During my two week stay in Senegal I had the honor of meeting Ken Bugul, Senegalese writer of many well known novels, in which she often discusses the socio-political atmospheres of the country. Throughout my academic career, I’ve had the privilege of meeting many well known authors, all of whom address various inconsistencies in our society. These authors caused me to reflect, but never the way I did during the two-hour dialogue with Bugul.
Her impact is heavy and powerful, maybe even more powerful than it would have been without the events surrounding me (MRC’s formation and they’re dedication to justice). While this adds a heaping amount of self-awareness, so do the past six months, an accumulation of sentiments caused by my stay in Grenoble with exposure to beautiful neighborhoods of color. And while all these factors exist, I can confirm how the passion in Bugul’s delivery moved me, how she covered themes so prevalent in my life, where there is clearly a lot at play.
Bugul mentioned birthplaces, and the attachment that many people have to the place they started this journey. Though she experienced the greatest violence in her life in Senegal, when she was five years old and separated from her mother, the source of nostalgia that comes with Senegal is incomparable to anything else. The baobab trees, the sandy landscape, and every detail right down to the smell of the roads stir her. And what’s beautiful is that so many of us recognize this feeling, this deep familiarity. And yet, many of us do not wish to stay in one place forever.
When Bugul spoke with determination, reminding us that there is no obligation to dedicating your life to living in one place, many of my doubts were validated and then all at once, gone. For 18 years I tried endlessly to solidify San Jose as my home, minus the various summers in which Pakistan filled that requirement, followed by three years in Seattle where I did the same thing all over again. And though I find moments and people to cherish in each place, neither remain a place that I want to dedicate a lifetime to. I tried to reflect on why this is my reality, the blatant rejection of a place that offers me so much, when Bugul transitioned into addressing another heavy concept.
Her heaviest anecdote, still stuck in my head, fragments of French and consistent gasps, as if recounting the moment is still a shock, was when Bugul realized she was black. Standing in front of a mirror on the street in Belgium, she observed many women walking around in the background, all blonde. Then as she cast a glance at herself, she was taken aback. The intensity of the moment rested in one realization, how differently she looked from everyone else, and she exclaimed, “c’était traumatisant pour moi!” (It was traumatizing for her). The shock on her face as she relived the moment caused a wave of nausea in my stomach. I had experienced similar moments at Seattle University, constantly noting how my campus had so easily advertised itself as diverse, without a clue in the world what diversity really was. I rediscovered diversity, to my surprise, in various neighborhoods in Grenoble, where people of color so comfortably said, alhumdulillah. No fear in the words, no fear in the voice, no fear in the delivery. How quickly did that diminish when I could count the number of South Asians on both hands, back in Seattle?
So let’s rewind back to a few years ago, Seattle University brochure in my hand, a person of color beaming on the front page, maybe I would meet him someday, it didn’t really matter. They said they were diverse, I believed it. A year and a half into my college career the realization settled in, heavy and draining. I have many friends, but not all of them are allies. Not all of them care, when they cannot see past their privilege. Their privilege is not only a safety blanket, but also an excuse to keep them from acting in this simplest manner, self-education. I am suddenly surrounded by people that will want to go out with me on the weekends, but avoid engaging in conversations about culture-climate. People who will view a problem from afar, and refuse to ask deeply unsettling questions, because it’s easier to be ignorant.
Is it easier to be ignorant? I can’t afford to act that way because it would probably lead to an identity crisis. Ignoring the problem means not having answers to a source of my insecurities, it means not knowing why I am so troubled by a media that only promotes one skin color. But for people with privilege, ignoring the problem means staying in a place of power, it means actualizing the very difference that I am fighting alongside others to diminish. It means recognizing a difference, and refusing to reach a level of equality.
Bugul’s anecdote affected me immensely not because she recognized how she looked different. It was because she recognized how looking differently put her one step back, for no good reason. My host sister and I had discussed this topic as well, and she mentioned that these issues are now caché, hidden. So for three years at Seattle University, I maintained many groups of friends, but never maintained many groups of allies. I am reconstructing that now, consciously asking myself who the allies are, who is aware or willing to be aware of the differences in a constructive manner. This process is painful at times, especially when learning how some friends don’t want to be allies, because they believe that they don’t need to be allies. I am bringing out the caché, or desperately trying to, especially within personal relationships that have been fostered for years.
When I finally asked Bugul why she wrote, why she brought these difficulties to the surface, she looked me in the eye and stated, “Je fais mon vide.” She empties herself. I empty myself. We all empty ourselves, trying to manifest a reality that is fair. Today I empty myself in hopes that they will listen, in hopes of finding out who my allies are.
