Recently in my ASTU class (a first-year reading and writing course at UBC), we have been discussing issues and stigmas regarding the Iraq war, as well as violence and veterans in general. It is through these discussions that the subject of dehumanization has come forward. Despite it’s prevalent presence in today’s war-filled (and constantly war-influenced) society, the more I thought about the reasoning for dehumanization, the more I came to a conclusion of its dangerous capabilities. After all, the failure to see another individual as “human” can potentially lead one to dire actions and thoughts.

Now, please do not misinterpret my intentions–I am not trying to disregard or delegitimize the possible need for war, or the experiences that soldiers and veterans alike experience. But I do believe that it is important to engage in conversations of precariousness (as stated by Judith Butler). For we are all evidently human, and in that way, one could argue that we are all evidently the same.

Although I know that many may argue against me, my beliefs in the futile cyclical nature of dehumanization still stand. For what if the act of dehumanization is not to state a truth regarding an individual or group, but is rather a justification towards an idea that we would like to be true? Perhaps our desires to bring harm unto others are projected into ideas such as “they deserve it” and “it’s their fault”, diverting any sense of blame off of ourselves in the process.

But ironically, what brings me the most despondency is not the idea of dehumanization itself (albeit it does bother me a lot), but rather the failure of people to recognize that the consequences of dehumanization are currently prevalent outside of the stereotypical image of “soldiers versus the enemy”… for dehumanization has significant influence and impact in today’s society.

Take for example, the not-well-known issue of the Philippine Drug War. After his inauguration in June 2016, Rodrigo Duterte (the president of the Philippines) urged the killing of both alleged drug criminals and addicts alike, as a counteractive measure against their seeming drug epidemic. With over 2000 individuals killed–whether by policemen, contracted killers, or by citizens–many have compared the “war” to Hitler’s “cleansing” movement against racial, religious, and disabled minorities.  If there are some people who see Duterte in a dehumanized manner, but Duterte and his supporters see the drug addicts and dealers in a dehumanized manner, to what extent does the cycle end? Who is “right”? Despite it being an ongoing issue, the ethical and moral boundaries that have been challenged has been ignored by a lot of the world. Does our ignorance make us dehumanized in a way?

To what extent is dehumanization justified? Or even further, can it even be justified in the first place? I personally, do not have an answer. But what I do know is that the consequences of it are alarming–whether it be in the battlefield, or in the contemporary society currently surrounding us. In the process of dehumanizing others, are we in turn dehumanizing ourselves?

In my ASTU class at UBC (a course that incorporates both reading and writing aspects), we have recently started to look into the form of poetry. Personally, I enjoy most poetry. Although I wouldn’t go as far to label myself as a poetic enthusiast, I do find leisure and interest in reading the sporadic poem here and there–in publications, on social media, and sometimes even on the bus! But what makes poetry so specialized, that we tend to isolate it in a separate category from other forms of literature?

I find the marginalization of poetry that society has created to be quite fascinating, despite the fact that a lot of people tend to ‘avoid’ it. What is it that makes people ‘turn away’? Is it the form? The elaborate phrases? Or perhaps it is the raw thoughts and emotions that are portrayed? And what exactly makes some poems draw larger crowds than other?

Perhaps our approach to poetry mirrors our constant approach to the “other”–those who we see as different and separate from our own identity. Perhaps our fright of something more-or-less foreign keeps us back from getting to know the subject of our fear in full. This doesn’t necessarily mean that it is bad. I think that as a species, we humans tend to avoid what we cannot understand–but that doesn’t devalue it’s legitimacy.

In class, we had discussed specifically about the presence of poetry surrounding 9/11 (the September 2001 attacks on the Twin Towers). What I found ironic was that despite the stigma of the ‘other’ that is–more often than naught–attached to poetry, during this time of grief, shock, and horror the poetic rates of creation, examination, and circulation increased ten-fold. But why did such a tragedy spurn such a poetic movement? Is it because when times of uncertainty and desperation are brought upon us, we tend to look for answers in what we initially ignored and [potentially] rejected? Perhaps our society’s constant stigma of poetry needs to be re-analyzed…

Now, I am not calling everyone to fully embrace the poetic form with open arms… I know that poetry does not always suit everyone’s ‘tastes’. Rather, I believe that although we all might not enjoy poetry, we must all acknowledge it’s reality. We may not ‘get’ poetry, but that doesn’t make it any less meaningful. Similar to how one cannot deny the effort, skill, and thought put into artwork that they do not specifically like, I do not believe that one should deny the passion and emotion that is put into one’s poetry. After all, the poetic form has been present in society for centuries–perhaps it brings a bigger contribution to society than many of us initially thought.

I had just recently read Mohsin Hamid’s novel The Reluctant Fundamentalist in my ASTU class at UBC–a course that incorporates reading and writing skills. Through Reluctant‘s narrative, Hamid smoothly incorporates trivial concepts such as “Islamophobia” and “Anti-Americanism”, initiating a conversation into topics rarely discussed. Especially by putting 9/11 (with concentration on the attack on the Twin Towers in New York, specifically) in as part of the backdrop, Hamid creates a unique story that questions one’s values, loyalty, and ultimately one’s identity.

While discussing the book, me and my classmates were asked whether or not we thought the book was anti-American. This of course–like many other things–made me have to take a step back and ponder in my over analytical mind. What exactly, does it mean for something (or someone) to be anti-American? Can it be as simple as having essences of hostility and resistance towards American values and beliefs? Or is it sometime much deeper?

Being anti-American is–evidently–seen in a negative light. Particularly after 9/11, strong notions of nationalism and Islamophobia were present within American culture. Now although I am by no means trying to degrade the horror that 9/11 brought (and the potential danger that terrorism can bring), many debatable questions continue to run through my mind. One question, for instance, is that if anti-Americanism is anything that resists America and its values, then does that make many Islamophobic aspects of the American culture anti-Islam? And if so, who has the authority to put one “anti-view” over another?

In The Reluctant Fundamentalist, one section of narrative particularly shocked me. While Changez was talking to the man, he claimed that terrorism was–presumably by the West–“defined to refer only to the organized and politically motivated killing of civilians by killers not wearing the uniform of soldiers” (Hamid, 178). The West sees their uniformed soldiers as the “good guys”–the ones fighting terrorism and the “evil”. But what I found particularly astounding with this quote, was the implications of America as the “evil”–that to the many countries and states that America occupied or fought against, it is the uniformed soldiers that are seen as the terrorists.

Even though our first thoughts to this concept may be that it is clearly anti-American, I believe that we must move past some of the “walls” that blind our judgments. Or more specifically, the portions of nationalism that dehumanize the lives of the foreign. Because even though there might be parts of life that can be categorized as “right” and “wrong”, I do not think that there can ever be a complete Manichean understanding in the world–that there can never be a concrete, universal line between what is considered “good” and what is considered “evil”.

For if both sides of a conflict are considered “evil” by the opposition, then who really is the “evil” one?

In my ASTU class at UBC (a first year reading and writing course), we have just recently finished the journalistic comic book Safe Area Goražde,written by Joe Sacco. Following the events of the Bosnian War during the 1990’s, Sacco shows the horrid reality of the conflict through his illustrations, with narratives consisting of collected oral histories, facts, and his own observations.

Within the book, Sacco repeatedly refers to the “Real Truth” that he is trying to find. It was the idea of this “Real Truth” that kept nudging my brain as I read. Moreover, I found that Sacco’s portrayal on one’s desire to find the Truth, and their continuous avoidance of it in the process, provided a sort of reality within itself. This avoidance–which has presented itself multiple times in Safe Area–is something that I believe we as humans evidently do often. We tell people that we want to know the truth, and then when presented with an opportunity, we willingly pass by it. Just like how Sacco “avoided [a man who claimed he had the Real Truth] completely” (ii), and how some Serbians believed that the massacre of Muslims by Serbs in Srebrenica did not actually happen (195), we hide from what we claim we want.

But then again, can the Truth ever be wholly defined? Although there might be pieces of evidence–photographs, eye witness reports, video records, etc.–human nature still has a great tendency to only believe what we want to. And even then, does the Real Truth only consist of concrete fact? Can biases and opinions also contribute to the Truth? Everyone has their own perspectives on what the Truth really is. Whether it be in religion, politics, or even personal opinions, everyone believes in some way or another that they are “right”. So, in essence, who really believes in the right Truth?

Safe Area has opened my eyes further than I thought they were, to the truth of the Real Truth. It is this kind of questioning and the yearning for what is “correct” that–more often than naught–divides people and puts them against each other. Sacco provides us with an illustration (through an event often left in the silence) on how our perceptions of individual differences can cause us to categorize those individuals into part of the “foreign, dangerous other”.

But in the mix of all these conflicting Truths, is the Truth of humanity. We all evidently have opinions. We think, we decide, we act. It is this precise truth of us being unable to decide on a single truth, that makes us human. Although I know that this discussion can potentially continue for hours, days and months, in the end I think that it is only when we embrace this truth–both the good and the bad, and the ability of free will among us–that we can fully accept the Real Truth of humanity.

Recently, I had taken a trip to UBC’s “Rare Books and Special Collections” with my ASTU class (a reading and writing course within the first year CAP program). Our reading and analysis of Obasan–a novel that follows the journey of a Japanese-Canadian girl during World War II–in the past few weeks had led us to look at many artifacts and fonds of Joy Kogawa (Obasan’s author). This “field trip” of sorts changed our focus regarding Obasan, specifically by shifting our concentration from thematic and structural aspects of the novel to the more historical aspects of the horrific reality of Japanese Internment.

The class was split groups, with each being given specific artifacts (which were chosen for us prior to our arrival). As a lover of antiques–particularly old books–I was completely giddy with excitement. As me and my partner opened our folder to look at our items, chills ran down my body. It was as if the artifacts in front of me unlocked a perspective that I had not thought of before. Me and my partner specifically had papers containing the brainstorming and planning for Obasan, with Kogawa’s writing in pen, pencil, and typing. I felt as if by looking at these papers, my connection with both Obasan and Joy Kagawa had come to a more personal level.

Rather than reading a novel that was influenced by, and that incorporated elements of real life, I was reading something that completely came from real life. It was this thought that brought me to a state of reflection, thinking about the depth of the impact that the internment really had on Japanese Canadians. The amount of desensitization I had accepted due to social media and various entertainment outputs had been torn down in this brief moment, as I held papers that made me think that “this happened. This was real.” It was a moment that broke down the “fourth wall” (an invisible, assumed wall between audience and actor/author). I was holding papers that in the past had been in Kogawa’s hands. I was looking at what she looked at, reading what she thought, and was coming to a closer understanding of her thought process.

This experience–first and foremost–made me realize completely that reading a novel such as Obasan involved me in something bigger that “just a book.” In other words, my existence is part of a bigger picture–a bigger story. And that it is through these artifacts and other “technologies of memory,” as Marita Sturken would term, that we can see a glimpse into that story. Analyzing artifacts such as Joy Kogawa’s fonds initiates a deeper sense of human connection–one that can awaken the mind to a greater consciousness of the surrounding world.

Recently in ASTU 100 (a reading/writing class in the UBC Coordinated-Arts Program), we have been discussing the sensitive event of Canadian Japanese internment during the second World War. Through our reading of Obasan–a novel by Joy Kogawa, revolving around the narrative of a young Japanese girl–we specifically discussed the idea of memory and remembrance.

While reading Obasan, I began to think back to how much I had previously known about Japanese internment–and astonishingly, I realized that I did not know much, despite being a Canadian myself! As my thoughts started wandering and trying to figure out how I could be more knowledgeable about the subject, it dawned on me that no matter how much I read, knowing about an event and experiencing it were two completely separate things. When discussing certain memories, is there an unsaid barrier between saying that we know of the event, and claiming that we have lived through it? And under what circumstances should we learn more about these events?

Interestingly, during high school I found these questions quite relevant in my social studies lectures. In a class that was predominantly Caucasian, it was interesting how vaguely we talked about Japanese interment. Regardless of the important legacy it had left on our country and many Japanese citizens, there was a sense of discomfort. It was almost as if people did not wish to go into great detail about the subject. There was nobody in my class–or in my grade, for that matter–that could speak on the issue from personal and/or familial experience. In the end, it was swiftly mentioned and then forgotten.

What I found ironically intriguing was that once we started talking about the internment and persecution of the Holocaust, the majority of my class (who I will remind, was predominantly Caucasian) was completely immersed in the material. Although there was still discomfort, it was not the same discomfort as when we discussed Japanese internment. And unlike the swift 20-minute discussion on Japanese internment, the focus on the Holocaust lasted 3 days. In this situation it was almost as if the people around me invited the discomfort, desiring to learn more about the event… After all, there were many individuals in my class who’s grandparents and other past family had lived through World War II Europe.

Do we then have a larger right and responsibility to learn and tell certain stories, if they are directly correlated to our own identity? Joy Kogawa herself had lived through the Japanese internment in Canada, and had used Obasan as a way to contribute to the redress movement. I personally believe that there are stories told by individuals that cannot be recreated in the same way by other people around them–that despite their narratives, there is no way we can fully understand as people who had not experienced it for ourselves. Therefore, I would argue that the sharing of stories, testimonies, and histories is not only important for keeping those stories alive, but also holds significance for those not directly correlated with the story at all. When more stories and memories are told, there are more opportunities for individuals to look at a narrative and realize that there is never just their own, personal perspective. There is never just a “single” story to sum up a moment.

This idea was beautifully depicted on a school trip I took last year to Ottawa, Ontario. Aside from Parliament Hill, the other main tourist destination that my teacher decided to take us to was the Canadian War Museum. Walking around its hangar–containing hundreds of vehicles, airplanes, and missile warfare–me and my friend came across an elderly man in a flight-based military uniform. We learned that he was a veteran from the Korean War, and had flown jets during the conflict. It was only after 30-minutes of conversing with him about his experiences that I came to a realization–Everything that had just come out of that man’s mouth could never be summarized in any descriptive plaque in the museum.

There is always another perspective–whether it be for or against our own. But through this, I would argue that in order to gain a better understanding and comprehension we must first listen and reflect on the other narratives surrounding ourselves. Through this, we can hopefully create a deeper meaning to this phenomenon called memory and perhaps see how the individual perspectives and experiences contribute to the conversation of history.

Over the past couple of weeks in ASTU 100–a reading/writing course in the Coordinated-Arts Program at UBC–we have read and discussed Michael Ondaatje’s Running in the Family. As a historiographic metafiction of sorts, Ondaatje’s constantly plays with themes such as memory and identity. But it wasn’t until I read Matthew Bolton’s academic article regarding Running that I realized there was more to Ondaatje’s ‘playful’ writing.

In Bolton’s Michael Ondaatje’s “Well-Told Lie”, he mentions Arun Mukherjee’s argument that “Ondaatje’s success has been won largely through a sacrifice of his regionality, his past and most importantly, his experience of otherness in Canada” (Bolton, 222). As I continued to read Bolton take a stance against Ondaatje’s critiques of “race blindness” and “evasion,” his arguments and the critiques he fights against started to get me thinking about the word “identity.”

It was when I read that there were “concerns that Ondaatje has not sufficiently met the responsibility his ethnicity creates” (Bolton, 223), that I began to ponder on my personal identity. Who–or what–exactly dictates what our identity as individuals are? Our beliefs and values? Our ethnicity and citizenship? I would argue that all of these contribute to our personal identity.

But then again, what exactly dictates how we identify ourselves versus how others identify us? Through the ongoing controversy regarding Ondaatje’s responsibility to his ethnicity, I couldn’t help but reflect on my own life. Personally, if I had to identify myself as a nationality the first thing that would come to mind is “Canadian.” But too often do I get people coming up to me for the first time, not even asking me for my name. Instead, the first question they ask me is if I’m Filipino (which I am proud to say that I am). How much obligation do we have to our ethnic identities? Bolton mentions a critique of Ondaatje, in that “[he fails] to acknowledge his family’s complicity in the Ceylonese colonial exploitation… [and is] not being non-Western and Other enough in acknowledging his own ethnic background” (Bolton, 223).

If we tell people that they have an obligation to acknowledge their cultural backgrounds, there must be a limit to when it goes “too far.” I am embarrassed to say that I have witnessed instances of racial prejudice without doing anything about the situation–but as the young 13 year old that I was, I didn’t think my voice mattered. So in my mind, there was nothing I could have done to stop a Caucasian woman from angrily demanding a young East Indian man to “go back to [his] own country,” despite him yelling back that “[he] was born in Canada.” (All this happened in a fast food restaurant, unfortunately with no interference whatsoever.)

How much farther is defining and categorizing people’s responsibilities based on their cultural heritage, from racial judgement? Although I do believe it is important to acknowledge one’s ancestral past and history, I would argue that holding presumptions regarding individual’s obligations to only pieces of their identity leads to the dismissal of the whole person. This I think is what Bolton is trying to portray in his article, claiming that “…it is not a particularly productive approach… to ask whether it is better (or more ethical) to fully represent one’s own ethnic diversity… because within the covers of a book, at least, the answer will always be that it depends” (Bolton, 223-224). Close-mindedness can be a scary thing. One must try to understand what the author of a book (or any individual in the world) is trying to accomplish or achieve, before making assumptions regarding what is right or wrong. We should first understand how an individual identifies themselves, before we decide how we will identify them.

Everyday, I come home from university to the sight of my grandpa sitting in his aged, black office chair watching the TV transmit the news through its pixels. I often sit with him–if only for a moment or two–curious to know about the different global events happening in the world around us. It wasn’t until recently that I began to think deeper; to see past the pretty news reporters and the underlining captions on the vibrant screen. Even though I had already known the concept of media censorship from high school social studies, it wasn’t until the term was mentioned in a recent Political Science class (POLI 100) at UBC that I began to accept the possibility of it in my own life.

Although local media does often cover various global issues, it goes unrealized that the newspapers, radios, TV broadcasting, etc often tend to only show stories that will attract public views. For example, a couple of weeks ago I watched a news broadcast regarding the Italian earthquakes. But instead of covering the amount of both survivors and casualties, the only report given in that segment was on the finding of a cat named “Joy.” (You can read this story here.) Now, please do not mistake my intentions if mentioning this seems to put it in a negative light–for I do believe that all lives saved during the earthquakes (or any other tragedy) is something that we can rejoice in. But imagine my surprise when I read that in an earthquake that “kill[ed] hundreds of people, a tiny cat [had] been found in the rubble.” I assume most people would respond with “awe”‘s and “it’s so cute”‘s. But for me, the first thought that popped into my head was “what about the people?” Once again, I am not degrading the value of animal life. But rather, I am simply suggesting the idea that the newscast chose to share the feline’s story due to the fact that it was what the public wanted to see. Providing hope is–generally–more favored in the public eye than despondency. It was these thoughts that soon led me to recall a piece of literature–Persepolis–that I had recently read in my Arts Academic Program (ASTU 100).

As a graphic memoir, Persepolis beautifully blends together humor and sorrow into a memorialized art form. Marjane Satrapi uniquely shows her childhood recollections of the Iranian Islamic Revolution and the war against Iraq through the eyes of a young girl named Marji. Through Marji, Satrapi not only addresses the question of who our true enemies are, but she also ingeniously incorporates issues such as feminism, religion, and freedom.

Thus, it wasn’t long until her subtle references towards media censorship caught my eye. The first panel that spurned my mind to turn was on page 83, when in the midst of the Iran-Iraq war the TV transmits the news of Iran’s counter-attack. But before they could celebrate Marji’s father insists on checking the radio, stating that “You can’t always believe what they say.” Even on page 111–where Marji provides evidence to two of her friends that the government is lying to them about how many Iraq militant vehicles they were destroying–the results of media censorship is clearly seen. For although one of her friends understands Marji’s argument, the second stays in a state of confusion and–arguably–disbelief.

Perhaps Satrapi’s subtle suggestion on the citizen’s obliviousness to reality parallels the Western view of global issues… We see only what the government wants us to see–what we as a society want to see. Maybe as individuals we choose to only see the news that directly correlates to our own lives but fail to be attentive to the happenings of those unaffiliated with us, therefore missing the majority of the actual situation.

Since the moment I cracked open Persepolis, I’ve always wondered why Satrapi chose to label the first chapter “The Veil.” What if her meaning extended past the physicality of the hijab? Perhaps she was also regarding the imaginary veil obscuring the Iranian citizen’s perceptions of the government. Or maybe she was in fact trying to turn our attention towards the veil that covers our eyes–causing us to enter into a state of preconceptions and prejudice.

This brings up the question of what it means to be a global citizen. Many claim that it’s the idea of becoming more interconnected with other nations through methods such as trade, technology, broadcasting, etc. This of course, can be true. But perhaps we should take a moment to consider this process of called globalization, because maybe our attempts to become more globalized individuals is instead delving us deeper into a world of oblivion.