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Thursday, May 20, 2021
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com MICHIGAN IN COLOR
Every so often I hear about Hazaras
in Afghanistan. I just did last week —
it was mostly children who died. I
remember how Khaled Hosseini so
beautifully and eloquently painted a
heartbreaking picture of the recent
history of Afghanistan. and how
To this, students in classes at my
predominantly white high school
analyzed questions such as “why
did Hassan and Ammar get treated
so differently?” “What was the basis
of discrimination and subjection
for Hassan and his family?” Every
so often I hear about a blast in
Pakistan, and every so often I meet
a family friend whose uncle, cousin,
or sibling was killed in these blasts.
Just yesterday, I found out about the
Gilgit massacre of Shias, initiated
over a difference in Eid dates. I
stared blankly at my laptop screen
wide-eyed, shocked at the abhorrent
events, and shocked that I just heard
of it. I think about what makes me
different to freely practice my Shiism
here, until I wonder — what is free
when yes, I openly use a sajdiga for
my daily prayer, but still have to hear
the the classic ‘why do you pray on a
rock’ joke, still have to feign toleration
at events with the overall community
when I hear “we’re allowed to marry
Jews and Muslims, just not Shias.”
Every so often when I hear the
news, I turn to the only method of
denoting solidarity in this day and
age — Instagram social activism.
This metric is by no means indicative
of genuity, but is telling enough in
the sense that many Muslims will
post about all social justice issues,
until it comes to Shias. Ironically,
these are the same Muslims who
retweet “when it’s Muslims, the
world is silent”, as though oppression
is a competition in the first place.
For me as a Shia and my best friend
as an Ahmedi, there’s another layer
to that silence- when it is us, even
Muslims will be silent. The sense of
solidarity that ever so often arises
among Muslims is always amazing to
see, but a part of me knows that this
same unity will never be granted to
Muslim minorities.
It’s 6 a.m.: My mom has just woken
up. I am sitting at the kitchen counter
with a blanket around my shoulders,
coffee cup in hand while lectures play
on double-speed on my laptop. Finally
convinced to go to sleep, I set my
alarm in time for my 11 a.m. meeting
with
my
internship
supervisor,
exasperated at the reality that this
is what my life has become: zoom
calls, sleepless nights, days in sweats,
family arguments and isolation.
Sighing, I scroll through my social
media feeds, a nightly regimen, only
to find photos of people on vacation,
hanging out with friends, taking road
trips… having fun. These photos fill
me with anxiety — aren’t we still
battling a global pandemic? Shouldn’t
we be proceeding with caution?
However, I also felt tinges of sadness
and frustration because I am jealous
— I wish I could have as much fun, but
the pandemic wasn’t all to blame.
I am nearing my last semester at the
University of Michigan and I cannot
confidently say I have made many
good friends here. I have two to three
friends whom I speak to regularly,
meaning at most once a month since
the pandemic. Nevertheless, my
struggle to foster friendships and
have a “normal” college life did not
only start in March 2020 but has
been ongoing since the beginning
of my freshman year. My time at the
University so far can be best described
as a tug-of-war: on one end were my
parents, and I positioned myself at
the opposite end and extended a rope
between us. As I was the first member
of my family to attend college in the
United States, my parents and I found
ourselves in territories we’ve never
been in before: Who gets to make the
decisions about my outings? When is
my curfew? Who decides who comes
into my room and who doesn’t? When
my parents held and tightly pulled
on the rope, it meant constraining
the freedoms I found essential:
studying in friends’ rooms, staying
up late and attending events without
permission. To them, I was neither
an independent adult nor a needy
child. I had the responsibilities of a
college student but not the freedom
of one, an in-between space that’s
not one or the other. They tugged the
rope according to those expectations
and when I felt that pull, I yanked
even harder the other way. I often
lashed out in defiance of my parents,
tightening my grasp on the rope
and causing tension to build. But no
matter how much we pushed and
pulled, no matter how sore our hands
became and exhausted we grew, we
stayed in place and made no progress
in either direction.
I
started
questioning
ideas
supposedly
fundamental
to
my
identity: Why should I adhere to
these rules? What does it mean if I
didn’t? How did these rules come
to be? Is this something all Syrians
followed? What about all Muslims?
What does our faith say about this? As
I came into my own, I felt the weight
of these choices growing like rocks on
my shoulder. Often, I shared thoughts
or opinions that made my parents
worry, especially when I didn’t share
their views on some of the issues
most important to them. Instead, my
actions and ideas were sometimes
labeled as wrong and harmful from
approaches to social justice to even my
ideal career path. Additionally, due to
the intersectionality of my identities
— Syrian, Ismaili Muslim, immigrant
woman — there was no community on
campus that I closely identified with.
I became a foreigner in both Syrian
and American spaces, not enough
of either to completely fit in. Most of
my peers had a very different outlook
at things: College was a monumental
moment in our lives where we learn
to be independent and find ourselves
and dream about our futures. While I
did identify with their sentiments and
the idea of a transition, it was difficult
for me to adopt that perspective. I
could not be American enough for my
peers’ advice and I could not be Syrian
enough for my parents’ expectations.
Even other Syrian Americans I
knew had college experiences on
the complete opposite side of the
spectrum.
During the winter semester of
my junior year, I decided to take a
semester off because it all became too
much to deal with while also being
a student. It was unthinkable to my
parents that I spend this semester
anywhere but home, especially Ann
Arbor — a place that to them, was
full of bad influences. Staying home
presented its own challenges. Two
months into that semester, COVID-
19 hit and arguments erupted almost
every day regarding questions of
where I would be living for the hybrid
academic year. Even as I grew and my
empathy for my parents grew, it also
had limits: I still could not fathom
why they would not let me be on
campus. Now, instead of being home
for four months, I have been home for
a year and five months. This period
has only advanced my isolation
and further distanced me and my
friends. My social life was replaced by
occasional facetime calls and once-a-
month day trips I would take to Ann
Arbor for visits.
As I reflect on these past months, I
realize I may have acted out of a lack
of empathy — fixating on my own
negativity rather than considering
how my family was feeling too. I
dismissed large compromises and
efforts that my family had made for
assimilating into “the American life,”
like allowing me to go to my first
sleepover or inviting my friends over
for a surprise birthday party. I focused
too much on our disagreement and
overlooked the tremendous amount
of love we shared that allowed my
parents to sacrifice so much for us
with big smiles on their faces always.
While I positioned myself and my
parents on opposite sides of the rope
in this game of tug-of-war, I realized
tugging was not a way to freedom, but
letting go was.
After a dormant three years, English
singer-songwriter FKA Twigs has
given me the first song of my playlist
titled, “Banshee Vibes: I wanna rip my
heart out and scream, but in a good
way.” Her hit single “Cellophane,” an
extremely vulnerable piano ballad
centers around leading a relationship
in the public eye and the toll it takes
on one’s self-esteem and image. With
a Grammy Award nomination for Best
Music Video and named the best song
of 2019 by Pitchfork, “Cellophane”
unravels the raw human emotions
that envelop love, loss, and everything
in between. Twigs’ delicate and
soothing voice offers a stark contrast
to the song’s heart wrenching lyrics;
uncomplicated words dripping with
complicated feelings, pushing and
pulling at all of our hearts.
FKA Twigs opens “Cellophane”
with a series of emotional questions
seemingly directed at her former
lover, Twilight star, Robert Pattinson.
It seizes our heartbroken souls from
the start, ensuring Twigs is getting
her point across without drawing it
out while also engaging the slightly
psychotic—like me—who listen to sad
songs, especially at the height of their
joy. Littered with rhetorical questions,
accompanied only by the majestic keys
of a piano playing in D Major paints
Twigs in an anguished state, begging
the question “Why was I not enough
to be worthy of your love?” She goes on
to repeat the chorus twice more in the
middle of the song, pinpointing this
message of worthiness in the face of
adversity without explicitly stating it.
Talk about self-esteem issues, sheesh.
Throughout the remainder of the
song, Twigs uses very powerful, yet
simple diction. Using repetitive verses
like,
“They wanna see us, wanna see us
alone
They wanna see us, wanna see us
apart,”
She’s able to highlight the pain and
vulnerability that accompanies the
meddling and scrutiny of the world’s
selfish eyes. During her three year
relationship with Robert Pattinson,
she received constant criticism and
hate from Twilight fans who were
upset that Pattison was no longer
dating his white co-star, Kristen
Stewart. I don’t know about y’all, but
anything is still a better love story
than Twilight, especially the beautiful
Twattinson couple…actually, Pigs is
probably our best bet.The criticism
turned into racism, and fans all over
the globe began targeting Twigs’
biracial
background,
comparing
her to a monkey regardless of what
she did. She also spoke on how this
constant racist barrage made her
feel dysmorphic for close to a year
especially when she saw photos of
herself.
Her seemingly effortless word
choice and repetition gives the illusion
of simplicity whilst her groaning,
cracking voice bears the weight of
the world and all its problems. The
contrast between the delicate piano
playing, while her vulnerable vocals
shine through allows us to relate to
her relationship problems, even if
not at the same level as that of A-list
celebrities. Twigs’ word choice, while
reveling in the phrase “short, but
sweet,” is extremely impactful and
never overstays its welcome.
Living as the Exception
Stuck In The Middle... Alone
Transparency in FKA Twigs’ “Cellophane”
ELIYA IMTIAZ
MiC Columnist
LEENA SHARBA
MiC Columnist
MARIAM ODEH
MiC Columnist
Read more at michigandaily.com
Read more at michigandaily.com
Read more at michigandaily.com