"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 AUTHOR "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." 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. 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 ↗ Tags Tags Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Tags Tags 23rd Oct 2010 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. On That Note: Heading 5 23rd OCT Heading 5 23rd Oct Heading 5 23rd Oct

· COMMUNITY REPORTAGE · LOCATION A State of Perpetual War: Fiction & the Sri Lankan Civil War Novelist Shehan Karunatilaka in conversation with Fiction Editor Kartika Budhwar. Watch the interview on YouTube or IGTV. The stereotypes of the commercial sphere, the smiley, happy go lucky, Sri Lankans—there is something to that stereotype. It's not a grim place, even though a lot of grim things take place here. A tragedy will happen, the jokes will start almost immediately. Maybe it's gallows humor or a coping mechanism. Whatever it is, that seems to always be there. RECOMMENDED: This interview took place prior to the publication of Shehan Karunatilaka's Booker-Prize winning novel The Seven Moons of Maali Almeida (Penguin), which he discusses in the interview as a work-in-progress. SUB-HEAD Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Tags Tags 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. 23rd Oct 2010 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:

In Mizoram, new geopolitical and security measures are dismantling long-standing community bonds and obstructing essential trade in a region accustomed to fluid boundaries. These controls lay bare the disruptions to daily life wrought by political decisions on both sides of the Indo-Myanmar border. · FEATURES REPORTAGE · LOCATION In Mizoram, new geopolitical and security measures are dismantling long-standing community bonds and obstructing essential trade in a region accustomed to fluid boundaries. These controls lay bare the disruptions to daily life wrought by political decisions on both sides of the Indo-Myanmar border. Manglien Gangte, Untitled (2021). Digital collage. Crossing Lines of Connection In April, C. Lalpekmuana, a 58-year-old resident of Zokhawthar on the Indo-Myanmar border in Mizoram, was grieving the death of his grandmother, Lianthluaii. The 91-year-old, who suffered from asthma, had succumbed to asphyxiation the day before. She had been a resident of Thingchang village in Myanmar’s Chin State. Lalpekmuana believes her death could have been avoided if the Assam Rifles, responsible for overseeing India’s border with Myanmar, had allowed her to cross and access medical treatment in India. However, she was denied entry following the Indian government’s decision, under Prime Minister Narendra Modi, to scrap the Free Movement Regime (FMR) in February. According to India’s Home Minister, Amit Shah, this was done to “ensure the internal security of the country” and “maintain the demographic structure of India’s North Eastern States bordering Myanmar.” The FMR had previously allowed cross-border movement without a visa for up to 16 kilometres for communities living on either side. It also permitted those near the border to stay in the neighbouring country for up to two weeks with a year-long border permit. In 2018, the Modi government renewed this arrangement in a cross-border movement agreement with Myanmar, recognising the historical ties among these communities—only to revoke it earlier this year. Besides Mizoram, the 1,643 kilometre Indo-Myanmar border extends through three other northeastern Indian states: Arunachal Pradesh, Manipur, and Nagaland. For centuries, communities on both sides have maintained deep ethnic and familial ties. The Chins in Myanmar are ethnically related to the Mizos in Mizoram and the Kuki-Zo in Manipur, a state currently embroiled in ethnic conflict between the Kuki-Zo and Meitei tribes. Across the border, many residents of Zokhawthar have immediate and extended family in the villages of Khawmawi and Thingchang, located 1.7 and 22 kilometres away, respectively. The people in these villages share the same myths, legends, and folklore that fill the air in Zokhawthar. “A mother in Khawmawi and Thingchang most likely sings the same lullaby to her child as a mother does in Zokhawthar,” says Lalrawngbawla, a member of a Mizo volunteer group. “We are so close that most people on the other side know those from Zokhawthar by name and face.” The lore and camaraderie extend along the Tiau River, which snakes through both India and Myanmar. Lalrawngbawla, whose house overlooks the shallow Tiau flanked by the green foothills of the Chin and Lushai hills, affirms that while the river has served as a de facto border between the two nations, it has always united the Chins and Mizos. “Children on either side would make paper boats with enclosed messages and let the river carry them to their friends,” he mentions, smiling. “This has been a favourite pastime since childhood.” The recent development, however, has alarmed locals, with tribal communities voicing that the termination of the FMR is hurting them. It was this arrangement that allowed Lalpekmuana and other Mizos to visit Rih Lake, a pilgrimage site about five kilometres into Myanmar from Zokhawthar. “With the FMR scrapped, we are now barred from visiting our holy lake which binds the Kuki-Chins and Mizos together,” Lalpekmuana laments. Locals are also troubled by New Delhi’s plan to construct a USD 3.7 billion fence along the Indo-Myanmar border. Many we spoke to fear that this proposed fence could further cripple the local economy, which relies on cross-border trade. In Zokhawthar, over 400 of the town’s 501 families are directly involved in cross-border commerce and labour for their livelihoods, according to a trade union leader. Any disruption to trade across the Tiau bridge and river would plunge them into a financial crisis. “After the Lok Sabha election this year, the Assam Rifles sealed the border for a while . No goods were allowed in or out,” states 24-year-old Lalhnehzova, a Mizo labourer in Zokhawthar who spends the better part of his day unloading trucks arriving from Myanmar. “Fencing means starvation to us.” Courtesy of the authors. A Lasting Colonial Legacy After the defeat of the Burmese army in their first war with the British in 1826, the regime was forced to sign the Treaty of Yandabo with the British East India Company. This pact ended the Burmese occupation of much of the northeastern region, including Assam, which then included present-day Nagaland, Arunachal Pradesh, and Mizoram, leading to their annexation by British India. Almost a decade later, in 1834, British officer Captain R. Boileu Pemberton drew a line to separate colonial India from Myanmar, now known as the Pemberton Line. However, the Chin-Kuki-Zo and Mizo tribes, who predominantly live in the hills of northeastern India and present-day Bangladesh, were not consulted during the demarcation. This line has since caused distress for these tribes that share connections and links that traverse the "imaginary border" and reject the idea of “colonial boundaries,” according to stakeholders from the tribal communities. During an interview, Lalmuanpuia, president of Zokhawthar’s village council, explains to us how the Mizo and the Chins have suffered since the colonial boundaries were drawn. “Our people were not given the option to choose between the countries, nor were we consulted before the demarcation,” he comments with emotion. “The issue has remained at a stalemate ever since.” His views are echoed by the chief of the Longwa village in Nagaland, which is also split between India and Myanmar. The first breakthrough in resolving the colonial border issue came after both India and Myanmar gained independence from British colonial rule. In 1948, Myanmar’s first Prime Minister, U Nu, introduced the Burma Passport Rules , allowing passport and permit-free entry for indigenous nationals of neighbouring countries up to 40 kilometres from the border. Two years later, Jawaharlal Nehru’s government responded by amending India’s passport rules , allowing similar cross-border movement for tribes along the Indo-Myanmar border. Since then, cross-border movement between the ethnic tribes of the two nations—which later formed the basis for the FMR—has continued, albeit with occasional suspensions due to the rise of militancy and multiple revisions, the latest being in 2016 . However, these measures have not dispelled the sense of coloniality associated with the border among locals. “A border demarcation that split communities on both sides was a part of colonial cruelty by the British,” explains Jangkhongam Doungel, who teaches political science at Mizoram University. “The scrapping of the FMR and the fencing are extensions of that colonialism for these communities.” Courtesy of the authors A Counterproductive Measure Soon after Modi’s Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) government announced the abolition of the FMR, the governments of Mizoram and Nagaland quickly passed resolutions against the suspension in their assemblies. However, the Indian government upheld its decision, citing reasons such as safeguarding internal security and managing the influx of Myanmarese refugees into India to justify freezing the FMR. Moreover, while India’s northeast may be prone to security concerns from insurgent groups in Myanmar, experts argue that fencing the entire border will be costly and “counterproductive,” given the security forces' dependence on the locals living along the border. Angshuman Choudhary, an associate fellow specialising in Myanmar and northeast India at the Centre for Policy Research (CPR) in New Delhi, tells us that the army relies on ethnic communities living along the border for various military arrangements, including cooperation to manage the border and intelligence gathering against insurgents. “Such a move may alienate these communities from the army,” he observes, noting that the fencing could cause “significant social and political turbulence along the border, leading to new forms of discontent that might escalate into anti-state violence.” Another challenge to erecting a fence along the border is the region’s hilly terrain. “Unlike India’s frontiers with Pakistan and Bangladesh, the Indo-Myanmar border region is mountainous and forested,” Choudhary adds. The decision to erect the border fence has met with stiff opposition from hill-dwelling indigenous communities and insurgent groups . Zo Reunification (ZoRO), a Mizoram-based civil society group advocating for a unified Chin-Kuki-Mizo region, has even taken their protest to the United Nations. An Empty Response to Meitei Demands Kuki-Zo civil society groups, as well as experts we spoke to, contend that the actual motivation for ending the FMR was to satisfy the demands of the Meitei political class in Manipur. According to the narrative popular among Meitei nationalists, the “illegal immigration” of the minority Kuki-Zo community from Myanmar has been the flashpoint driving the ethnic crisis in Manipur. Since violence erupted between the Kuki-Zo and Meiteis on May 3, 2023, the state has reported over 225 deaths, most of them Kuki-Zos, and approximately 60,000 people have been internally displaced. The BJP-led N. Biren Singh government in Manipur has long advocated for freezing the FMR as part of its efforts to curb immigration . Since the Tatmadaw seized power in Myanmar in 2021, more than three million Myanmarese have fled to neighbouring countries, according to the United Nations. India has also seen an influx of Myanmarese refugees, including Rohingyas . At least 70,000 refugees from the Junta are now living in India, with over 36,500 granted asylum in Mizoram. However, Singh’s government has taken a hostile stance towards these refugees. India’s former ambassador to Myanmar, Gautam Mukhopadhaya, challenges the justification of eliminating the FMR over the refugee crisis, stating that it “creates the very conditions it purports to counter.” “In fact, the state government has exploited the presence of a small group of refugees to brand the entire Kuki-Zo population in Manipur as ‘illegal migrants,’ and the centre has tacitly followed suit.” Mukhopadhaya’s concern resonates with many refugees we met at a camp in Zokhawthar. For 42-year-old Zarzokimi, the suspension of the FMR is undoubtedly a result of Meitei supremacism. She recounts how Singh’s government “cruelly deported” her family members who sought asylum in a Manipur border town after the coup. “If Mizoram can take us in, why can’t Manipur?” she asks. “The FMR removal is just another way to divide the Kuk-Chins from the Mizos.” Meanwhile, as India’s Home Ministry pushes forward with fencing in Manipur and Arunachal, communities along the border are confronted with the brutal imposition of a frontier designed to fracture the ties they have held close for generations. ∎ SUB-HEAD Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Tags Tags 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. 23rd Oct 2010 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:

JOURNALIST Tauseef Ahmad TAUSEEF AHMED is a freelance journalist from the Kashmir region of India, and he writes about South Asia. Tauseef specializes in conflict, climate change, food, and lifestyle. He holds a bachelor's degree in Mass Communication and Multimedia Production. Tauseef has three years of experience and has contributed to organizations like Women’s Media Center , FairPlanet , Two Circles , Down to Earth , Article 14 , News International , Mongabay-India , and others. JOURNALIST WEBSITE INSTAGRAM TWITTER Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 LOAD MORE

Artist and activist-scholar Aqui Thami, in conversation with Comics Editor Shreyas R Krishnan. COMMUNITY Rethinking the Library with Sister Library AUTHOR AUTHOR AUTHOR Artist and activist-scholar Aqui Thami, in conversation with Comics Editor Shreyas R Krishnan. SHARE Facebook ↗ Twitter ↗ LinkedIn ↗ ALSO IN THIS ISSUE: AUTHOR Heading 5 Heading 5 Heading 5 Heading 5 AUTHOR Heading 5 Tags Tags 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 Tags Tags 23rd Oct 2010 I really wanted to rethink what a library could mean, and show that most libraries are funded by monies that come from the exploitation and relocation of indigenous peoples. [Sister Library] is what comes out of that. RECOMMENDED: Support Sister Library , the first ever community-owned feminist library in India, here . 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:

LITERARY SCHOLAR Mani Samriti Chander MANU SAMRITI CHANDER is Associate Professor of English at Rutgers University-Newark and is a member of the Executive Committee of the Newark Chapter of the Rutgers AAUP-AFT. He is the author of Brown Romantics: Poetry and Nationalism in the Global Nineteenth Century (Bucknell UP, 2017). He is currently working on The Collected Works of Egbert Martin , with the support of a Fulbright U.S. Scholar Grant and his current project Browntology is under contract with SUNY Press. LITERARY SCHOLAR WEBSITE INSTAGRAM TWITTER Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 LOAD MORE

Photojournalist NayanTara Gurung Kakshapati in conversation with Shubhanga Pandey COMMUNITY Photo Kathmandu & Public History in Nepal Photojournalist NayanTara Gurung Kakshapati in conversation with Shubhanga Pandey NayanTara Gurung Kakshapati The archive of Nepal Picture Library is there to diversity our narratives of the past and begin to look at historically marginalized histories of specific communities, whether that be along the lines of caste or ethnicity or gender. The archive of Nepal Picture Library is there to diversity our narratives of the past and begin to look at historically marginalized histories of specific communities, whether that be along the lines of caste or ethnicity or gender. 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 Nepal Archiving Photojournalism Photo Circle Photo Kathmandu International Festival Nepal Picture Library Library Archival Practice Exhibitions Pedagogy People's Movement II Skin of Chitwan Indigeneity Indigenous Art Practice Indigeneous Spaces Dalit Histories Anthropocene Journalism Jana Andolan II Communist Party of Nepal (Maoist) Insurgency Public History Public Space NayanTara Gurung Kakshapati lives in Kathmandu, Nepal and works at the intersections of visual storytelling, research, pedagogy, and collective action. In 2007, she co-founded photo.circle , an independent artist-led platform that facilitates learning, exhibition making, publishing, and a variety of other trans-disciplinary collaborative projects for Nepali visual practitioners. In 2011, she co-founded Nepal Picture Library , a digital archiving initiative that works towards diversifying Nepali socio-cultural and political history. She is also the co-founder and festival director of Photo Kathmandu , an international festival that takes place in Kathmandu every two years. She has served as festival director for South Asia’s premier non-fiction film festival Film Southasia , been part of the selection committee for the first cycle of World Press Photo ’s 6x6 Global Talent Program in Asia, and been a mentor for the 2020 World Press Photo Joop Swart Masterclass. She was recently awarded the 2020 Jane Lombard Fellowship by the Vera List Center for Art and Politics at The New School, New York. She studied documentary photography at the SALT Institute of Documentary Studies, Maine, and International Relations and Studio Art at Mt. Holyoke College, Massachusetts. 25 Nov 2020 Interview Nepal 25th Nov 2020 Chats Ep. 8 · On Migrations in Global History Neilesh Bose 4th May It's Only Human Furqan Jawed 26th Apr Bengali Nationalism & the Chittagong Hill Tracts Kabita Chakma 9th Dec Rethinking the Library with Sister Library Aqui Thami 21st Oct The Ghettoization of Dalit Journalists Sudipto Mondal 14th Sep On That Note:

In this letter, Ustad Mohammad Ali Talpur responds to Hazaran Baloch, tracing the moral and political stakes of remembrance and resistance in the Baloch struggle. He foregrounds the legacy of the Baloch nation, where mourning and honoring martyrs binds generations, and encourages his pupil to trust in the unflinching nature and will of the Baloch people—traits that have triumphed in the face of 77 years of injustice. THE VERTICAL Letter to History (II) In this letter, Ustad Mohammad Ali Talpur responds to Hazaran Baloch, tracing the moral and political stakes of remembrance and resistance in the Baloch struggle. He foregrounds the legacy of the Baloch nation, where mourning and honoring martyrs binds generations, and encourages his pupil to trust in the unflinching nature and will of the Baloch people—traits that have triumphed in the face of 77 years of injustice. Mir Mohammad Ali Talpur My Dearest Daughter, Hazaran, Your anguished letter made me cry tears of rage, anger, and sadness. They cut deeper into the scars that remain on my soul after witnessing the suffering of our people for over half a century. Having lost so many of my friends and former students, I wonder if these wounds will ever heal. I remember Lawang Khan , seventy years old, who died defending his village in 1973. I remember Ali Mohammad Mengal , a veteran from 1960. I remember Safar Khan Zarakzai who, when surrounded and asked to surrender, replied: This is my land; I will defend it with my life. He died fighting. Etched on my soul are the enforced disappearances of my dearest friends, Duleep Dass “Dali” and Sher Ali Marri, in the spring of 1976. Dali nursed me back to health when I lay injured in the mountains. Etched, too, is the suffering of Baloch families I witnessed living as refugees in Afghanistan—only to be identified as terrorists upon their return. So many unsung heroes, so many disappeared without a trace, so many lives uprooted. They found no peace, neither in exile, nor upon return. My spiritual association with the Baloch struggle began on 15 July 1960, when Nawab Nauroz Khan’s son, Batay Khan, along with six companions––Sabzal Khan Zehri, Bahawal Khan Musiyani, Wali Muhammad Zarakzai, Ghulam Rasool Nichari, Masti Khan Musiyani, and Jamal Khan Zehri—were executed after the state broke its promise of amnesty. Four were hanged in Hyderabad Jail. Three, including Batay Khan, in Sukkur Jail. It was my uncle, Mir Rasool Bakhsh Talpur, who claimed their bodies, performed the funeral rites, and brought them to Kalat. On 21 October 1971, I left home and joined the armed struggle in the Marri hills. I was fuelled by rage. You ask what bullets sound like when they tear through our bodies. I thought of the twenty-seven fired into Sangat Sana , the three that pierced Jalil Reki ’s heart, the one that struck Ali Sher Kurd ’s forehead. Those martyrs may not have heard them, but those sounds echo in the soul of every Baloch who loves the motherland. You mention the screeching chains as they dragged my precious Mahrang away, shamelessly calling it arrest; her sarri/سری/chador trampled by those abducting her. You ask me about the thunder that must have shaken the heavens when my dearest Sammi’s سری was snatched from her head to dehumanize and humiliate her. All this and more is forever seared into me. Let me tell you what a sarri means to the Baloch. Fights cease when our women, with sarris in hand, come in-between. The Baloch say: the sarri is sacred. Our poet Atta Shad said that in return for a bowl of water, we give a hundred years of loyalty. I wish he had also said that the desecration of the sarri is never forgiven. Not in a thousand generations. It was difficult when I first joined the struggle. Despite the pain, however, there was also the belief that eventual victory would come. I, too, closed the door of hopelessness because I knew we were sowing seeds that would one day grow into trees—providing shade and fruit to all. When Banuk Karima was taken from us, it left the nation mourning. Her death created a void which seemed impossible to fill. Then came Mahrang, Sammi, Sabiha, Beebow, and hundreds more. Karima lit a fire in the hearts of Baloch women to participate in the national struggle––she embodied the wisdom and courage I see in all of you. When asked what Banuk Karima meant to Balochistan and its struggle, I replied: Karima is the conscience and the consciousness of the Baloch Nation . You ask me about little Kambar, Zahid’s son, who has lost another father this cursed March. I cannot send him words of consolation; they would be meaningless. But I want him to know that this isn’t his injustice to bear alone. The Baloch Nation will remember. You ask me about the state’s inhumanity toward Bebarg, who lives his life as a paraplegic. Why does the state fear a person who is unable to walk? It fears his voice. That is how the state maintains control: by repressing Baloch voices. My dearest child, it is of utmost importance to understand the essence of this state. It is by nature predatory and extractive––it cannot expand without exploiting us and our words, which refuse to submit to its evil design. We should not expect humanity or compassion from political parties integral to the establishment. They work for each other and protect their own interests. All pillars of the state are complicit. And in general, the silence of society is deafening too. The state will continue repressing us. What we do in response is our responsibility. Our only avenue is resistance. If we give it up, repression will be manifold, as docile people are an easier target. You rightly stated that Mahrang and Sammi taught the Baloch that they must stop being forever mourners, forever betrayed—and for that, they are considered the greatest threat and have been jailed. You are rightly worried about the fact that the new voices of our movement are now in jail cells, and that the state is trying to terrify young girls from treading the path that Karima, Mahrang, and Sammi chose. I feel it is important to understand how our Baloch Nation has responded to this unending crisis. Today, on the streets of Balochistan, girls—some as young as five years old—are carrying pictures of Karima, Mahrang, and Sammi. They are not merely holding their images; they picture themselves as these icons, and that is where our hope lies. For tomorrow, there will be Karimas, Mahrangs, Sammis, Sabihas, and Beebows in the millions. No power on earth will be able to stop them. I am not waiting for that tomorrow—it has already begun. The bastions of tyranny are crumbling, and that is why repression has multiplied and spread. That is why Mahrang and Sammi have been imprisoned. And while this violence will continue, it cannot subdue our spirits. “ Pakistan Zindabad ” was knifed onto the bodies of those Baloch who were extrajudicially killed. Their eyes gouged, their bodies drilled. Did the resistance vaporize and vanish? No. During the 2013 Long March by Mama Qadeer Baloch, Farzana Majeed, and others, faces were covered to avoid recognition. Today, thousands come out fearlessly to protest. The Baloch Nation has become fearless. The only history with a limited shelf life is that of the oppressor. Our history is ineradicable and can only flourish—for victory is our destiny. You ask if writing is futile. No, my dearest daughter, writing is our weapon. And it is a weapon that terrifies the oppressor because the word of freedom is sacred—it enlightens and motivates. Why do they seize books Baloch put up at book fairs? Writing challenges their phony and misleading discourse. Keep writing. You are empowering the Baloch narrative and preserving the history of Baloch resistance—a history long subjected to suppression. Writing strikes fear into the hearts and minds of oppressors in a way that no other weapon can. While other weapons bring only death and destruction, writing gives life—and that is why they fear words so deeply. Future generations will thank you and honor you for your words. You also ask, “Who will stand with us?’ and “Is it possible that the other oppressed nations of this land will stand with us in defiance of a shared oppressor?” My respected daughter, I believe that unity arises from two sources: either from the pain people share, or from a collective consciousness shaped by shared aspirations, history, and naturally, pain. Expecting support from those who believe in the narratives taught in Pakistan Studies is futile. And yes, do not expect the world to come to our aid—it has allowed Israel to do whatever it pleases to the Palestinians. The people may raise their voices, but governments will remain silent—because speaking up would endanger the very systems of brutality and exploitation they rely on. Merely being oppressed does not automatically give someone the consciousness to feel the pain of others or to support them. There are millions of oppressed people here, but support cannot be expected from them in the same way it can be from those who share our collective pain. To obstruct the path of collective consciousness, the state abducts students, blocks book fairs, and systematically neglects the education sector—ensuring that not many Baloch become educated. This denial of education is a key part of a calculated policy of erasure. Through their indiscriminate repression, however, they are unknowingly forging our collective consciousness. This will be the very reason for their downfall. You have talked about our mourning and grief over the years and how it continues. Yes, when there is death, there is grief and mourning—but it has not only been that. When my dearest friend Raza Jehangir was killed on 14 August 2013 by the state, we honored his death. His brave mother led the funeral and they sang a lullaby: Raza jan is little (child) and innocent, joyfully asleep in the decorated cradle. Joyfully asleep in the decorated cradle, sapient (learned men) are his forefathers. Then there is the incredible picture of the wife of Banzay Pirdadani Marri, who stands at the graves of her two sons, Mohammad Khan and Mohammad Nabi, draped in the flag that symbolizes a free Balochistan. They were killed on the same day and their bodies thrown on the roadside. I treated the two boys once, when they were very young and sick. When they grew up, I taught them at the school I managed for our refugee children in Lashkar Gah, Afghanistan. How could my soul feel peace after their death? Yet I know that despite the depth of pain caused by the loss and disappearance of loved ones, the Baloch have mourned with grace and dignity. They cannot be accused of selling their grief. Those in power have offered compensation to the families of the disappeared, but these offers have always been firmly rejected. In the end, you ask, “Tell me, Baba Jan, are we destined to be forever caught in this storm, forever erased, forever replaced?” This storm—or the ones that came before—could not erase us, nor replace us, and neither will the ones that may come in the future. Why do I say this? Because the storm that came on 27 March 1948 could not erase us. Then came another in October 1958 , which led to the resistance of Nawab Nauroz Khan. He was promised amnesty on the oath of the Quran, yet on a single day—15 July 1960—six of his companions and one of his sons were hanged. Some believed it was the end of the resistance. But did it end? No. Babu Sher Mohammad Marri and Ali Mohammad Mengal stood their ground and kept the resistance alive. Peace was made in 1970, but provocations remained. So emerged the 1973–1977 insurgency to resist repression. In September 1974 , when some Marris in Chamaling surrendered under assault by gunships, the state claimed that the core of the resistance had been broken. But had it? No—because the fighting continued until 1977. That was not the end. The Marris who took refuge in Afghanistan did not return when the Zia regime offered them amnesty . Despite the hardships of life as refugees, they stayed. Khair Bakhsh Marri joined them in 1982. He remained there for nearly a decade. That act of defiance kept the spirit of the resistance alive back home. A period of apparent dormancy followed, from 1993 to 2000. But beneath the surface, resentment simmered and political awareness grew. Matters came to a head when Khair Bakhsh Marri was arrested on fabricated charges in 2000 and kept in jail for two years. That moment reignited the resistance. Then came a turning point: the killing of Akbar Bugti on 26 August 2006. Like the 1973–1977 insurgency, the fight spread across Balochistan—it has not ended. Since 2000, the Baloch have faced the severest repression. Every brutal tool at the state's disposal has been used. Our academics, such as Saba Dashtyari and Zahid Askani , have been killed; our political activists have been murdered or disappeared; our journalists have been silenced; our poets have been targeted; and our students have been abducted. And now, even our women have been incarcerated. Yet, the resistance lives on—it refuses to die. It survives because it is an expression of the people's most cherished dream. The Baloch are a resilient nation and do not give up what they hold dear—and what they hold dearest are dignity and freedom. It is no coincidence that the Baloch call their motherland Gul Zameen—Land of Flowers. As they say, Waye watan hushkain dar —I love my land even if it is like a withered twig. There is something vital that must be said. Something that has long been the bane of the Baloch Nation. Those soul-selling Baloch who have collaborated with the establishment, aiding in the suppression of Baloch rights and enabling crimes against their own people. There is an indigenous Native American fable: the birds complained of being killed by arrows, and the response was, “Were it not for the feathers of birds in the arrows, you would be safe.” Our suffering, too, would have been less had some Baloch not provided the feathers for those arrows. Let me tell you something: if brutal crackdowns and military operations could suppress a people's desire for national, political, social, and economic rights, then Algeria would still be a French colony. The French were ruthless and unforgiving. They picked people up, held them in custody, and tortured them for as long as they pleased. Yet in the end, they had to pack up and leave. The resistance, and the will of the people, could not be broken. It is said the French “won” the Battle of Algiers in 1957 by crushing the FLN in the city, but they lost the war in 1960 when the Algerian people rose up together, showing the futility of repression. Repression eventually breeds fearlessness. It compels people to abandon concern for their own safety. And here, they haven’t even won the Battle of Quetta—yet they have already lost Balochistan by irreversibly alienating the Baloch Nation. We can—and must—learn from the Palestinians, who, like us, have endured physical, economic, cultural, and geographic assaults—a systematic genocide since 1948. Yet they have never surrendered. Especially in Gaza, where since October 2023 , genocide has reached a brutal peak. Gaza has been flattened. Hospitals bombed, medical staff killed, famine imposed through a blockade of food and water. Over 60,000 people—seventy percent of them women and children—have been killed . And yet, the people of Gaza have not broken. Gaza may be a narrow strip of land, but despite the backing of powerful Western nations, Israel has failed to crush the spirit of the Gazans. Balochistan is vast. If Gaza has not been broken, then neither can we. In the end, my very precious child, I will say this: Tum maroge, hum niklenge —you will kill us, we will rise. This is not an empty phrase. It is how the Baloch have faced oppression for generations. If it were hollow, the resistance would not have persisted and grown stronger over the past seventy-seven years. It is true that a terrible price has been paid—in blood, in tears, in lost generations. But it is also the reason we have survived. We endure as a dignified nation, seeking a life of freedom and honor, and our will to resist not only endures—it flourishes. Today, I see you all protesting against state oppression, as bravely and wisely as Karima did, and I know this is why hopelessness is not an option for us. Hope is the fruit of the seeds Banuk Karima and other Baloch revolutionaries sowed in the soil of Balochistan. And so, with the accumulation of grief in adulthood, we also inherit seventy-seven years of the history of Baloch resistance, which, in spite of its traumatic chapters, is an inheritance of revolutionary hope for a free Balochistan. Mir Mohammad Ali Talpur Hyderabad 5 April 2025 ∎ My Dearest Daughter, Hazaran, Your anguished letter made me cry tears of rage, anger, and sadness. They cut deeper into the scars that remain on my soul after witnessing the suffering of our people for over half a century. Having lost so many of my friends and former students, I wonder if these wounds will ever heal. I remember Lawang Khan , seventy years old, who died defending his village in 1973. I remember Ali Mohammad Mengal , a veteran from 1960. I remember Safar Khan Zarakzai who, when surrounded and asked to surrender, replied: This is my land; I will defend it with my life. He died fighting. Etched on my soul are the enforced disappearances of my dearest friends, Duleep Dass “Dali” and Sher Ali Marri, in the spring of 1976. Dali nursed me back to health when I lay injured in the mountains. Etched, too, is the suffering of Baloch families I witnessed living as refugees in Afghanistan—only to be identified as terrorists upon their return. So many unsung heroes, so many disappeared without a trace, so many lives uprooted. They found no peace, neither in exile, nor upon return. My spiritual association with the Baloch struggle began on 15 July 1960, when Nawab Nauroz Khan’s son, Batay Khan, along with six companions––Sabzal Khan Zehri, Bahawal Khan Musiyani, Wali Muhammad Zarakzai, Ghulam Rasool Nichari, Masti Khan Musiyani, and Jamal Khan Zehri—were executed after the state broke its promise of amnesty. Four were hanged in Hyderabad Jail. Three, including Batay Khan, in Sukkur Jail. It was my uncle, Mir Rasool Bakhsh Talpur, who claimed their bodies, performed the funeral rites, and brought them to Kalat. On 21 October 1971, I left home and joined the armed struggle in the Marri hills. I was fuelled by rage. You ask what bullets sound like when they tear through our bodies. I thought of the twenty-seven fired into Sangat Sana , the three that pierced Jalil Reki ’s heart, the one that struck Ali Sher Kurd ’s forehead. Those martyrs may not have heard them, but those sounds echo in the soul of every Baloch who loves the motherland. You mention the screeching chains as they dragged my precious Mahrang away, shamelessly calling it arrest; her sarri/سری/chador trampled by those abducting her. You ask me about the thunder that must have shaken the heavens when my dearest Sammi’s سری was snatched from her head to dehumanize and humiliate her. All this and more is forever seared into me. Let me tell you what a sarri means to the Baloch. Fights cease when our women, with sarris in hand, come in-between. The Baloch say: the sarri is sacred. Our poet Atta Shad said that in return for a bowl of water, we give a hundred years of loyalty. I wish he had also said that the desecration of the sarri is never forgiven. Not in a thousand generations. It was difficult when I first joined the struggle. Despite the pain, however, there was also the belief that eventual victory would come. I, too, closed the door of hopelessness because I knew we were sowing seeds that would one day grow into trees—providing shade and fruit to all. When Banuk Karima was taken from us, it left the nation mourning. Her death created a void which seemed impossible to fill. Then came Mahrang, Sammi, Sabiha, Beebow, and hundreds more. Karima lit a fire in the hearts of Baloch women to participate in the national struggle––she embodied the wisdom and courage I see in all of you. When asked what Banuk Karima meant to Balochistan and its struggle, I replied: Karima is the conscience and the consciousness of the Baloch Nation . You ask me about little Kambar, Zahid’s son, who has lost another father this cursed March. I cannot send him words of consolation; they would be meaningless. But I want him to know that this isn’t his injustice to bear alone. The Baloch Nation will remember. You ask me about the state’s inhumanity toward Bebarg, who lives his life as a paraplegic. Why does the state fear a person who is unable to walk? It fears his voice. That is how the state maintains control: by repressing Baloch voices. My dearest child, it is of utmost importance to understand the essence of this state. It is by nature predatory and extractive––it cannot expand without exploiting us and our words, which refuse to submit to its evil design. We should not expect humanity or compassion from political parties integral to the establishment. They work for each other and protect their own interests. All pillars of the state are complicit. And in general, the silence of society is deafening too. The state will continue repressing us. What we do in response is our responsibility. Our only avenue is resistance. If we give it up, repression will be manifold, as docile people are an easier target. You rightly stated that Mahrang and Sammi taught the Baloch that they must stop being forever mourners, forever betrayed—and for that, they are considered the greatest threat and have been jailed. You are rightly worried about the fact that the new voices of our movement are now in jail cells, and that the state is trying to terrify young girls from treading the path that Karima, Mahrang, and Sammi chose. I feel it is important to understand how our Baloch Nation has responded to this unending crisis. Today, on the streets of Balochistan, girls—some as young as five years old—are carrying pictures of Karima, Mahrang, and Sammi. They are not merely holding their images; they picture themselves as these icons, and that is where our hope lies. For tomorrow, there will be Karimas, Mahrangs, Sammis, Sabihas, and Beebows in the millions. No power on earth will be able to stop them. I am not waiting for that tomorrow—it has already begun. The bastions of tyranny are crumbling, and that is why repression has multiplied and spread. That is why Mahrang and Sammi have been imprisoned. And while this violence will continue, it cannot subdue our spirits. “ Pakistan Zindabad ” was knifed onto the bodies of those Baloch who were extrajudicially killed. Their eyes gouged, their bodies drilled. Did the resistance vaporize and vanish? No. During the 2013 Long March by Mama Qadeer Baloch, Farzana Majeed, and others, faces were covered to avoid recognition. Today, thousands come out fearlessly to protest. The Baloch Nation has become fearless. The only history with a limited shelf life is that of the oppressor. Our history is ineradicable and can only flourish—for victory is our destiny. You ask if writing is futile. No, my dearest daughter, writing is our weapon. And it is a weapon that terrifies the oppressor because the word of freedom is sacred—it enlightens and motivates. Why do they seize books Baloch put up at book fairs? Writing challenges their phony and misleading discourse. Keep writing. You are empowering the Baloch narrative and preserving the history of Baloch resistance—a history long subjected to suppression. Writing strikes fear into the hearts and minds of oppressors in a way that no other weapon can. While other weapons bring only death and destruction, writing gives life—and that is why they fear words so deeply. Future generations will thank you and honor you for your words. You also ask, “Who will stand with us?’ and “Is it possible that the other oppressed nations of this land will stand with us in defiance of a shared oppressor?” My respected daughter, I believe that unity arises from two sources: either from the pain people share, or from a collective consciousness shaped by shared aspirations, history, and naturally, pain. Expecting support from those who believe in the narratives taught in Pakistan Studies is futile. And yes, do not expect the world to come to our aid—it has allowed Israel to do whatever it pleases to the Palestinians. The people may raise their voices, but governments will remain silent—because speaking up would endanger the very systems of brutality and exploitation they rely on. Merely being oppressed does not automatically give someone the consciousness to feel the pain of others or to support them. There are millions of oppressed people here, but support cannot be expected from them in the same way it can be from those who share our collective pain. To obstruct the path of collective consciousness, the state abducts students, blocks book fairs, and systematically neglects the education sector—ensuring that not many Baloch become educated. This denial of education is a key part of a calculated policy of erasure. Through their indiscriminate repression, however, they are unknowingly forging our collective consciousness. This will be the very reason for their downfall. You have talked about our mourning and grief over the years and how it continues. Yes, when there is death, there is grief and mourning—but it has not only been that. When my dearest friend Raza Jehangir was killed on 14 August 2013 by the state, we honored his death. His brave mother led the funeral and they sang a lullaby: Raza jan is little (child) and innocent, joyfully asleep in the decorated cradle. Joyfully asleep in the decorated cradle, sapient (learned men) are his forefathers. Then there is the incredible picture of the wife of Banzay Pirdadani Marri, who stands at the graves of her two sons, Mohammad Khan and Mohammad Nabi, draped in the flag that symbolizes a free Balochistan. They were killed on the same day and their bodies thrown on the roadside. I treated the two boys once, when they were very young and sick. When they grew up, I taught them at the school I managed for our refugee children in Lashkar Gah, Afghanistan. How could my soul feel peace after their death? Yet I know that despite the depth of pain caused by the loss and disappearance of loved ones, the Baloch have mourned with grace and dignity. They cannot be accused of selling their grief. Those in power have offered compensation to the families of the disappeared, but these offers have always been firmly rejected. In the end, you ask, “Tell me, Baba Jan, are we destined to be forever caught in this storm, forever erased, forever replaced?” This storm—or the ones that came before—could not erase us, nor replace us, and neither will the ones that may come in the future. Why do I say this? Because the storm that came on 27 March 1948 could not erase us. Then came another in October 1958 , which led to the resistance of Nawab Nauroz Khan. He was promised amnesty on the oath of the Quran, yet on a single day—15 July 1960—six of his companions and one of his sons were hanged. Some believed it was the end of the resistance. But did it end? No. Babu Sher Mohammad Marri and Ali Mohammad Mengal stood their ground and kept the resistance alive. Peace was made in 1970, but provocations remained. So emerged the 1973–1977 insurgency to resist repression. In September 1974 , when some Marris in Chamaling surrendered under assault by gunships, the state claimed that the core of the resistance had been broken. But had it? No—because the fighting continued until 1977. That was not the end. The Marris who took refuge in Afghanistan did not return when the Zia regime offered them amnesty . Despite the hardships of life as refugees, they stayed. Khair Bakhsh Marri joined them in 1982. He remained there for nearly a decade. That act of defiance kept the spirit of the resistance alive back home. A period of apparent dormancy followed, from 1993 to 2000. But beneath the surface, resentment simmered and political awareness grew. Matters came to a head when Khair Bakhsh Marri was arrested on fabricated charges in 2000 and kept in jail for two years. That moment reignited the resistance. Then came a turning point: the killing of Akbar Bugti on 26 August 2006. Like the 1973–1977 insurgency, the fight spread across Balochistan—it has not ended. Since 2000, the Baloch have faced the severest repression. Every brutal tool at the state's disposal has been used. Our academics, such as Saba Dashtyari and Zahid Askani , have been killed; our political activists have been murdered or disappeared; our journalists have been silenced; our poets have been targeted; and our students have been abducted. And now, even our women have been incarcerated. Yet, the resistance lives on—it refuses to die. It survives because it is an expression of the people's most cherished dream. The Baloch are a resilient nation and do not give up what they hold dear—and what they hold dearest are dignity and freedom. It is no coincidence that the Baloch call their motherland Gul Zameen—Land of Flowers. As they say, Waye watan hushkain dar —I love my land even if it is like a withered twig. There is something vital that must be said. Something that has long been the bane of the Baloch Nation. Those soul-selling Baloch who have collaborated with the establishment, aiding in the suppression of Baloch rights and enabling crimes against their own people. There is an indigenous Native American fable: the birds complained of being killed by arrows, and the response was, “Were it not for the feathers of birds in the arrows, you would be safe.” Our suffering, too, would have been less had some Baloch not provided the feathers for those arrows. Let me tell you something: if brutal crackdowns and military operations could suppress a people's desire for national, political, social, and economic rights, then Algeria would still be a French colony. The French were ruthless and unforgiving. They picked people up, held them in custody, and tortured them for as long as they pleased. Yet in the end, they had to pack up and leave. The resistance, and the will of the people, could not be broken. It is said the French “won” the Battle of Algiers in 1957 by crushing the FLN in the city, but they lost the war in 1960 when the Algerian people rose up together, showing the futility of repression. Repression eventually breeds fearlessness. It compels people to abandon concern for their own safety. And here, they haven’t even won the Battle of Quetta—yet they have already lost Balochistan by irreversibly alienating the Baloch Nation. We can—and must—learn from the Palestinians, who, like us, have endured physical, economic, cultural, and geographic assaults—a systematic genocide since 1948. Yet they have never surrendered. Especially in Gaza, where since October 2023 , genocide has reached a brutal peak. Gaza has been flattened. Hospitals bombed, medical staff killed, famine imposed through a blockade of food and water. Over 60,000 people—seventy percent of them women and children—have been killed . And yet, the people of Gaza have not broken. Gaza may be a narrow strip of land, but despite the backing of powerful Western nations, Israel has failed to crush the spirit of the Gazans. Balochistan is vast. If Gaza has not been broken, then neither can we. In the end, my very precious child, I will say this: Tum maroge, hum niklenge —you will kill us, we will rise. This is not an empty phrase. It is how the Baloch have faced oppression for generations. If it were hollow, the resistance would not have persisted and grown stronger over the past seventy-seven years. It is true that a terrible price has been paid—in blood, in tears, in lost generations. But it is also the reason we have survived. We endure as a dignified nation, seeking a life of freedom and honor, and our will to resist not only endures—it flourishes. Today, I see you all protesting against state oppression, as bravely and wisely as Karima did, and I know this is why hopelessness is not an option for us. Hope is the fruit of the seeds Banuk Karima and other Baloch revolutionaries sowed in the soil of Balochistan. And so, with the accumulation of grief in adulthood, we also inherit seventy-seven years of the history of Baloch resistance, which, in spite of its traumatic chapters, is an inheritance of revolutionary hope for a free Balochistan. Mir Mohammad Ali Talpur Hyderabad 5 April 2025 ∎ SUB-HEAD ALSO IN THIS ISSUE: Kareen Adam · Nazish Chunara A Dhivehi Artists Showcase Shebani Rao A Freelancer's Guide to Decision-Making Iman Iftikhar Talpur Sahab (2025) Digital Illustration SHARE Facebook Twitter LinkedIn Letter Balochistan Pakistan Activism Enforced Disappearances State Violence Protests Liberation Journalism Revolution Martyr Grief Sammi Deen Baloch Mahrang Baloch Resistance History Violence Writing After Loss Dissidence Disappearance Baloch Yakjehti Committee Dr Mahrang Baloch Arrests Tum Marogy Hum Niklengy Militarism Leadership Mass Graves Assassination Imprisonment Armed Struggle Repression State Repression Oppression Defiance Mir Mohammad Ali Talpur Sarri Sacred MIR MOHAMMAD ALI TALPUR is a political organiser with the Baloch struggle, a public intellectual, and writer on Balochistan. He joined the Baloch national struggle in 1971, was with the movement from 1973 to the 1977 insurgency, and escaped with them to Afghanistan as a refugee until 1991. He spent three years in the Marri Hills, three years underground in Sindh, and 13 years in Afghanistan, where he was responsible for camps delivering educational and health services to 8000 Baloch refugees in Zabul and Helmand (near Lashkargah). In 2014, he joined a 3000-kilometer-long march to demand the return of disappeared Baloch. He is the author of dozens of articles on the Baloch movement. 9 Apr 2025 Letter Balochistan 9th Apr 2025 IMAN IFTIKHAR is a political theorist, historian, and amateur oil painter and illustrator. She is an editor for Folio Books and a returning fellow at Kitab Ghar Lahore. She is based in Oxford and Lahore. To Posterity Paweł Wargan 30th Apr Letter to History (I) Hazaran Rahim Dad 3rd Apr Dissipated Self-Determination Zahra Yarali 26th Mar Who is Next? Noor Bakhsh · Qasum Faraz · Sajid Hussain 5th Mar Chats Ep. 6 · Imagery of the Baloch Movement Mashal Baloch 28th Feb On That Note:

Aruna D’Souza’s latest book, Imperfect Solidarities, asserts that despite alliances, relations, or understanding, solidarity can remain imperfect and imbalanced; however, if pursued collectively, it’s worth fighting for. BOOKS & ARTS Provocations on Empathy Aruna D’Souza’s latest book, Imperfect Solidarities, asserts that despite alliances, relations, or understanding, solidarity can remain imperfect and imbalanced; however, if pursued collectively, it’s worth fighting for. Clare Patrick Near the end of Imperfect Solidarities (Floating Opera Press, 2024), Aruna D’Souza quotes her child’s frank question: “How can you not end up loving something that you have to take care of?” In D’Souza’s latest book, presented as a collection of essays on art and literature, the writer and art historian contemplates these prescient and recurring questions through formal and contextual analysis. Reflecting on the now and fairly recent past, she navigates the reader through buzzwords and emotional sinkholes while offering reflections “developed from looking.” Almost journal-like, this collection halts, pokes, and condemns as much as it seeks, weeps, and oscillates. D’Souza calls forth iterations of solidarity found in the work of artists including Felix Gonzalez-Torres and Stephanie Syjuco, as well as writers such as Amitav Ghosh, Dylan Robinson, and Édouard Glissant. She further positions contemporary instances of conflict, specifically her remote witnessing of the genocide in Gaza, as impetus for critical engagement, grounding it in her practice of art critique. Is it possible, today, to not consume and be consumed by the fraught tensions playing out on almost every continent? Beneath a fingertip lies a deluge of information, horror, so-called “debate”, and virtue signalling. While Palestine's ongoing oppression has long been and continues to be discussed, the events since 7 October 2023 rightly encourage renewed thinking. When newsfeeds are ceaselessly refreshing and every new story hangs like a heavy shadow, D’Souza articulates the stuffy stagnation of being on this side of witnessing. Yet, with her text, she encourages recognition and reckoning. In the face of overwhelm, she motivates critique as a strategy of response: “My horror gives way to analysis, not only of the geopolitical situation itself, but of the way ordinary people are responding to what is unfolding.” Imperfect Solidarities is, as she offers, “a tentative gesture” towards how global solidarities can be invoked to compel care and action, however imperfectly. But how could anyone write, now ? What more can be said? Why isn’t what has been said enough? In the collection’s first essay, “Grief, Fear, and Palestine, or Why Now?”, D'Souza condemns complacency as a byproduct of familiarity. Outlining the co-dependence of the US and Israel, she acknowledges, “as a US taxpayer, I am funding the atrocities happening in Gaza every day.” By this admission, to invoke solidarity must, therefore, definitively be enacted despite and because of this entanglement. If silence is taken as implicit acceptance, then surely it is to actively encourage, too. To take time, to write, and to analyze, becomes D’Souza’s method of engagement. Sitting with her pages, the familiar formula of visual analysis and exhibition reviewing is strangely comforting. Using examples in art and literature, she outlines strategies for refusal found in creative output, exploring how others have contemplated empathy through conflict. Through this structure, she is able to draw out parallels that highlight how art(work) can model different strategies of solidarity. This focus is significant to Gaza, because, as historian and critic TJ Demos points out, “by targeting the cultural infrastructure of Palestinian identity, this violence [by Israel], which could be termed aestheticide, destroys collective ways of knowing and feeling, breaks connections between generations, history, and nationhood, and thus contributes to Israel’s genocidal project of complete erasure.” Teju Cole, attempting to contend with this loss after his visit to Palestine in 2014, also draws throughlines back to creation: “Photography cannot capture this sorrow, but it can perhaps relay back the facts on the ground. It can make visible graves, olive trees, refuse, roofs, concrete, barricades, and the bodies of people. And what is described by the camera can be an opening to what else this ground has endured, and to what its situation demands.” Although neither Gaza’s artists nor its cultural histories are the core focus of the book, the titular motif of an imperfect solidarity is often returned to with Gaza implied. Thinking in dialogue, D’Souza uses other, perhaps more familiar, examples for readers to find a cultural grounding around her core thesis of solidarity across conflicts. While loss spirals and genocidal powers contort themselves in new ways to evade complicity, she encourages the reader not to turn inwards to the point of inaction, but to continue, perhaps also creatively—despite imperfections or imbalanced alliances. “I dream of a world in which we act not from love,” she declares, “but from something much more difficult: an obligation to care for each other whether or not we empathize with them.” The essay “Mistranslation and Revolution” invites reflection on language as a site of resistance. While D’Souza acknowledges that “sitting with incomprehension is an uncomfortable act”, she offers obfuscation as a methodology for solidarity, levity, and perhaps solace. Incorporating an analysis of Amitav Ghosh’s vast novel Sea of Poppies (2008) — a historical saga on colonial resistance in India—she notes how language is employed in establishing power through (mis)translation and (mis)understanding. This is particularly evident in how character relationships are set out. Language is central to the navigation of relating between characters, so much so that Ghosh describes, through his narrator, how new dialects are evolved through use and how understanding transcends commonality. Showing her reader exactly how Ghosh achieves this, she quotes the book’s narrator, who describes: “a motley tongue, spoken nowhere but on the water, whose words were as varied as the port’s traffic, an anarchic medley of Portuguese calaluzes and Kerala pattimars, Arab booms and Bengal paunch-ways, Malay proas and Tamil catamarans, Hindusthani pulwars and English snows—yet beneath the surface of this farrago of sound, meaning flowed as freely as the currents beneath the crowded press of boats.” In the gaps and improvisations resulting from (mis)communication, Ghosh demonstrates a freedom in the space which finding (un)commonality creates. Thinking through the construction of language through its structures, D’Souza acknowledges its leakiness, and how comprehension and connection often require transcending direct translation. In her analysis of Ghosh’s text, she draws on how language can be an imperfect access point or even a protective barrier across differences. Pushing this point home, she offers: “Communication through the thicket of mistranslation is an act of generosity.” And yet, I pause on certain words D’Souza uses—‘siege’, ‘negligence’, ‘allies’, ‘incomprehension’, ‘unruliness’—and struggle to get beyond how language has still felt so futile as of late. In an article titled “ Acts of Language ”, author Isabella Hammad discusses the weaponizing of words through the increasingly contentious topic of ‘free speech’ in the USA . Warning against essentialism, she reminds us that: “Bombs were not made of language, and they certainly were not metaphors.” Yet, what of language that is weaponized, where certain realities are overruled, classified away, filed, and manoeuvred around within documents, as in the case of the numerous ICJ rulings or green card removals? What of legal terminologies and judicial standards that are warped and bent to persecute a manufactured villain? Focusing on the difficult and thorny work of comprehending the ‘now’, personal interpretation is central to the work of this book. By incorporating Ghosh’s strategies for communication across and in spite of differences, D’Souza reminds the reader of the fallibility of language. Invoking its futility, she encourages that “to be able to act together without full comprehension, is to be able to float on the seas of change.” Similarly instructive is artist and writer Fargo Nissim Tbakhi’s essay “Notes on Craft: Writing in the Hour of Genocide”, where he acknowledges the importance of writing as a way to make sense of traumatic events. Despite being in “the long middle of revolution”, writing becomes a tool for action; a way to witness and begin the process of comprehension. Courtesy of the author. Although Imperfect Solidarities offers a broad focus on art too, decidedly few illustrations are presented alongside the text . As a result, D’Souza makes room for thinking about imagery without a continuous re-posting of images. One artwork included is a still from Stephanie Syjuco’s video work, Block Out the Sun (Shield) (2019). The work is captioned as a photographic intervention and included in the essay ‘Connecting through Opacity’, in which D’Souza summons Glissant’s seminal text ‘On Opacity’ from his book Poetics of Relation (1990). In this text, Glissant makes a case for abstraction and the opaque as a mode of engagement. D’Souza applies this concept to artworks where artists refuse to make themselves, or their work, understandable to the hegemonic (white) gaze. D’Souza’s reading of Syjuco’s work emphasizes how disrupting colonial documentation can be an act of care. The work connects Western tropes of looking-as-learning with an expectation of access—like textbook botanical drawings, anatomy models, and the extremes of restitution debates on human remains trapped in European museum vaults. The included still from Syjuco’s five-minute video shows an archival black-and-white group portrait, covered by the artist’s hands. The photograph follows a typical format of colonial documenting: an assembly of people posed stiffly before a foreign gaze. While enough of the figures can be seen, locating the image as ethnographic objectification, Syjuco’s hands perform a critical intervention of care. The artist challenges the use of photography to dehumanise—a technique Teju Cole neatly articulates as ‘weaponized’—through colonial methods of recording, categorizing, and labeling. By discussing this work in relation to opacity, D’Souza links Syjuco’s intervention as creating a reparative barrier. Through contextual analysis, D’Souza further examines how Syjuco affirms opacity through masking, in the present, against archival record. By covering “unwilling subjects’ faces and bodies, [Syjuco is] shielding them from our prying looks.” Bringing the act of repair into the present, D’Souza emphasizes the implication of complicity ( our looking), and the act of interception as shielding or abstraction. She shows how Syjuco’s work is a visual recalibration—where critical analysis can draw out space to think through new solidarities across past and present interactions. D’Souza brings in two more creative works which specifically utilize what she terms ‘ungraspable’—intentionally obscuring direct comprehension using abstraction—to explore opacity as resistance. The first is Felix Gonzales-Torres’ quietly heart-wrenching, replenishable installations from the 1994 exhibition Travelling , created as the artist was nearing the end of his life in his battle with AIDs. Visitors were allowed to both consume and even take the works in this exhibition, activating the cycle of loss and return through objects acting as metaphor. The restraint and simplicity of these pieces encompass the methods of opaque meaning-making Gonzales-Torres is so cherished for. The second work is Dylan Robinson’s text Hungry Listening: Resonant Theory for Indigenous Sound Studies , in which Robinson instructs “the non-Indigenous, settler, ally, or xwelítem readers to stop reading” at precise points, in order to retain Indigenous sovereignty and sanctity of ritual. Noting a number of devices that reinforce opacity in Robinson’s work, D’Souza highlights that even with the text’s title, “Robinson positions settler forms of listening, too, as a kind of voracious demand for transparency”. Both Gonzales-Torres’ and Robinson’s productions of opacity exemplify a mode of refusal—for Gonzales-Torres, using objects as symbolic placeholders, and for Robinson, using instructional writing to challenge entitlement and expectation. D’Souza includes opacity as a proposition for solidarity without the expectation of empathy, wondering “what sort of solidarities and alliances we might form on the basis of such mutual respect, one in which we acknowledge our right not to translate ourselves into terms that another may understand.” Through engaging artworks, she weaves in questions of agency, autonomy, and perspective in self-presentation for a public gaze. Syjuco’s and Robinson’s works invoke opacity through restriction, which D’Souza then uses to discuss who can engage, how engagement is possible, and who works should be for. D’Souza explores a number of other artworks in the book, ranging across themes of revolution, whiteness, connection, and difference. Her discussions centre creativity and its resulting forms—novels, video art, installation, exhibition curation—to explore different manifestations or strategies of empathy and solidarity. In doing so, she invites readers to view the creative act as a method to temper anxieties.. Reading Imperfect Solidarities in dialogue with Tbakhi’s ‘long middle’ situates it within the now. When D’Souza asks, “Are there ways to sit with the unknowability?”, she continually embeds encouragement for collective thought, to work through provocations on knowledge and access. She further highlights the potential for new interpretations of them by re-looking through the lens of seeking solidarity. Especially today, while it may often feel easier to fall into overwhelm, this collection is a reminder of the critical work which exists, and many ongoing, bolstering conversations that can be revisited. By gathering work for analysis in Imperfect Solidarities , the book seeks out strategies for ongoing engagement—from finding playful gaps in language to creating protective opacities. In ‘Coda’, D’Souza returns finally to the question of care. Taking a cue from her child—who learns to ‘care’ through the repeated actions required of looking after their pet (feeding, cleaning, playing)—she asserts that by caring, love can be fostered in time. But, she states: “care must come before love.” Cautioning against idealism, she reminds us that “care is [still] infinitely harder than love, because it often requires us to act in spite of our empathy, rather than because of it”. This is a deliberate and telling final note. Imperfect Solidarities ultimately asserts that despite our alliances, relations or understandings of and with each other, solidarity will always remain somewhat imperfect and imbalanced. But, if it is continued to be sought collectively, it’s worth fighting for.∎ Near the end of Imperfect Solidarities (Floating Opera Press, 2024), Aruna D’Souza quotes her child’s frank question: “How can you not end up loving something that you have to take care of?” In D’Souza’s latest book, presented as a collection of essays on art and literature, the writer and art historian contemplates these prescient and recurring questions through formal and contextual analysis. Reflecting on the now and fairly recent past, she navigates the reader through buzzwords and emotional sinkholes while offering reflections “developed from looking.” Almost journal-like, this collection halts, pokes, and condemns as much as it seeks, weeps, and oscillates. D’Souza calls forth iterations of solidarity found in the work of artists including Felix Gonzalez-Torres and Stephanie Syjuco, as well as writers such as Amitav Ghosh, Dylan Robinson, and Édouard Glissant. She further positions contemporary instances of conflict, specifically her remote witnessing of the genocide in Gaza, as impetus for critical engagement, grounding it in her practice of art critique. Is it possible, today, to not consume and be consumed by the fraught tensions playing out on almost every continent? Beneath a fingertip lies a deluge of information, horror, so-called “debate”, and virtue signalling. While Palestine's ongoing oppression has long been and continues to be discussed, the events since 7 October 2023 rightly encourage renewed thinking. When newsfeeds are ceaselessly refreshing and every new story hangs like a heavy shadow, D’Souza articulates the stuffy stagnation of being on this side of witnessing. Yet, with her text, she encourages recognition and reckoning. In the face of overwhelm, she motivates critique as a strategy of response: “My horror gives way to analysis, not only of the geopolitical situation itself, but of the way ordinary people are responding to what is unfolding.” Imperfect Solidarities is, as she offers, “a tentative gesture” towards how global solidarities can be invoked to compel care and action, however imperfectly. But how could anyone write, now ? What more can be said? Why isn’t what has been said enough? In the collection’s first essay, “Grief, Fear, and Palestine, or Why Now?”, D'Souza condemns complacency as a byproduct of familiarity. Outlining the co-dependence of the US and Israel, she acknowledges, “as a US taxpayer, I am funding the atrocities happening in Gaza every day.” By this admission, to invoke solidarity must, therefore, definitively be enacted despite and because of this entanglement. If silence is taken as implicit acceptance, then surely it is to actively encourage, too. To take time, to write, and to analyze, becomes D’Souza’s method of engagement. Sitting with her pages, the familiar formula of visual analysis and exhibition reviewing is strangely comforting. Using examples in art and literature, she outlines strategies for refusal found in creative output, exploring how others have contemplated empathy through conflict. Through this structure, she is able to draw out parallels that highlight how art(work) can model different strategies of solidarity. This focus is significant to Gaza, because, as historian and critic TJ Demos points out, “by targeting the cultural infrastructure of Palestinian identity, this violence [by Israel], which could be termed aestheticide, destroys collective ways of knowing and feeling, breaks connections between generations, history, and nationhood, and thus contributes to Israel’s genocidal project of complete erasure.” Teju Cole, attempting to contend with this loss after his visit to Palestine in 2014, also draws throughlines back to creation: “Photography cannot capture this sorrow, but it can perhaps relay back the facts on the ground. It can make visible graves, olive trees, refuse, roofs, concrete, barricades, and the bodies of people. And what is described by the camera can be an opening to what else this ground has endured, and to what its situation demands.” Although neither Gaza’s artists nor its cultural histories are the core focus of the book, the titular motif of an imperfect solidarity is often returned to with Gaza implied. Thinking in dialogue, D’Souza uses other, perhaps more familiar, examples for readers to find a cultural grounding around her core thesis of solidarity across conflicts. While loss spirals and genocidal powers contort themselves in new ways to evade complicity, she encourages the reader not to turn inwards to the point of inaction, but to continue, perhaps also creatively—despite imperfections or imbalanced alliances. “I dream of a world in which we act not from love,” she declares, “but from something much more difficult: an obligation to care for each other whether or not we empathize with them.” The essay “Mistranslation and Revolution” invites reflection on language as a site of resistance. While D’Souza acknowledges that “sitting with incomprehension is an uncomfortable act”, she offers obfuscation as a methodology for solidarity, levity, and perhaps solace. Incorporating an analysis of Amitav Ghosh’s vast novel Sea of Poppies (2008) — a historical saga on colonial resistance in India—she notes how language is employed in establishing power through (mis)translation and (mis)understanding. This is particularly evident in how character relationships are set out. Language is central to the navigation of relating between characters, so much so that Ghosh describes, through his narrator, how new dialects are evolved through use and how understanding transcends commonality. Showing her reader exactly how Ghosh achieves this, she quotes the book’s narrator, who describes: “a motley tongue, spoken nowhere but on the water, whose words were as varied as the port’s traffic, an anarchic medley of Portuguese calaluzes and Kerala pattimars, Arab booms and Bengal paunch-ways, Malay proas and Tamil catamarans, Hindusthani pulwars and English snows—yet beneath the surface of this farrago of sound, meaning flowed as freely as the currents beneath the crowded press of boats.” In the gaps and improvisations resulting from (mis)communication, Ghosh demonstrates a freedom in the space which finding (un)commonality creates. Thinking through the construction of language through its structures, D’Souza acknowledges its leakiness, and how comprehension and connection often require transcending direct translation. In her analysis of Ghosh’s text, she draws on how language can be an imperfect access point or even a protective barrier across differences. Pushing this point home, she offers: “Communication through the thicket of mistranslation is an act of generosity.” And yet, I pause on certain words D’Souza uses—‘siege’, ‘negligence’, ‘allies’, ‘incomprehension’, ‘unruliness’—and struggle to get beyond how language has still felt so futile as of late. In an article titled “ Acts of Language ”, author Isabella Hammad discusses the weaponizing of words through the increasingly contentious topic of ‘free speech’ in the USA . Warning against essentialism, she reminds us that: “Bombs were not made of language, and they certainly were not metaphors.” Yet, what of language that is weaponized, where certain realities are overruled, classified away, filed, and manoeuvred around within documents, as in the case of the numerous ICJ rulings or green card removals? What of legal terminologies and judicial standards that are warped and bent to persecute a manufactured villain? Focusing on the difficult and thorny work of comprehending the ‘now’, personal interpretation is central to the work of this book. By incorporating Ghosh’s strategies for communication across and in spite of differences, D’Souza reminds the reader of the fallibility of language. Invoking its futility, she encourages that “to be able to act together without full comprehension, is to be able to float on the seas of change.” Similarly instructive is artist and writer Fargo Nissim Tbakhi’s essay “Notes on Craft: Writing in the Hour of Genocide”, where he acknowledges the importance of writing as a way to make sense of traumatic events. Despite being in “the long middle of revolution”, writing becomes a tool for action; a way to witness and begin the process of comprehension. Courtesy of the author. Although Imperfect Solidarities offers a broad focus on art too, decidedly few illustrations are presented alongside the text . As a result, D’Souza makes room for thinking about imagery without a continuous re-posting of images. One artwork included is a still from Stephanie Syjuco’s video work, Block Out the Sun (Shield) (2019). The work is captioned as a photographic intervention and included in the essay ‘Connecting through Opacity’, in which D’Souza summons Glissant’s seminal text ‘On Opacity’ from his book Poetics of Relation (1990). In this text, Glissant makes a case for abstraction and the opaque as a mode of engagement. D’Souza applies this concept to artworks where artists refuse to make themselves, or their work, understandable to the hegemonic (white) gaze. D’Souza’s reading of Syjuco’s work emphasizes how disrupting colonial documentation can be an act of care. The work connects Western tropes of looking-as-learning with an expectation of access—like textbook botanical drawings, anatomy models, and the extremes of restitution debates on human remains trapped in European museum vaults. The included still from Syjuco’s five-minute video shows an archival black-and-white group portrait, covered by the artist’s hands. The photograph follows a typical format of colonial documenting: an assembly of people posed stiffly before a foreign gaze. While enough of the figures can be seen, locating the image as ethnographic objectification, Syjuco’s hands perform a critical intervention of care. The artist challenges the use of photography to dehumanise—a technique Teju Cole neatly articulates as ‘weaponized’—through colonial methods of recording, categorizing, and labeling. By discussing this work in relation to opacity, D’Souza links Syjuco’s intervention as creating a reparative barrier. Through contextual analysis, D’Souza further examines how Syjuco affirms opacity through masking, in the present, against archival record. By covering “unwilling subjects’ faces and bodies, [Syjuco is] shielding them from our prying looks.” Bringing the act of repair into the present, D’Souza emphasizes the implication of complicity ( our looking), and the act of interception as shielding or abstraction. She shows how Syjuco’s work is a visual recalibration—where critical analysis can draw out space to think through new solidarities across past and present interactions. D’Souza brings in two more creative works which specifically utilize what she terms ‘ungraspable’—intentionally obscuring direct comprehension using abstraction—to explore opacity as resistance. The first is Felix Gonzales-Torres’ quietly heart-wrenching, replenishable installations from the 1994 exhibition Travelling , created as the artist was nearing the end of his life in his battle with AIDs. Visitors were allowed to both consume and even take the works in this exhibition, activating the cycle of loss and return through objects acting as metaphor. The restraint and simplicity of these pieces encompass the methods of opaque meaning-making Gonzales-Torres is so cherished for. The second work is Dylan Robinson’s text Hungry Listening: Resonant Theory for Indigenous Sound Studies , in which Robinson instructs “the non-Indigenous, settler, ally, or xwelítem readers to stop reading” at precise points, in order to retain Indigenous sovereignty and sanctity of ritual. Noting a number of devices that reinforce opacity in Robinson’s work, D’Souza highlights that even with the text’s title, “Robinson positions settler forms of listening, too, as a kind of voracious demand for transparency”. Both Gonzales-Torres’ and Robinson’s productions of opacity exemplify a mode of refusal—for Gonzales-Torres, using objects as symbolic placeholders, and for Robinson, using instructional writing to challenge entitlement and expectation. D’Souza includes opacity as a proposition for solidarity without the expectation of empathy, wondering “what sort of solidarities and alliances we might form on the basis of such mutual respect, one in which we acknowledge our right not to translate ourselves into terms that another may understand.” Through engaging artworks, she weaves in questions of agency, autonomy, and perspective in self-presentation for a public gaze. Syjuco’s and Robinson’s works invoke opacity through restriction, which D’Souza then uses to discuss who can engage, how engagement is possible, and who works should be for. D’Souza explores a number of other artworks in the book, ranging across themes of revolution, whiteness, connection, and difference. Her discussions centre creativity and its resulting forms—novels, video art, installation, exhibition curation—to explore different manifestations or strategies of empathy and solidarity. In doing so, she invites readers to view the creative act as a method to temper anxieties.. Reading Imperfect Solidarities in dialogue with Tbakhi’s ‘long middle’ situates it within the now. When D’Souza asks, “Are there ways to sit with the unknowability?”, she continually embeds encouragement for collective thought, to work through provocations on knowledge and access. She further highlights the potential for new interpretations of them by re-looking through the lens of seeking solidarity. Especially today, while it may often feel easier to fall into overwhelm, this collection is a reminder of the critical work which exists, and many ongoing, bolstering conversations that can be revisited. By gathering work for analysis in Imperfect Solidarities , the book seeks out strategies for ongoing engagement—from finding playful gaps in language to creating protective opacities. In ‘Coda’, D’Souza returns finally to the question of care. Taking a cue from her child—who learns to ‘care’ through the repeated actions required of looking after their pet (feeding, cleaning, playing)—she asserts that by caring, love can be fostered in time. But, she states: “care must come before love.” Cautioning against idealism, she reminds us that “care is [still] infinitely harder than love, because it often requires us to act in spite of our empathy, rather than because of it”. This is a deliberate and telling final note. Imperfect Solidarities ultimately asserts that despite our alliances, relations or understandings of and with each other, solidarity will always remain somewhat imperfect and imbalanced. But, if it is continued to be sought collectively, it’s worth fighting for.∎ SUB-HEAD ALSO IN THIS ISSUE: Kareen Adam · Nazish Chunara A Dhivehi Artists Showcase Shebani Rao A Freelancer's Guide to Decision-Making "Rug" (2018), Silkscreen printing and unraveling on silk, courtesy of Areen. SHARE Facebook Twitter LinkedIn Review Paris Grief Depictions of Grief In Grief In Solidarity Palestine The Urgent Call of Palestine Mistranslation and Revolution photography Archival Practice Archives Ethnography ethnographic objectification Colonialism On Opacity Art Activism Movement Strategy Activist Media Unknowability Doubt Felix Gonzales-Torres Teju Cole Art as Solidarity Strategies of Solidarity Colonial Documentation Stephanie Syjuco Fargo Nissim Tbakhi Isabella Hammad Improvisation Resistance Language as Resistance Imagery TJ Demos Aestheticide Édouard Glissant Essay Essayistic Practice Care Work CLARE PATRICK is an independent curator and writer who hails from Cape Town. Formerly at NXTHVN , the Norval Foundation , and the Paris College of Art , she currently works at Atelier 11 Paris and No! Wahala Magazine . Her work has been featured in Art Throb , Contemporary And , Vogue , and The New York Times . 13 Aug 2025 Review Paris 13th Aug 2025 AREEN is a Palestinian textile artist currently living in Dubai. She earned her bachelor's degree in Textile Design and Art in 2018. Drawing on embroidery as a tradition from the Levant region, Areen plays with technologies and multimedia to experiment with the idea of transparency and reversing the function of a material. The Tortured Roof Vrinda Jagota 2nd May Who is Next? Noor Bakhsh · Qasum Faraz · Sajid Hussain 5th Mar Dukkha Sumana Roy 4th Jul Chats Ep. 3 · On the 2020 ZHR Prize-Winning Essay Raniya Hosain 23rd Nov Discourses on Kashmir Huma Dar · Hilal Mir · Ather Zia 24th Oct On That Note:

WRITER Zuhaib Ahmed Pirzada ZUHAIB AHMED PIRZADA is a freelance investigative journalist who focuses on climate justice, politics, indigenous knowledge systems, colonialism, and capitalism. His work has appeared in Vice and Fifty Two , among others. WRITER WEBSITE INSTAGRAM TWITTER Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 LOAD MORE

In Mexico, over 116,000 people are registered as missing, many due to violence linked to the war on drugs. In the absence of timely support from the authorities, relatives of the missing are forced to create their own missing person posters, which serve as vital tools to mobilize local communities and gain leads, though they come with risks, such as extortion by criminals. With thousands of disappearances unresolved, unofficial, family-led searches for missing individuals continue, highlighting a broken system and the desperate need for more effective responses to the crisis. · THE VERTICAL REPORTAGE · LOCATION In Mexico, over 116,000 people are registered as missing, many due to violence linked to the war on drugs. In the absence of timely support from the authorities, relatives of the missing are forced to create their own missing person posters, which serve as vital tools to mobilize local communities and gain leads, though they come with risks, such as extortion by criminals. With thousands of disappearances unresolved, unofficial, family-led searches for missing individuals continue, highlighting a broken system and the desperate need for more effective responses to the crisis. Soumya Dhulekar, Untitled (2024). Digital collage. The Faces of Mexico's Disappeared On the afternoon of July 19, 2023, Abraham Flores and his wife, Beatriz Cárdenas, celebrated their daughter’s first birthday with a rainbow cake and a small family gathering at Flores’s parents’ house in northern Mexico. Around 10:30 pm, Flores dropped Cárdenas and their child off at their home. Flores, a 32-year-old ride-hailing driver, then went to pick up a passenger outside of the application. He assured his family he would be back soon. At 12:30 am, Cárdenas, 28 years old, warned her husband via WhatsApp about a shooting that had occurred a few blocks from their home in the municipality of Santa Catarina, Nuevo León. Flores didn’t respond. She messaged him an hour later and then fell asleep. Early in the morning, she tried to contact him once more and saw that his last connection was at 4:15 am. Since then, Cárdenas has been searching for him. “Hours passed. It was 5 p.m. and I couldn’t take it anymore. I went straight to my in-laws, and they said, ‘Maybe he went out with friends.’ But I knew it wasn’t normal,” Cárdenas asserted. “He could go out drinking or with friends, but he would always come back. I mean, he always came back. And now, he hasn’t.” Across Mexico, there are over 116,000 people officially registered as missing or disappeared, primarily since 2006 when the government launched the “war on drugs” and began militarizing the streets as part of its strategy. Families of the disappeared have united in search collectives , often risking their safety and facing numerous obstacles such as a lack of resources and information, physical threats, and a slow, negligent response from authorities. The missing person poster has emerged as a vital and accessible tool during the crucial early days of a disappearance, though it has its limitations. All images courtesy of the author (2024). Since the General Law on the Forced Disappearance of Persons was approved in 2017–following the intensive work and advocacy of families of the disappeared–the National Search Commission, the General Prosecutor’s Office, and their state counterparts have been responsible for investigating disappearances. However, the implementation of the law has been hampered by a lack of political will from authorities and insufficient human and material resources. The law mandates immediate searches, but authorities often refuse to file reports in the initial hours, despite the increased likelihood of finding a person alive during this critical period. Without a filed report, the official missing person poster, known as “ficha de búsqueda” (search form), cannot be issued. May-ek Querales, an anthropologist with the Social and Forensic Anthropology Research Group (GIASF) , explained that issuing a missing person poster also means that an investigation is officially opened. "Therefore it [authorities] will always have it on its agenda and will not stop looking for your loved one, in theory. Unfortunately, that’s not always the case,” Querales added. Despite official protocols, authorities told Cárdenas that they needed to wait at least 24 hours before filing a disappearance report. Many families are forced to create their own posters and distribute them through personal networks, such as WhatsApp chats, Facebook neighborhood groups, and word-of-mouth, in order to initiate the search for their missing loved ones. María de la Luz López Castruita, who has been searching for her daughter Irma Claribel since 2008 in the northern state of Coahuila, highlights the importance of the poster as an accessible search tool for families, but also as a communication tool to engage with society and ask for help. “It's a huge support for us because we think if more people spread it, the more likely it is that it will reach people who have seen our loved ones,” she said. Despite the limitations that the poster may encounter in its circulation, it can also become a valuable emotional object for families experiencing the pain and uncertainty of a disappearance for the first time. Faced with the overwhelming prospect of beginning the search for a loved one in a country with thousands upon thousands of missing people, the poster can be the first step that a family member takes to proactively search without depending on the authorities. “It also has a symbolic function so that people do not go crazy in the process of not having an answer from their loved one,” Querales said. In the initial hours after her husband’s disappearance, Cárdenas felt she couldn’t wait any longer. She created a missing person poster in Word, using a photo from their daughter’s birthday celebration. “It was literally the photo we had taken of him that night,” explained Cárdenas. “It was that photo, with red letters saying ‘MISSING,’ a description of what he looked like, what he was wearing…exactly as he appears in the photo is what he was wearing [at the time he disappeared].” The lack of immediate institutional support often makes families more vulnerable. Cárdenas used her personal phone number in that initial poster she created herself, a common practice among families hoping that a relative’s number will ensure more attention to any leads via incoming calls. Querales warned that this can put families at risk of extortion by organized crime , who are always looking for opportunities to profit. Cárdenas and her in-laws were extorted for about $600 dollars. “In their desperation, when someone tells them that they have information about their loved one, families are often overwhelmed and begin to share personal information that can include transferring money,” Querales said. “The non-institutional missing person poster has that risk because you do not have a phone, separate from your personal ties, that can provide you with protection.” Disappearances in Mexico are perpetrated by various actors with diverse motivations. Mónica Meltis, founder of Data Cívica , an organization using data to support victims of human rights violations, explained that Mexico had a history of enforced disappearances from the 1960s to the 1980s —a period known as the ‘Dirty War’ — primarily used to target political dissidents . While enforced disappearances perpetrated by state agents have not ceased, various actors, mainly linked to organized crime , now carry out disappearances, often with the complicity of, or permission from, state agents. “Forced disappearance continues to exist, although in reality it is now more complex because there is not only disappearance by the State, but now something called ‘disappearance by individuals’,” Meltis added. Starting the Search It was not until three days after Flores’s disappearance that the official missing person poster began to circulate. Despite how recently the photograph used in the poster was taken, the Nuevo León Search Commission made two mistakes in the details. They incorrectly stated that Flores was wearing a white hat (it was black) and black pants (they were blue jeans). To date, the commission has only corrected the color of the pants. Often, families do not have a recent or updated photo, and sometimes the shock of the events they are experiencing causes memory lapses. It becomes difficult to remember the physical features of their loved one, their particularities, or the details of the clothes they were wearing. This cannot only take a great emotional toll on them, but can also make the search much harder. López, who also leads “ Voz que Claman Justicia ,” one of hundreds of search collectives led by families of the disappeared, said she has seen this frustration in family members who are unable to remember. That’s why she often suggests being accompanied by someone close when filing the report. “We often make the mistake of giving incorrect information because of the pain that it brings. It is a lot of pain,” she said. In many of these cases, having a distinctive feature that truly differentiates the person can be a significant advantage when filing a report. López explains how tattoos, for example, can help to further individualize the person, or even make visual identification easier if a body is found. “When there are scars or tattoos, it’s easier. [Previously] I used to be critical when someone got a tattoo, but now I say how important it is to have one. That way, when bodies are found, they can identify them easily. Or, not only bodies, but homeless people too,” López said. “When I see my compañeras immediately looking for the tattoo, it leaves me feeling helpless because my [missing] daughter didn’t have any.” Families, mostly mothers, lead local search groups and offer guidance about the steps to follow after a disappearance as institutions often don’t provide necessary information, or fail to coordinate or collaborate with other authorities. “If someone disappears, the recommendation is to look for the collectives. They are the ones who will truly help you search, not the State,” said Meltis. Séverine Durin, an anthropologist and researcher at the Center for Research and Higher Studies in Social Anthropology (CIESAS) , explained that families often find a lack of coordination among the institutions officially responsible for supporting them, which can be confusing and make the search process much more exhausting. If there is evidence that the person could have disappeared in a different state than the one in which they reside, it can be even more complicated. Frustrated by the inefficiency of the authorities and their slow response, Cárdenas decided to join a collective of families of the disappeared in Nuevo León a month after her husband went missing. “To see the inefficiency of the authorities, and then experience the advice, support, or guidance [the families] give you,” Cárdenas said. “It's such a different experience to be with them.” After a disappearance, most families go from government institution to government institution without finding any answers, impacting their job security or livelihood. Beyond sharing the pain of not knowing the whereabouts of a loved one, Durin explained that collectives of families offer mutual support, and are able to exert stronger pressure on authorities than a single person. “Definitely, they [collectives] will support you and you are going to be able to put pressure on the institutions to fulfill their duty of searching,” Durin added. "They can create search plans and agreements and obtain resources and security [for the searches].” Victims’ families primarily conduct two types of searches. One, where the search efforts are focused on finding their loved ones alive, involves roaming the streets, hospitals, prisons, and other such locations where someone under peril may find themselves. Although authorities must always act under the principle of presumption of life as mandated by the general law on disappearances, in practice authorities often suggest that the person might be dead, directing relatives to the Forensic Medical Service. This often revictimizes family members already contending with the trauma of losing a loved one in this manner. On the other hand, visits to the Forensic Medical Service have become increasingly important due to the country’s backlog of unidentified remains. "When the report is filed, the institutions immediately orient the search toward death,” explained Querales. “In other words, they talk about a field search, but in reality, it is already assumed that the person who disappeared has lost their life… the authorities themselves thus rule out the activation of immediate search protocols.” The other type of search involves hundreds of victims’ collectives combing through fields, hills, deserts, and vacant lots across the country to search for human remains, often in clandestine graves. According to local prosecutors, between 2006 and June 2023, 4,565 clandestine graves were identified, as reported by the Citizen Platform for Graves, a database created by Data Cívica and other organizations. At least 6,253 human bodies and 4,662 fragments were found during this period. Family members of the disappeared have learned about forensics to identify soil types, smells, and the proper care of human remains. They mobilize to obtain more detailed information for the missing person poster, and then circulate it to receive tips. They then start their own investigations, following the trail, and often putting their well-being at risk, to find any indication of clandestine burials. “They search in the mountains, or in other areas where they have information that there could be missing people,” explained Durin. “It’s difficult to understand for relatives of missing people, but it is important to find them, regardless of whether they are alive or not.” López, who focuses on both types of searches, emphasized the importance of sustaining searches under the presumption of life. While the official discourse often links disappearances to organized crime, the vast majority of cases suggest a complex web of factors, including militarization, corruption, impunity, and other forms of violence that disproportionately affect vulnerable populations. The search brigades that López carries out along with other families have found people who were reported as missing, incarcerated under a different name, or on the streets dealing with substance abuse. “We know that the searches of clandestine graves are there, and we cannot keep piling up so many remains and so many bodies. We know that there are many missing persons alive who want to be found, but nobody looks for them alive,” said López. “If we have seen that kind of search yields results, why not do it?” Information gap and Added Pressure on Families More than a year after her husband’s disappearance, Cárdenas still has no answers. At one point, authorities told her they had already identified two suspects but lacked enough evidence for an arrest. While balancing work and being a single parent to her now two-year-old daughter, Cárdenas also makes frequent efforts to review her case. Although the investigation is the duty of the prosecutors, families are often obliged to find the information on their own and deliver it to authorities in charge of the case. In most cases, if families do not provide the information, the authorities neglect the case. Being part of a collective helps, as there’s constant collective pressure to review the cases of all group members or pursue search actions. Additionally, authorities often warn families against making their case public, claiming it could jeopardize the investigation. However, in effect, this is likely to prevent any progress in the investigation. In fact, this tactic incites even more fear in families. Authorities also often suggest not publishing the search form or discussing the cases on social media or in the media. This is not in fact meant to aid the victim, but a method of subterfuge to downplay the growing numbers of disappearances. Although Cárdenas saw the poster she created immediately being shared on social media and in her group chats, she said that one of the challenges she encountered was social indifference. “The truth is, myself included, we don't really pay attention to other people's faces, you know? That's why I don't see much of a case for making a poster. In other words, people don’t take the time to observe the people around them,” Cárdenas said. While many families mobilize across Mexico and put up posters in public spaces, over 116,000 people remain missing. Querales explained that the collectives organize awareness brigades in different parts of the country, filling the streets or central plazas with missing person posters. However, the sheer number of posters can be overwhelming for people transiting through these public spaces. “Confronted with so many faces, how many people really stop to pay attention to those individualizing features?” Querales asked. “How are they to determine that perhaps that young boy in a street situation that they saw on the corner, or that person they crossed paths with on the metro, or someone who they ran into on any street, could be a face on a search poster?” Every day, new search posters are added to those already circulating in public and digital spaces as resistance against the state’s insistence on silence. The faces of Mexico’s disappeared are exposed over and over again in every place [that] families can access, defying government efforts to downplay the crisis. Families struggling in the wake of disappearances use the posters not only to mobilize the search, but also as daily reminders that their struggle will continue until all their loved ones are found. ∎ SUB-HEAD Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Tags Tags 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. 23rd Oct 2010 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:

Art historian Partha Mitter challenges the cultural purity predicated on nationalist myths: natural corollaries of the denial of both the existence of the avant-garde in colonial India. and the very real flow of politics and aesthetics that allowed for the emergence of global modernism. Indian avant-garde art was cosmopolitan, concentrated in Calcutta, Lahore, and Bombay, but it remains a challenge to art historiography nonetheless. COMMUNITY The Pre-Partition Indian Avant-Garde AUTHOR Art historian Partha Mitter challenges the cultural purity predicated on nationalist myths: natural corollaries of the denial of both the existence of the avant-garde in colonial India. and the very real flow of politics and aesthetics that allowed for the emergence of global modernism. Indian avant-garde art was cosmopolitan, concentrated in Calcutta, Lahore, and Bombay, but it remains a challenge to art historiography nonetheless. South Asian artists often deny the past of our own avant-garde. This is predicated on the nationalist myth of cultural purity fabricated in the 19th century. But if you deny history, you can't do anything. RECOMMENDED: The Triumph of Modernism: India's Avant-Garde 1922-1947 by Partha Mitter (University of Chicago Press, 2007) 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 ↗ Tags Tags Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Tags Tags 23rd Oct 2010 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. On That Note: Heading 5 23rd OCT Heading 5 23rd Oct Heading 5 23rd Oct