign, but to no avail. It seems to be by sheer miracle that we make it back to Kurikkaduwan. On the bus back to Jaffna town, I chat to the fellow Katchatheevu pilgrim next to me, Baskar, his grandson perched on his lap holding a toy gun. He went to Katchatheevu the previous two years as well, when the COVID-19 pandemic meant only 50 pilgrims were allowed to attend. He tells me he made a promise to St. Anthony to visit Katchatheevu with his whole family if his daughter was cured of a serious illness that twelve doctors said she wouldn’t survive. “That’s her,” he says, pointing to the girl sitting in front of us in a green salwar kameez, holding her phone to her ear and listening to Tamil film soundtracks. “I told St. Anthony I would bring her to Katchatheevu alive. I had that belief.” Baskar, who works as a fisherman, said the economic crisis has made it difficult for him to attend the festival because of the higher boat costs, but he somehow had to make it work because of his promise to Anthony. “We believe that whatever sea we go to, he’ll save us,” Baskar says. “Because of my belief in St. Anthony, I’ve been rescued two or three times. Once I even fell into the sea unconscious after hitting my head. But because of God’s grace, I was saved.” Two years ago, Baskar says he met an Indian pilgrim who was so upset that the COVID-19 restrictions meant nobody else could come. This year, he met the pilgrim again with his family, and was so happy that everybody could come. “I told him, don’t worry, next time you can come with all your siblings and children,” Baskar says. “And this time I was so happy… Lots of people came and they were so happy… We speak happily with them. Last night, there were around 40 or 50 Indians and they were all talking and laughing with me so happily—they wouldn’t let me sleep,” he says, laughing. ∎ SUB-HEAD Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Dispatch Katchatheevu Sri Lanka Island Palk Bay Jaffna Tamil Tamil Diasporas Indian & Sri Lankan Tamil Communities Church Festival Rameswaram Border Dispute Fisherfolk Fishing Crisis Disputed Territory Pilgrimage Low-Income Workers Trawling Transnational Solidarities Internationalist Solidarity Sri Lankan Civil War Indentured Labor Labor Fishing Labor Subsistence Labor 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. 16th Jun 2023 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:

Palestinian-American actor and playwright Sadieh Rifai confronts the mental toll of occupation, war, and the American dream in her world premiere, The Cave. 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) . Artist · BOOKS & ARTS REPORTAGE · LOCATION The Mind is a Theater of War LOCATION Ahsan Butt . Sadieh Rifai . 10 Feb 2025 th . Letter from our columnist . 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. Facebook Twitter LinkedIn Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. 1 AHSAN BUTT is a writer and software engineer. His fiction and essays have appeared in West Branch, Split Lip Magazine, The Normal School , and The Rumpus , among others. SADIEH RIFAI is a Chicago-based actor and ensemble member at A Red Orchid Theatre. She has performed at American Theatre Company, Goodman Theatre, Steppenwolf, and Chicago Shakespeare Theater. On screen, her credits include Chicago Med , Easy (Netflix), Patriot (Amazon), and Shining Girls (Apple TV). A graduate of the School at Steppenwolf, she received the Princess Grace Award in 2011. 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 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:

“How do you laugh at untrammeled power? Either you are completely terrorized by it, or you completely delegitimize its authority by laughing in its face and doing the most absurd things.” COMMUNITY Experimentalism in the Face of Fascism Meena Kandasamy “How do you laugh at untrammeled power? Either you are completely terrorized by it, or you completely delegitimize its authority by laughing in its face and doing the most absurd things.” RECOMMENDED: The Orders Were to Rape You: Tigresses in the Tamil Eelam Struggle , the newest book by Meena Kandasamy (Navayana, 2021). ALSO IN THIS ISSUE: AUTHOR Heading 5 Heading 5 Heading 5 Heading 5 AUTHOR Heading 5 Watch the interview on YouTube or IGTV. SHARE Facebook ↗ Twitter ↗ LinkedIn ↗ Interview Chennai Sociolinguistics Avant-Garde Form Experimental Methods Dalit Literature Dalit Histories Indian Fascism Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam Tamil Tigers Auto-Fiction Bhima Koregaon Marxist Theory André Breton Absurdity Explanation Affect Translation Tamil Eelam Personal History Failure Narrative Structure Meena Kandasamy is an anti-caste activist, poet, novelist, and translator. Her poetry collections, novels, and essay collections include Touch , Ms. Militancy , The Gypsy Goddess , When I Hit You , Exquisite Cadavers , The Orders Were to Rape You: Tamil Tigresses in the Eelam Struggle, and most recently, Tomorrow Someone Will Arrest You . In 2022, she was elected as a Fellow of the Royal Society of Literature (FRSL), UK, and awarded the PEN Hermann Kesten Prize. She holds a PhD in sociolinguistics. Interview Chennai 7th Sep 2020 On That Note: A State of Perpetual War: Fiction & the Sri Lankan Civil War 10th JAN Origins of Modernism & the Avant-Garde in India 4th OCT Authenticity & Exoticism 4th SEP

· COMMUNITY Panel · Colombo Storytelling in Post-Aragalaya Sri Lanka “If you truly believe someone is suppressing you, you can end up in jail for 15 years. So is there really a space for citizen journalism? I truly don't have an answer.” Follow our YouTube channel for updates from past or future events. Artwork courtesy of Hafsa Ashfaq. The SAAG launch event for Vol. 2, Issue 2 in Colombo, on 7th May 2024, began with a panel introduced by Chief Editor Sabika Abbas. The panel, moderated by Andrew Fidel Fernando, discussed whether storytelling is possible in post-aragalaya Sri Lanka. How do artists and writers of all persuasions deal with the disappeared? How do we face a state that refuses to even let remembrance occur, particularly regarding the events of 18th May 2009, or Mullivaikkal Remembrance Day? How did the events of 2022, the aragalaya in all its optimism, and the sharp break that followed affect the nature of reporting, fiction, social media, and the work of youth tech organizations? The panel included: Kanya D'Almeida, an award-winning writer and podcaster Benislos Thushan, a digital storytelling enthusiast and lawyer Darshatha Gamage, a youth empowerment and development specialist Raisa Wickrematunge, Deputy Editor at Himal Southasian We can't even remember our loved ones. Even regarding May 18th, we simply don't have any war memorials for people to go and mourn, and no national initiatives. Before, people at least went to social media. now it specifically says if you use social media, if you talk against the military, guess what? You'll be put into prison for five years—or more. If you truly believe someone is suppressing you, you can end up in jail for 15 years. So is there really a space for citizen journalism? I truly don't have an answer. SUB-HEAD Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Panel Colombo Aragalaya Storytelling Citizen Journalism Social Media Fiction Media Landscape State & Media Corporate Corporate Media Sri Lanka Mullivaikkal Remembrance Day War Memorials Post-Aragalaya Moment Narratives Complicating the Unity of the Aragalaya Optimism on the Local Level Youth Media Youth Tech Remembrance Mourning State Repression Social Media Crackdown Sentencing Laws Ranil Wickremasinghe Gotagogama 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. 27th Aug 2024 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:

DESIGN EDITOR Mira Khandpur Mira Khandpur is a graphic designer & art director, currently an Associate Partner at Pentagram. Her work has been recognized and featured by AIGA, Type Directors Club, Art Directors Club, PRINT, Adobe Design Achievement Awards , and Creative Review , among others. She is based in Brooklyn. DESIGN EDITOR WEBSITE INSTAGRAM TWITTER Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 LOAD MORE

· THE VERTICAL Photo-Essay · Mizoram LIFE ON LINE Following the collapse of Myanmar’s healthcare infrastructure after the 2021 coup and India’s sudden suspension of free movement protocols in 2024, even the most basic access to medical care has become a perilous and expensive endeavor for many Burmese living in Mizoram-Myanmar border regions. As Indian authorities invoke criminal allegations against those seeking care for border security, tens of thousands have been denied essential services, and the burden on Myanmar’s remaining hospitals is further intensifying. An injured rebel joined an armed group after the military junta’s 2021 coup. Last March, he was injured nine miles from the Myanmar-India border. He was treated in Chin State, but the doctor advised him to get a CT scan, which required travelling to India. Courtesy of the author. Since the violent coup d’état in 2021, Myanmar’s healthcare system has nearly collapsed under the weight of political repression, worker exodus, and escalating conflict. The result is that what was once a robust public service has been transformed into fragmented emergency care provided largely by NGOs such as Médecins Sans Frontières (MSF). Field reports from MSF starkly document what international bodies like the Office of the United Nations High Commissioner for Human Rights, UN Special Rapporteur, and Associated Press have confirmed: hospitals shuttered, key disease programs disrupted, and millions left without reliable care. On the other hand, in forcibly returning vulnerable individuals to Myanmar without healthcare safeguards and under the shadow of rape accusations, Indian authorities violate international non-refoulement obligations while also inflicting profound harm on those already under physical and psychological duress. Amnesty warns that this practice “threatens to intensify the health crisis” for Burmese refugees, who find themselves trapped between persecution at home and denial of asylum with healthcare in India. Burmese refugee attempts to cross Tuai river for emergency medical treatment near Zokhawthar village in Mizoram, India. Courtesy of the author. A quiet yet complex world unfolds in the lush hills and deep valleys where Mizoram, in India, meets Chin State, Myanmar. While the official border stretches for 510KM, the boundary feels more like a line on a map than a real division in practice: villages often straddle both sides, and families share bloodlines across nations. The military-led coup of February 2021 brought with it the migration of thousands of people from Chin State, who sought refuge from violence and persecution in Mizoram. The people on both sides are predominantly from the Zo ethnic group , which includes Mizos in India and Chin in Myanmar. They speak related languages, share customs, and follow similar Christian beliefs. This has created a strong cultural bond, even in the face of political borders. Marriages, festivals, and trade are conducted informally across the border. Despite the Indian federal government’s cautious stance, the Mizoram state government and its people have welcomed the refugees on humanitarian grounds, housing them in makeshift camps and local homes. This has created a quiet tension between the Indian central government and the Mizoram state leadership. The Tuai River, a former key crossing point between Myanmar and India, is pictured near Zokhawthar village. Its significance waned after India suspended the Free Movement Regime (FMR) in 2024, which had allowed border residents to travel visa-free up to 16 kilometers into the neighboring country for 72 hours. Courtesy of the author. In Rikhawdar, a border town in western Myanmar, 52-year-old Thangi experiences first-hand the repercussions of disrupted healthcare and movement. Each month, she embarks on a grueling journey from her home in Rikhawdar to Zokhtwar, a distance of nearly 80 miles, just to get a medical checkup. The trip costs her nearly 70,000 kyats — about $22, a considerable sum in a region ravaged by conflict. Still, for Thangi, the opportunity to get a medical checkup and to hear her husband’s and son’s voices on the other end of a Facebook Messenger call is priceless. This is her small comfort in an otherwise onerous situation. She looks out of a tiny window in a home stay, facing the heavily guarded border with India. Once a key trading post and a vital escape route for those seeking refuge from the war, the border is now completely sealed off. 52-year-old Thangali experiences first-hand repercussions of disrupted healthcare and movement. Courtesy of the author. The closure of the border has also made it impossible for Thangali, a 28-year-old rebel fighter from the People’s Defense Forces, to get a crucial MRI scan at a hospital in Aizawl, India. Thangali, who was injured during a night ambush whilst fighting against the Junta forces, used to travel to India, almost 200 kilometres because there is nowhere within reach in Myanmar that has a functioning hospital offering the advanced services he needs. “We used to cross the border to get the care we needed,” Thangali said the next day, his voice weary but steady. “But now it’s too dangerous. With the border closed, we’re trapped—cut off from help. The treatment that once gave us hope is now out of reach, and we’re left to suffer in silence.” The sudden termination of the Free Movement Regime (FMR), which allowed for cross-border access to essential services between Mizoram in India and the border areas of Myanmar, has plunged his home township of Kale into a healthcare crisis. Kale Township connects central Myanmar to the Indian border through the Chin Hills, making it a key corridor for both humanitarian aid and displacement movements. It was in the lead-up to February’s national elections that the Indian government decided to end FMR, allegedly to address security concerns . Unfortunately, it has instead largely just stranded thousands of people and left them in urgent need of medical attention . "The closure of the border has dealt a heavy blow to our community," said Dr. Lalaramzaua, the only doctor at the RHI Hospital. "We're struggling to handle numerous cases with very limited resources. We rely on our neighbours in Mizoram for supplies and medication. With the border now closed, our ability to provide the care we need is severely compromised. "In several documented cases , including over 38 individuals deported in June 2024 from Moreh, local authorities reportedly used allegations of rape and other charges—without due process—to justify forced returns.” Amnesty International warns that this conflation of unverified crime allegations with border enforcement effectively bars these refugees from seeking vital healthcare in India, particularly for reproductive and mental health. Malsawm Puia lives in Kale township, on the border between India and Myanmar. He suffers from blood cancer. Malsawm was being treated at a hospital in the Indian state of Mizoram, but the Indian government’s decision to terminate a free movement agreement could mean a potential death sentence for the 28-year-old and dozens like him. Courtesy of the author. Among those severely impacted is Malsawm Puia, a 28-year-old from Kale township in Myanmar, battling blood cancer. Before the border closure, Malsawm Puia received treatment in Mizoram. With the end of the free movement agreement, he now faces an uncertain future as he is unable to access the necessary medical care. "The decision by the Indian government could be a death sentence for many of us," said Malsawm Puia's mother, who accompanied him to the hospital. Corpal Chanchu 23, stays in Kale township of Myanmar. Corpral got injured while fighting with the Myanmar forces last month. Courtesy of the author. Lalremtluanga, a 28-year-old rebel fighter, was injured in January during a mission. Initially treated in Aizawl's Greenwood Hospital, he had to leave due to worsening conditions and was then treated at the RHI Hospital. His condition, worsened by a broken leg and concerns about infection, makes it even more urgent to receive cross-border medical support. "The situation is dire," said Lalremtluanga. "We lack proper healthcare and medication here. The border closure has put us in a difficult position." The sudden end of the FMR and the ongoing construction of border fences have left nearly 100,000 residents of Kale township struggling with a failing healthcare system. The only hospital, already stretched thin by the ongoing conflict and injuries from the unrest, now faces an unprecedented challenge in providing care due to a severe shortage of medical supplies and facilities. "We have pregnant women and cancer patients here," Dr. Lalaramzaua said. "The lack of facilities means I can only treat basic conditions. The situation is heartbreaking, and we are doing everything we can with the limited resources available." Enok, a farmer in Kale township, gave birth to her fourth child at home with the help of a midwife. She considers herself lucky for managing a safe delivery amid the raging conflict in the region. Unable to travel to the hospital for a medical check-up, Enok still can’t obtain postnatal supplements and has to subsist on plain rice. Courtesy of the author. In terms of maternal health, women face perilous childbirths in Myanmar. Enok, a 38-year-old farmer in Kale township, gave birth to her fourth child at home with the help of a midwife. She considers herself lucky for managing a safe delivery amid the raging conflict in the region. Unable to travel to the hospital for a medical check-up, Enok still can’t obtain postnatal supplements and has to subsist on plain rice. “I can’t get enough sleep,” Enok, who used a pseudonym for security reasons, related, “People are so tired because they can’t sleep.” ∎ Civilians and fighters seek treatment inside the RHI Hospital. According to Insecurity Insight, a nonprofit collecting data on conflicts worldwide, nearly 1,200 attacks on healthcare workers and facilities have occurred in Myanmar since the junta seized power in February 2021. Courtesy of the author. SUB-HEAD Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Photo-Essay Mizoram India 2024 Indian General Election Myanmar Health Crisis Health Maternal Health Border & Rule Borders Politics of Ethnic Identity Ethnic Division Zo Mizo Chin state Free Movement Regime Médecins Sans Frontières Freedom of Movement Christianity Rikhawdar Burma Chin Hills Healthcare State Repression 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. 27th Jul 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:

“It's very easy for us to talk about being in solidarity with somebody or groups of people, but what do we mean by that? What is the history of that?” COMMUNITY What Does Solidarity Mean? “It's very easy for us to talk about being in solidarity with somebody or groups of people, but what do we mean by that? What is the history of that?” Azad Essa · Heba Gowayed · Tehila Sasson · Suchitra Vijayan The first panel from our event on 30th March 2024, “ Solidarity: Beyond the Disaster-Verse, ” at ShapeShifter Lab in Brooklyn, New York, which marked the close of Volume 2 Issue 1 of SAAG. Here, Kamil Ahsan, Azad Essa, Heba Gowayed, Tehila Sasson, and Suchitra Vijayan discuss what "solidarity" means as a concept, how it is used, and whether it is useful. It begins with some of the rhetoric that Kamil Ahsan discusses in his essay and editorial that closed Vol. 2 Issue 1 of SAAG, entitled Into the Disaster-Verse . What follows is a discussion of four books from the panelists, including: Azad Essa's Hostile Homelands: The New Alliance Between India and Israel (Pluto Press, November 2022), Heba Gowayed's Refuge: How the State Shapes Human Potential (April 2022, Princeton University Press), Suchitra Vijayan's How Long Can the Moon Be Caged? Voices of Indian Political Prisoners (co-authored with Francesca Recchia, Pluto Press, August 2023), and Tehila Sasson's forthcoming Solidarity Economy: Nonprofits and the Making of Neoliberalism after Empire (May 2024, Princeton University Press). Photographs courtesy of Josh Steinbauer SOLIDARITY: BEYOND THE DISASTER VERSE Panel 2: On the Relationship between Form & Resistance SOLIDARITY: BEYOND THE DISASTER VERSE Quintet Performance The first panel from our event on 30th March 2024, “ Solidarity: Beyond the Disaster-Verse, ” at ShapeShifter Lab in Brooklyn, New York, which marked the close of Volume 2 Issue 1 of SAAG. Here, Kamil Ahsan, Azad Essa, Heba Gowayed, Tehila Sasson, and Suchitra Vijayan discuss what "solidarity" means as a concept, how it is used, and whether it is useful. It begins with some of the rhetoric that Kamil Ahsan discusses in his essay and editorial that closed Vol. 2 Issue 1 of SAAG, entitled Into the Disaster-Verse . What follows is a discussion of four books from the panelists, including: Azad Essa's Hostile Homelands: The New Alliance Between India and Israel (Pluto Press, November 2022), Heba Gowayed's Refuge: How the State Shapes Human Potential (April 2022, Princeton University Press), Suchitra Vijayan's How Long Can the Moon Be Caged? Voices of Indian Political Prisoners (co-authored with Francesca Recchia, Pluto Press, August 2023), and Tehila Sasson's forthcoming Solidarity Economy: Nonprofits and the Making of Neoliberalism after Empire (May 2024, Princeton University Press). Photographs courtesy of Josh Steinbauer SOLIDARITY: BEYOND THE DISASTER VERSE Panel 2: On the Relationship between Form & Resistance SOLIDARITY: BEYOND THE DISASTER VERSE Quintet Performance SUB-HEAD ALSO IN THIS ISSUE: Kareen Adam · Nazish Chunara A Dhivehi Artists Showcase Shebani Rao A Freelancer's Guide to Decision-Making Panel 1 of the event "Solidarity: Beyond the Disaster-Verse" held on 30th March 2024. SHARE Facebook Twitter LinkedIn Panel Concepts Solidarity Palestine Israel The Solidarity Economy Refugees Syria India Political Prisoners NGOs Humanitarianism Intellectual History Sociology History Writing about Recent History Language Disaster & Language Technology & Power Technology & Majoritarianism Israel & India Ties Kashmir Apartheid Welfare State Racializing Logics Asylum Diasporas Abolitionism Event Solidarity: Across the Disaster-Verse AZAD ESSA is a senior reporter for Middle East Eye . He worked for Al Jazeera English between 2010-2018 covering southern and central Africa for the network. He is the author of Hostile Homelands: The New Alliance Between India and Israel (Pluto Press, February 2023). He is based in New York City. HEBA GOWAYED is an Associate Professor of Sociology at CUNY Hunter College & Graduate Center. Her research and writing centers the lives of people who migrate across borders and the unequal and often violent institutions they face. She is the author of Refuge: How the State Shapes Human Potential (Princeton University Press, April 2022). Her work has been published in Slate , Al Jazeera English, The New Humanitarian, and Teen Vogue, among others. TEHILA SASSON is assistant professor of history at Emory University. She is a historian of the British empire and decolonization, with a particular interest in the history economic life, and the author of The Solidarity Economy: NGOs and the Postimperial Origins of Neoliberalism (Princeton University Press, May 2024). Her writing has appeared in leading publications such as the American Historical Review , Past & Present , and Dissent . Suchitra Vijayan is the author of Midnight's Borders: A People's History of Modern India, and co-author of How Long Can the Moon Be Caged? Voices of Indian Political Prisoners . Her work has appeared in the Washington Post, GQ, Boston Review, The Nation, and Foreign Policy . She is an award-winning photographer and founding member and Executive Director of The Polis Project . 8 Apr 2024 Panel Concepts 8th Apr 2024 JOSH STEINBAUER is an award-winning filmmaker, musical composer, and visual artist. His work has been shown in Heaven, Third Ward, No Moon, Gen Art, H. Lewis galleries, Harvard Art Museum and American Folk Art Museum , and published in Nowhere Magazine, Terrain, The Offing, Moving Poems, Scroll.in, BrooklynOnDemand , and the Times of India, amongst others. Some of his portrait drawings are currently exhibited at the Long Island City Artists' (LIC-A) newest show Drawing Beyond the Surface , curated by Jorge Posada. To Posterity Paweł Wargan 30th Apr Food Organizing at Columbia's Gaza Encampment Surina Venkat 24th Sep On the Relationship between Form & Resistance Iman Iftikhar · Sharmin Hossain · Kalpana Raina · Maira Khwaja · Suneil Sanzgiri 17th Apr Zohran Kwame Mamdani on Palestine in 2021 Zohran Kwame Mamdani 5th Jun FLUX · Kshama Sawant & Nikil Saval on US Left Electoralism & COVID-19 Nikil Saval · Kshama Sawant 5th Dec On That Note:

A panel on dominant narratives about Kashmir: the longue durée of Kashmiri struggle, the continued movement-building between Kashmir & Palestine, the People's Alliance for Gupkar, and what the repeal of Article 370 really entailed. COMMUNITY Discourses on Kashmir A panel on dominant narratives about Kashmir: the longue durée of Kashmiri struggle, the continued movement-building between Kashmir & Palestine, the People's Alliance for Gupkar, and what the repeal of Article 370 really entailed. Huma Dar · Hilal Mir · Ather Zia Just over a year after the repeal of Article 370 from India's constitution, pro-India Kashmiri political parties called for an alliance. What did it all mean? In our second panel from October 2020, Kashmiri activist-scholars Ather Zia & Huma Dar, and journalist Hilal Mir, discuss the predominant discourses of Kashmir that pervade public and international narratives with Editor Kamil Ahsan. The wide-ranging discussion discusses Indian-occupied-Kashmir, India as a settler-colonial state, journalism & how the Azadi Movement and the repeal of Article 370 are depicted, and the many self-serving narratives that don’t take Kashmiri realities into account. Just over a year after the repeal of Article 370 from India's constitution, pro-India Kashmiri political parties called for an alliance. What did it all mean? In our second panel from October 2020, Kashmiri activist-scholars Ather Zia & Huma Dar, and journalist Hilal Mir, discuss the predominant discourses of Kashmir that pervade public and international narratives with Editor Kamil Ahsan. The wide-ranging discussion discusses Indian-occupied-Kashmir, India as a settler-colonial state, journalism & how the Azadi Movement and the repeal of Article 370 are depicted, and the many self-serving narratives that don’t take Kashmiri realities into account. 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 panel on YouTube or IGTV. SHARE Facebook Twitter LinkedIn Panel Kashmir Intellectual History Settler-Colonialism Longue-Duree of Kashmiri Struggle Movement Organization Revolution Colonialism Burhan Wani People's Alliance for Gupkar Subaltern Studies Palestine Affect Internationalist Solidarity Media Blackout Radicalization Narratives Bollywood Occupation Genocide Pogroms Erasure Mass Protests War Crimes Movement Strategy Emancipatory Politics Humanitarian Crisis Activist Media International Law Hindutva Military Crackdown Military Operations Kashmiri Struggle Discourses of War Nationalism HUMA DAR 's paternal family was ethnically-cleansed from Srinagar, Kashmir in 1948 for demanding plebiscites under the UN Resolutions. Her maternal family, exiled from Kashmir after accepting Islam during the Dogra regime, fought for Independence from the British. With a background In interdisciplinary Studies, Dar lectures in the departments of Gender & Women’s Studies and Ethnic Studies at University of California at Berkeley and in the Department of Critical Studies and Philosophy at California College of the Arts. Dar’s work is focused on the intersections and co-formations of race, religion, class, caste, gender, sexuality, and national politics of South Asia and South Asian diasporas, centered on intellectual and political activism for social justice, especially in Indian Occupied Kashmir. Her published work includes “Cinematic Strategies for a Porno-tropic Kashmir and Some Counter-Archives” in the Journal of Contemporary Theory and pieces in several edited volumes focused on South Asia. Dar is a feature writer at Pulse Media , a collaborative political, activist, and academic weblog, and is a published poet. She is a founding member of the working group on “Muslim Identities & Cultures,” and organized the feminist conference, Boundaries in Question on the theme of Women and War, both at UC Berkeley. HILAL MIR is a freelance Srinagar-based journalist. He has previously reported for Greater Kashmir, Hindustan Times, The Huffington Post, and Kashmir Reader . Ather Zia is a political anthropologist, poet, short fiction writer, and columnist. She is an Associate Professor at the University of Northern Colorado Greeley, the author of Resisting Disappearances: Military Occupation and Women’s Activism in Kashmir, and The Frame , and the co-editor of Can You Hear Kashmiri Women Speak , Resisting Occupation in Kashmir, and A Desolation called Peace. Her work has received the Gloria Anzaldua Honorable Mention award, the Public Anthropologist Award, among many others. She is the founder-editor of Kashmir Lit and is the co-founder of Critical Kashmir Studies Collective . 24 Oct 2020 Panel Kashmir 24th Oct 2020 To Posterity Paweł Wargan 30th Apr Occupation and Osmosis Ryan Biller 26th Oct Chats Ep. 7 · Karti Dharti, Gender & India's Farmers Movement Sangeet Toor 29th Apr Exhaustion & Emancipation Asad Haider 10th Mar The Craft of Writing in Occupied Kashmir Huzaifa Pandit 24th Jan On That Note:

TRANSLATOR Kalpana Raina KALPANA RAINA is a senior executive with extensive financial and management experience in the US and internationally. She serves on the boards of Information Services Group , and Words Without Borders. Her collaborative translation project of stories from the Kashmiri language, For Now, It Is Night, was published in Winter 2023 by Harper Collins in India and Spring 2024 by Archipelago Press in the United States. TRANSLATOR WEBSITE INSTAGRAM TWITTER Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 LOAD MORE