Latifa Daud on South Asian diaspora, decolonising colourism & examples of allyship
When I was nine years old, my friend who is Indian, like me, went to Fiji for a holiday. When she came back, she said to me “you’re so lucky you have fair skin”. I was shook. Never in my life had I ever thought about this topic. Never in my life had I even noticed. Fast forward to three years ago. My cousin who was three at the time came back from kindergarten and said “so-and-so said I’m not beautiful because I have curly hair”.
So-and-so was another girl in her class, also three years old, also an Indian.
Colourism did not enter the subcontinent with British invasion, but it reinforced a particular way of being. We learnt that another person’s existence was superior. After 400 years, it became internalised and washing this away, ‘decolonising ourselves’, is a hugely necessary task. I’m Indian, but I’m light skinned. I’m Muslim, but I don’t ‘look it’. I was born with a black passport in my hand and educated in a Christian school. I know when and how to wear my taught whiteness to get me what I need. As a child of the diaspora, I know how much power I have.
Our decolonisation process has barely begun, and it makes space for violence to persist. Both within our communities and in white spaces, we have all been in situations where someone has made a racist comment and no one has said a word. “Don’t make a fuss”. “Why are you always so serious? It was just a joke”. There was a time where our silence as people of colour in a white man’s world was a safety mechanism rooted in fear, and being ‘grateful’ for the ‘opportunity’ to live and prosper as migrants in this land. It’s not that time anymore.
In the video of George Floyd’s murder, I noticed the cop who stood by, protecting his colleague as he choked the life out of a Black man begging to live. A person of colour himself, I was expecting him to do or say something. His inaction shows how deeply our minds are ingrained to protect the oppressor. I don’t know anything about him – perhaps he is an equally twisted individual blinded by his power as a cop. Regardless, it’s a huge wake up call for what happens when we let racism slide, both with our friends and among our families.
When desis are confronted with our racism, we don’t take it lightly. “I’m not racist. Look at me.” In Aotearoa–New Zealand, we don’t give enough attention to marginalised groups. Maori are disproportionately represented in our prisons and unfairly targeted by police. Yet we too have in our midst the same sentiments that some Pakeha elders have about “why should Maori get free stuff when I work hard for my money?” It’s just easier to hide our racism behind brown skin. How easily we forgot our own fight for freedom and the trillions of pounds owed to us in reparations.
We need to give equal attention to calling out discrimination we face, and calling out the rubbish we hear among our own communities. We had ‘respect your elders’ drilled into us since we were born. It’s a beautiful part of our culture that encourages us to form meaningful relationships with those who will leave us with lifelong wisdoms. Some of us confuse this with shutting our mouth every time an uncle is being awful. They are not the same thing. Respect is a two-way street. The consequence of not having these conversations is forever injustice. Generations learn from each other.
One of the most beautiful displays of allyship I have ever seen came after the burning of Gandhi Mahal Restaurant. The Minneapolis restaurant, owned by a Bangladeshi family, was severely damaged by fire during the looting. Owner Ruhel Islam responded by saying “Let my building burn. Justice needs to be served … We can rebuild a building, but we cannot rebuild a human … The community is still here, and we can work together to rebuild … I am going to continuously promote peaceful ways and nonviolent movement, but our younger generation is angry, and there’s reason to be angry.”
I know we don’t get points for being allies, but I want to explain why this is powerful. To understand, you have to understand the South Asian’s relationship with their shop. Dairies, restaurants – a culmination of a decades long struggle. It began when they risked it all, left everything behind, “came to this country with $5 in my pocket” as they say. Long hours and bad working conditions lead to the purchase of the ‘shop’, where they were now their own boss. They made it in the white man’s world, and educated their children so they can make it further.
To then watch your life’s sacrifices burn and say ‘let it burn’, that is a deep and honest understanding of privilege. That is knowing that the cause is much deeper than property. That is acknowledging the pathway to property ownership he had access to. It’s feeling strongly that enough is enough, and knowing how to respond empathetically in a time of gross injustice. That is recognising that peaceful co-existence involves a responsibility to protect each other’s rights and freedoms. Look outside yourself and see how we are all connected, that no one will be well while our systems remain sick.
The word ‘loot’ originates from the Hindi word ‘lut’, meaning to rob. I won’t explain how a Hindi word about theft found its place in the English language. The looting of India contributed to the systems that allow for the murder of Black people we see too regularly. It also funded the systemic dismantling of Maori and indigenous institutions globally. Our struggles are absolutely not the same, but our wairua are intertwined. Recognise the disease, the lingering colonial legacy that lives within us. Work to free yourself from the disease because no one is free until we are all free.
Words — Latifa Daud
Image — Harry Were
