On Vashlovani Street, Tbilisi's queer community chooses joy.
Dozens of people line Vashlovani Street, passing cigarettes and sharing gossip as they take in some fresh air outside the packed Success Bar.
Inside Tbilisi’s oldest LGBTQ+ bar, founded in 2000, dozens more are dancing under the shimmering light of a disco ball as a rotating set of DJs spin records to fundraise for Palestine. Instead of a cover charge, the event organizers are asking for donations while an online map of queer sites in Gaza is projected on the wall.
Hosting public events like these is risky in Georgia due to laws criminalizing “LGBT propaganda,” yet this won’t be the only queer event in the country’s capital this past spring. Success Bar will also host a karaoke night, drag show, lip sync battle, and tarot reading. Friends will gather at the neighboring Mozaika and Mi Moza bars to share a drink in a safe space. Activists will also host a tour of Tbilisi’s LGBTQ+ heritage, including stops at sites honoring Soviet-era figures such as ballet dancer Vakhtang Chabukiani, film director Sergei Parajanov, and writer Elene Akhvlediani.
Nia Gvatua—owner of Success Bar, one of Georgia’s first LGBTQ+ bars—at a drag party in Tbilisi. (Lea Greub)
Locals have nicknamed this lone block of Vashlovani Street—with its mix of bars, restaurants, secondhand shops, and former NGO offices—“100 Meters of Freedom.” It symbolizes how, in light of increasingly restrictive laws and violence, Georgia’s queer community has carved out a small yet joyous space for itself, a space that grows increasingly difficult to preserve as the community flees Tbilisi for safer cities.
Gvantsa “Pertso” Pertia is a 25-year-old UX designer and Vespa aficionado who first got involved in community organizing in 2019. Their now-partner, Mariam Kvaratskhelia, had just co-founded Tbilisi Pride, a non-governmental organization that aimed to host an annual queer march—the country’s first. The inaugural march had to be rescheduled from June to July due to security concerns after government crackdowns against anti-Russia protesters; meanwhile, the powerful Orthodox Church criticized the event for going “against the Christian faith.” Yet Pertia remembers those early years fondly.
“Everything was not perfect, but right now we think that it was the golden period for queer activism,” Pertia tells me, speaking in English. Other LGBTQ+ campaigns would flourish during those years thanks to European funding—including from UN Women and the Eurasian Coalition on Men’s Health—supporting research on Georgia’s queer history. The transgender rights group Temida and the online platform GrlzWave would also reach tens of thousands with their social media campaigns about period poverty, safe sex, trans rights, and elections.
When the Covid-19 pandemic began, Pertia recalls Tbilisi’s queer community quickly organizing to support one another, with volunteers distributing hand sanitizers and food. Then, in 2021, Tbilisi Pride held its second Pride march, despite counter-protesters attacking marchers before the event could get underway. Thousands of people, including at least a dozen Orthodox priests, had gathered nearby, chanting anti-LGBTQ slogans and burning a rainbow banner.
Vashlovani Street from above. (Lea Greub)
Pertia was there, and remembers some of the counter-protesters trying to physically seize the LGBTQ marchers. One grabbed Pertia before they heard a loud explosion, and suddenly felt they were “shot with something” to the stomach, which knocked them to the ground. More than 50 people, including human rights advocates and journalists, were injured. Pertia has offered testimony in a case that’s expected to be brought before the European Court of Human Rights.
“It was five years ago but it's still a really big trauma for queer society,” they say.
In 2022, Tbilisi Pride held a small festival and a film screening, but no march. The next year, counter-protesters attacked the group’s private festival, forcing Pertia and their friends to evacuate. Photos of thousands of men waving Georgian flags and setting fires at the festival circulated in the international media in the days after.
This rise in physical violence against Georgia’s LGBTQ+ community had deeper roots: It corresponded with a rise in hateful political rhetoric from the ruling Georgian Dream party.
Following the start of its full-scale war against Ukraine in 2022, Russia began exerting growing influence over Georgia. That December, the government adopted a gender equality framework that was lauded by international organizations, even as Georgia’s queer activists feared it erased transgender people from the public sphere by defining only two sexes. In May 2023, then-Prime Minister Irakli Garibashvili traveled to Budapest to speak at the Conservative Political Action Conference, where he warned of “coercing false freedoms” like “LGBTQ+ propaganda.” “Our main weapon and foundation is traditional, Christian, conservative, family values,” he declared.
Within a year, Garibashvili’s government designated May 17, long recognized as the International Day Against Homophobia, Transphobia and Biphobia, as “Day of Family Purity and Respect for Parents.” It also passed a “Foreign Agents" law requiring non-governmental organizations that received more than 20% of their funding from outside the country to register with the government. The law particularly impacted LGBTQ+, women’s, and press freedom groups that drew funding from largely European donors. It also adopted a “Law on Family Values and Protection of Minors” that criminalized LGBTQ+ "propaganda." The Georgian Dream party would go on to win re-election in a 2024 race widely regarded as rigged.
“Fuck Russia” written at a bus stop during a demonstration against the “Foreign Agents” law. (Lea Greub)
“We cannot talk about LGBT (issues) because it's ‘popularization,’” Pertia says, referring to the law banning public gatherings, displaying rainbow flags, and LGBTQ+ books and films. “You cannot get any medical support if you are trans because a doctor can go to prison for many years. I cannot have this LGBT tattoo on me because they can fine me,” they say, pointing to a rainbow flag on their upper arm.
As the risks of being out in public continued escalating, Tbilisi Pride decided not to host a celebration in 2024. The landscape for Georgia’s entire LGBTQ+ community grew even more challenging the following year, when the government passed a second law strengthening the foreign agents law.
“We are acting for Georgia's interests, not for foreign countries. I'm working for Georgia's queer community,” says Mariam Guliashvili, a strategic communications and advocacy officer at the Equality Movement, one of Georgia’s oldest and largest LGBTQ+ service providers. The new foreign agent laws have created “a lot of self-censorship practices,” she says, forcing many NGOs to quit. Despite cuts to the psychological support programs they once offered, the Equality Movement is still offering HIV/AIDS testing, counseling, and pre-exposure prophylaxis (PrEP) medication to prevent HIV transmission. “Every employee is now working mainly on a voluntary basis or on very low wages.”
Many LGBTQ+ Georgians, however, don’t have that privilege, and have sought asylum in Belgium or Spain. Guliashvili has decided to stay. “I'm not judging no one for leaving the country or giving up,” she says, “because we have been living in horror for the last three years.”
Artist and activist Lucrezia performing during a drag ball at Mtkvarze. (Lea Greub)
At the women’s and LGBTQ+ rights group GrlzWave, project leads Martha Geliashvili and Inga Ghoghoberidze say they and most of their colleagues have second jobs or freelance projects that support their activism. Nonetheless, when I sat with the pair on an unseasonably warm day in May at a cafe near Vashlovani Street, they told me GrlzWave was organizing film and book clubs focused on women’s and LGBTQ+ rights. The group is also using its online platform to publish videos about Georgia’s political prisoners, like journalist Mzia Amaglobeli, who was arrested at a 2025 anti-regime protest. “We are talking to them, family members, because propaganda is working and they are trying to dehumanize these people,” said Ghoghoberidze. All of these political prisoners remain behind bars.
As May spilled into summer, the teams at GrlzWave, the Equality Movement, and the former Tbilisi Pride found new ways to celebrate Pride Month. In June, dozens of LGBTQ+ organizers turned out for a “Queer Community Camp” organized by Pertia and fellow former members of Tbilisi Pride. After a weekend in the countryside spent practicing yoga and attending workshops on LGBTQ+ art and history, the organizers returned re-energized and ready to host a “Queer Corner” at an international music festival in Tbilisi in July. In social media posts on their new social media platform, Queer Initiative, Pertia can be seen beaming as they dance at the festival in a pink muscle tee that reads “I let femmes top me” and a rainbow bead-lined sun hat.
A fun and feminist debut horror novel that's equal parts delectable and disgusting.
From the moment I picked up a copy of the one-of-a-kind Carrying, I had a feeling it would be equal parts gaudy, sincere, and gross: The debut novel’s neon green cover is taken up by a perfectly plump roast chicken, its legs splayed, an egg cradled between them, almost like an invitation. To what, exactly, I couldn’t yet know.
After finishing it, I wasn’t surprised to learn its author Samantha Josephs is passionate about cooking and baking. “I own a blowtorch for crème brûlée and a cast iron weight to get the perfect sear. I’m not messing around,” she declared in a recent interview. In her novel, Josephs takes that love of food and channels it into her main character, Martha, an all-American fantasy of the beautiful, doting, husband-pleasing housewife. “I wanted to turn that on its head and write about something disgusting that’s somehow completely delicious,” Josephs said.
Carrying may be delicious to the reader, but not to poor Martha. Only a few pages in, we find out her life is less than picture-perfect: Her husband and teenage step-daughter have no idea that she is trans. She is deeply insecure, obsessed with her image and with keeping up with the Joneses. Afraid that her husband Leon will leave her (or worse) if he finds out she isn’t biologically female, Martha feigns a miscarriage and pretends to get her period month after month. She also knows she can’t conceive the child Leon desperately wants, so when her husband asks her to consider a fertility clinic, she plays along and appeases him, enlisting the help of her longtime friend Roger, who also happens to be her gynecologist and the only person who knows the truth.
Martha is precariously navigating this increasingly complex web when she starts getting sick, feeling sluggish, and acting moody, until one day—surprise!—she finds out she is pregnant. Leon is thrilled, yet Martha refuses to believe it until Roger confirms it is, indeed, a medical miracle. What’s even more surprising is when Martha discovers that the only thing that seems to keep her from feeling nauseous is a strange diet of rotting meat. By day, she continues cooking perfect meals for her family; by night, she drives around the empty streets of Los Angeles, looking for her next hit.
The anxieties in Martha’s story start early on—long before we find out she is carrying or trans. At times, they are painfully funny: “She’d give anything to be completely content wrinkled like a walrus, bramble-bush tangled mane, flab flying wildly in the wind.” For the most part, though, Martha’s internal dialogue is just plain painful. “Martha feels zero guilt for waiters, coworkers, friends, strangers, anyone else, assuming she’s a cis woman—that’s the entire point. She does not want to live life on the margins, forever, marked by some cruel joke at birth. By passing, she undoes her own monstrosity. Nobody looks at her differently, as less than, as a perverted freak, as something to spread scary stories about,” Josephs writes.
In a sense, Martha is a symbol for all women; for anyone who has existed in a female-identifying body seeking male approval. What else can we call the pressure to be conventionally feminine, to keep up with beauty standards, if not horror? What about the financial and emotional dependence on a spouse, the feelings of jealousy for one’s imaginary competition, the awareness of being seen as little more than a vessel?
For every patriarchal monstrosity experienced by cis women, the stakes are always multiple times worse for our trans counterparts. “Passing is seen as the goal by many trans women, not just for being seen as who you are, but also that it may promise freedom from the hardships of trans life,” said Josephs, who is also trans, in an interview. A semi-retired drag queen-turned-writer of podcasts, video games, and erotica, Josephs infuses her main character’s past with much of her own. “As I’ve experienced it myself, I’ve found that passing is also completely stressful and anxiety inducing. While it was hard before when I didn’t pass to not be seen for who I am, there is a new stress in passing and fearing that people will find out.”
Likewise, the better Martha gets at passing, the more she is afraid of being found out. Her perfect body has a creature growing inside of it, as an undiagnosed chronic illness takes hold, further transforming her body in ways out of her control. Experts on transgender medicine examine her, unbeknownst to her family: “Martha gets poked, prodded, and probed. They take samples of her blood, urine, feces, sweat, mucus, throat, hair, and vaginal discharge… She feels like a two-headed calf, groped and gawked at under a microscope,” Josephs writes. She also (secretly) seeks out alternative treatments for her undiagnosable illness, which her husband believes to be morning sickness; and increasingly indulges in her bizarre and outright disgusting cravings until all of it is too much to bear. Her seemingly perfect life unravels.
Carrying may be fiction—a particular kind of surrealist horror—yet it is also the stuff of study and analysis, and deeply rooted in reality. In 2019, Spanish trans philosopher and writer, Paul B. Preciado, wrote about the experimental nature of trans bodies, for better and worse, and about the right to their reproduction in his chronicle of his own crossing, An Apartment on Uranus. “Until now, we have paid for our gender, sexual and bodily dissidence with the genetic silence of our chromosomes. We have not just been deprived of the transmission of economic patrimony: our genetic patrimony has also been confiscated. Homosexuals, transsexuals, and bodies regarded as ‘handicapped,’ we have been politically sterilized or else we have been forced to reproduce with heterosexual techniques. The present battle to extend MAP (Medically Assisted Procreation) to non-heterosexual bodies is a political and economic war to depathologize our forms of life and to maintain control of our reproductive cells.”
Martha is as complex a character as any in literature. Like Madame Bovary, she is facing the realities of what it means to be a woman. The costs of becoming a mother, too, are excruciating, yet with the help of medicine and technology, she is able to reinvent herself into a life that’s equal parts fairy tale and horror movie. She is a human beset by the pressures of late stage capitalism, living beyond its structures of gender and power in all their messy glory. Perhaps the biggest tragedy is that only the reader—and not Martha herself—get the privilege to see it.
[post_title] => Book of the Month: "Carrying" by Samantha Josephs
[post_excerpt] => A fun and feminist debut horror novel that's equal parts delectable and disgusting.
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Meet the community of survivors and activists behind South Korea’s first national war memorial for civilians.
I was summoned to Korea by an uncle who died 19 years before I was born. Through a series of chance encounters and unexpected opportunities, I was led by his ghost from my home in New York City to the central lowland city of Daejeon. From there, I traveled 20 minutes southeast to the remote valley where I am nearly certain he was killed, according to family members, news articles, and historical accounts.
Arriving on a bitterly cold winter day in 2024, I saw hundreds of white ribbons fluttering handwritten messages into the wind; they marked the barren clearing as a site of active mourning. A painting tied to the bare limb of a maple tree depicted a defiant young woman wearing a white minbok, standing beside a river of blood. Black letters tumbled down the right edge of the canvas: Who is it? In the heart of the nation, black-bullet gunners.
A tour bus to transport the grief keepers to the Golryeonggol massacre site.
Once called Golryeonjae for the dragon-shaped ridge along its northern edge, this valley held a hideous secret for decades. At the beginning of the Korean War, U.S.-backed South Korean troops and local police executed between 4,900 to 7,000 civilians here in a 10-day frenzy of anti-communist violence. The victims included thousands of political prisoners who’d been held at Daejeon Prison.
In recent years, the 1.5-kilometer stretch of pit graves has come to be known in Korea as “the longest grave in the world.” But family members of the victims and local organizers call it Golryeonggol (骨靈), the valley where the spirits of the bones dwell.
They would know. In 2020, they dug through the earth with their own hands to retrieve bones, teeth, shoes, buttons, and U.S.-made bullet casings. It was the third exhumation—and the first organized by civilians, who’d become frustrated by the slow progress of South Korea’s Truth and Reconciliation Commission.
Exhumed remains at Sejong Memorial House.
Digging was their visceral initiation into the highest order of han (한): the embodied anguish and rage accumulated in the collective soul of my people, who have survived colonialism, a proxy war that killed an estimated 3.8 million Korean civilians in three years, and the cleaving of our homeland in rapid succession. It’s no wonder family members of the victims and local activists tend to this land as if it were a living being. They are its grief keepers.
Over the years, they’ve developed an elaborate communal practice of han puri—an externalized expression of han to release it from the body. By publicly healing a historical wound, they’ve also nurtured a fragile sense of possibility. After 26 years of organizing and six mass exhumations (the most recent in 2024), the Golryeonggol grief keepers are on the cusp of achieving their shared dream. In November, the South Korean government will prepare the mass grave site for the construction of Daejeon Peace Park, the country’s first and only national memorial to civilian victims of the war.
~
I made that first trip to Golryeonggol, accompanied by an interpreter and a friend, six months after my uncle first made himself known to me. I brought a suitcase full of fresh fruit, three gift boxes of dried persimmons, two bottles of makkgeolli, and a platter of fried fish. I’d come to perform a jesa, the ritual offering of food and drink Koreans do to care for the spirits of their ancestors.
Chun Mi Kyung (Chun Imo), President of the Daejeon Massacre Bereaved Families Association.
An offering of makkgeolli.
We were greeted outside a small building by an elegant matriarch named Chun Mi Kyung, whose father was killed in the massacre. Though her official title is President of the Daejeon Massacre Bereaved Families Association, I’ve come to think of her as the head grief keeper of Golryeonggol. Within minutes of our arrival, she and two other members of the association had washed the fruit, stacked the food on platters, and arranged carved wooden vessels on the floor.
When she noted the uncertainty in my face, Chun Imo (a respectful and affectionate word for maternal aunt, which she invited me to call her) gestured for me to kneel on the floor. She wrapped my hands around one of the vessels, filled it with makkgeolli, and moved my hands in three counterclockwise circles around the incense. Like an orchestra conductor, she guided me through two full prostrations before she, the other elders, and my companions paid their respects. After we concluded, the aunties cut up the fruit and passed the plates around as we shared our stories.
“Your uncle and all the people who were killed here, they are all my fathers,” Chun Imo said. “We take care of all of them just like we do our own dads.”
A jesa table at Sejong Memorial House, a forensic mortuary where the association performs regular ceremonies. The remains of 1,441 Golryeonggol victims are held here, as well as the remains of thousands of war crime victims from around the country.
During the 2020 civilian exhumation, Chun Imo and other members of the association discovered that many of the remains had been waterlogged and broken by construction.
“I slept alone in this house with the bones for days,” she said, sweeping her hands above the altar table to show where they had spread the fragments to dry. “But I was not afraid. At night I walk the grounds here with only the light from the moon. I take care of the spirits, and they watch over me.”
Prostrating before the spirits of the ancestors.
Later, as we said our goodbyes, Chun Imo grasped both my hands in hers and told me to come back for the community memorial ceremony, held annually at the end of June.
“I will see you here next year,” she said.
~
I traveled again to Daejeon this past June for the memorial, arriving at the clearing to find hundreds of people sitting under a massive white tent. Most were elders whose shrunken bodies told the story of wartime starvation. Paper lanterns dangling from surrounding trees cast a warm glow on faces ravaged by sun, time, and grief. Beneath the lanterns, a row of wooden easels held framed black-and-white portraits of the dead.
Son Bok Seong, whose husband's older brother was killed at Golryeonggol.
The opening ritual was a sangyeo procession, a Korean funeral bier. Four men carried a palanquin with a symbolic corpse of paper-cut chrysanthemums. A fifth man led them in a call-and-response song with a melancholy, strident melody. Late into the night, we sat with our restless ancestors through music, poetry, and shamanic rituals, plus a drum dance to accompany wandering spirits to the afterlife.
The next morning, we reconvened for Buddhist death rites, a Catholic sermon, and the formal jesa ceremony. I found my uncle in the center of the banner inscribed with the names of victims. Below it, a massive table sagged under dozens of platters piled high with traditional altar food.
A feast of plenty to remind the dead we know how they suffered.
~
It wasn’t safe to speak on the Daejeon Massacre publicly until the mid-2000s, let alone grieve its victims openly. In the absence of a formal peace agreement, the South Korean government waged an ideological war within its borders. It continues to this day under the banner of national security. Surveillance, disappearances, torture, and blacklists of anyone associated with leftists were once common enough that a generation of South Koreans blotted “red” relatives from their family histories.
A mourner covers his face.
The 1950 Daejeon Massacre was the largest in a vicious spree of civilian executions during that first summer of the war. It was carried out by President Syngman Rhee's military police, formally under U.S. wartime command beginning July 14. They targeted known leftists and people suspected of being sympathizers simply for being poor; the government had registered hundreds of thousands of them in a “political rehabilitation program” called the Bodo League in 1949. All told, the South Korean military police killed between 100,000 and 300,000 of its own civilians.
For decades, relatives of the victims, including my own, grieved in secrecy to avoid the scrutiny of successive right-wing dictatorships installed by the United States after the 1953 armistice. I understand why after meeting Chun Imo: Long after her father was executed, her eldest uncle was abducted by police and her brother poisoned by right-wing assailants. After years of being blacklisted, her youngest uncle died by suicide, her grandfather eventually lost his mind from repeated shocks, and Chun Imo herself moved to another town where no one knew her family.
Chun Mi Kyung (Chun Imo), President of the Daejeon Massacre Bereaved Families Association.
The long silence finally broke in 1992, when a left-leaning magazine called Mal (말, translated literally as Word) published the first exposé about the massacre. A novelist writing under the pseudonym Noh Gah-won interviewed a former police officer who had participated in the killing. He described how soldiers and policemen shot row after row of people until the valley was “a sea of blood.” Among the scenes he described, corroborated in subsequent years by eyewitness accounts, one detail roiled the magma of my han: U.S. soldiers had watched from the ridges surrounding the massacre site. One of them, Major Leonard J. Abbott, got close enough to take 18 grisly photos of the massacre in progress (declassified by the U.S. in 1999). They include a few shots of victims who look like teenagers, staring into the camera—immortalized on the threshold of death in the archive of a U.S. proxy conflict my high school teachers called “the Forgotten War.”
The Mal exposé might have also been forgotten if not for Sim Kyu Sang, an activist from the Daejeon region who was serving a two-and-a-half-year sentence at Andong Prison. Sim, who’d been incarcerated for participating in a building takeover during the 1990 Seoul student protests, grabbed the magazine from a pile of periodicals delivered to the prison when he saw the headline. Following his release a year later, he went to a senior center in the area and asked people who were old enough to remember. They refused to speak, other than to tell him they’d been warned by local police officers to report anyone who asked questions about the massacre.
Human rights activist Sim Kyu Sang, who now serves as the Daejeon bureau chief of Oh My News.
Sim Kyu Sang with Im Jae Geun, executive chair of the Daejeon Sannae Golryeonggol Countermeasure Committee and director of the Research Institute for Peace and Unification Education.
Sim wandered through the mountains for weeks until he identified the silhouetted mountain in one of the Mal magazine photographs. He walked into the valley and saw human bones and teeth scattered everywhere. The subsistence farmers who owned the land admitted they’d thrown out piles of human remains they’d found while plowing.
~
Hoping to halt the continued desecration of the victims, Sim attempted to publish a new story about the massacre for the next four years. No outlet would touch it until 2000, when both Mal and Oh My News published his citizen journalist report. Thereafter, he was inundated with phone calls from family members of the victims, who beseeched him to show them the site. In July 2000, he gathered the members of 16 families at Golryeonggol for the first time. They howled and wept for three hours.
In the years that followed, more people joined their kinship of grief, confronting together what no one person could bear to face alone. They became a living embodiment of jeong (정)—the Korean relational ethic of deep collective care, powerful enough to soothe our han. After incorporating as an NGO in 2007, the group evolved into a hub of local organizing for government accountability. Working in solidarity with similar associations across Korea, the Golryreonggol grief keepers have traveled to Seoul on numerous occasions to push forward the government’s tepid Truth and Reconciliation process. After a 2010 investigation, the commission concluded the state had acted illegally, holding itself and Syngman Rhee responsible for executing “incarcerated prisoners without due process solely on the grounds that they had a history of leftist activity or were suspected of sympathizing with the Korean People’s Army.”
Mourners gather to pay their respects at the Golryeonggol massacre site.
In 2016, South Korea’s government announced it would create a memorial peace park for civilian victims of the state from before, during, and after the war. It invited applications from local governments nationwide to host the project. Of the seven cities that submitted bids, Golryeonggol made a compelling case due to the scale of the massacre and the geographical range of the victims held at Daejeon Prison. Its team, led by Sim, was eventually selected by the national evaluation committee.
Like the Truth and Reconciliation Commission itself, progress on the memorial has depended on whether the national government leans right or left. In 2021, a large-scale excavation unearthed the remains of nearly 1,000 victims at Golryeonggol, lending new momentum to the project under the left-leaning administration of President Moon Jae-in. This came to a grinding halt under the far-right President Yoon Suk-yeol, who wanted to destroy the remains—a plan foiled by his impeachment.
Park Jun Su, whose father was executed at Golryeonggol.
Given their tumultuous journey, the grief keepers are understandably skeptical that they will live long enough to see the memorial. But Sim is confident construction will begin in December, now that the government has made a formal announcement and appropriated more than $48 million USD for it.
In the meantime, thousands of tormented spirits still need care. Knowing my uncle died violently and far from home, I feel deep gratitude for Chun Imo’s jeong with the souls of so many victims.
“Sometimes they cry out to me from hunger and sadness,” Chun Imo says.
When they do, she cooks an elaborate meal, sets the altar table with plates piled high, and invites the wandering spirits to eat.
A traditional ancestor table at Golryeonggol to mark Chuseok (Full Moon Harvest).
[post_title] => The Grief Keepers
[post_excerpt] => Meet the community of survivors and activists behind South Korea’s first national war memorial for civilians.
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[post_modified] => 2026-10-22 23:08:30
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Why I think looksmaxxers have more in common with trans people than they'd like to admit.
“Hi, nice to meet you, I’m Allison.” This is a sentence I have fought to say, yet despite my warm intentions, occasionally, what the other person hears is an out of tune piano. Their confusion doesn’t typically last for more than a breath, but to me, that brief pause can feel like an eternity.
I don’t believe this apprehension is always derived from hate; as humans, we constantly look for boxes to put people in, to help us understand one another. Maybe that momentary hold is from the contrast between my feminine name and my “masculine” voice. Maybe it’s simply my own internal struggles. But on days where I am not busy questioning if my rights have been taken away yet, I have a peculiar thought: Are trans people the only ones who experience this introduction anxiety, or do cis people feel it, too?
In previous decades, there were aesthetic archetypes—such as the tomboy, the metrosexual, or even the neon-racoon-striped-hair scene kids—that bent the gender binary, allowing room for desperately needed gradients of self-expression. Each of these have lost their cultural tether over time. Twenty years ago, what made a man and what made a woman appeared to be looser. Today, the culturally dominant aesthetics are the “clean girl,” the “gym bro,” and “stealth wealth.” The diversity of self-expression has been snuffed out.
This cultural shift has taken place alongside American politics using trans existence as an attention-diverting scapegoat. The societal pressures and heightened scrutiny placed on trans bodies has had some unforeseen consequences: Cisgender people are now suffering from more rigid standards of gender, too. Women athletes are being subjected to invasive sex testing for not fitting what society deems “woman enough.” The WNBA is being targeted as a political hotbed of discourse centered around the league not having a clear enough definition of what a woman is, resulting in routine harassment both on the court and off of it. Heterosexual dating has increasingly been framed by influencers and “experts” alike as something transactional, asking how the man can provide and what the woman can offer in return.
Over the past several years, there has also been a rise in lifestyle content targeted towards men centered around hustle culture, exuberant wealth, and extreme fitness—broadly referred to as the “manosphere.”
Within this sphere of influence is the “looksmaxxing” community, a collective of individuals who have game-ified their appearance and, nonconsensually, the appearances of everyone else. Originally a cross-section of manosphere and incel (involuntary celibate) content, this collective of mostly men is fixated on making themselves as attractive as possible, as determined by what looksmaxxers deem to be a “mathematical” formula. Their scale ranges from zero to eight (“chud” to “chad”), but the online forums are very quick to tell you that an eight is almost impossible to achieve—only one in twelve billion will ever reach that score. Do these men fear being a 4.5, I wonder? When they say “nice to meet you,” do they worry that someone might notice their canthal tilt is slightly out of the ideal five-to-seven degree range?
I find a strange amount of empathy for these fears: I am always working towards having people perceive me how I see myself internally. The journey of self-actualization is not an easy one, but whether looksmaxxers want to admit it or not, it's also one that we share. Looksmaxxers message each other on forums asking where to get a reliable peptides dealer, or what methods they can use to ascend the scale. Trans women flock to forums to do much of the same, seeking advice on how to do their makeup, or tips for passing. Passing and ascending might as well be synonyms. To “pass” is the coveted goal for many of being perceived as a cisgender woman, to “ascend” is to get one step closer to becoming the ideal man. There is more in common between us than even I’d like to admit. (Maybe if they weren’t so hateful, we could even form a union one day.)
I struggle to share this empathy willingly, as the poster boy for this culture is a 20-year-old influencer named Braden Peters, who goes by the name “Clavicular.” Peters currently has over one million followers on TikTok, and was even profiled by TheNew York Times earlier this year, where he was referred to as a “social media sensation” and “a beacon for a group of narcissistic, status-obsessed young men.”
This profile feels especially frustrating, in part for the legitimacy it has afforded both Peters and the looksmaxxing movement. In it, he does not shy away from expressing his belief that he is above the law. (A belief underlined by an image he posted to Twitter/X stating “men’s facial features may sway criminal sentencing.”) There is even a subsection titled “No More Politics" where the reporter dives into Peters’ use of racial slurs, as well as all the time he has spent with self-proclaimed white supremacists and influencers charged with rape and human trafficking, including brothers Andrew and Tristan Tate, arrested in Miami last July.
The looksmaxxing movement sits comfortably nestled under the manosphere umbrella alongside other hateful movements, such as blackpill and incel cultures. (In fact, many looksmaxxers often post using the same hashtags.) Like its sister movements, there is also a consistent pattern of violent escalation and dehumanization of anyone who doesn't fit within the system that looksmaxxers follow, ranging from cyberbullying to explicit forms of interpersonal physical violence.
This is, perhaps, the most crucial difference between transgender people and looksmaxxers. While arguably victims of the same cultural pressures, looksmaxxers are able—and choose—to identify with the aggressor. The most horrifying part to me in all of this is that Peters’ act of violence might not be a disqualifier for adoration, or continued participation in the most problematic aspects of the looksmaxxing movement. As looksmaxxing has unfortunately made its way into the cultural zeitgeist, I personally refuse to allow it to separate from its hateful, racist, misogynistic origins. But to create fundamental change, all of us must do the same: Peters’ case must be a wake up call to not de-sensitize ourselves to this movement, including the inevitable harm it has already caused, and the harm it will likely continue to cause if left unchecked.
Looksmaxxers’ relationship to gender expression and identity hasn’t ultimately protected them from judgement (and depending on how Clavicular’s case plays out, perhaps neither from consequence): The brutal scrutiny they’ve placed onto others has ended up reflected back toward themselves. Although most looksmaxxers are born male, society's expectations of men have gotten more extreme. Within manosphere culture, you must be fit, tall, and disciplined. So if you’re a short man who experiences joy, you might feel incongruent with your gender. Like many trans people, they, too, are experiencing a form of gender dysphoria, a psychiatric diagnosis that refers to the psychological distress that results from an incongruence between one’s sex assigned at birth and one’s perceived gender identity. Rather than an internalized journey, however, looksmaxxers continuously take in these negative external pressures and fire them back at each other—along with everyone else. Peters himself has stated that “men aren’t supposed to be happy.” The difference is that looksmaxxers believe others should suffer alongside them, and that often, they should ultimately suffer worse.
It's important to acknowledge that trans women are not immune to toxicity. There are niche corners of the culture centered around categorizing each other as “doll” or “brick,” which to some, simply translates as passing or not passing. Thankfully, this is not the dominating narrative for the trans community—it's actually the opposite: No matter where someone is on their self-actualization journey, whether day negative ten or day one hundred, our appearance doesn’t change that we are women. Anyone who says otherwise is rightfully shamed, quite the opposite approach to the one that looksmaxxers take, where it doesn’t matter how far on your looksmaxxing journey you are, god help you if you are 4.5 on their scale—or worse, a woman.
Still, the perpetual burden of incongruence isn’t something I’d wish on my worst enemy. We are all dolls, and deserve the grace of autonomy and self-expression. I hope looksmaxxers can also feel that warmth—from each other and themselves—soon. But to get there, they must first reckon with the collective trait at the root of their ugliness: hate. Because no matter how effective their peptides or hard the hammer hits their jawline, the only true path to their ascension to chad-hood might just depend on their finally embracing the opposite.
[post_title] => A Letter to the Chads from a Doll
[post_excerpt] => Why I think looksmaxxers have more in common with trans people than they'd like to admit.
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A day in the life of Misk and her Hello Kitty backpack at one of Gaza's makeshift schools.
Amid the ruins of destroyed buildings and the weathered tents that have become home for more than one million displaced people in Deir al-Balah’s camps, 11-year-old Misk walks alongside her classmates, carrying her Hello Kitty school bag. Along the way, she encounters just a few of the human realities of displacement: families searching for water and food; children carrying yellow plastic jerrycans as they take on daily responsibilities far beyond what they should or can.
But for Misk, this path represents the road to being a student again. She is feeling eager and excited. In her backpack, she carries a couple of things she had been without for some time: a notebook and a pen.
Since 2023, hundreds of thousands of children in Gaza have lost access to formal education amid the ongoing genocide and displacement of Palestinians. Israeli military operations have destroyed and continue to destroy many school buildings, while others have been converted into shelters for displaced families. Temporary learning spaces began popping up in early 2025 as teachers and volunteers transformed displacement tents into classrooms, adding desks, chairs, and blackboards so children could return to learning despite the ongoing violence. These spaces have offered more than a place to study: They have given children a chance to regain a part of their daily routines, a community of peers, and something resembling the normal life they'd lost.
Misk was in the third grade in May 2024 when Israel Defense Forces (IDF) issued evacuation orders—paper slips that were airdropped over entire neighborhoods ordering people to vacate their homes and leave town. In southern Gaza, her city of Rafah welcomed over a million displaced residents overnight, while Misk and her family ended up in the center of the Gaza Strip at Deir al-Balah, where they still share a single small room in her relative's house—a room where they all sleep, eat, study, and work, in circumstances that have changed nearly every part of their daily lives. Amidst all this, Misk’s new school at the Deir al-Balah displacement camp, while temporary, has become a refuge.
On a recent September day, Misk sits with eight other children inside a small room. There is no school gate, no morning assembly, and no bell marking the beginning or end of their lesson. Yet children still arrive at 9 a.m., with whatever basic supplies they can find. Some carry old notebooks or loose papers, and the few pens they have. They sit at simple wooden desks facing the board, enthusiastically raising their hands as their teachers—sisters Jumanah, 24, and Shahd Al-Naouq, 22—guide them through lessons in Arabic, English, and mathematics. The scene resembles an ordinary classroom, where children listen, answer questions, and learn together. But instead of concrete walls and a permanent building, their class takes place in a single tent inside a displacement camp.
This one-room school did not start from big plans or with help from a fully-funded institution. It started with a question. Last year, Jumanah was an ambitious university graduate with an accounting degree preparing to begin her career. But the war had changed that path. Job opportunities were scarce and starting a career in accounting seemed increasingly out of reach as she was forced to navigate the daily challenges of an uncertain future.
Then, earlier this year, Jumanah visited a friend whose relatives were hosting a displaced family. There, she noticed a young girl drawing. She could not stay focused for long. Every so often, the girl’s mother would ask her to help wash clothes by hand or with other chores, and she would get up. After finishing, she would return to her pen and paper and continue drawing.
“When I saw Misk trying to draw despite everything happening around her, I thought we needed to do something,” Jumanah tells me. “I felt that children had not only lost their schools; they had lost a part of their daily lives.”
She thought about the children living in the area and in the nearby displacement camps, probably tens of thousands of them, who were growing up without education or a place to return to after losing their homes. Then came her question: If children could no longer safely reach their school due to displacement, long distances, and Israeli bombardments, what if their school came to them?
Her sister, Shahd, agreed to be a part of it.
“We did not have a school or big resources, but we had children who wanted to learn. I said, ‘Let’s start with what we have.’ Even if the place is simple, the important thing is that they have a place to come back to,” Shahd says.
When they first opened the school, Jumanah welcomed their students inside their Deir al-Balah home, a small structure made of corrugated metal. She put a single table in a room and bought a small chalk and marker board. Shahd, an English literature student at the Islamic University of Gaza, joined her, and together the sisters spoke to their neighbors and asked for small donations to help pay for the necessary supplies. Before long, children from the neighborhood and the nearby camps came. Misk was among the first to join.
At that point, there were no more than ten students from six to 12 years old. Jumanah took on most of the responsibility for organizing the space and putting together lessons on basic Arabic, math, and other topics. Shahd, meanwhile, taught the children letters and numbers in English.
At first, their goal was not to complete a full school year or make up for everything the children had lost during the past three years of war. “The most important thing for us was to make children connected to learning and make them feel that there was still a place waiting for them every day,” Jumanah says.
As more families learned about the school, more children began attending. Within four months, Jumanah and Shahd were able to move to a newly designated area in their neighborhood, where not one but three rows of tents were set up as classrooms, allowing them to welcome even more children. They have since been joined by additional teachers, who also volunteer their time to teach the students.
A few simple wooden desks and learning materials were added, including notebooks, textbooks, pens, and another blackboard. Children sat in rows next to one another, with the chalkboard at one end, like a traditional classroom. It became known as the Al-Itqan (Excellence) School.
Al-Itqan has provided a refuge for children, but it is not separate from the reality of the camp—it is at its heart. Daily life continues outside its main entrance, as people push water carts between the tents, walking back and forth as they try to secure their basic needs. The children, too, also carry different stories with them—stories of the years they've lived without access to education.
For Misk, returning to the classroom has meant more than just the opportunity to sit in front of a book or complete an exercise. It has also been a chance to be with other children who have lived through the same experience. It has meant she can finally build new friendships; that once again, she can belong.
“I was happy,” Misk says about the chance to return to school again. “I felt like I was living the way I used to. I had a place to go, meet other children, and learn again.”
The school has offered something similar to other children, too, while still presenting challenges shaped by the realities of life in the camp. There is a twelve-year-old, Farah Al-Harazin, who always sits in the front, not because she chooses to, but because she needs to be close enough to see what’s written on the board. Due to limited access to medical care, she hasn't yet been able to get treatment for her weak eyesight. Still, Farah is now in a space that understands her needs and has allowed her to participate with the other children.
“I asked Aseel, ‘Where is Yousef? Why hasn’t he come for a few days?’" Shahd says. That's when Shahd learned that every morning he had to fetch water for his family living in the camp.
There is also Issa, who always comes to the classroom with an empty pot inside his backpack. The pot is his way of providing food for his family: Classes begin at 9 a.m., but every day, Issa leaves to the community kitchen (takiya) to fill the pot with whatever food is available at 10 a.m. He then brings the pot home before returning to class.
Among the children is also Ahmad Nasrallah, who lives with a kidney condition, making everyday life especially difficult. The stifling heat, poor ventilation, and lack of electricity in the classroom made the space feel exhausting and suffocating for him. During lessons, Ahmad often struggles to breathe and finds it difficult to concentrate.
Earlier this year, Jumanah tried to move him to a better spot, where some air could reach him without him having to walk out of the classroom. “Sometimes I felt that I was not only their teacher," Jumanah tells me. "I felt like I was a mother to them. Every child has their own circumstances.”
What the sisters-turned-teachers have witnessed in their students are not isolated cases, happening only in Al-Itqan. According to the United Nations and education organizations like Save the Children, there are around 700,000 children aged four to 17 who have missed nearly three academic years of in-person learning, while around 93% of schools in Gaza require major repairs or reconstruction.
But these numbers do not show the small ways that conflict and dispossession continue to shape the lives of children.
Three years ago, before the war, Misk’s Hello Kitty backpack was simply part of her daily journey to school. After losing her family home, she used it to carry the few clothes and personal belongings she could take with her. Today, she walks between the tents with the same backpack, carrying a notebook, a pen, and a bottle of water. The makeshift school that started with eight children has grown, too, and now welcomes nearly 100 students across its three tent classrooms.
After more than two years away from her old school, Misk now attends classes every day, with friends her own age.
Amidst so much, it's like she is living part of her childhood again.
[post_title] => The Things Children Carry
[post_excerpt] => A day in the life of Misk and her Hello Kitty backpack at one of Gaza's makeshift schools.
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Overnight, I lost some of my capacity to think and write. After fighting to get it back, I cannot imagine choosing to give those faculties over to a machine.
It started with a pain that felt—and sounded—like a crack of thunder at the base of my skull.
I had been prescribed a medication by my cardiologist that was meant to raise my blood pressure, which it did; so much that when I went to bed that night, I experienced a dangerous bout of supine hypertension, or raised blood pressure from lying down. Unaware of what had happened, I took my migraine medication as normal and went to sleep, not knowing that staying horizontal was the worst thing I could have done.
The next morning, I found myself unable to speak. I felt weak in my body, and even sitting up in bed took enormous effort. I lift weights regularly, but just bringing my hand to my head felt heavier than any deadlift. I have had migraines for almost 30 years, so I assumed I was just having one that was presenting differently. Over the days and weeks that followed, however, I felt progressively worse. I don’t remember the details well, but in my health diary, I diligently tracked every detail: My body was numb, my right side hurt, and I spent more time lying down than not. I also continued struggling to speak or even think. When I saw my headache nurse a month later, she was shocked by the state I was in. I was shaking and sobbing, trying to convey to her just how sick I felt. But while I have always had some difficulty with translating my thoughts into speech, all of a sudden, I found that my thoughts weren’t there, either. They were no longer trapped in my brain—I just didn’t have anything to say.
It took a few weeks for me to realize that the medication was to blame, and when I did, I stopped it cold turkey. Still, it took many months to recover. I wasn’t able to work or write unless the tasks were very straightforward and required no creative input, but even then, everything took me far longer than it once had. More than that, I suddenly couldn’t enjoy the things that had always made life worth living—reading, listening to music, watching movies. If an activity required any degree of focus or interpretation, it felt impossible.
After weeks of struggling to get out of bed or talk, I went to the doctor and asked for an MRI, which showed a white patch indicating brain damage. I took the results to my neurologist, who I regularly see for migraines and related disorders. He suggested that, based on the MRI and my symptoms, I may have had a transient ischemic attack (TIA), or “mini-stroke.”
In the months that followed, with aspirin and support from my medical team, I worked hard to be able to do the things I had previously loved, but still found no joy in them. Things that were once intuitive and essential felt insurmountable, like writing about how I felt or what I was experiencing. Reading—something that had provided escape and pleasure for my entire life—was newly boring. Relating things to others, even things I was ostensibly interested in, felt torturous; every conversation was excruciating.
My recovery has now taken years, but I am finally at a point where I feel almost as strong as I once did and as confident as I used to in expressing myself. Coincidentally, it is over these last three years that I have seen many people around me, even those I respect, struggle with the same things I found so difficult when I was re-learning how to think for myself.
Rather than being struck down by a neurological event, however, the main reason they have struggled with these things is because they have outsourced their faculties to AI.
There may be some application of so-called Artificial Intelligence, sometime, that benefits the lives of everyday people. Yet it is currently being forced into every area of art, marketing, and education, none of which have seemed to benefit. The Atlantic recently reported that film students (I studied film for both my BA and MA) now struggle to sit through entire movies. Many schools don’t believe that students can, or should, be assigned to read full novels. Many office workers increasingly use AI for every little task, while professional writers admit to using large language models (LLMs) like ChatGPT or Gemini to generate text instead of actually writing it themselves. (Not just ones you haven’t heard of, either: Nobel prize winner Olga Tokarczuk recently gushed about the benefits of AI, too.)
Advocates for LLMs promote them on the basis that they make everything easier, friction-free. But art is not supposed to be friction-free, nor the same as something anyone else could have produced with access to the right program. This is part of why it was so painful to lose my own ability to write after my TIA. Writing is how I make sense of the world, of my own thoughts, of what has happened to me. It is that combination of my own experiences, perspective and cultural input that makes my work unique. You might not like my work, or relate to it, and that’s OK: Nobody will ever write or create or interpret from the exact same place as another person. That is what makes writing worth reading, and what makes it worth the time and effort, not a randomly generated string of words. Learning and education, too, should be somewhat challenging, because the challenge is a significant part of what makes it so rewarding—something I would soon experience firsthand throughout my recovery.
At some point during the slow crawl through this period, I realized that the skills I’d lost might not come back to me without intervention and tremendous effort. I started to read books and articles again, very slowly, despite struggling to retain any information. I wrote just for the sake of it, even though it wasn’t as easy, rewarding, or even readable as it had once been. I started playing the piano, hoping that learning something new would spark something in me. I focused on studying Spanish. None of these things came easily, but they felt essential if I was to return to the person I had once been. Without my memory, without the capacity to be curious about the world, I was not myself. To come back to her, I had to force myself to do those things, no matter how difficult.
Maybe there were easier routes to normalcy, or at least a facsimile of it. Early in my recovery, if I had turned to AI, maybe I could have given the impression to my editors and friends that I was working at full capacity. But even when I was struggling most—even before I fully understood what had happened to me—it never occurred to me to use it. If anything, my experience made me double down on my aversion to LLMs, particularly in my line of work.
I personally boycott AI for a few reasons; the environmental impact is one. As an author, the wholesale theft of artists’ creative output is another, and something I find abhorrent. The end result of AI-generated text and images pretty much always sucks, and as a person who likes to look at and read things that don’t suck, that’s important. But I’m also old-fashioned: I write by hand, I paint, I take film photos, I listen to vinyl. I like things that are made by people, things that I can touch. I also think art matters, even when it’s imperfect or when it isn’t something I personally enjoy, because it was made by a person transmogrifying their experience into something that we can all share. “Art” made by a machine, then, is not art.
What I find most worrying, though, as a person who shares the world with so many heavy LLM users, is the impact on their brains’ ability to function—especially as someone who temporarily lost a degree of mine. In 2025, a study by MIT found that people who used ChatGPT to “write” showed less brain activity in neural networks associated with cognitive processing. The study divided 54 18- to 39-year-olds into three groups, and asked each to write SAT-level essays using ChatGPT, Google, or nothing. Using an EEG, the researchers found that of the three groups, ChatGPT users had the lowest brain engagement and consistently underperformed at “neural, linguistic and behavioral levels.” This isn’t really surprising news—after all, the LLM users in the study didn’t actually use their brains for the study. What is far more alarming is that their level of effort degraded over the course of several months, and they got lazier with each essay.
If you stop doing something because it’s hard, you will eventually lose the ability to do it entirely. Maybe turning to ChatGPT as a one-off for a late assignment won’t affect you, but the science shows that turning to it time and time again will. Think of other technological leaps, like the shift from writing by hand to typing on a typewriter or computer. Studies have found that handwriting activates a broader network of brain regions involved in motor, sensory, and cognitive processing. While I type for work, I have kept a handwritten diary since 2004, because I don’t want to lose that skill. In almost every area, doing things the hard way enables you to think and engage with ideas more deeply. Reading an article or a book yourself and determining its point will help you to remember the information in a more meaningful way than looking at a summary on Google.
There are many writers who are not luddites like me. There are writers, filmmakers, and artists who once produced great works without AI, who now vouch for the technology. But as someone who, overnight, lost some of their capacity to think and write, I cannot comprehend why a person would choose to give that faculty over to a machine.
Your thoughts are all you have. Your experiences, your unique way of seeing the world, your tastes. These are hard-won, often over decades of exploration. You may have to read hundreds of books or watch hundreds of movies that you don’t even like to arrive at what you do. If you’re a writer or artist, you might have to spend years being bad at the thing you love before one day, you aren’t so bad anymore. That work is worth doing.
When I was in the midst of my recovery, I was accepted into an artists’ residency in the dry, water-starved mountains of southern Spain, in an area currently blighted by wildfires. I was to spend two weeks in a house that was so isolated it took 15 minutes just to drive off the property on a dirt path. It took even longer to reach anything that resembled a store. This meant I was trapped, for two weeks, with no excuse to do anything but write. I was still very unwell, struggling to get out of bed and get myself together. But I didn’t want to let the opportunity pass.
There were several people in my residency—a poet, three other longform writers, and a photographer—in addition to the two people running it, who were both visual artists. I found writing very difficult over this period, but I managed to start working on some pieces that I was close to proud of. Each day, I would spend hours chained to my laptop just to produce something, even if it was something that would be edited or scrapped wholesale tomorrow.
It was on this trip that I gained new respect for the craft of writing—the fact that it is hard and takes so much time is part of its value. That struggle is how we figure out what we mean, what we think, what we really believe. I became more cognizant than ever of the importance of processing thoughts, words, and emotions myself. Prompting an LLM to produce text, meanwhile, does not require any effort, insight, or cognition whatsoever.
Writers and journalists who rely on AI often say that they only use it for this or that: only research, only editing, only outlining, not the actual writing. But it is all the writing. The time I spend swimming and working over an idea in my head is also writing, even if there isn’t a laptop in sight. When I am lazily cuddling my dog on the couch and suddenly realize how I’m going to write the next part of a story, I am writing. When I am in the bath and remember the exact right word for a feeling, I am writing. The fact that writing—that any form of art—requires so much of us is a part of what makes it so valuable. The fact that it is by a person, with their own experiences of the world, makes it even more so.
There are parallels to be drawn between the loss of cognitive capability that I experienced and had to work hard to regain and the degradation that cognitive offloading can cause in people who are overly reliant on LLMs. The good news is that being a loyal ChatGPT user doesn’t give you brain damage—at least, as far as we now know. If you want to, there is nothing medically stopping you from regaining the skills you may have lost. If you once knew how to do something that you’ve since spent months handing over to LLMs, it is likely that when you try to do that work alone again, you will struggle without the support of the machine you’ve come to rely on. What worries me more is the people who have never learned to do the work themselves at all, such as students and young people, who may never develop the skills necessary to do anything on their own. Teachers and professors are fighting to change this, and to get students to think for themselves, even tricking them with hidden AI prompts in exercise briefs, but it’s not enough. People have to want to do things themselves, and we have to foster a culture that supports and encourages this.
Those months I spent not being able to read, write, speak, or otherwise communicate the way I had always been able to were frightening and isolating. It took a long time to claw myself back, and it could just take another neurological episode to set me back months, or worse, again. I don’t take those regained skills for granted anymore, because I learned firsthand how much is lost when we can no longer form our own opinions or share our perspective with the world. Finally, I can take great pleasure in reading, in watching movies, in talking and writing about what I think and feel again. Being able to do something yourself, even and especially when it’s difficult, is rewarding. Seeing a paragraph or a painting, however imperfect, and knowing that it came from inside you feels good, even if it’s not where you’d like to be right now. It’s never too late to keep trying—no matter how difficult it is to get to where you hope to be.
[post_title] => In Defense of Difficulty
[post_excerpt] => Overnight, I lost some of my capacity to think and write. After fighting to get it back, I cannot imagine choosing to give those faculties over to a machine.
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A Palestinian nurse recounts an average shift at Gaza's largest hospital in November 2023.
I used to imagine myself as a nurse dressed in white, moving between patients' beds, one link in the chain of their healing. I always believed that nursing was a humanitarian message before it was a job. I believed—and still believe—that nurses are angels of mercy who fight battles and wars every single day, in every shift they work. But then came October 2023.
At the beginning of the war, I decided to return to the emergency department of Al-Shifa Hospital, the largest hospital in the center of Gaza City where I’d previously done my internship. Its specialized units received patients from across the entire Gaza Strip, and its emergency department, also the largest in Gaza, was divided into three zones: green for minor, yellow for moderate, and red for critical cases.
To take the job, I had to leave my father and four of my siblings at our family home in Zeitoun, a neighborhood in eastern Gaza City. Two days later, they too were forced to leave, and another two days after that, our house was bombed. In the weeks that followed, I lost many friends and colleagues. Each day, I felt like I was losing a part of my own life.
Maybe it was the encroaching death, or separation, or longing—but "Gentle Faress," as my mother always called me, soon became hard. At the emergency department, I carried torn limbs with my bare hands, the hospital’s supply of gloves rapidly dwindling as medical supplies weren’t allowed to reach the hospital. I put my fingers inside deep wounds to stop their bleeding. And I developed the nerve to inform a family that their son or daughter had died by telling them, "Take them to the morgue so there is room for someone else.”
~
On the third of November at 7 o'clock in the morning, I got ready to start another typical 24-hour shift. I had just woken from a two-hour nap—sleep that felt more like a half-waking—on one of the metal chairs in the staff changing room, with two of my colleagues by my side. I went out searching for any spot with a phone signal so I could call my mother and tell her I was still alive, and to make sure everyone in my family was still alive, too. I would have to lie to her as usual, telling her that I was eating well, that I was still strong, and that we were safe and under international protection because we were medical staff. But none of it was true.
Outside, a now typical scene met me: what appeared to be thousands of displaced people were spread across the ground in the stairwells and corridors of the hospital, sleeping on the bare floor without the slightest bit of privacy or comfort. Children were crying, maybe from hunger or cold, or simply in their search for any feeling of safety. I looked into people's faces, which tell tales, and saw deep exhaustion and tears held back. Maybe they’d lost their house, their family. Maybe they’d lost everything, and only they themselves had survived.
Finally, I spotted a few people standing by the hospital gate, holding up their phones. After a few steps, I heard a loud whistling and then a violent explosion nearby. Israeli warplanes were bombing a water truck and the people queuing to fill their empty gallon bottles near the hospital’s entrance.
For a split second, in the commotion, I truly believed I had died, that I would never see my family again; that if my phone rang, no one would be able to answer it.
When sound returned to my ears, I could hear the screaming and crying of children and women around me. Wake up. Hurry. Get up, my dear. Don't die. Like slaps across my face, these words brought my awareness back, and I ran back into the hospital as fast as I could.
~
In the emergency department, my role was to insert intravenous cannulas so a doctor could assess the patients and try to compensate for blood loss with fluids. But because the intensive care unit was already filled with severe injuries and had no space left, we began receiving ICU patients in the ER, as well. Understaffed and given the overwhelming need, this meant choosing those who we believed had the greatest chance of survival. I felt the pain of having to decide who lives and who dies as I moved from one injured person to another, my mind unable to absorb what my hands were doing. The sounds of screaming and crying, and the smell of blood and burned bodies, filled the hospital.
While I was running with an oxygen bottle in my hand, suddenly, a woman rushed toward me, seizing my hand tightly and kissing it. "Please help my son—he's breathing, please, he's alive, I'm sure of it, I have no one else, and if I lose him I will have lost everything in my life,” she pleaded. He was lying on the ground, blood pooling around him like a lake. I knew he was already gone, but I was caught between two fires: the fire of the mother and her grief, and the fire of the many other injured people who still needed care. My conscience insisted I do something for the woman as she looked at me with eyes full of hope and anguish. But I did not know how to tell her that her son could not be saved, so I whispered to the doctor that we needed to perform CPR. It seemed almost impossible given how little time we had, yet the doctor agreed. Afterwards, we told the mother that her son had not survived. Then we moved on to finish our work with the other patients, leaving her behind.
"He was going to be married soon, and happiness was about to visit us,” she wailed. “I was going to sing for him at his wedding. The most precious thing I had has died.” To this day, whenever I hear another story of loss in the news, I still picture that woman’s face, and her hand reaching for her son’s.
I wanted to call my own mother to tell her that I was alive. I kept seeing her image and her shadow, as if she were walking beside me, to reassure me. But after meeting that woman, after seeing her tears, I began to fear that one day, my own mother might be in her place.
~
Family members carried dozens of bodies out of the intensive care unit to the morgue, and those who’d suffered injuries were transferred to the inpatient wards for follow-up. Our department looked like an actual battlefield, with blood everywhere, and IV lines, syringes, and used equipment scattered about. Around 12 p.m., once we’d finished assisting the morning’s cases, I walked outside once again to try to call my mother. My hands trembled as I held my phone and heard her tender voice answering hello. But despite all my longing for her, I hung up. I tried another time, and when I heard her voice, I burst into tears and hung up again. I couldn’t understand why.
Maybe it was all simply too much for me to bear. The Israeli military had destroyed the infrastructure around the hospital. They had destroyed the water lines and the solar panels we used to generate electricity, which shut down the operating rooms, the ventilators, and the sterilization equipment. How could I watch thousands of people die, without any fault of their own, while we just ran from one injured person to the next without any medical resources or equipment? The military had blocked the medicine, painkillers, and sedatives sent by international organizations from reaching the hospital. There was no food. I kept a box of dates in my locker, and I ate one a day.
The hours passed and the situation grew relatively calm. We could only hear the sound of reconnaissance aircraft flying low, like the buzzing of mosquitoes in your ear, but much louder, and the gunfire from the warships at sea. They sounded increasingly close—a bad omen. Most of the bombing and the massacres took place in the middle of the night. This made it harder for ambulance and rescue crews to pull people out from under the rubble, and harder for medical staff to help the injured.
~
My colleagues and I sat in the emergency department at 1 a.m., talking about what we would wish for if we made it out alive. A radio station broadcast from the West Bank, and we tuned in hoping to hear some good news about a ceasefire, or anything at all. But all the news mentioned were the threats to storm Al-Shifa Hospital and the Israeli military plan to occupy the Strip.
We heard the sounds of bursts and fire belts striking the area near the coast that separates the north and south of Gaza City. After several minutes, some ambulances arrived after having been blocked by the advancing Israeli tanks. I assisted the dozens of injured people coming in, most of whom had burns or lacerated wounds across their entire bodies. I asked one of them where he’d come from. When he mentioned the neighborhood where my own family was, I lost my mind.
I ran among the injured and the martyrs, among the disfigured and the unidentified, searching for anyone from my family. I tried calling them but couldn’t get through, and I tried to go with the ambulances to see for myself, but the Israeli tanks had advanced so far that they’d split the Strip into separate parts. I went to the morgue to search among the bodies, thinking through the worst scenario I could imagine. I had no strength left in me, as if I had lost the last strand of hope in this world.
Heavy hours passed, but none of them arrived.
With the sunrise, I walked out to the street once again to try to call one of my brothers. After several attempts, Yasser answered, and with it, life returned to my body. His voice sounded both shaky and exhausted, as though he were forcing each word out. "We got out by a miracle,” he told me. “It truly was a miracle, but we are still alive and we are all fine."
Then the signal dropped and our call ended.
~
Eight o'clock in the morning, the fourth of November. I made my way back to that same hard, cold metal chair where I had woken up the day before, a lifetime earlier. I closed my eyes, but sleep would not come. The day played back to me in pieces: the water truck, the young man who was already gone before I ever helped him, his mother's hands wrapped around mine, Yasser's voice breaking at the other end of the phone. I asked myself what our sin was, why all these children and women had to die. But instead of an answer, I only had that chair, my exhausted body, and the hope that if I kept my eyes closed long enough, I might, for once, dream of something else.
[post_title] => 24 Hours in the Emergency Room at Al-Shifa Hospital
[post_excerpt] => A Palestinian nurse recounts an average shift at Gaza's largest hospital in November 2023.
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For many in the African and Caribbean diaspora, oral tradition is a survival tool passed down through generations. It is also largely sustained by women like my great-aunt Nerissa.
I credit much of how I live my life to the wisdom of the women in my family. From my grandmother’s tip to drink chamomile tea after dinner ahead of an early morning, to my mother’s insistence on cleaning chicken with vinegar and lemon juice; from learning to grow aloe vera at home to heal wounds in an emergency, to knowing that blowing air into an infant’s face will stop them from choking. All this is part of my inheritance.
While the benefits of chamomile are easily found on the internet, in my family, such knowledge was passed by word of mouth. In some ways, that’s still common today: For many in the African and Caribbean diaspora, oral tradition is a survival tool that is sharpened, exercised, and passed down through generations. Encompassing stories, songs, beliefs, and customs that preserve history, memory, and cultural practices, this tradition influences the choices we make and how we navigate the world.
In Jamaica, where my family comes from, oral tradition was as much an old practice taken from enslaved Africans as it was an act of survival, because they were forbidden from reading and writing. “During slavery, enslaved people were denied literacy and formal education, so oral tradition became the most crucial tool,” says Mickayla Whyte, a library assistant at the African Caribbean Institute of Jamaica in Kingston. “Oral tradition is the oldest form of traditional preservation, and it allows communities to remember who they are, where they come from, and even where they're going."
These traditions from West and Central African nations blended over time with Indigenous Arawak practices on the island. The survival of folklore like Anansi the Spider—about a mischievous spider who creates and escapes trouble with his wit—alongside the use of herbal remedies, like cerasee tea to lower blood pressure, exemplify the intergenerational strength of oral tradition and the syncretism found across diasporas. Across the diaspora, as in my own family, this tradition is largely sustained by matrifocality.
“In its most simplistic form, matrifocality means mother-focused,” Dr. Leighan Renaud, University of Bristol lecturer and author of Mothering and Matrifocality in Contemporary Caribbean Literature, tells me. “What that means is that women in their roles as mothers—not necessarily biological mothers—are central to the organization of families and therefore the organization of communities.”
Unlike patriarchy, matrifocality subverts modern ideas of familial and cultural hierarchy. Dr. Renaud notes that women are not so much at the top of a structure, but are instead the nucleus around which society operates.
In my family, this tradition was led by my late great-aunt Nerissa. She was witty, generous, and supportive, with a deep passion for sharing her faith with friends, family, and strangers. Born the fourth of 14 children and a mother to six of her own, Great-Aunt Nerissa was as beloved for her caretaking as she was for passing on family and cultural lore, like knowing not to whistle after dark for fear of attracting ghosts. Before she passed away this spring at 76, she took pride in knowing and sharing our history, and would always wrangle our large family together to tell us stories during holidays. She did this with little complaint, but now, in her absence, I recognize the enormous responsibility she held in carrying our family’s legacy for as long as she did.
Because of her, I learned how much my family sacrificed when they journeyed to the United States. I attended her naturalization ceremony when I was in middle school and remember hearing about all the preparation and studying she did in order to pass the interview and test. She was asked questions about American presidents, laws, and wars that I admittedly still don't know the answers to. As a first-generation American citizen, it left me with a profound understanding of the legal and cultural challenges so many immigrant families face as they attempt to embrace a country that doesn't always return the sentiment.
In the aftermath of grieving her, I also realize the important task of preserving tradition and passing on memory has now fallen to my mother, myself, and the rest of the younger women in my family. This is not a role that I take lightly: In the Caribbean, women like my great-aunt Nerissa are simultaneously regarded as family, community, and cultural pillars.
While they are revered as leaders inside the home, however, women and girls across the Caribbean still experience objectification in both pop culture and daily life, as well as violence, fewer leadership roles, and unequal power relations. Still, misogynistic and sexist ideals often clash with the values taught in many Caribbean homes, where maternal figures are respected for nurturing families. Through her research on child socialization in the region, Dr. Renaud found this paradox exists because “girls are socialized to become mothers, and boys are socialized to stay boys.”
“Even though there is this patriarchal ideology that's kind of pervasive everywhere, girls are being raised to parent,” Dr. Renaud says. “Not just to parent children, but also to parent everybody.”
This caretaking role has been thrust upon Caribbean women for centuries, persisting during slavery and beyond. As Dr. Renaud points out, for enslaved Africans, nuclear families couldn’t exist due to labor divisions that frequently separated men from their wives and children in the home. But the expectation that women should take on a more significant role in preserving and implementing cultural values and practices likely predates transatlantic enslavement altogether.
According to Dr. Renaud, some theories suggest that these truncated traditions derive from West Africa. “So much of who we were as Africans culturally was outlawed in slave plantations,” she says. “What that meant was that so much of the culture happened in the house, and if for whatever reason it's women who are in the house with the children, then it's the women who become responsible for making sure that the culture passes on.”
Whyte agrees, adding that historically, women’s sharing of a family’s oral traditions built community and combated oppression. Our ancestors persevered through stories, songs, and proverbs, using them to transmit lessons on survival, intelligence, and resistance. These practices have continued long after emancipation: When slavery was outlawed across the Caribbean by 1873, we still retained our oral traditions. Like other women across the region, my own foremothers bore the responsibility of remembering health needs, birthdates, and anniversaries, along with preserving skills like foraging, gardening, and cooking. All things necessary for remembrance and survival.
Take my mother’s mother, Grandma Carmen, Great-Aunt Nerissa’s immediate younger sister. Born in the south-central Manchester parish, she was raised in Kingston before emigrating to New York in the 80s at 30 years old. Like my great-aunt, Grandma Carmen has passed on adages like, “Make a friend before you need a friend,” instilling in me the importance of sustaining relationships. She also has shared stories about her childhood pet goat, inspiring me to imagine a slower, “country” life, which eventually led me to buy a pig that was raised on my grandfather's farm in Jamaica. Simultaneously, I’ve often noted her discomfort when telling stories about her childhood. Her life wasn’t an easy one: Grandma Carmen was raised apart from some of her siblings, and in addition to the oral traditions they inherited, they had to create their own form of play, teaching themselves most of the skills they needed to thrive despite limited resources and an unconventional upbringing.
After Great-Aunt Nerissa’s funeral earlier this year, I spent time with my grandmother and her sisters as they pieced together family stories I’d never heard of before, relying only on their memories to corroborate events. I was surprised to learn that some of my family members’ legal names were apparently misspelled on their registration documents when they were newborns. In a couple cases, the names I know them by turned out to be nicknames—my Great-Grandaunt Madgie is actually “Margarita” and my great-aunt Nerissa was legally “Norissia.” I also learned that my great-grandmother died of kidney failure and high-blood pressure around the age of 44 (though nobody seems to know how old she was for certain). It struck me how vital this information is to our family’s medical history, especially considering the ways we’ve combated illnesses since, often following tradition and our ancestors’ wisdom.
“When you live in the Caribbean, usually instead of going to the doctor most of the time, they just practice what they learn from their foreparents,” my grandmother Carmen says. She is 74 years old and lives in New York. “Each generation, they look at life from a different point of view. But then, because you, as a parent, know what works for you, you try to pass it on to your children.”
Oral tradition is a living tradition. As culture evolves alongside technology and other discoveries, so can the ways we document our memories, giving each new generation space to adjust according to our own experiences. I realize now that some advice passed onto me was not always given in the name of custom. In some cases, they were suggestions based on lived experiences that were not mine, leaving me with the choice to take what I needed for my own life and leave the rest to our family’s collective memory.
Still, new technology and methods of documentation could disrupt oral tradition and storytelling as we’ve known it for centuries, potentially causing it to become obsolete. Women’s roles in communities have also changed, as has women’s labor, altering traditional storytelling avenues and frameworks that were once central to family and community life. But Whyte argues we’re still engaging in oral tradition when we use technology, we’re just doing it differently.
“I think we're still sharing stories, because I think social media is still a form of preserving stories,” Whyte says. “If you're to create a video and put it out there, the internet is forever, it's everlasting. That video is going to always be out there, the story is still being preserved, so regardless of women having to work more, we're still connecting.”
Growing up, my great-aunt Nerissa and Grandma Carmen did not foresee a reason to document their experiences beyond word-of-mouth in their small, tight-knit community in Manchester, where traditions were passed vertically. As the family grew and dispersed, my mother’s generation embraced analog recording methods, exchanging Polaroids with those who lived far away and making home videos on VHS tapes that were stored away for years at a time. My generation obsesses over documenting big and small moments with our smartphones and sharing them online instantaneously, with the hopes that others might relate or take interest. We may have a tendency to overshare, but I believe it is fueled by a desire to build community beyond physical limitations, giving more opportunity to spread oral traditions horizontally.
I may be living a vastly different life from the women who came before me, yet we are mirrors of each other. And as long as we keep finding ways to pass on tradition from one generation to the next, our memories and principles, and those of the many ancestors who came before us, will live on.
[post_title] => My Family's Wisdom Is My Inheritance
[post_excerpt] => For many in the African and Caribbean diaspora, oral tradition is a survival tool passed down through generations. It is also largely sustained by women like my great-aunt Nerissa.
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A staggering and tender collection of short stories about Mapuche youth in modern day Chile.
Daniela Catrileo begins Piñen with an invocation. In a short preface, she asks the reader to imagine a river, powerful and pulsing; to imagine its sounds, its smells; to picture the way it moves, how the water snakes through the earth.
“Now come with me to the river,” she writes. “Give me your hand.”
For Catrileo, this invocation is both purposeful and personal. Piñen is a book of short stories about Mapuche youth, largely centered around girls navigating childhood and adolescence against a backdrop of othering: The Mapuche are the largest group of Indigenous peoples in Chile, where these stories take place. The author asks us to invoke the river as a path through “continuity and exile,” and chooses it, in part, for its significance to her family’s lineage and name. (In Mapudungun, the Mapuche language, Catrileo means “cut river,” a symbolism she interweaves throughout her work as a way of exploring how Indigenous people have been “fractured by dispossession” and displacement.)
Her request sets the tone for the rest of the book. “To understand the river, a sensory relationship with its body is essential,” she writes. “If we can manage to understand its song, its language, its movement, perhaps we can translate tomorrow.”
With Catrileo as our guide, we are pulled through Piñen’s currents, both gentle and violent. In one story, the narrator considers the death of a classmate, shot and killed just beneath her window. In another, a young woman remembers her brother, years after he’s disappeared, while stuck on the Santiago Metro. In “Warriache,” a woman reflects on her childhood friendship with another Mapuche girl, a fellow outcast named Yajaira, as a means of remembering and understanding herself. “When I imagine Yajaira, I have an easier time of seeing me, too,” she says. “I am trying to sketch my life, beginning with hers.”
Much of the book explores the idea of collective memory, and the deep wound that colonialism leaves behind. It is also an exercise in how we might begin to correct and defy colonial narratives by uncovering the truth hidden beneath them. (As Catrileo writes, “In the dance of writing, it’s important to open the wound.”) “Colonial shards produce colonial images: fragments that lodge like splinters,” she writes in the book’s preface. “The question of how to create images that fold and divert the colonial gaze runs through my creative practice. Though it may seem like an aesthetic question, it’s also deeply political. To interrogate the image is to interrogate the instruments of geopolitical domination that continue to operate.”
Piñen—which means “dust or grime stuck to the skin” in Mapudungun—is a book about identity and survival, and how they are inherently intertwined; how gender and race and class can change the shape of how a person perseveres. Specific to the Mapuche, it is about how a displaced people and culture can endure, even when forced out of their ancestral home to cities and other places unknown.
Yet while the stories are specific—all take place in Chile around the turn of the century, and follow characters trying and failing to shed the piñen that clings to them—the collection feels most universal in Catrileo’s deep understanding of the precarity of adolescence, and the feeling of gradually becoming who you are. Through this lens, its stories feel both exceptionally jarring and undeniably tender. Perhaps most unsettlingly, in “Pornomisery,” the narrator grapples with the violence that surrounds her: Next door, her neighbor Valeska—a girl around her age—suffers incestual rape at the hands of her father, who eventually kills himself after he learns his daughter is pregnant. Later, the narrator discovers her grandmother had been abused by her own father, and that her mother, too, had been abused by an uncle, something her mother only remembers much later in life.
Much of the story is about feeling helpless in the face of other people’s suffering, and for those who have suffered, domestic rage as a response to silence. “The kitchen was my mother’s place of liberation,” the unnamed narrator says. “I always imagined that instead of crying, she cooked… It was her way of escaping, of screaming.” As the narrator begins to go through puberty, she is hurdled towards something she feels both unequipped for and uninterested in. Still, she knows that the change is entirely out of her control. “Everyone went through the motions to make me a woman,” she says, resentfully. “But they never explained to us why, nor did they ask if I wanted to become one.”
Through all of this, Catrileo does not shy away from the darkest depths of her characters’ pain, particularly the pain of women and girls. But she also never abandons us in its pursuit: Just when you think you might be starting to drown, her hand is there to pull you out of the river, and back into the light.
[post_title] => Book of the Month: "Piñen" by Daniela Catrileo
[post_excerpt] => A staggering and tender collection of short stories about Mapuche youth in modern day Chile.
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Growing up, I was afraid to look at myself in the mirror. Then my friends helped me recognize the woman looking back.
A mirror might be an innocuous part of your life, but for most of mine, it was filled with the unknown. Each accidental glance meant confronting abstract shapes that filled me with dread. I knew my real reflection was buried somewhere underneath. But I feared if I looked too closely I still wouldn't be able to comprehend what I saw; a fear equal to the tales of Lovecraft.
I wasn’t born afraid of my reflection, but instead, taught to bear witness to my incongruence by the world around me. As a child, my gender was irrelevant to me until people started telling me how it was supposed to be; how it was supposed to look. I’d never wanted to wear a dress, had never liked the color pink, and had never cared for unicorns. But I chafed at the obligation that I had to be something at all.
Growing up, I found an unconscious comfort in a digital social life, where I was freed from those gendered obligations. I recessed into this world, filling my days with hours-long voice calls while playing video games with strangers online. I felt safe from the abstract fear I’d always carried. In the digital world, it didn’t matter what I looked like, or what body I was born into. I had full agency over how others “saw” me. This is the reason so many young trans kids find comfort in communities online: a separation from the physical. But I wasn’t ready to look inward yet.
My connections became tethered to a screen. Even when I did get together with neighborhood friends to play video games or watch movies in their families’ basements, the chances that I'd catch myself reflected were limited. The screen acted as bait so we wouldn't have to look at one another. For a kid who would put a blanket over their bedroom mirror, this was a pretty nice situation to be in. It was only when the monitor shut down that I could see the unknown looking back at me again.
This abstract discomfort I’d always felt finally took shape as I entered an all-boys high school. Standing in a hallway amongst a jungle of teen boys for the first time, I had only one thought: I’m not like them. Maybe every mirror I'd encountered before that moment was unfocused, and this one epiphany corrected my vision, revealing what was always buried on the other side of the mirror: myself. And now, I could see that shewas suffocating.
As realization and panic set in, I recessed further online. My only gasps of air came from my growing digital social life. Unlike the grand stage it often feels like today, the internet of my adolescence felt like a town square, where I could meet people I’d otherwise never would. Slowly, my digital circle expanded. Along with select friends from previous school years, I began building a community of trusted people across the country, picked up in different virtual lobbies. I’d spend hours on Skype calls with dozens of friends late into the night, talking about gaming and politics and movies. Much to the certain dismay of our parents, these strangers became some of my closest friends.
After I left the jungle, I was ripped away from the safety of that digital circle. College revealed that my digital life was just a band-aid on a much deeper wound. It was there I finally understood that I was trans, and that hiding this would not only leave my reflection suffocating, but leave me suffocating, too. This urgency forced me to find trusted people around me, and begin to transition socially—online and off. I changed my name to Allison across both worlds, and slightly altered how I dressed offline to feel more congruent with who I wanted to be. I became recognized at school and at work as myself.
In the process, something surprising happened: other people saw the woman in my reflection before I could. I began relishing in my newfound community, many of them other queer folk on their own identity journeys. It was healing to see, in living color, that I was not alone. They encouraged me to celebrate milestones; hormone anniversaries became an additional birthday worth celebrating. The thoughts and feelings I’d hidden my whole life became open conversations. Panic slowed, and the tightness in my chest and the weight on my shoulders began to ease.
To be accepted was like a breath of fresh air on the first warm day of spring. I wish it was simple enough to say this solved all my problems; I still feared my reflection and would flinch whenever I accidentally caught a glimpse. But occasionally, I’d recognize the woman looking back at me, and even be able to meet her eye.
What I previously thought impossible and out of reach was suddenly right in front of me. I wasn’t born loving myself, but I was taught how to. And the people who taught me this—the people who allowed me to be myself—are who I consider family now.
During the pandemic, I traveled across New York visiting state parks with two of these friends from college. We’d take long hikes together, and whenever we’d reach the top of a mountain, I’d finally feel untethered from a screen. On one of these hikes, I decided I didn’t want to make it to the peak. I let my friends go off as I clambered up a small boulder, two-thirds up the trail. For the very first time, I allowed myself to just sit and breathe. I was unburdened by the weight of my own fears, and my body relaxed, allowing me to take a nap on top of the comfiest boulder in central New York.
Those dear strangers online are now family, too. A year ago, we all traveled across the world to meet for the first time in Tokyo, Japan. It's a beautifully strange experience to finally meet people you’ve spoken to through a screen for around a decade in the streets of Asakusa. Yet it never felt like we were “meeting” for the first time; instead, we were celebrating our collective friendship. With roughly a dozen of us, we explored a new country together, visiting shrines and possibly every 7-Eleven in Tokyo. They even helped my now-wife plan her proposal to me on that very trip. (They were also the first to know about our engagement, almost a week before our blood families did.)
This community pulled me out from the other side of the mirror. Each person was a hand stretching out. Without them, I likely would not be here. I cherish my community so deeply, and even though life has taken its grip, we still find ways to talk and to see each other; we find ways to make time.
These days, I don’t cover the mirrors in my apartment. I’m not immune to the fears I once had, and will probably always harbor some form of self-reproach. But mostly, I am living with enthusiasm, despite how hellbent this country is on targeting people like me. With each new policy enacted, any moment of fear I have is quickly assuaged by a friend sending support or a loving message. At a time when I have less protections than ever, I somehow feel the most safe.
You don’t notice healing, you realize you’ve healed. Walking on the street used to require the mental anguish of shutting my peripherals off in fear of catching a distorted reflection of myself in a car or shop window. Sitting in a subway car meant closing my eyes to not see a blurry reflection in the glass on the other side. Until one day, it didn’t.
I wish I could go back in time and tell younger me to not look away. I know if she ever did look for long enough, she would’ve seen herself with a now common smile, surrounded by friends who love her. Just because she didn’t know who she was looking at didn’t mean it was some Lovecraftian horror. Sometimes, it’s just your reflection waiting to be recognized, waiting to be freed.
[post_title] => Befriending My Reflection
[post_excerpt] => Growing up, I was afraid to look at myself in the mirror. Then my friends helped me recognize the woman looking back at me.
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In the face of the country's plethora of problems, its artists continue on.
For as long as I’ve been alive, I’ve been aware of Nigeria’s potential.
Globally, this potential has largely been measured by the country’s natural resources, from relatively recent (and continuing) discoveries of rare earth elements, to crude oil, its greatest export commodity, and arguably also its greatest curse. Discovered some years short of independence from British colonial rule in 1960, oil has been the main cause of poverty and ecological degradation in the Delta region, often stagnating development in Nigeria’s other industries due to over-reliance on its “black gold”.
Then, there’s the potential of our country’s expansive 230 million-plus population, consisting of over 400 ethnic groups (or 500, depending on how they’re counted), with just as many languages. Equally important is our religious diversity, composed largely of Muslims and Christians, as well as practitioners of various traditional religions, the latter sometimes performed (quietly) alongside the Abrahamic faiths. Increasingly, if only marginally, there’s also a rise in irreligiosity and atheism among Nigeria’s youth, noteworthy because Nigerians are, on average, a deeply religious (pontificating and practicing) people.
There is also the potential of our diaspora. From the time of independence or even before it, the Nigerian diaspora has produced notable writers, artists, and musicians, a feat that has only grown as the country’s entertainment industries, especially in music and film, have exploded in the last decade. Notwithstanding the prevalence of a “scammer” stereotype, Nigerians in diaspora—especially in the West—stand out as among the most educated, flourishing immigrant populations across variouscountries. Last year, Nigerians abroad even remitted over $20 billion back to the country, exceeding its foreign direct investment. This statistic does more than simply demonstrate the economic success enjoyed by many Nigerians abroad; it offers insight into the intimate connections we have to the nation of our birth—or of our parents’ or grandparents' birth. It also shows that, where the government has failed to create economic conditions for the average Nigerian to meet their basic needs, Nigerians individually and collectively have offered the necessary support to fill the gap.
This, however, reveals a truth that has persisted from one generation to the next: Nigeria’s potential has not staved off its reality.
"I’ve found myself inching ever closer to a resignation that what Nigeria may mostly have in my lifetime is potential."
While the truth of any country exists beyond what data reveals, it cannot be entirely ignored. The numbers show that by most measures, Nigerians at home are collectively worse off than they were even a decade ago. Its GDP per capita, for example, has fallen to an estimated $835.49 this year; just four years ago, that figure was $2,057. Unsurprisingly, this has meant an exacerbation of extreme poverty, even as, notoriously, the combined worth of the nation’s five wealthiest people could put an end to it should they so choose.
Just as unsurprising is that Nigeria’s rate of unemployment remains high, despite the National Bureau of Statistics’ recent manipulation to arrive at the now low 4.3% figure, after surpassing 30% unemployment just a few years ago. Simultaneously, the cost of living in Nigeria has escalated to its worst in a generation, while rising security concerns, rife in different parts of the country for different reasons, have made it difficult to determine the sheer scale of crime nationally.
Put together, then, the potential of Nigeria is exponential. But the reality of Nigeria is we have a multigenerational kleptocratic political class with little interest in strengthening the nation’s institutions or improving the lives of ordinary people. Whatever improvements have been made—for decades—have been in spite of this class, and often by the sheer will of persistent individuals and grassroots community initiatives.
"Seeing the cultural and artistic production of Nigerians once again revived my belief that hope must be a practice."
You might not know any of this, of course, if you only frequent, or are attentive to, the country during its Detty December period, where the weeks-long partying never ends in the palatable parts of its Lagos metropolis. Even with hiked prices and complaints from Nigerians at home and abroad, who go less for the merriment than to visit family, the period shows no signs of easing. People anywhere, I believe, have a right to enjoyment despite whatever depths of despair we may find ourselves in. But when does this enjoyment start to become smoke and mirrors for the lack—and a desensitization to the lack—experienced by most Nigerians?
If it sounds like I am describing a country on the brink, my visits in the last two years, especially, have felt like I was witnessing it, too. This is the same country where many of our parents survived a late ’60s civil war and perennial eras of dictatorship through to the ’90s. And yet, the country today seems somehow less tolerable, because the last decade of governance has revealed even the smallest gains can be reversed; that this is not a developing country, but a regressing one.
Having frequently meditated on the state of the nation’s potential versus its reality, I’ve found myself inching ever closer to a resignation that what Nigeria may mostly have in my lifetime is potential—and a potential that will never even be minorly realized. What’s more is that the values that Nigerians ordinarily uphold—our ability to persevere, to get through, to make good of what is bad—is also ultimately what holds us back. Realizing this made me all the more hopeless, because how do a people resist over time and collectively when enough is never enough?
With all of this on my mind, last November, visiting Nigeria yet again, I was apprehensive; despite my own relative economic privilege, I’ve been enjoying my stays less, considering them more a labor of my particular family culture than a joyful homecoming. This visit, lasting less than 10 days, would be dominated by art and art makers across two cities—Lagos and Benin City. I’d also be making it to my ancestral hometown, Ughelli, in the Delta.
Yet for all my apprehensions, I found myself less fatigued by the state of the country than contemplative. While I would witness many swaths of society that spoke to the country’s regression, seeing the cultural and artistic production of Nigerians once again revived my belief that hope must be a practice.
Photographs from J.D. ‘Okhai Ojeikere's Hairstyles exhibit at MAMCO in 2001. (Photo courtesy of MAMCO / Wikimedia Commons.)
In its tenth year, ART X Lagos provided me with a swanky welcome as I encountered the who’s who of the Lagos art scene and beyond, the international fair now among Africa’s largest. Well-curated with numerous official and unofficial events, you would have to try to have a bad time. There were symposiums dedicated to the country’s different postcolonial art schools featuring the likes of Chief Nike Davies-Okundaye, founder of one of the largest art galleries in West Africa, named after herself. Then there was the live photography studio inspired by the late J.D. ‘Okhai Ojeikere, who captured Nigerians’ hairstyles as an artistic process, reminding us of the great value of art as a cultural archive.
In the midst of craftspeople, visual artists, sculptors—upcoming and established—there was also hearteningly, programming for children, inviting them to be art makers at a young age. Away from ART X Lagos, the Fela Kuti: Afrobeat Rebellion immersive exhibition, ongoing since October, was a gratifying celebration of perhaps one of Nigeria’s most notable cultural icons. Savoring it all, the only reservation I had was a familiar one—that more than just well-off Lagosians and visitors deserve access to such things, too.
Leaving for Benin City shortly after—the old historic home of the once powerful Edo nation, famous for the Benin Bronzes—I attended the inaugural Black Music Art Festival, established by the artist Victor Ehikhamenor. The fair showcased exhibitions and a remarkable new Sculpture Park, all done in tandem with local Nigerians and featuring a plethora of young artists, including Osaru Obaseki. A multidisciplinary artist who won the surprise first prize on opening night, Obaseki stood out for many reasons, but most notably to me, for her incorporation of bronze casting, traditionally done by men. Between her work and that of her contemporaries, innovation was everywhere I looked, including in the mixed media installation Invisible Pedestrians by Seidougha Linus Eyimiegha, AKA Mr. Danfo, and a studio visit with artist Derek Jombo, who blends surrealism with classical realism in portraits of postcolonial Nigerians.
Osaru Obaseki. (Photo courtesy of the artist.)
On the way to Ughelli, four hours by road from Benin, I traveled with a colleague turned friend, Agohogo Otega, a photojournalist and artist whose work I was finally able to purchase after years of eyeing a particular piece showcasing our hometown’s sunrise. Once in Ughelli, I spent time with a cousin I don’t often see, who has turned his artistic vocations from music to visual art once again. He shared his work with me as he told me of his future plans of pursuit.
I had not wanted the best Nigeria has to offer to trick me into succumbing once again into narratives of our potential, and it didn’t. But what happened in spending time with the full range of artists—from those who have international acclaim to those who struggle to afford the most basic items for their practice—was a reminder that while I’ve never had much faith in the Nigerian political class, if I’m to maintain my ties to the country as a whole, I cannot afford to give up on its people.
"Nigerians—and that is, ordinary Nigerians—refuse to sacrifice art at the altar of the country’s plethora of problems."
This includes their many achievements despite the countless factors working against them. Aside from art, even with inadequate infrastructural support, everything from agritech businesses to renewable energy companies are still advancing, continually exhibiting to those that control the nation’s purse strings what the future could be, long before they’ve invested in it. Despite the very real partly religious conflicts and sometimes ensuing violence that has occurred in various parts of the country, for the most part, we also do more than tolerate each other: I was born in Ibadan, and if you’ve ever been there, you know that one’s neighbors are just as likely to be Christian as they are to be Muslim (or traditionalists) and celebrating each other’s festivities is part of the city’s ethos. There are many more Ibadans in Nigeria than not.
It’s why the characterization of Western (and Western-minded)politicians and pundits who don’t understand (or intentionally misunderstand) the complex dynamics of the nation—quick to weaponize “Christian genocide” rhetoric—are speaking out of turn; there are too many additional factors at play to oversimplify our national woes. It is true that Nigeria has an ethnocentrism problem that has seldom been adequately examined in the context of power and privilege, akin to racism. But for a people who still embody the memory of our once independent precolonial nations, that we have never really had many leaders keen to unite us—and in fact have leaders even today who weaponize our differences—my sense is we often belittle our everyday congeniality towards each other. A congeniality I would like to see more of in how we regard each other’s cultural expressions.
Derek Jombo. (Photo courtesy of the artist.)
Given all the tragedies of Nigeria, I remain astonished at the art and the artists the country produces. For a country that is in such dire straits, that quite frankly, has so much for its ordinary citizens to be attentive to, and where institutional support for the creative industries is dire, our artistic production feels like a small miracle. Beyond this, Nigerian families are notorious, if stereotyped, as discouraging their children from artistic undertakings, preferring they go into “practical” fields—medicine, engineering, or otherwise. Of course, there is also the wide gap of privilege: The difference between what a wealthy child is exposed to in Lagos artistically, and what a child from the working poor will be exposed to in Lagos, or Ughelli, or Benin, is great—a distance that ordinarily only exacerbates my despair. But I’d be lying if I didn't admit that it also gives me hope that Nigerians—and that is, ordinary Nigerians—refuse to sacrifice art at the altar of the country’s plethora of problems, as something only to be pursued by the elite.
It is here that Nigeria’s potential merges with its reality. Whether accompanied with other “practical work,” or disappointing their families, or restricting themselves to smaller towns and cities, Nigeria’s artists continue on. Many, without fame and certainly almost no fortune, continue on. And little else can explain why, other than because they can’t help themselves. It is something they must do, even with no fairytale ending in sight, because the art itself is the point. This, above all, is where the unexpected hope lies among a people obsessed with reaping the fruits of one’s labor: that even still, in spite of our condition, creating itself, and not its aftermath, is what matters most.
[post_title] => Where Nigeria's Potential Meets Its Reality
[post_excerpt] => In the face of the country's plethora of problems, its artists continue on.
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Looking back at the courage of activists in decades past can help keep you from falling into hopelessness today.
One of my New Year’s resolutions was to quit “doomscrolling” at night.
It was going okay, until the Minnesota ICE raids accelerated in late January, and staying glued to my phone felt like all I could do to help from an ocean away. A few days later, there was news of yet another anti-trans bathroom bill passing, this time in Kansas, after over 600 anti-LGBTQIA+ bills were introduced across the United States last year. That same week, the Epstein files were released.
Previously ongoing for several years, my doomscrolling had instilled in me a sense of hopelessness that didn’t allow for any light to shine in. After I relapsed, I began to make nihilistic jokes about how dire everything felt, heavy bags under my eyes amidst my renewed nighttime habit. Instead of transphobic laws, anti-immigration sentiment, and sky-high rent existing as separate issues to be tackled with careful activism, all of the “bad” in the world morphed into one large, unintelligible blob, entitled “the horrors.”
Concerned about the possible damage I was doing to my brain, I sought advice from Melody Li, therapist and founder of Inclusive Therapists and Mental Health Liberation. They confirmed my fears were legitimate: According to Li, a “sense of despair” is one of the primary mental health impacts of doomscrolling.
“Social media feeds and the algorithm are designed to be addictive and to keep us scrolling to generate profit,” Li says. “[This] may manifest as feelings of depression, anxiety and hopelessness. When combined with loneliness—as these apps are designed to keep us isolated from community and real-world interactions—the despair may even heighten.”
I knew my anxiety and sense of hopelessness were increasing due to what was going on in the world around me. Unsure of how to stop it, however, I decided to turn to my work and community for guidance.
I am a queer journalist working on a long-term assignment about historic LGBTQIA+ activism, which includes researching movements led by queer British women. On one of my most fun work days, I read about a group of British women known as the Lesbian Avengers, who staged demonstrations against an infamous Thatcher-era law which banned discussion of LGBTQIA+ topics in schools. In 1988, as the law was debated in Parliament, the Avengers threw lengths of washing line over the House of Lords balcony, and abseiled into the chamber. They were immediately thrown out of the building, though some of the group were arrested and put in a “cell by Big Ben,” released several hours later. Despite their efforts, the law passed anyway, and was in place for 15 years until its repeal in 2003, but learning of the Avengers’ bravery and creativity in standing against it was galvanizing.
It also sparked a realization that I wasn’t achieving much by doomscrolling except augmenting my anxiety: If just one story could stir a hope I hadn’t experienced in years, what might learning about others do?
I began with two of the best-known examples of LGBTQIA+ resistance: the 1960s Stonewall Riots and Compton’s Cafeteria Riot in New York and California, respectively. Both were led by trans women and drag queens resisting police harassment and violence, inspiring Pride protests as we know them today. Wanting to better understand the wider movement, I decided to dig further into past and ongoing LGBTQIA+ demonstrations across the globe, and was astonished by the rich history that rarely ever makes it to the mainstream.
I learned, for example, about the prolonged fight for India’s Hijra (transgender and intersex, otherwise known as “third gender”) community to achieve voting rights in 1994. The campaign group, All India Hijra Kalyan Sabha, had already secured their right to vote after a decade of organizing, but in the 90s, “third gender” was still not an option on electoral rolls, forcing voters to choose between “male” and “female”. After years of further activism, the Supreme Court of India finally recognized “third gender” on official documents in 2014.
In Argentina, legal safeguards for LGBTQIA+ people were propelled by a group of twenty activists who stormed the Buenos Aires Constituent Assembly on August 27, 1996. The group carried large photos of Carlos Jáuregui, a gay activist who died of AIDS-related causes the week prior. Jáuregui was widely known for his HIV/AIDS awareness campaigns, for creating the LGBTQIA+ group Gays por los Derechos Civiles in 1991, and for attempting to sue the Archbishop of Buenos Aires for discrimination. He also organized the first ever Pride March in the city in 1992, which was made up of around 300 people, many of whom wore masks to avoid being recognized. (Buenos Aires Pride now attracts around a million people.)
During the August 27 demonstration, activists tracked down members of the commission, refusing to leave until they signed a statement of support for outlawing discrimination on the basis of sexual orientation. Days later, on August 30, the anti-discrimination clause was approved into the Constitution of the city of Buenos Aires, which became the first city in Spanish-speaking Latin America to legally protect LGBTQIA+ people from discrimination. Today, Argentina’s LGBTQIA+ rights are rated higher than the UK and the US due to their strong protections against hate crimes.
In Uganda, the LGBTQIA+ community continues to stand up against mounting discrimination with joy and courage, throwing “guerrilla-style” Pride celebrations despite some of the strictest anti-LGBTQIA+ laws in the world. At great personal risk, activists and allies alike have fought through several channels, including legally challenging the country’s anti-LGBTQIA+ laws. A group of Ugandan mothers of LGBTQIA+ people even took on the President in an open letter criticizing homophobic legislation, writing that it has been “horrific” to see their children “verbally threatened, physically targeted and abused for who they are and for whom they love.”
Especially touching to me while investigating these brave, public feats of political activism was the knowledge that they were so often preceded by decades of quieter community-based activism—like the lesbians in San Diego who stepped up to donate blood during the HIV/AIDS epidemic, the “buddy systems” which paired people living with HIV with an ally who “provided care, support and friendship when many people turned their backs,” the communities who fundraised for their vulnerable neighbors, and the friends who acted as each other’s chosen families. Many of these past activists’ strategies mirrored anti-ICE action in Minnesota, like noise protests, sit-ins, and mutual aid, demonstrating that in-person organization and community continue to be effective and powerful.
To curb some of these negative consequences, Li suggests allocating time limits on certain apps, turning off notifications, and setting boundaries with friends who might send you “doom” content. They also emphasize engaging with our communities—offline.
“Being in community helps us build collective power and systems of care that center our voices and needs,” they explain. “Doomscrolling will spiral us into isolation and a sense of helplessness… We must resist these tactics by taking part in community, where we can share resources, organize, strategize, and make change together.”
Li’s advice on harnessing our collective power has been especially meaningful to me, though I do still find myself doomscrolling on nights I can’t sleep. But more than before, I’m able to ease the urge to give into hopelessness by gaining strength from the past. I remember the women who abseiled into Parliament, the people who risked their lives dancing in the streets for Pride, the community protesting for trans rights today, and those who have bravely faced, and continue to face, the “doom” head-on. They remind me that the opposite of doomscrolling is action, and I have begun to act—to volunteer with my local LGBTQIA+ community, to amplify marginalized voices, to join local protest groups. Because of their example, I am able to turn away from the cold blue light of the screen, and instead find the light in the community around me.
[post_title] => How To Quit Doomscrolling When the World Is on Fire
[post_excerpt] => Looking back at the courage of activists in decades past can help keep you from falling into hopelessness today.
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