The Island Alien

On Indian Arrival Day and Identity

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Once again, this time of the year comes around.
And once again, I have my thoughts on it.

Indian Arrival Day always fills me with bittersweet thoughts and a sense of loss.

We commemorate and celebrate the arrival of a large percentage of our current population. Our history would be so different if the East Indian indentured labourers had never come. Trinidad and Tobago would be a different place entirely.

And yet, this day just makes me think about my confusing feelings of identity. I don’t know my ancestors’ names. I know that my mother’s grandmother came here as a child on one of the boats. But which one? What was her name? What about my mother’s father’s grandparents? What about my entire father’s side of the family? I don’t know what I am, and though that might not seem important to some, it is something I struggle with often.

I think about how history is written and recorded. How it is twisted and changed. I think about all the labourers who were denied passage back to their homes. The ones who were bribed and lied to. I think about what it would’ve been like for them, living on barely enough rations, with only enough money left over to buy rum. Where do you think the association between Indians and rum comes from? In a time where depression, homesickness and loneliness were rampant, how else would they ‘heal’ the pain?

I think about the effects of colonization. The pain that still remains. How the white men told the Indian workers that they were ‘better’ than the African slaves,who were dirty and stupid, and how the Indians believed them because at least they were getting ‘paid’. How the white men tried their very best to keep the two races separated, instilling hatred and fear in their minds. I think about how that racist mentality still runs rampant through this country.

This day needs to become more than just a day to eat curry and dress up in pretty outfits.
This day needs to be a day of healing. A day when we can acknowledge and heal from colonization. A day where we hold workshops on dealing with pain and mental illness. A day where we can work towards undoing the racism between Indians and Africans that only exist because of white men.
When will these things ever happen?

So here I am, stuck in the middle of people celebrating all around me. Wondering if I’m having too many thoughts, or too little. Wondering who my ancestors were. Wonder how I can pay my respects to them properly on this day. Wondering if T&T will ever be able to get to a healing start.

The Island Alien

Last night, I had the pleasure of attending the last showing of “Takdir: the greatest true love story of Indian Arrival”, a play written and directed by Victor Edwards and researched by Shamshu Deen. It was a wonderful experience. The play itself was beautifully written and directed, the actors were brilliant, the set design was amazing, and the music was breathtaking. 

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Why I’m a feminist

What feminism is:

What feminism isn’t:

  • Hating men.
    That’s called misandry, and that’s definitely NOT what we’re about.
  • Hating women who want to stick to traditional feminine roles.
    Essentially, what we want is for women to be free to do what they like. If they want to be feminine, no problem. If they want to be involved in activities that are not usually considered feminine, no problem. This is about giving women the choice to be their true selves and not be deemed inferior to anyone else.
  • Ignoring the struggles faced by men.
    Hey guys, the patriarchy and toxic masculinity hurts you too.

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onward

Trigger Warning: This post discusses abuse and mental illness, and self-harm.

Today I am celebrating my 4 year anniversary of being kicked out of my parents’ house. I usually don’t say that to people, though. I usually say, “Today is the anniversary of me leaving home and living on my own!” and that’s met with many light-hearted congratulations. But it really doesn’t reflect on what I feel about the day. What I wish I could say is, “Today is the anniversary of me getting out of a very prolonged, violently abusive relationship with my father, and an equally long mentally and emotionally abusive relationship with my mother. It’s the day I legitimately almost died, and proceeded to spend a lot of time in and out of police stations, hospitals and was the beginning of many therapy meetings.” And what I wish people would say to me is, “I’m proud of you. I’m glad you’re still here.”
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