Good evening!

For the last 2 weeks, our ASTU class has been focusing on poetry. We read Juliana Spahr’s This Connection Of Everyone With Lungs just recently which focused on 2 (somewhat lengthy!) poems emphasizing the local and global. However, the piece of poetry that resided with me the most was the piece we looked at last week about The Falling Man.

The poem itself was titled “Photograph From September 11” and was written by  Wislawa Szymborska. (A version of the poem can be found here),

The poem itself is talking about the picture of The Falling Man that has been controversially discussed since the incident 15 years ago.

In class, we talked about why this poem was not as heavily debated in comparison to the other tributes to The Falling Man. Other poetry, sculptures, pictures, were all considered taboo in the public eye, however, this one poem by Wislawa Szymborska was exempt from this social rule.

We talked about how the poem was peaceful, and calm, and slow. It didn’t refer to The Falling Man as “falling”, but “in flight”. It didn’t mention words like “dying” or “death”, however, made sure the readers still knew the inevitable was going to happen.

I think that there’s one other reason that this poem was exempt from social protocol that hadn’t been discussed in class. I think it’s because Wislawa does not talk about the man in the picture, but rather the picture as a collective. She chooses not to describe the journey but rather just the freeze-frame image that the picture was portraying. She talks about how they’re kept “above the earth” and how “there’s enough time for hair to come loose, for keys and coins to fall from pockets.” The poem focuses exclusively on the picture, not the man in the picture. It takes away from the personal aspect of the picture, just momentarily grasping the scene captured in the photograph.

Till next time! Enjoy your reading week!

Good afternoon!

Recently in our ASTU class, we’ve been talking about the concept of “Us. VS. Them”, brought up in Judith Butler’s novel, Frames Of War: When Is Life Grievable? In a couple instances throughout her first chapter, Butler brings this concept into question.

Who do you think of when you think of “Us”? It could be your family, your religion, your entire nation. But more importantly, who do you think of when you hear “Them”?

That to me seems more important. You can be a part of many different cultures, and many different groups. You can feel belonging in many aspects of your life. However, when the question of “Them” comes up, who does your mind turn to? Who, do you feel, you can never ever relate to? Who, under no circumstances, will you never belong with?

The answer, of course, is different for everyone, although I feel certain that, to at least some people, “them” refers to criminals; terrorists, murderers, thieves, whichever it may be. Shunned by society, they happen to be the “them” that “us” can never relate with. Even Judith Butler mentions on page 42, “Those who kill are not quite human, and not quite alive…”

I want to be able to agree with her, and to agree with the multitude of people who consider criminals “them”. A part of me does as well, because “Oh my God, how could they kill someone?!?!?”.

However, a part of me also doesn’t. Today in class, we discussed Guantanamo Bay and read poetry from some of the criminals being held there. Their poetry presented them with an alternative perspective in my head, briefly humanized them, and countered Butler’s opinion.

These prisoners, first and foremost, are human beings. Yes, human beings that have done atrocious, inexcusable things, but still human beings. Largely, these criminals; terrorists, murderers, thieves, whichever it may be, are a part of the biggest “Us” there is; the human population.

And isn’t it our job, as other humans, to expect a sort of humane treatment for all other humans as well? Shackles, and torture treatments, and rudimentary uncivilized behaviour does not in any way constitute as humane treatment.

This is not to say that Guantanamo shouldn’t exist, and the prisoners should be freed, and be able to roam the streets as they wish. It’s saying that, despite everything, they are still human, and despite everything, so are we.

After all, in the words of Serena Ryder, together we are one.

(Is that cheesy? I tried to be funny, sorry).

With the recent upsurge of women’s rights, #BlackLivesMatter, and many other anti-discrimination campaigns, the world is often seen at its most progressive. I mean, with Women being able to vote, and the removal of the “N Word” from everyday language, how could the world not be seen as progressive?

However, as much progress as we’ve made in modern society, we are still lightyears away from a perfectly tolerant world.

One of the major problems holding us back from achieving this progressive society is the current embedded Islamaphobia in everyday life.

Islamaphobia is one of the major themes we’ve been discussing in our ASTU class, with our recent reading of the novel Extremely Loud And Incredibly Close by Jonathan Safran Foer. The novel deals with the death of a father after he’s killed in the attacks on the Twin Towers on September 11th of 2001.

Islamaphobia is more than hating Muslims, but it’s the fear that every person possesses when a brown person walks on the plane, or in a building. It’s the looks that every man in a turban receives no matter where he is, simply for the fact that he’s wearing a turban. It’s Donald Trump demanding that every Muslim in the world apologize for 9/11, ignorant of the fact that it was the work of an extremist group and not the entire religion.

Islamaphobia is so deeply embedded in society that it often doesn’t feel wrong. When a woman in a burka is almost always stopped for “Randomly Selected Screening” at airports, then it’s the product of Islamaphobia.

Islamaphobia is present in Stephen Harper’s Bill C51. It’s present at every coffee joint, movie theater, shopping mall and amusement park. Islamaphobia was present when my cousin wasn’t allowed to do his job because some old man thought he saw a bomb in his back pocket and very loudly asked my cousin to leave his workplace and “go back to his country”. Islamaphobia was present when that old man refused to believe that my cousin was born in Canada because “Canada has and always will be a white country first and foremost, no matter how many Syrian refugees Justin fucking Trudeau lets in”.

To conclude, the world has come a long way since signs separated “coloured bathrooms” from regular bathrooms, however it’s not as tolerant as people make it seem. As much progress as we’ve made in recent times, there is still a long way to go, and Islamaphobia is only example of many of the harsh discriminations against minorities in the present world.

Hey!

Last week, our class took a mini field trip to The Rare Books Library where we visited Joy Kogawa’s Fonds. We were able to look at a lot of her own personal things. These included fan letters, emails, rejection letters, multiple drafts, etc.

One of the things I focused on in the Fonds were the fan letters. I was surprised because of the large amount of letters from Japanese Canadians themselves. They enclosed letters about their families, their own personal struggles and the hardships their families went through. I spent most of the time in the Fonds reading and rereading the letters that people had written her because they mentioned how Joy Kogawa had helped them come to terms with their own personal histories.

In Obasan, Joy Kogawa talked about her family’s conflicts. She talked about her struggles, but also Obasan’s, Aunt Emily’s and even Steven’s. Despite this, the horror of the Japanese Internment didn’t seem as real to me as it did reading those letters last Thursday.

It reminded me that this was a National thing; that despite Canada’s reputation of being multicultural and accepting and nice, we weren’t always this way.

My grandparents immigrated here from Pakistan with my dad approximately 40 years ago, when my dad was only 5 months old. Despite my family being born there, I never went back to Pakistan to visit. To me, I was born Canadian and I would always be Canadian.

However, some Japanese Canadians, like Joy, were born in Canada too, but were still sent back to “their home country”.

I can only imagine how hard it would have been for them to live through that. Canada is my home, just as much as it was theirs. Canada was Joy’s home just as much as it was for the non-Japanese Canadians at that time.

Joy Kogawa’s Fonds helped me understand Obasan and her story a lot more than before. It demonstrated to me that this happened across the country and it was an absolutely terrible thing to happen.

Canada’s history is more than just hockey, gay marriage, and free healthcare. Canada’s history has been inexplicably racist at times.

However, I did also get a chance to skim through Pierre Trudeau’s letter to Joy Kogawa. In his letter he said he looked forward to reading Obasan. I’m glad to know that her history resonated with a Prime Minister, even if just for a little bit.

Hey!

This week I’m going to talk about Safe Area Gorazde, by Joe Sacco, a book we’re reading in my ASTU class. Like Persepolis, which was discussed in the last blog post, Safe Area Gorazde is yet another graphic narrative. However, this graphic narrative varies in some ways to Persepolis.

For one, Persepolis was narrated by “Marji”, a younger version of the author Marjane Satrapi. She reflected on her own experiences rather than anecdotes of other people.

Safe Area, however, was narrated by Joe Sacco, an American journalist, and relied heavily on other people’s stories and anecdotes. Half of it was him talking about what it was like being in Gorazde; the friends he made, the parties he went to, and the songs they sung together. The other half were stories the other people told Joe. These stories featured some of the most gruesome and troublesome details I think I’ve ever read about. They featured the experiences from the citizens of Gorazde, and the troubles they or their family went through during the Bosnian War.

I think the affect of Safe Area Gorazde resonated more with me than the affect of Persepolis (however Persepolis is still a great read!!).

I say this in part because of the in-class discussion we had when we read this graphic narrative.

In small groups, we talked about Sacco’s use of the term “Silly Girls” as the title of one of his chapters, and whether or not this was meant to be offensive. I think collectively we decided that it wasn’t – that he was using “silly” to make the characters more relateable, and that he was giving these characters personality.

One example of this discussed in my small group featured Sabina, one of the aforementioned “Silly Girls”. Sabina during the Silly Girls chapter (50-56) mentioned how she’d longed to leave her home in Gorazde, however at the end of the book (150-154) when she had that opportunity, she told Joe’s character about how she missed her friends and family back in Gorazde.

This was something we found particularly relateable in our small group. Being in a University setting you meet people who, before they came here, longed to move out of their family homes. Now, with the sudden onset of responsibilities, they begin to miss home, and especially family, just like Sabina did at the end of Safe Area Gorazde.

Never before did I think I would have something in common with someone who lived through a war, however Joe Sacco’s graphic narrative proved me wrong.

The book highlights that no matter who you are, or where you’re from, you are not better than anyone else, and I think this point is argued throughout the graphic narrative, but especially in the example mentioned above.

It portrays the Bosnian women in the story the same as the American man; capable of being silly, being relateable, and being human.

Good evening!

Today, I’m going to be discussing “Persepolis”, a graphic narrative we’re currently reading in my Art Studies class. This story, by Marjane Satrapi, reflects on the childhood of her younger self “Marji” as she grows up during the Iran-Iraq war and the Iranian Revolution. Reading this story gets you emotional and scared for people you’ve never met, especially when you focus on the fact that everything is happening to a 10 year old girl. The fact that Marji was only a child while all this was happening was a heavily debated topic in my ASTU class, however one worth mentioning again.

Because Marji is so young, it brings into account the question of remembering. How is Marjane Satrapi able to remember everything that happened to her all those years ago? Does it ruin her reliability as an author? Are we supposed to read this story with a grain of salt for worry that it might not be 100% factual?

Throughout the story, the phrase “never forget” has been repeated, particularly by Marji’s beloved uncle Anoosh. Marji is told constantly to never forget what happens to her. And maybe it’s because she “never forgot” that she published a story about her childhood.

Although…There are also some instances in the story where Marji’s childlike persona is shown which reiterate the fact that she might not be completely sure of what’s going on.

This picture, on page 52 of the book, shows how Marji imagined a body cut to pieces. In actuality, it looks nothing like that! At times like this, you often question whether Marji could be trusted as a reliable narrator.

At other times in the story, something entirely different happens. On page 86 of the story, Marji is talking to one of her classmates. Her father was killed, and when she was talking to Marji, she said “I wish [my father was] alive in jail than dead and a hero. Marji reflects on this and ends that chapter by saying “Those were her exact words to me”. At times like this in the story, you understand that these flashbulb memories for her were so vivid, even all these years later.

While some memories became fuzzy, or were depicted incorrectly based on Marji’s age, the story as a whole had to have a certain element of truth to it.

It’s my belief that if something is extremely powerful or extremely important, it takes a lot to forget it. For example, I probably won’t be able to tell you what I ate for breakfast yesterday morning, however; I can easily and almost exactly retell the story of my parent’s divorce, or the car accident that happened when I was 13. Both those things happened much before the cereal/eggs/waffle I had for breakfast, however because those incidents were so important and life changing, it’s much easier for me to remember.

Nowhere in the story does Marji talk about her breakfast cereals, or what her dad was wearing. What does make it on the pages, however, are the important bits of her childhood; her Uncle Anoosh, and her trip with her parents, etc.

The process of remembering is difficult, however the process of forgetting is entirely different. How does one forget the fact that their uncle was executed?

We, as readers, have to trust both Marji, and Marjane Satrapi. We can, of course, question the bits of the story that don’t make sense, or seem out of place, but because we were never there, and because this is NOT a story of our childhood, we can’t claim “bullshit” to it.

This story is a depiction of how Marjane Satrapi remembers her childhood. It may not be entirely accurate, and it may not be completely factual, but it’s all we’ve got, so we have to believe it.

I’ve never been one for stability and constants. Growing up, I got to live in lots of different places, and travel profusely. From Asia to Latin America to Europe, I’ve seen it all. So naturally, when the topic of choosing a university arose, I was conflicted. I could choose to go to the University of Toronto: close to home with my family and friends. I’d be in a secure place with my own bed, home cooked meals, and no need to do my own laundry. My other choice was to drop everything and go to the University of British Colombia. I would have to start from scratch; I’d be sleeping in a foreign bed, making my own food, and doing my own laundry… all by myself.

I guess it’s safe to say that you already know my decision. All my life I’ve longed for a constant, but when the time for one showed up, it didn’t feel like the right decision. There was no adventure, no danger and no fun in staying. Even though I knew that going to B.C. would be one of the most difficult and terrifying things I’ve done, I knew I had to give it a try. I didn’t realize that growing up with no constants meant that the thought of one would bore me.

Flash forward and I’m at the end of my second week of university. I’ve moved in, established my circle of close university friends, and read my Political Science textbook until my eyes bled. Everything was seemingly okay but until recently, there was still a part of me that wondered “what if?” Just like my Dad, I was scared that I chose UBC for all the wrong reasons. Did I want an adventure or did I just want a life without a curfew? Did I want more liberty of choice or did I want to eat ice cream for breakfast?

Friday, September 18^th, 2015 was the day I finally realized why I chose UBC. That day, I had a group lecture with all my CAP professors on the topic of being a Global Citizen. My professors spoke specifically through their unique disciplines of Sociology, Political Science, and English. It talked about how each academic faction had its own opinions on what it meant to be a Global Citizen.

While all these lectures were going on, it finally dawned on me why I couldn’t have been content with any other university decision. It’s because of that very topic: Global Citizenship.

A Global Citizen is someone who is not only ready for change, but has a hand in making it happen.

If I were to sum up my 3 hour lecture last week down to one sentence, that would be it. Of course there are lots of different elements that go into being a Global Citizen, but the very gist of it is based on the premise that a Global Citizen cannot be one to play it safe. With so many ideologies to combat, a Global Citizen simply cannot be someone in the backseat.

It’s been a week since that lecture, and I’m now fully convinced that I have made the right decision. I’m surrounded by a foreign community, with foreign friends, and foreign professors… but I feel at home. I, in the cliché-est of terms, have expanded my horizons, just like a Global Citizen should.

Of course, a Global Citizen is a little bit more complicated than just being aware of world issues – any Model U.N. student can do that. A Global Citizen is someone who chooses to do something about those world issues. I’m positive that I would’ve gotten my fill of excitement and adventure living at home. However, to be a true Global Citizen, I think that adventure and excitement can never be outshined by fear.

Now, I’m not saying that moving away makes me a Global Citizen. (That idea is preposterous if anything.) In fact, I think I’ll become a genuine Global Citizen when I choose to do something while I’m here that makes the move worthwhile. I think that moving away was a step closer to becoming the type of person a Global Citizen might be. In my new home, I hope to find more than just adventure and excitement; I hope to find what it takes to be a Global Citizen.

And because everyone has their own opinions on Global Citizenship – this I saw through my Group Lecture – the video below is a more broad and less personal sense of what it takes to be a Global Citizen

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