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On May 30th, KBI hosted our first ever live event, “Mapping Futures”, a night packed full of events, workshops, and a live recording of Life Outside The Box. Riding off the momentum of such a fantastic event, it seems only fitting that our two live painters from “Mapping Futures” should grace the Artist Spotlight section to keep the good vibes going.

Author photo.jpg

Mikaela Brewer


Writer, Advocate 

Mikaela Brewer is a multidisciplinary writer, poet, speaker, researcher, and mental health advocate & activist.

"The Writer's Room" is s space dedicated to showcasing short stories and fiction, and the work of emerging  young writers. Interested in sending us your work? Submit your work for consideration to: editors@the44north.ca

ABOUT THE NEWS CYCLE SERIES

 

Preface: this short story  series explores key issues in our national and global news cycles. There are footnotes and hyperlinks for anyone who would like to delve more deeply into the topics discussed. Mass media frequently offers dehumanizing language and headlines that sell, numbing us into apathy rather than compelling us to take a deeper look into stories. Though all models of the world—including these short stories—are inherently reductionistic, storytelling via fiction can carry us somewhere, change our minds, remind us of who we are, humble us, and carve a space to see our collective, intertwined connection in a way that moves us toward liberation-focused action. 

 

Please note: The following stories discuss difficult and complex topics such as abuse, famine, displacement, genocide, and other forms of violence. We wish to disclose this in case these topics activate you in a harmful way. However, please consider that there is a crucial difference between being activated outside of our window of tolerance and feeling uncomfortable. Discomfort is a gateway to feeling, compassion, understanding, and connecting. If it is safe for you to do so, we encourage you to lean into discomfort as you read the stories.

 

While reading, here is a link to supportive Body Sensations, Feelings, and Needs Lists (compiled by Meenadchi in October 2020 @ www.traumainformednvc.com). 

Do Not Forget 

 

Learn More, Petitions, Donations

 

“Canada came here with no rivers, mountains, lakes, or forests. Yet they negotiate with us with the very things they stole from us. And yet society says we get a hand out. Rise people. [...] Canada has nothing to negotiate with. It was all stolen from us.” — Isaac Murdoch, via Instagram 
 

 

Author’s note: this short story, particularly the character of Dr. Waubun, was written with the incredible guideposts from Chapter 8 of Decolonizing Therapy. If you are a care provider working with Indigenous Peoples or any People of the Global Majority (PoGM), please consider reading this book.

 

 

Meg wasn’t sure what words to use when Dr. Waubun asked her if she wanted to share what happened three years ago. She was quiet, gazing out of the therapy office window cracked open a couple inches under red blinds. It looked out into a sample of forest, or, rather, the last piece of one if the land were a pie tray (as the developers believed). Late afternoon was blending with evening, the trees were bare under a fog duvet, and even though this bit of forest was so close by, the air coming in the window smelled of exhaust and cigarettes. Meg decided it was a terrible time for therapy—so far from lunch and so close to dinner. Her stomach growled.

 

Dr. Waubun smiled, and reached behind her into a desk drawer for a bar that couldn’t decide if it was granola or trail mix. The crystals of her turquoise earrings clinked together in her long charcoal hair, like someone walking through a beaded curtain. As she offered the bar to Meg, she asked, “Is Meg short for Megis?”

 

Meg turned her head from the window. One plank on the bridge of trust. “Yeah, it is.”

 

“Perhaps we can start there?” Dr. Waubun wasn’t like other therapists. Meg could tell that much. 

 

“But that was before I was born. Seventeen years ago.”

 

“That’s okay. Noodin and Iggy died five years ago. But you’ve known him much longer. Processing grief expands well beyond one moment.”

 

Meg looked out the window again. The wind was picking up. He was here. 

 

“He’s here. With you.” Dr. Waubun spoke softly. 

 

Meg took a deep breath. “I just miss him. The way he used to call me Shelly instead of Meg or even Megis. I know my name means shell in English, but he used Shelly to poke fun at my Macklemore t-shirt or pop culture things. And Iggy was just the smallest, softest maltese. She was so fluffy— more than any other maltese I’ve ever seen. When I was little, Noodin used to tell me it was because she wanted to be as brown as possible. I loved her brownness.” Meg nearly choked across her last word. The tears began to fall. “I know that Indigenous people are ten times more likely to be shot and killed by police in Canada. But Noodin’s death feels worse. And he wasn’t my father or anything. Iggy was a dog. Everyone at school is annoyed that I haven’t moved on or whatever. I can feel that I make them sad—my friends, teachers, and family.”

 

“It’s not your fault, Meg. And that’s not fair of them.” 

 

“But don’t you see? I wish I could move on. Meds and diagnosis don’t help. I’m distracted, sleepy, irritable, numb, anxious, and impulsive. I have terrible nightmares. The guilt and shame are so heavy. And I’m here because I need help to make it stop. I’m here because I can’t do it the way everyone else can.”

“No. You’re not.” There was a subtle fringe of rage in Dr. Waubun’s reply, but not directed at Meg. 

 

Meg could sense this. “What do you mean?”

 

Dr. Waubun held out open palms, and signaled for Meg to place her hands in them. When Meg did this, Dr. Waubun began speaking gently and kindly. 

 

“Meg. You do not have to move on. You do not have to bury your anger, rage, and grief to make other people feel more comfortable. Noodin, your beloved friend and elder, shared an apartment with a young man in possession of cocaine. When the police came, Noodin’s roomate wasn’t there, and he was afraid. As they violently kicked down the front door, Noodin jumped from the window. Iggy ran, but they shot her, triggered by her movement once inside the apartment.” Dr. Waubun paused, clearly recalling something before beginning again, “Samah Jabr, the chair of the mental health unit at the Palestinian Ministry of Health, says, “There is no ‘post’ because the trauma is repetitive and ongoing and continuous. I think we need to be authentic about our experiences and not to try to impose on ourselves experiences that are not ours.” The past is the present for us. We’re both here to not let anyone disenfranchise our grief. You mustn’t forget.”

 

Dr. Waubun was smoothing her thumbs over Meg’s hands, filling the space between them with an energy of care. She slowly let go and sat back, taking a sip of tea. 

 

Meg didn’t know what to say. She’d never heard someone speak of Noodin’s and Iggy’s deaths this way—as if the fear that stifled Noodin from opening the door wasn’t his own fault. Dr. Waubun had offered space for Meg even though she already knew the core details of what happened. She also knew on a spiritual, ancestral, emotional, and political level. It felt as if a key had unlocked something in Meg that she didn’t know existed inside her, let alone the shape of it. 

 

“I’m sorry, Meg. I hope that wasn’t too much or too forward.”

 

“No, not at all. It was helpful. Being in this room with you doesn’t feel like it usually does—like there’s actually five walls instead of four. Many of my other therapists have felt like blank white walls. Not that they were evil or anything. I think they meant well. Even wanted to help.” Meg laughed briefly. “It’s strange how much of a difference the walls make. The olive, copper, and blue are refreshing.”

 

“I understand.” Dr. Waubun smiled, and the wrinkles around her eyes and cheeks moved like little eddies. “Could I ask you something?”

 

Meg nodded, fiddling with the elastic at the end of her long braid. 

 

“Would you share your perspective or definition of grief and rage?” 

 

Meg blinked as if the ancestors inside her hadn’t heard these words in centuries. “I, uh, don’t know. Since we moved to the city we don’t even talk about the emotions we could name while feeling them, let alone grief and rage.” Meg paused to think, remembering a phrase Dr. Waubun used a few moments ago. “What did you mean when you said “disenfranchised grief?”

 

“Ah, yes. It’s a phrase I’m learning, too. There’s a great book called Decolonizing Therapy, by Dr. Jennifer Mullan. I have it here, on my desk. Perhaps we could speak about some of it together. What do you think?”

 

Meg nodded with a mild enthusiasm that made Dr. Waubun sit up in her seat. 

 

“Wonderful. The first thing I wanted to share with you is Dr. Mullan’s definition of disenfranchised grief: “Grief that people experience when they incur a loss that is not or cannot be openly acknowledged, socially sanctioned, or publicly mourned.” How does that resonate with you?”

 

Meg thought for a moment. “I’ve always felt that I was only allowed to be sad if an immediate family member died, or someone in the military or on Remembrance Day, or a natural disaster. But I feel so much when I think about anything. Losing Noodin and Iggy didn’t fit into those buckets.”

 

“Yes. And, they’re connected to and represent a much larger cultural grief, don’t you think?”

 

“Yeah, that’s exactly it. Violence to our land, language, songs, cermeonies, dances; my family’s trauma; our ancestors’ trauma; abuse, poverty.” Meg’s voice cracked and rose in volume with each word.

 

“Mhm. Would you like to say more about what you’re feeling?”

 

“Fire. Like I want to burn all the labels people forced upon me.”
 

“Which labels?” Dr. Waubun remained gentle, but met Meg’s heartspace energy where it was blooming. 

 

“Defiant. Dominant. Rebellious. Oppositional. Uncontrollable. Resistant. Unmanageable.” Meg counted these on her fingers, snapping each finger open from a tightly closed fist. “It’s like these are labels reserved for ignorant people. Pathological people.” Her eyes welled up with each word.

 

“I know. And that’s not true. Do you believe me?”

 

“Maybe. Starting to.” 

 

Dr. Waubun nodded and paused a moment before speaking. “Dr. Mullan says that there is something called a Rage-Grief axis, and that “one side needs a release—physiologically and emotionally—and the other requires the space to rest and grieve. To be with the difficult emotions, rather than display them.” She also says, “We relive what is unfinished through our disguises”” 

 

“This makes so much sense to me.” Meg said through her tears. 

 

“Me too.” Dr. Waubun smiled. “And we can schedule many sessions with as much space as you need to process this. Perhaps even with any rituals, ceremony, energy work, or spiritual work that are part of your healing process. Do you have a relationship with these that you’d like to incorporate together?”

 

“Not right now, but I want to try to learn more about what my ancestors practiced.” 

 

“Wonderful. We can make that a part of our work. Would you like to keep working together?”

 

Meg laughed a little. “Goodness. Yes please.” She wiped her tears with the back of her sleeve.

 

Dr. Waubun laughed too and nodded. 

 

But Meg’s face changed, suddenly. “I just don’t know how many sessions I can afford.”  

 

“Oh, I almost forgot to tell you.Through our donations program you had an anonymous donor for at least a few sessions. Specifically for you, too.” Dr. Waubun beamed. 

 

“What?” Meg was confused. She hadn’t told anyone she was doing this. 

 

Dr. Waubun grinned and nodded.

 

•••

 

As Meg walked out of the building fifteen minutes later, she saw an orange pick up parked by the curb, on the opposite side of the parking lot. It couldn’t be. 

 

She wandered over, slowly, to find a young man, no more than eighteen, asleep in the front seat with his arms crossed. His mustard coloured toque was pulled over his eyes and long lashes—that she knew were there—and he was using a plum purple flannel as a blanket. Meg’s heart leapt and carried her fist with it to knock loudly on the window. The man woke with a start. 

 

Jack. Noodin’s Jack, who she hadn’t seen in five years but recognized instantly. They’d been childhood friends until his family moved to Michigan after Noodin’s death.

 

As he clambered out of the car, disoriented, Meg fit herself into his arms. Startled, he fell backwards onto front seat and elbowed the car horn. It echoed through the trees on the other side of the truck, sending a group of crows in a flurry of feathers and cawing. 

 

“Oh shit!” They said in unison, laughing. It wasn’t unusual for the two of them to be making a ruckus. 

 

Jack got his footing and stabilized himself by gripping Meg’s shoulders. He looked at her for a moment, scooped her into a hug, and kissed the top of her head.

 

“Why are you here?” She asked with a mix of joy and accusation.

 

“Well, let’s just say I’m sorry I haven’t been.”

 

“Why? To both parts of that sentence?”

 

“My mom couldn’t come back here. Even though they were divorced it shredded her heart. And I was only twelve. I wanted to visit as soon as I could drive myself but I was afraid. And it all still hurts. I thought my grief might add to yours. I know how close you were with my dad.” 

 

Meg shook her head and started to interject but Jack continued.

 

“You don’t have to say anything. I know we have to work through it together. The pain feels so big because it is bigger than both of us.” He smoothed the collar of her shirt. “Remember, right before I left, you dared me to kiss you in the powder room as a ‘pact’ not to ever have a girlfriend?” 

 

“Oh my. Why do you remember that?” Meg looked down and blushed. 

 

“Because I should have done it.” He titled her chin up. 

 

“We were twelve, Jack.” 

 

“Yeah, well, I don’t think love has an age.” He laughed. 

 

“Love huh? Hm. Well we don’t have a powder room now.”

 

“No, but I’ve got a shitty car with doors cancelled out by untinted windows?”

 

They both full-body laughed until Meg remembered where she was. “Wait. How did you know to find me here?”

 

“Uh…” Jack couldn’t come up with a lie quick enough. 

 

“It was you, wasn’t it? You paid? Why?”

 

“Honestly?”

 

“Honestly.”

 

“Because I saw that funny meme about the ex who’s supposed to pay for your therapy when your credit card declines.” 

 

How he maintained a serious face Meg didn’t know. “What the fuck, Jack?” She was struggling to be serious now. 

 

“Okay. Your mom called to check in on me, so I asked about you, and well, the rest is history. I don’t have a lot of savings yet. My mom helped.” 

 

Meg shook her head, smiling, and as she was starting to reply he kissed her. This was absurd, she knew. Abrupt. But then something occurred to her. This wasn’t about the cute crush they’d had on each other since forever. Along with the heaviness of grief inside them, there was a whole lot of love. Perhaps, if that pink robot dude from Marvel was right in asking, “What is grief if not love persevering?” then maybe people have to choose how it perseveres. Maybe this kind of love builds up too, mimicking a heavy, painful ball in the chest if it’s not released—rewoven and reshaped—upon others in a way that honours why it’s there in the first place. Joy is fighting the fight too. Meg kissed him back.


Hope Tracks

 

 

Petitions & Donations:

 

Learn More (see more sources in the story footnotes)

 

I’d heard it all before. But what I didn’t expect was to hear it from Sam. My brother. My identical twin brother.

 

It was early September, but the kitchen was cold as if it too were shocked from sleep. Sam and I were up at 5:30 a.m. as we usually were the Saturday before Labour Day, slurping up overnight oats topped with blackberries from our backyard bush. It was time for our annual ‘get the soreness over as fast as possible’ run before fall training and indoor track season. We usually took a few weeks off running in August to reset, so the first few runs back were a bit stiff, rusty, and lactic acid-ridden. Sam had followed the usual routine, but for me, it’d been a much longer break—at least since I’d practiced with our club and team. I’d transitioned this year. Named Leo Bale and assigned male at birth, I finally felt most like myself: Lena. 

 

Sam and I were talking about senior year and I’d veered into hyping up our race schedule. I was nervous, anxious, and excited, and chattering away accordingly. It’d been a whole year since my race spikes felt the stick-snap on the red rubber loop. I couldn’t wait. But Sam’s face was blank beneath his bedhead of black curls.

 

“Lena, could we talk about something else?” Sam switched on the radio above the old blue microwave, a matching set with Nana’s typewriter perched on the windowsill. Why a microwave and a typewriter came as a matching powder blue set I’ll never know, but Sam’s clear discomfort made me feel like these small machines represented the two of us: suddenly distantly related. Filling the space and silence was the hum of morning traffic updates for the few people commuting—or planning to run the roads—on a Saturday morning.

 

“Oh. Sure. Why?” I recognized the smell of trash under the sink. It was garbage day.

 

“Nothing. I just struggle with this.”

 

“With what?”

 

Sam gulped before speaking. “I love you. I do. And I support you. You know that. But you running track this year is hard. I don’t think it’s fair for the girls on the team or who you’ll compete against. I mean, Bella runs the same events as you and she won’t be the best anymore.”

 

Bella is Sam’s partner, but I wasn’t even thinking about her. I’d missed most of track season last year to focus on transitioning—to follow all the protocol so that I could compete my senior year alongside my brother. I was stunned. And now I needed to offer education—from drained heart chambers and filled brain wells—which Sam could have researched himself.

 

“Okay. Can we back up just a little bit?” I took a deep breath and cleared the blackberry residue from my teeth with my tongue. My fingertips pressed into the cool glass jar of soaked oats to calm my nervous system. “Can I share some things with you? Some things I’ve learned about all of this?” I knew I could have walked away in this moment. It already hurt. But I couldn’t because looking into Sam’s sage green eyes would always feel like looking into my own. 

 

“I’ll listen but I don’t think you’ll change my mind.” 

 

I felt like I’d woken up in the middle of the night, now desperately trying to return to the dream where Sam hadn’t said these things. But he believed them, and I wasn’t sure which was worse—showing his cards now or hiding them against his chest all year.

 

“We’re not a threat to female athletes, Sam. I know there’s ample dialogue about protecting women, but it’s a guise—excluding trans women doesn’t protect women. We are women, not biological men or biologically male. Sex isn’t binary, it’s bimodal.”

 

“Okay, but I don’t understand how you can’t see it. Lena, you have an obvious biological advantage.”

 

“Sam, research actually shows the opposite. And we’re required to suppress testosterone to compete in the women’s category! So my testosterone levels are lowered to those of cis women.”

 

“You’re so talented though. Bella won’t have a chance! And that’s not fair.”

 

“Men are always praised for being talented or skilled. If women are ‘too much’ of any of these things it’s labelled unfair or we assume they’re a man. What about my height? I’m 6’7” running the 400—much taller than the average man competing in that event. Should I have been excluded then, too? Trans people playing sports isn’t the threat to fairness. You know what the threats are because we’ve been talking with Bella about the misogynoir that Black women face.”

 

“I know, Lena. Socioeconomic disparities, racism, misogyny. Bella never learned to swim. Her mom couldn’t drive her to other sports practices. So she ran. And if she wins this year, she has a scholarship. Don’t you see you might take that from her? I’m trying to protect her.”

 

“From what? From who?”

 

Sam was silent. His gaze fell.

 

“From me, huh?”

 

Still nothing. 

 

“I don’t think it’s about whether she wins, Sam. I’m not taking her work or training away from her. I truly don’t know how I’ll perform this year given how different my body feels! And though I don’t know if ‘protecting’ is quite the right word, there are so many other things we could be talking about protecting Bella from. The police? I’m thinking of Sonya Massey’s story just the other day.”

 

Sam shook his head. “Lena, that’s not what I’m talking about.”

 

What hurt most was that he was trying so hard to be ‘polite’ about this, as if politeness could deflect rigidity.  

 

“Could you think about something for me?” I slipped my phone from my pocket and pulled up a post I’d saved on Instagram. “I’m going to read you a quote from one of my favourite people, Schuyler Bailar

 

“People often forget that in order to exclude trans women, you must police all bodies in the women’s category. ANY girl or woman can be accused of being transgender. At what point is a girl “too good,” “too masculine,” or “too tall,” or “too strong,” or “too fast” to be accused of being trans? The attempt to exclude trans women is legal enforcement of the policing of ALL women’s bodies. And this disproportionately affects those of colour, especially Black women and girls who already suffer anti-Blackness and misogyny (misogynoir) and are often portrayed as not woman enough due to white supremacy. Ask yourself: Who is woman enough? The inclusion of trans girls in girls’ sport does not threaten girls’ sport. Instead, the exclusion of trans girls leads to the destruction of girls’ sport through the enforcement of misogynistic and racist standards of girls’ bodies.”” 

 

When I looked up from my phone, Sam had left. And it was quiet. There wasn’t much news or traffic on Saturday, but I couldn’t hear any music, either. 

 

Had I imagined this whole conversation? Was I that afraid? Overreacting? I wasn’t sure if Sam had even been here. 

 

But then I knew he had because he’d left his jar and spoon in the sink with a thick film of bloated chia seeds on the bottom. I’d forgotten that he loved overnight oats, but only without chia.  

 

•••

 

I laid in my bed and cried all day, suddenly untrusting and tired of the cycle of protesting and celebrating. Sam hadn’t run without me because I’d listened for the front door. I wasn’t sure how to feel about that. He was probably gaming, on-brand with this level up in gaslighting. 

 

Joy any f***ing way. I had to find it. But where?

 

I re-read an article by my favourite runner, Cal Calamia, in which they wrote:

 

“To be a trans athlete is to bear the burden of proof that you deserve to play. It is to physically and emotionally fight for your right to even show up. It is to be courageous. For many of us, especially trans women, there is no triumph in these battles.”

 

I let my phone fall from my hand to the carpet, and rolled over. Rest. Resistance. Reacquainting myself with my heart.

 

And something magical happened, like the feeling fiction writers must get when they’re no longer in control of their characters or what happens next. I fell asleep, surrendering without stopping.

 

In my dream, it was race day—late evening when the floodlights first set the red lanes on fire. The sky was a cotton candy dome, as if someone had taken a wet paintbrush and spread the trans flag like watercolour across the entire sky without diluting it, beyond its three-by-five-foot rectangle. 

 

My people crowded the stadium with signs, love, and energy, though their faces were blurry; I couldn’t tell who they were. I’d be lying if I didn’t hope one of them was Sam or would be Sam one day.

 

As I set my blocks, I made eye contact with a barn owl, gently perched on the step stool where the start pistol lay in its final moments of unaccompaniment. My heart sloshed. Last year, I’d written a paper on barn owls across cultures and was now reminded of their wisdom to trust my intuition.

 

But what did my intuition tell me here? What was it surfacing in my spirit?

 

First, Gavin Pretor-Pinney’s words, “A cloud stays up because it’s not one big thing but a group of tiny, tiny things” and the knowledge that birds do dream—of songs, flight, and rehearsing both. Humans do the same—working through problems, practicing, learning, and visualizing in our sleep what has not yet happened. 

 

What if we can “practice the possible into the real” or “dream ourselves into reality”?

 

And this, I remembered, is hope, as glowing mushrooms sprouted between the lanes of the track, taking over the white paint. 

 

But I wanted to give up.

 

In lane one, the start/finish line began stretching away in front of me, as if both starting and finishing were now further away. On my hands and knees, my spikes were trapped in the padded rubber of a loop that I didn’t make. I forgot what change meant in every tense, fearful of never being finished fighting. I was afraid that only emergencies bring masses, afraid that celebration cannot coexist with continuing onward, afraid that small successes don’t, in fact, open doors to change, and afraid that I (and we) won’t remember transformation as it happens—the foundational middle 200 metres of the 400.

 

Why didn’t I give up? Why, in this dream, was I still climbing into my blocks?

 

I moved up to lane four, the finish line now behind me where I couldn’t see it—uncertain. I will not be peripheral or invisible. 

 

I don’t know what will happen now. But there is space to run. To start, run, pace, kick, finish and do it all again and again and again—love and live in continuous cycles. Not linearly.

 

So I will run. And I will run aware that continuing to run is both a victory and an action on the track of hope. 

 

I pushed hard off the blocks and flew because if a bird’s dreams come true, then mine will too.

References:

 The ending of this story is inspired by: Rebecca Solnit’s Hope In The Dark

ASK YOURSELF: ARE YOU BEING TESTED? OR ARE YOU JUST…THERE…?

Petitions & Donations:

 

Learn More (see more sources in the story footnotes)

​​

 

I should have been sleeping late last night, but instead, was about to start a Twitch stream with a couple of friends, @valvalkyrie and @Halla_la_sculptrice. I’ve actually never met them in person, but Valerie and Halla are quite possibly the coolest people I know, not to mention that their names, together, create ‘Valhalla.’ A strong, unexpected gift, as translated across languages. Neither is Norwegian or Finnish, though—Val is a Mexican-American video game engineer/designer and Halla is a French-Egyptian sculptor. My adoptive parents are both from Jamaica, but we live in Brampton, Canada now. I actually don’t know a whole lot about where I was born, but at the outset, it would appear I’m the one from Norway or Finland—pale blue eyes and icy blonde hair. 

 

But anyway! Minecraft seemed a much better use of time than Instagram and TikTok. And that’s where it all started. Remember when I said Val and Halla were the coolest people I know? Let me tell you about the brilliance they came up with last night and why I’m writing about it now. 

 

I created a link and messaged them on Discord. 

 

“Hey! Anyone need a Minecraft study break?”

💜2 🎮2 👾2 🫶🏽1 🫶🏾1 

“ROXANE! Yes ma'am! What a legend…you read my mind.”

🤪1

“My goodness…same!”

😘1

“Kk! Will join in 2! Stream is here:”

“twitch.tv/RockieRacoon-8264Y9RUFJ756B84”

 

After a quick pee, I returned to my room to find Val and Halla already in deep. With one hand, Val was fiddling with the sage-green streak in her dark hair and with the other, her orange, felt-pixel-rose earrings, which matched the colour of her eyeliner. The orange made her green-flecked hazel eyes pop in her ring light. Halla was sitting in the dark, hands cupping one of her chamomile and lavender wood wick candles, eyes swollen and face shadowed. Her fingertips tapped the little flower drawings sketched across the clay candle cup she’d created last week. I wasn’t sure what was happening, but I had a guess. 

 

“So down to just veg to ASMR, Hallala. I can basically smell your candle from here.” I could actually smell the tacos taking over my desk with their assorted take-out condiment cups, but I smiled brightly, using our affectionate nickname for Halla. Honestly, the three of us were deeply sad and we knew it. Gaming together gave us joy, which was needed, but we also spent a lot of time talking, and I can’t articulate how grateful I am to have such caring, genuine people to parse through this hellscape we’re surviving, not living.

 

Halla looked up and smiled weakly. Her perfectly matched gold jewelry sparkled in the candlelight. Val was staring off into space with a near vacancy.

 

“Talk to me,” I offered. I had an inkling. That morning we’d been audio messaging about the global student protests for Gaza, and how we were so incredibly proud. But the fight for liberation has to include Sudan, which we felt was being left behind. 

 

“I just feel this urge to do something. Right now. And like we have a unique, creative skill set to do it with, you know? Halla, we build things from both sides of the coin, and Rockie, you’re this brilliant blogger…” Val’s sentence trailed off as she spoke with a soft, yet husky and vivacious energy. 

 

Halla nodded, adding a gentle whispered, “We’ve never met in person, right? But I dunno about you. I can’t imagine our lives apart now. That’s powerful isn’t it? Power enough to reach everyone.”

 

I nodded affirmatively, pulling up the hood of my sweatshirt and hugging my knees. I reached up and turned off the overhead light in the room, wanting to be in the dark with nothing but Val, Halla, and her candle. 

 

“It’s been over a year,” I said, my voice cracking, “and hardly anyone’s said anything. Did you read Safia Elhillo’s post?” Safia Elhillo is one of our favourite Sudanese-American poets. 

 

“Yeah, how there are so many dead bodies piled in the streets that birds and eagles are adjusting their migration routes to eat them. It’s a mating ground for stray dogs. No burial rites or customs. I don’t even know what to say,” Val said. 

 

“This is the worst humanitarian catastrophe in the world.” Halla’s typically quiet voice had a subtle edge now. “I mean, imagine a whole year without running water.”

 

Val spoke without looking up, her voice raspy with anger, “800, 000 people in El Fasher, North Darfur, are in immediate extreme danger. They’re sheltering there, internally displaced, with nowhere to go. That guy at Yale’s Humanitarian Research Lab, Nathaniel Raymond, said it’s called a “kill box”—that the massacre would be similar to Hiroshima or Nagasaki. Everyone keeps saying “Forgotten War” all over the media. Famine. 25 million people facing food insecurity. Severe, acute malnutrition. Tuberculosis outbreaks.” 30, 31, 32

 

We were quiet for a while. Unsure what to say. Sure what to feel. 

 

But then Val’s eyes sparkled in the screen as if her tears freed an idea. “Do you guys remember that incredible video we saw on The Slow Factory, with Jenan Matari, about NPCs?”

 

“Yeah,” I replied, “about how some people have to be experiencing soul loss to uphold systems and distract us—just non-player-characters, whether violent or non-violent, and we’re the ones being challenged?”

 

“Exactly, and Stefanie Lyn Kaufman-Mthimkhulu said in another post, about soul loss, that “If a soul is lost, it must be retrieved [...] There is no pill that will undo the ideology of Eurocolonial dominance built on superiority and violence. The medicine of the ideology is decolonization & liberation.” Right?” Val looked at us expectantly, as if we could expand the fire in her voice. 

 

“So, how do we put the soul back in!” Halla’s familiar full-face, kind smile lit up my monitor.

 

“Yes! This is what I’m thinking: people are afraid, maybe feeling separated from one another right now. What if, through a video game, we could reconfigure, reprogram, and kinda-sorta hack our way to reaching real non-violent NPCs (RNPCs) by rewriting the code for the game’s violent & non-violent NPCs (GNPCs).”

 

“Oh! And art! I read another of Jenan’s posts about Colonizer vs. Indigenous Art and have been thinking about that paper by Eve Tuck and K. Wayne Yang—decolonization is not a metaphor—and how artwork can center landback movements. What if the GNPCs begin posting Sudanese street art, painting it onto the walls of every building/structure in the game—where people can’t avoid seeing it.” Halla was grinning.

 

The whole time I was listening, I was also researching Minecraft and ROBLOX. “You two are absolutely brilliant. Minecraft has over 166 million monthly active users and ROBLOX has over 216 million.”

 

“Perfect,” Halla replied. 

 

“But how do we discern RNPCs?” I asked.

 

“I’m not sure we can. But! We can create a catch-all. What if we create some sort of free event to entice users onto the platforms at the same time?” Val asked.

 

“YES!” Halla was bouncing in her roller chair. “We can blast Alsarah - Farasha فراشة ft. Sufyvn, Flippter, too, this wonderful song dedicated to the beautiful women of Sudan. The video is incredible, too.”

 

“And I have links for a few of Safia Elhillo’s poems,” I said, “Ars Poetica and Good Muslim/Bad Muslim and Modern Sudanese Poetry and Ode to Sudanese Americans, and Sudan, TX!”

 

We all began furiously typing, organizing art and videos from Halla, who messaged us a blurb from the Khartoum School, founded in 1960, noting how Sudan is a critical modern art influence in Africa offering a blending of Arab and African artistic and cultural practice unique to Sudan. We found:

  • Alaa Satir’s murals in the Burri neighborhood of Khartoum highlighting the role of women in the revolution.

 

After so many hours I lost count (and many emails gaining permission to use the works above and/or providing compensation), we all took a deep breath. 

 

“Are we ready?” Halla asked.

 

“Let’s do it,” I said, already opening the blog document you’re reading now. Aside from my blog, who knows where or when it will be published? We just wanted you to know what went down and share all the links/notes in case we get into trouble (likely, but worth it).

 

“Ready.” Val, our tech whiz, winked. 

  •  

 

I typed into the document title: “Ask yourself: Are you being tested? Or are you just…there…?” followed by “And please, if you read anything in this document, read this.

REFERENCES

30 Sudan on brink of collapse and starvation as country marks one year of civil war 

31 Yassmin Abdel-Magied's post with Slow Factory on Instagram

32 World’s largest hunger crisis looms in Sudan, UN warns

  •  

Editor's note: The following story was originally written and researched during the month of February 2024. Due to the continually evolving nature of the war, some of the statistical information presented will differ from the most current news and escalating violence in Gaza.
 

 

LINES TO CRACKS

“The land, memories, and location of each tree that people lost in their villages were ever present in the refugee mind and memory. As if by still practicing agriculture, they told themselves that they were still here — that although they lost the land, it wasn’t lost completely.”
– Asmaa Abu Mezied, in “Lost Identity: The Tale of Peasantry and Nature” (Light in Gaza) 


•••

Mike slammed the car door at the back of The Olive Groves’ freshly re-striped parking lot—a grid of neatly dividing lines. He was meeting his parents for an early supper at the front end of his February reading week, which had pulled him away from the poems he hoped to finish throughout the week.

In his first year of business school at Queens University, Mike complemented the structured rigour of classes, lectures, and meetings with the crafting of poems—a collection of all he couldn’t bring to life with bland, beige business jargon and terminology. 

He usually had no difficulty finding something to say in verse. Now was no different, although, what he wanted to verbalize felt unsayable—in verse, song, or plain language. Everything about living felt off and repetitive, not unlike the movie Groundhog Day. Just a few weeks prior, the groundhog himself hadn’t seen his shadow—it was a miserable, cloudy day where the weather reflected climbing dis-ease. But what increased Mike’s dis-ease was that he couldn’t see how an early spring could arrive. 

There hadn’t been sun since December, including this late afternoon. The air was soupy with exhaust, cold fog, and the sharpness of something burning that shouldn’t have been, likely due to the city’s house fire the night before. Mike’s mouth was tasteless and dry, mimicking the moment right before you throw up. The car keys were now warm in his hand, coated with a thin film of sweat from being trapped in his palm. He’d looked hard enough since October 7th and he could no longer look away. 

It had been nearly five months. Mike had read. Nearly 30,000 murders and 70,000 injured in Gaza. More than 70,000 housing structures destroyed. No fully functioning hospitals—11 partially, 3 minimally, 22 completely unfunctional. 200,000 cases of respiratory infections. 500,000 cases of communicable disease, such as meningitis and diarrhea. (7)

He’d had so many questions, and sitting with the responses involved deep learning, nuancing, and unlearning, especially through a talk that his friend gave (8) (alongside a few helpful Instagram posts about where there is & isn’t a balance between Palestine & Israel, such as with power, control, and financial & military resources; the need for a perfect victim; and the importance of ‘yes, and…’ in holding multiple truths at once) and an FAQ page by an organization he’d long followed.

These, among many other sources of information Mike had engaged with and shared with friends, made him think more intentionally about (9):

  • Whether Israel has a right to defend itself (no country has a right to ethnically cleanse, force removal, threaten violence, murder and attempt murder, perform genocide, bomb, starve a population, illegally annex territory, and break many other international humanitarian laws in the name of defending itself).

  • The idea that if Hamas puts down their weapons and declares peace will there be true peace—versus if Israel were to put down their weapons and declare peace the Jews would be exterminated (true peace needs justice; ending the occupation and apartheid).

  • Whether Hamas is the enemy (how has Israel been the enemy? How have Israel’s direct, intentional actions created Hamas)?

  • Whether the current escalation and bombings are solely about hostages (no, they aren’t. This is 75+ years in the making).

  • Whether Free Palestine means being Pro-Hamas or antisemitic (no, it doesn’t)

  • How Zionist, Jew, and Israeli don’t mean the same thing and how Palestinian and Hamas don’t mean the same thing (among many other comparisons).

  • Whether Israel is an apartheid state (yes, it is—among much else, Palestinians are considered native aliens and have lesser rights, even with an Israeli passport, and are forced to travel through inhumane checkpoints, register their cars differently, travel along separate roads, and show ID to go to work or visit family & friends nearby
     

There was so much more. And Mike was about to walk into his parents’ favourite restaurant—an American chain called The Olive Groves, featuring imported olive trees. Imported (or stolen) from where? It wasn’t public information and the question wouldn’t leave him. 

With each purchase at the restaurant, you were given a few postcards—the photo on which was Jerusalem—and asked to write a thank you card to Earth. The postcards were then tucked into the tree branches by staff and presumably recycled later. And although not a malicious sentiment on part of the restaurant or the unusually thick cluster of people here, it made Mike’s blood boil. Could there be violence without evil? Well, perhaps this idea of ‘doing something that doesn’t really do anything except make you feel better about yourself’ would fall into this category.

The hardest part, perhaps, was that this used to be and maybe still was Mike’s favourite restaurant. Memories of love laminated the walls, and what to do about that—how to hold it—he wasn’t quite sure.

“Is everything okay?” A kind voice abrasively broke Mike’s thoughts. He realized he was still standing next to his unlocked car, fists clenched, and minutes into a staring contest with The Olive Groves. He noticed his poor parking job, tires turned across the gleaming lines of the spot. Don’t step on the cracks, or you’ll break your mother’s back! Rang in a singsong voice through his mind. Were cracks the same as lines meant to divide, control, and relegate? Perhaps a crack is first a line?

“Um, yes,” Mike mumbled, flicking his hands and rolling his head across the back of his shoulders. “I was very deep in thought. Thanks for waking me up!” 

“No problem. Take your time, hon.” The voice had come from an elderly woman, pushing a cart of vegetables, milk, eggs, and brown bread from the next-door grocery store. She smiled gently, with a slight worry-tinged unease.

Mike smiled back, locked the car, and started across the rich tar parking lot, stomping hard on every white and yellow line to see if it might at least crease the paint.

•••

 

One ungentle footstep in front of the other, Mike restlessly approached the building’s concrete staircase. His heart rate rose and his chest and jaw tightened. He stopped halfway to the door, trying to shake away the inability to relax. He had been too queasy for sleep the night before. Breathe. Mike wasn’t nervous to see his parents. He was deeply uncomfortable with the juxtaposition of everything all at once. 

 

Mike took the final few steps toward the front door. The brick was the colour of hay, flecked with taupe, and an ornate brass door handle awaited. There was so much sweat on his palms that when he dropped his keys in his pocket, the dampness soaked through the back of his jeans. When he gripped the door handles, nearly as tall as he was, Mike’s hand slipped down its trunk. 

 

The comforting smell of wood, fruit, and flowers filled his nasal cavity and puffed up his cheeks. The wallpaper was his favourite part—hand-painted with textured, oily oranges, lemons, pink tulips, grapefruit, pomegranate, and hibiscus. 

 

Mike spotted his parents immediately. They sat in their usual corner booth, next to one another on one of the fabric-covered benches that looked like a peeled tangerine repurposed as a fitted bedsheet. He walked toward them, beginning to peel off his jacket. 

 

“Mike!” One of his fathers, Richard, closest to the aisle, stood and hugged him tight. Mike’s coat half-slipped down his shoulders. 

 

Arnold skidded across the booth seat and offered to hang up Mike’s jacket as he finished taking it off.

 

“Thank you. It’s really good to see you both.” Mike managed a weary smile.

 

“You’re all flushed. Is everything okay?” Richard questioned eagerly, but both he and Arnold looked concerned. Mike’s gaze fell on Richard pressing his teabag into the side of his mug, which he claimed released more flavour. The hibiscus leaked what looked like curdling blood clouds into the boiling water. 

 

“Uh, I’m so excited to see you that I sprinted across the parking lot! I’m out of breath!”

 

Richard and Arnold peered at Mike with raised brows. Mike knew they didn’t believe him. 

 

“Would you excuse me for a minute? I just need the restroom.” Mike ignored the worried stares that followed him. He stumbled along the aisle between rows of booths and tables into a one-person washroom, locked the door, and nearly fell head-first into the sink. His hands caught the edges of the pale pink ceramic, accented with citrus fruit stickers. 

 

Mike panicked. 

 

Maybe the comfort of this restaurant carried violence in its ability to distract. He didn’t know what to do with his moral outrage, and if he did anything drastic he’d be smothered like grease—as mentally unstable or ill. He’d seen Aaron Bushnell (and a woman before him back in early December), an active duty U.S. airman, self-immolate in front of the Israeli embassy in Washington D.C., only to be met at gunpoint. A U.S. Secret Service agent responded “We don’t need a gun right now we need a fire extinguisher.” (10)
 

 

“My name is Aaron Bushnell, I am an active-duty member of the United States Air Force and I will no longer be complicit in genocide. I am about to engage in an extreme act of protest but compared to what people have been experiencing in Palestine at the hands of their colonizers, it’s not extreme at all. This is what our ruling class has decided will be normal.” (11)
 

 

The words echoed as if calling to him. Mike felt disconnected from intuition on the next right thing to do, desperately longing for a way to extinguish the fire in his own body, heart, mind, and soul. 

 

The wallpaper continued in this room, and the same smells were amplified because of the hand soap and lotion mounted to the wall. Someone had left the water trickling from the faucet, which Mike turned off. The amber light cast an oscillating moody hue, and, in the middle of the washroom, was the pride and joy of The Olive Groves. Mike had always wondered why it was planted here, of all places. 

 

Amid the largest and grandest washroom in the world (apparently) stood a sturdy, thick olive tree, hundreds of years old. Its trunk and the bottom half of its fruiting limbs branched up into a mirrored glassed dome, the frame of which looked like a wire cage. The top half of the tree breached a slim opening in the windowed canopy, which had been washed to sparkle like crystal. 

 

Mike turned toward the tree, and reaching out to touch it, collapsed. He let himself feel and break down, heaving and crying and perilously reaching his arms around the trunk in as broad a hug as he could. Wet snow began to mist through the opening in the dome, cooling his hot cheeks, which he pressed into the weave of the wood until the grain imprinted on his skin.

 

After a few moments, Mike sat up, crossed his legs, and tucked his hands into his lap like two spoons in a bowl so empty it was hungry itself. Bowing, he pressed his forehead into one of the exposed roots, letting his tears fall onto them.

 

Closing his eyes, he whispered in fragments, “I don’t know what to do. I know my restlessness isn’t a moral failure or anything I can fix alone. I know feeling this is the catalyst to freeing everyone. I know I shouldn’t judge myself on how well I tolerate and manage despair, but it feels like me against these ‘symptoms.’ I can’t figure out how to both fight and live this life I can’t immediately change—a lifestyle fighting against the fight I want to fight. It hurts my heart. And I feel, within myself, that there is something I still need to discover. What’s missing?” (12)

 

Everything swirled.

Children: 1/10 didn’t reach their first birthday; more than 10 per day lose one or both legs; and 100% aren’t able to access education. 

Damaged and destroyed educational facilities, bakeries, heritage sites, places of worship, ambulances, and WASH facilities. Journalists. Medical staff. UN staff. 92% of murders are civilians.(14)

Extrajudicial executions. Judicial killings. 

Over one million, nearly half of Gaza’s population, cornered into Rafah, a supposedly safe zone that has been bombed relentlessly. Hardly any food, access to medical care, safety, or place to sleep. (15)

 

Blocked humanitarian aid leading to acute levels of starvation. (16)

And then Mike heard a deep, earthy groan. He looked up, startled. When he made eye contact with the tree, he slid back. Instead of grooves, there was writing—sentences creating the grain and grooves of the bark, following the pattern of a black-and-white checkered keffiyeh. Had the tree looked like this before and he hadn’t noticed?

The writing included names—the names of poets and writers who had died in Gaza (17):  Heba Abu Nada, Omar Abu Shaweesh, Refaat Alareer, Abdul Karim Hashash, Inas al-Saqa, Jihad Al-Masri, Yusuf Dawas, Shahadah Al-Buhbahan, Nour al-Din Hajjaj, Mustafa Al-Sawwaf, Abdullah Al-Aqad, Said Al-Dahshan, Saleem Al-Naffar, and so many, many others.

And there were words—their words, some in English and some in Arabic—alongside the names and words of Palestinian youth poets (17). Mike traced his fingers along the sentences, names, poems, and phrases. They were warm and pulsing, like arteries and veins.

Mike pulled a pen and small notebook from his back pocket and began writing.

•••

 

Before parting with the olive tree, Mike thought about his fathers and some words he’d read from Van Gogh’s archive of letters to his brother, “Someone has a great fire in his soul […] and passers-by see nothing but a little smoke at the top of the chimney.” Mike wondered if, as this was true for Richard and Arnold seeing Mike, it was also true in reverse.

Richard and Arnold were back in their usual spots, but their hands and fingers were clasped together like a ball of brown and beige yarn. They were clearly discussing Mike with compassionate, loving concern.

 

“Hey,” Mike paused, clearing his throat and allowing space for his dads to finish their thoughts. They both turned to face Mike with worried, pleated smiles. “Could I talk to you about something?”

Both Richard and Arnold brightened.

“Of course, love,” Arnold offered, gesturing to the other side of the booth and sliding a frosted glass of water across the table toward Mike.

“First, do we need to do deep breaths and create a little pocket of safety?” Richard asked, cracking his knuckles. He took this very seriously, which Mike had always loved. 
 

“I just cried my eyes out in the washroom, so I feel a bit better,” Mike responded appreciatively. He wasn’t quite sure how this would be received, but he leapt into vulnerability as best as he could. 

Arnold and Richard looked at each other knowingly. 
 

“Oh honey,” Arnold reached across the table with an open palm for Mike’s hand. Mike took it.
 

“We did the same damn thing not ten minutes before you got here.” Richard shared, eyes glossy.
 

 “In the washroom?”
 

They both nodded.
 

“Did you see? In the tree?”
 

They smiled, painfully, and nodded again. 
 

Mike gulped down the lump in his throat and took a deep breath. 
 

“I have an idea.”
 

Arnold and Richard shifted in their seats, indicating that they were ready to listen. 
 

“I know we’re supposed to write postcards to the Earth, but I wondered if we might write something else. Maybe a postcard to our government representatives? (19)  And I want to see if I can find the owner, too, to pitch making a permanent switch here. It’s a start, at the very least.”
 

Richard and Arnold both beamed. They were in eager agreement. 

•••

 

The Olive Groves, as usual, supplied the markers and postcards during the meal. Embedded within a call for a permanent, lasting ceasefire, Mike began writing a poem, one that began the width of the full postcard and, with each line, narrowed and squeezed by shrinking margins.

 

He opened with a fragment of a poem he’d read recently:

 

“I foolishly thought of many poems— / Without names / And lines without borders / And letters waiting for a home / Somewhere far not here, not in my four walls, not / in my gated university…”

 

– Haidamteu Zeme Newme, A Mausoleum of Our Everydays/Nai nsang negu herouki (20)

 

To be considered “undiscovered” is always colonial, whether talking about ourselves, land, or other life. “Discover yourself” (demanded) cannot mean that you must discover yourself 

as if you’ve yet to be found outside of body and earth—where all of us, 

somewhere in the world, are both on a land and of a land, (21)

and when these do not match

sometimes it’s our choice

yet so often it is not. 

And here is what 

happens when

it is 

not. 

 

“Certain kinds of trauma visited on peoples are so deep, so cruel, that unlike money, unlike vengeance, even unlike justice, or rights, or the goodwill of others, only writers can translate such trauma and turn sorrow into meaning, sharpening the moral imagination. A writer’s life and work are not a gift to mankind; they are its necessity.” (22)
 

“Knives might eat
what remains of my ribs,
machines might smash
what remains of stones,
but life is coming,
for that is its way,
creating life even for us.” (23)

“One of my dreams is for my books and my writings to travel the world, for my pen to have wings so that no unstamped passport or visa rejection can hold it back.” (24)

“I didn’t want to go and see the damaged farmland. I really wasn’t curious to see my memories burned into ashes. The last time I was there I had sat beneath olive trees with my friends eating za’atar, bread, and olive oil.  We drank tea, roasted corn, and picked fruit. I can still taste those flavors and smell the air. But now, three rocket holes plagued these memories. They had left dark grey sand and the scorched remains of trunks and branches from trees that used to bear the fruit of olives, oranges, clementines, loquat, guavas, lemons and pomegranates. I put my hands on my heart to catch it from falling, and I felt the three holes there in my heart.” (25)

“If I must die,
you must live
to tell my story

[...]

If I must die
let it bring hope
let it be a tale” (26)

“Do not die. Beneath this glow
some wanderers go on
walking.

[...]

O little light in me, don’t die,
even if all the galaxies of the world
close in.” (27)

 

“I grant the father refuge,
the little ones’ father who holds the house upright
when it tilts after the bombs.
He implores the moment of death:
“Have mercy. Spare me a little while.
For their sake, I’ve learned to love my life.
Grant them a death
as beautiful as they are.” (28)

 

•••

 

While writing, Mike felt the urge to run out the door and leave the restaurant behind. But he remembered an episode he’d listened to on the Know Better Do Better Podcast (29) where the host, Marie, shared that disapproval by seeking distance isn’t the best approach, ultimately leaving the work to those who can’t run or who can’t choose distance. Running can include rude responses, remaining silent because someone/somewhere should know better, and slicing someone/somewhere out of your life instead of initiating conversation. It’s ineffective to place people or places beneath you to feel superior or more aligned with a cause. Mike knew he needed to meet The Olive Groves where it was at, wherever that was, with enduring patience and courage. As Marie said, choosing to walk with the burden of conflict, frustration, and misunderstanding (in whatever capacity you’re able to at any given time) is allyship. 

Mike kissed the postcard and, equipped with a wink and a smile from Arnold and Richard respectively, walked to the front of the restaurant and asked to speak with the staff and manager. 

Free Palestine.

References:
 

(7) Hostilities in the Gaza Strip and Israel | Flash Update #121 | United Nations Office for the Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs - occupied Palestinian territory 

(8)  Israel and Palestine 101 - with Michael T. McRay

(9)  FAQ Gaza

(10) Slow Factory Instagram Post
(11)  Slow Factory Instagram Post
(12)  Inspired by Cassandra Lam’s Newsletter, Collective Rest, on Feb 19, 2024

(13)  Children are bearing the brunt of the horrors in Gaza. How can this go on? - ABC News
(14)  Hostilities in the Gaza Strip and Israel | Flash Update #117 | United Nations Office for the Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs - occupied Palestinian territory
(15)  UN relief chief warns military operations in Rafah could lead to a slaughter in Gaza and put a fragile humanitarian operation at death’s door | OCHA

(16) Gaza residents surviving off animal feed and rice as food dwindles
(17)  These are the poets and writers who have been killed in Gaza. (note: a/o December 2023)
(18) Poems Archives - We Are Not Numbers

(19) Inspired by “Postcards for Palestine” (an event hosted by Cassandra Lam & Kim Saira)

(20)  A Mausoleum of Our Everydays/Nai nsang negu herouki

(21)  Cassandra Lam’s Instagram reel & Can’t Catch Me Now by Zach Matari

(22) Peril by Toni Morrison, from The Soul of Self Regard, Selected Essays, Speeches, and Meditations.

(23)  Life by Saleem Al-Naffar
(24  Nour al-Din Hajjaj
(25)  Who will pay for the 20 years we lost by Yusuf Dawas

(26)  If I Must Die by Refaat Alareer
(27)  Not Just Passing by Hiba Abu Nada
(28)  I Grant You Refuge by Hiba Abu Nada
(29) Episode 73 with Marie Beecham

 

Petitions & Donations:
 


 

"THE GLASS PORTAL"

Please note: The following story discusses many forms of violence via conflict, armed forces, slavery, and sexual abuse. We wish to disclose this in case these topics activate you in a harmful way. However, please consider that there is a crucial difference between being activated outside of our window of tolerance and feeling uncomfortable. Discomfort is a gateway to feeling, compassion, understanding, and connecting. If it is safe for you to do so, we encourage you to lean into discomfort as you read this story.

Crunching up plantain chips, Nevaeh shivered under a fierce June sun, which could only have been a new ghost. During her walk home from the last day of eighth grade, she wondered why she still believed these tidbits her Auntie Ana had taught her: that her name being ‘heaven’ spelled backwards would eventually mean something and that sudden shivers meant a new ghost had passed through your body. Perhaps it was because she missed this version of Ana, or because she didn’t want to think about the fact that ‘new ghost’ also meant new death.  

 

Nevaeh stopped kicking small stones spilling onto the sidewalk from garden borders because she’d started sweating through her shirt. Before she’d seen it blinking in a concrete crease, she’d paused to wipe the grease and sparkly peach blush from the nose bridge of her lemon plastic glasses. Scraping her thick black curls into a bun, damp armpits now exposed to the neighbours bent plucking weeds, she stopped, eyes fixed: cobalt blue, like a blue raspberry candy.

 

Nevaeh bent to pick it up with her snack-sticky fingers; a barbed chunk of cobalt glass carved into an owl’s eye. She shivered again. 

 

•••

 

“Hey, Ana?” Nevaeh called, closing the front door of her house behind her. She caught her reflection in the foyer window—the heat had turned her light brown skin to earthenware clay.

 

“In the living room Nev,” Ana answered with a blandness that blunted Nevaeh’s enthusiasm. 

 

“Is this cobalt? I found it on the sidewalk.” 

 

Ana’s head snapped up. She was sitting cross-legged on the terracotta couch sorting mail, in a lime pantsuit that looked like a highlighter streak against her paler-than-usual skin. Ana stashed letters, bills, and garbage (pizza ads) between makeshift finger-filing-cabinet dividers, sticky tabbed by hot-pink painted nails. She peered at the glass in Nevaeh’s hand with cold contempt as if she’d finally found the perfect place for her rage.

 

“Yes. And I don’t want it in my house.”

 

“Oh, okay. But it’s so beautiful. I just thought I might make us friendship bracelets or something?”

 

“Better you than whoever owned the bottle it broke off of,” Ana mumbled curtly. She’d gone back to flipping papers and slicing sealed envelopes.

 

“I don’t understand.”

 

Ana sighed, but not with irritation. “I know, Nev. I’m so sorry. Sit. Could I tell you something?” 

 

Nevaeh sat in a soft teal armchair across from her aunt, eager. Ana hadn’t offered a story in weeks.

 

In a kind but steely voice, Ana began. “About 70% of the world’s cobalt comes from the Democratic Republic of Congo, which used to be called Zaire. It’s very valuable, Nev.” Ana paused, bracing herself for the uneasy and upsetting venture of explaining an expanding genocide to children, and worse, why it continues so easily. “Now, about four thousand years ago, cobalt was also forged in Mesopotamia for Egyptian pottery but vanished around 1250 BC after the Eighteenth Dynasty of Egypt at the end of the Late Bronze Age. It reappeared in Chinese porcelain after another thousand years, and then, fuelled a Victorian obsession. It was stolen then, and pillaged now with violence, slavery, sexual assault and rape. Children are forced to work to extract it from the land because the world has learned that cobalt is quite good at storing energy and stabilizing conductors, especially for laptops and smartphones. Rampant corrupt power within and from neighbouring countries has poisoned DRC. Since 1996, six million people have died in a silent holocaust—what some people call The African World War.”

 

Both Ana and Nevaeh were silent for a moment. Nevaeh’s birthday was next week, and she suddenly felt ashamed of what she’d asked for.

 

“I don’t want the new blue iPhone anymore.” A swell of tears threatened to waterfall down her cheeks.

 

Ana smiled tenderly. “Come here, love.”

 

Nevaeh snuggled into Ana’s open arms. “You’re fourteen. It’s not your fault that there are things you don’t know. We’re all ignorant of something. But, if when we know better we choose to do better, then that’s the true staple of our character.” Ana paused, allowing a laugh. “You need some gel.” She ran her fingertips across Nevaeh’s humidity-frizzed hair. 

 

Nevaeh giggled, freeing her tears. She understood that carrying the knowledge of these things could bring the immense sadness, silence, rage, and anger that she saw in her aunt, to which Ana seemed to have a perfect response.

 

Ana wiped away Nevaeh’s tears with her thumbs. “There’s much more to tell and learn, but later, after you go find something fun to do—dance, call Sarah next door, or do those colour-by-numbers you love.”

 

Nevaeh nodded. Ana smiled and reached over to play a record on the turntable. 

 

“I’ll do something, too.” 

 

•••

 

Perched on the edge of her bed, Nevaeh fiddled with the cobalt glass. She couldn’t focus, wishing to protest feeling distant from others’ pain. But she wasn’t sure where to start—was diving into the deep end of the internet and front-crawling through social media accounts the best place? She shivered again, glancing over at her open window—the air was colder outside their townhome than in. 

 

Nevaeh felt conflicted. The piece of glass was about the size of her thumbprint, breathtakingly coloured and carved, and its owl eye nearly narrowed at her. She’d just learned about owls in ecology at school, and the miracle through which they’re able to see with sound. She pulled a notebook from her backpack, cloaked in iron-on-patches, slouching on the bed next to her.

 

Owl Vision:

  • Can see ultraviolet light

  • Has a visual system one hundred times more light-sensitive than a pigeon

  • Tubular eyes

    • Take in more daylight + have more cells to process photons than the eyes of birds with sharper daytime vision 

    • 90% rods vs. cones that are sensitive to movement and tuned to low light (why they’re able to hunt in the dark)

  • Ears

    • One of the most sensitive auditory systems in nature

    • Specific auditory brain cells respond only when a sound is coming from a specific direction (geolocation by sound not satellite)

    • With their ears, owls see the world in 2D

  • The hearing nerve branches off to the sight center of the brain: auditory input is processed by the visual system. Owls can see with sound.

 

Nevaeh ran her fingers over the underlined ink. Is this the answer? Could we learn to see one another with our ears, if we listen? She shivered again. I wonder. 

 

Setting down her notebook, Nevaeh slowly held the glass chunk up to her ear and listened. She didn’t hear anything. Too easy. Think. 

 

And then, almost as if instinctually, she stood and walked toward the mirror mounted to her dresser. She looked hard, brow furrowed in concentration, and held the glass to her ear once more. 

 

The glass glitched, as if an old television were shutting off, and then, in the mirror, there was a city block layered and merged with Nevaeh’s bedroom. Nevaeh was stunned speechless, until she saw a young girl, perhaps the same age, hiding behind a battle-tested brick building. 

 

“Hello?” Nevaeh called, but the girl didn’t hear her. She brought the glass to her mouth and called again. 

 

The girl’s head snapped in Nevaeh’s direction. She looked puzzled as she stood and wandered nearer, glancing over her shoulder as she did. 

 

“What is this? Magic?” She whispered to herself.

 

“You can see me?”

 

“Yes, in the window of this shop. How? Are you in America? How are you understanding me?”

 

“I don’t know. I’m in Canada. Are you speaking English?” 

 

“No, and I assume you’re not speaking Swahili.”

 

Nevaeh shook her head, no. Something was translating for them. 

 

The two girls stared at each other for a moment, cautiously curious of one another. Though young and beautiful, Nevaeh could see that the girl was weathered. Beneath the dirt caked to her body, she wore a lilac blouse, matching hair bows, and jeans with the zipper and button either torn or cut away. She was still slowing her breathing, clearly having run from something. She had soft cheeks, skin the colour of rich soil, and kind smile lines despite what appeared to be a fight between vacancy and fear in her glossy eyes. Gunfire rippled the airwaves and though she turned to look, she didn’t flinch. 

 

“What’s your name?”
 

“Kamia.” 

 

“I’m Nevaeh.”

 

Kamia shook her head. “I’m so hungry I must be seeing things.”

 

“You aren’t, I promise.” Nevaeh paused, having emphasized the word to ground her uncertainty.

 

“Your promises don’t mean very much. Your tech batteries and cars are made from our blood.” 

 

Nevaeh nodded. “I know” was all she could muster. 

 

Kamia peered at her with a mix of cold and pity. “You know, huh?” She began to turn away. 

 

Nevaeh stopped her. “Where are you right now?”

 

Kamia turned back, not quite all the way, and with a tinge of surprise. “Jimbo la Kivu Kaskazini,” she replied proudly, “Goma, North Kivu, Democratic Republic of the Congo.”

 

Nevaeh nodded. “Tell me more about it.”

 

“What?” Kamia’s eyes narrowed.

 

“Tell me about you. And your home.”

 

Kamia drew in a sharp breath and brought her tongue to the back of her teeth. “Why?”

 

“Because I want to listen.”

 

“Hm.” Kamia crossed her arms. “Alright,” she said hesitantly, dragging a broken table over. She sat facing the shop window. Nevaeh pulled a footstool over. 

 

Kamia took another deep breath and swallowed hard. “I’m fifteen. I grew up here. Central Africa is so beautiful. There are over 200 different ethnicities here, and coltan, gold, tin, cobalt, copper, zinc, diamonds, and other rare earth minerals. But my people have been victims of corrupt political regimes, armed militias, and violence by neighbouring countries and investors—Rwanda, Zimbabwe, Angola, Namibia, Chad, Libya, Sudan, and more. For political gain and as part of industry-driven access to our reserve of these materials, the USA and UK give military and financial aid to Rwanda and Uganda to invade us. We’ve been displaced. Seven million of us. There is so much violence. So much pollution and theft. Genocide.” Kamia breathed out heavily. She’d said nearly everything in one breath as if it had been bursting to be heard by someone who might do something about it.

 

Nevaeh dropped the glass, scrunched her eyes closed, and looked away. There was silence followed by a flash that filtered through her eyelids. When Nevaeh looked up, Kamia and the streets of Goma had vanished from the mirror.

 

“Kamia?!” Nevaeh called, her voice cracking with fear and panic. She picked up the glass again, hands shaking, and faced the mirror, willing Kamia to come back. Nothing. 

 

Nevaeh dropped to her knees, tears streaming. Her hands closed warmth around the glass. She looked up into the mirror. 

 

“I want to see. I will see. I will look,” she begged, meaning every word. The same flash appeared as suddenly as it had before. 

 

“Kamia?!” Nevaeh scanned her stunted view of the street frantically. 

 

Kamia poked her head around the building, a hole of betrayal ever so slightly filling in. “I thought you left.”

 

“I didn’t mean to. I don’t know why the connection stopped.” 

 

“You looked away. From me and yourself.” 

 

Nevaeh was quiet, nodding softly, but her gaze didn’t shift. “Please. Tell me more.”

 

“You won’t leave?”

 

“No. Not ever again.”

 

Kamia breathed a sigh this time, almost of relief. “When I was little, I was forced to work for a private company extracting coltan. I was so young I don’t remember the name. I don’t remember what happened to my parents. I’m trying to find medical assistance because I was raped last night. And our humanitarian response plan is only 38% funded. I live with a host family right now. Election protests were banned and police violently broke them up in Kinshasa. I heard about these women giving birth in the flooding and landslides. I’m scared, Nevaeh, and I don’t know what to do or who cares to help.”

 

“I don’t know either. But I want to help.” Nevaeh ground her teeth together, acutely aware of the privilege of her innocence. She wondered how, in admiring the strength of other girls like Kamia, she dismissed their girlhood—their right to softness, femininity, and innocence. They needed nurturing, protection, support, and comfort, too. She felt overwhelming gratitude for Ana. Yet Kamia would be criminalized and treated like the adult she both wasn’t and was forced to embody to survive. 

 

“You have. Listening helps so much.”

 

“But I want to do more.”
 

“There are some things you can’t do. But there are many you can. Listen. Don’t look away. Write to people with power. Call them until they answer. Speak up.” 

 

Nevaeh shivered again. Wait. 

 

“My aunt used to tell me that shivering meant a new ghost had passed through my body.”

 

Kamia looked confused. “And?”

 

“I’ve had chills and shivers since I found this piece of cobalt glass. What if it’s not a ghost, but a soul who needs help.”

 

Kamia’s cheeks relaxed and she smiled into doughy dimples for the first time since they’d met. “Your name is heaven spelled backwards, isn’t it?”

 

Nevaeh beamed. “Yeah, it is. And I think I know what that means now.”

________________________

 

(1) Blue Glass

(2) Slow Factory Instagram PostDemocratic Republic of Congo | World | Human Rights Watch & DRC - UN News 2024

(3) What It’s Like to Be an Owl: The Strange Science of Seeing with Sound

(4) Slow Factory Instagram PostDemocratic Republic of Congo | World | Human Rights Watch & DRC - UN News 2024

(5) Congo police disperse banned election protest as opposition cries foul | Reuters

(6) Congo floods forcing some women to give birth ‘in the water’ | UN News

 


 

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