A FLY Girl's Guide to University E-Book

• Herausgeber: Verve Poetry Press
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Seitenzahl: 361

Beschreibung

'Toni Morrison once said, "If there's a book you want to read, but it hasn't been written yet, then you must write it." In 2016 four friends wrote the book they wish they'd had as 18 year-old women of colour going to study in the elite academic institution of Cambridge University. And what a book! Wonderful, fiery, radical and brave – it uses multiple voices and forms such as memoir, polemic, poetry, critical approaches – to document their experiences as women of colour in an institution that they had each discovered failed to validate or even acknowledge their heritage, their gender, their right to see themselves in their place of study. As a narrative and a testament, this patchwork book has been sewn together with extreme skill and moves through time as it moves through the different threads of its subject, addressing the curriculum, ways of teaching, visiting authors, student society and activism, with anger and energy and incredible readability. This book, its pace, its outrage, tells its truth in a way that is pretty much unputdownable. The experiences in this book rarely get to be heard and as a result they are rarely accepted as real. The book articulates both the feeling and the struggle to articulate the feeling of being in spaces built for others. As such, it is the book that many many more than it's four authors will want to read, a book that needed to be written and also needed to be published.

Leseprobe

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

Lola Olufemi is a black feminist and organiser from London. She graduated from Cambridge with a degree in English Literature in 2016. She facilitated FLY, the group for women and non-binary people of colour at Cambridge from 2015-16 and held roles on the BME and Women’s Campaign. She was the Cambridge University Students Union Women’s Officer from 2017-18. During her time at university she was heavily involved in student activism, working on, amongst others: the establishment of support for survivors of sexual violence, decolonising the curriculum and opposing the marketisation of higher education. She is currently the NUS Second Place on the NUS Women’s Campaign & sits on the National Executive Council. She is a masters student in Gender Studies who is interested in black feminist thought as a vehicle for thinking about the self and others and disrupting systems of power. She is currently writing a book on reclaiming feminism for young people which will be published by Pluto Press in 2020.

Odelia Younge is an educator and writer based in Oakland, California. In her life and work, she centers discussions about blackness and resistance. Odelia earned a B.A. in history and literature from Harvard and an MPhil in politics, development and democratic education from Cambridge. Her research has focused on black women collectives, historical memory, transgressions and resistance, and black male youth identity within spatial theory, critical youth studies, and radical black feminist theory. Odelia also has a background in peace education and children’s rights, developing programs in places such as Miami, Florida and the Greater Accra region of Ghana. She has led work across the United States on transforming education, decolonising systems, and building out spaces for black writers, while also organizing spaces for creative expression. Odelia is driven by her faith, radical black love, and the concept of creating yourself to freedom -- forgetting what your oppressors have told you is the truth, and building anew. Odelia is the co-founder of Novalia Collective, which focuses on storytelling, community building, and cultivating spaces that vanquish fear of uncertainty and the unknown.

Waithera Sebatindira is a Law graduate from Trinity Hall and recently completed her MPhil in Multi-disciplinary Gender Studies at the same College. While facilitator of FLY, and with the indispensable support of its founders and a group of committed women of colour, she expanded the group’s membership and reach. During this time, Waithera developed a black feminist ethic that continues to be informed by the work of inspirational women she reads and meets – especially this book’s co-authors. She went on to become the first woman of colour to hold the position of full-time Women’s Officer on the Cambridge University Students’ Union and, during her tenure, campaigned on behalf of woman and non-binary students on campus while coordinating decolonial efforts across campus.

Suhaiymah Manzoor-Khan is a writer, spoken-word poet, and educator invested in unlearning the modalities of knowledge she has internalised, disrupting power relations, and asking questions around narratives to do with race, gender, Islamophobia, state violence and decoloniality. She did her BA in History at Queens’ College, Cambridge, and MA in Postcolonial Studies at SOAS. Alongside a wider education from the epistemology of Islam and work of women of colour and anti-systemic thinkers from across the world, Suhaiymah regularly speaks and workshops on racism, Islamophobia, feminism and poetry across the UK as well as writing about those topics at her website, www.thebrownhijabi.com. Her work has been featured in The Independent, The Guardian, Al-Jazeera, BBC, The Islam Channel, ITV, Sky TV, TEDx conferences, music festivals, US slams and British Universities. She is trying her best to destabilise accepted narratives and disrupt the tendency to fall into binary explanations, insha’Allah.

Jun Pang is a writer and perpetual student, based between Hong Kong and the UK. She co-founded and edits daikon*, a creative platform for South-East and East Asian non-binary people and women in Europe.

PUBLISHED BY VERVE POETRY PRESS

Birmingham, West Midlands, UK

https://vervepoetrypress.com

[email protected]

All rights reserved

© 2019 all individual authors

The right of all individuals to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

No part of this work may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, recorded or mechanical, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

FIRST PUBLISHED JAN 2019

REPRINTED FEB 2019

Printed in the UK by TJ International

ISBN: 978-1-912565-14-6

ePub ISBN: 978-1-912565-76-4

Cover Art Design by Sheena Zhang

For every woman of colour who they will attempt to contain and conquer. They can’t.

For every ‘unacceptable’ person who causes discomfort simply by existing in places they were not meant to. Keep going, you are not alone.

For the voices always told to quiet down.

Seek ways to yell.

For the ancestors, for every one of us, and all of those yet to come.

NOTE FROM THE EDITOR

“I am slightly concerned... the market is so tricky and placing a book of this kind is not always easy... if you ever write a fiction book that would of course be a different matter - and if you do, please send it to me!”

Those were the words from a publishing company that we sent our book manuscript to after it was completed.

Wouldn’t it be nice to read a book about the experiences of four women of colour and at the end be able to say ‘thank goodness that wasn’t real’? That women of colour’s lives, our stories, are best digested by others as works of our imagination.

So we set it aside. Not because we didn’t believe in the importance of this book, but simply because life kept happening, and there was no time to convince publishing houses of the worth of women of colour’s words, when we were busy doing the work out in the world. And now it’s been three years.

Returning to these pieces three years later as editor and compiler, combing through each piece with new insight, I am aware of how much has changed, yet I remain, as always, deeply proud of this work. Not because it is a perfect encapsulation of who we are in the present, but because I am committed to growth, not just in myself, but in others as well. We must invest in a constant commitment to do better once we know better; to speak more life, once we know what death looks like. Alicia Garza, one of the co-founders of Black Lives Matter:

“I remember who I was before I gave my life to the movement. Someone was patient with me. Someone saw that I had something to contribute. Someone stuck with me. Someone did the work to increase my commitment. Someone taught me how to be accountable. Someone opened my eyes to the root causes of the problems we face. Someone pushed me to call forward my vision for the future. Someone trained me to bring other people who are looking for a movement into one.”*

It’s easy to see all the things we aren’t, to get anxious that there is so much to learn and become, and to get impatient with everything that happens in the middle. But we wrote this nonetheless because the time is always now to speak your truth. Our ‘someones’ that Garza spoke about were the other members of FLY and many other women of colour in our lives.

Everything we have written here were our truths, and everything we have written here has also been understood in new ways as we continue to change and to grow. My feeling that this book should exist has only intensified over these years, with each word of this book I have read and reread. I’m glad life took us back to these pages so that others, too, could find them.

-Odelia.

Notes

* Garza, Alicia. “Our cynicism will not build a movement. Collaboration will.” Mic. 2017

CONTENTS

Foreword by Priscilla Mensah

Preface by Odelia Younge

Dear FLY Girl - Odelia Younge

Part One: Revalations

The Breaking and the Making: Becoming Brown -Suhaiymah Manzoor-Khan

Pulling the Knife - Waithera Sebatindira

Shifting Perspectives and Challenging Representations - Odelia Younge

Why I’m Done Defending my Personhood: 3rd January 2015 -Lola Olufemi

Part Two: How We Speak and Who We Speak For

Academia and Unbearable Whiteness - Lola Olufemi

Language - Waithera Sebatindira

We Are Not Your Playthings - Lola Olufemi

Palatability - Waithera Sebatindira

Part Three: Radical Self-Love

Learning to Stop Saying ‘Sorry’ - Suhaiymah Manzoor-Khan

A Poem About Queerness - A FLY Girl

Crossing Borders and Self-Love- Waithera Sebatindira

On Cambridge and Being Grateful - Lola Olufemi

The Legacy of Toni Morrison’s ‘Sugar-Brown Mobile Girls’, or Teaching My Hair How to Curl Again - Odelia Younge

Part Four: Creating and Speaking Our Own

Space - Lola Olufemi

On the Need for Safe Spaces after Crossing Borders - Waithera Sebatindira

The Problem with Debate - Lola Olufemi

Describe Your Anger in Less than 500 Words. Use ‘Point, Evidence, Explanation’ - Suhaiymah Manzoor-Khan

Part Five: Becoming Individuals within the Collective

Collective Responsibility and Collective Pain - Odelia Younge

Dreams from My Mother - Waithera Sebatindira

The Muslim Woman’s Burden - Suhaiymah Manzoor-Khan

Where are All the Black Men?: The Painful Silence in Solidarity from Men of Colour - Waithera Sebatindira

Part Six: Intersectionality

From Overwhelmed to Empowered - Odelia Younge

Sandra Bland - Odelia Younge

Doing Womanhood as a Black Person - Waithera Sebatindira

When They Find You Unpalatable and Abrasive, that is When You're Doing it Right - Suhaiymah Manzoor-Khan

Part Seven: Breaking the Silence of Oppression

Borderless Activism and Solidarity with the Black Lives Matter Movement - Waithera Sebatindira

(Insert Assault on Black Lives) (Insert Year) - Odelia Younge

Who Do We Mourn? - Lola Olufemi

How to Get to the Other End of a Dark Tunnel - Odelia Younge

Holy Water - Odelia Younge

Part Eight: Reflections

Reflections on Decolonising the Curriculum - Lola Olufemi

Defining Myself for Myself - Suhaiymah Manzoor-Khan

A Year of Becoming- Odelia Younge

Perseverance - Lola Olufemi

Reflections Upon Three Years

Acknowledgments

Glossary

FOREWORD

You need to see yourself reflected in images of success to believe that they are possible.

At age fourteen, I made it onto a “gifted and talented” school trip to Cambridge University because someone dropped out. Weaving through the many 31 Colleges of the University, I tallied every black person I saw. At an ancient institution, historically a finishing school for the white male elite, I needed to know if I could imagine myself within its sandstone structures, populated by faces that didn’t look like my own.

Six years on, as Black schoolgirls point to a friend and me on the King’s Parade and shout “eight, nine!” it struck me instantly that they were doing the same as I had years back. Despite the brief nature of the encounter, I still wonder if the mere sight of us, two Black women— students at the University of Cambridge—, might have coloured a white-washed expectation, or shifted their imaginings of a future at Cambridge

I believe that this is the inherent power of visibility: it uncovers what might be possible in the face of what first appears structurally impossible.

The University of Cambridge is a total of its 31 Colleges, 7 academic Schools and many other parts. Within four weeks of my first term at Girton College, I realised just what that meant for the ability of BME1 students to reach out to one another and form part of a larger whole. At any one College, like my own, you could be one of two or three black students in your year, or College overall. In my College, I was one of four. That is, until the two exchange students returned to MIT2 to finish their degrees back home.

The realisation that the departure of two students could cut the Black representation within my institution by fifty percent struck me; I was not sure I could exist at an institution where my first and foremost descriptor might be “the Black girl”. FLY was born of that desire for an alternative descriptor. FLY took root because women of colour studying at Cambridge decided we wanted to ‘speak as women, because we are women, and do not need others to speak for us.’

I met Precious, my best friend, through FLY. Initially five black women in the Cambridge Waterstones Cafe, I think we did, in fact, believe that we were creating something momentous and worthwhile, something that could affirm black womanhood through conversations about race, gender and class. As the support system throughout my degree, FLY was and is a gift of political energy, love, motivation and sisterhood. Three years on, I am the first Black woman to be President of the Cambridge University Students’ Union, and I watch the collective voice and action of FLY Girls change the face of our institution, enriching the ancient hallways with every meeting and event. FLY demands that the existence and contributions of BME women in the academy be genuinely acknowledged and included at Cambridge, without superficial compromises.

As a working class, first generation Black British African woman, the University of Cambridge opened up a vast world of people, ideas and value systems. It also showed me the deep running flaws of our world, which pivot on inequality and its subsequent prejudices. Of course, there were those moments during my studies where casual prejudices snatched away my sense of belonging, and I found myself craving a space free from some diffuse sense of expectation I believed I had to meet on behalf of all Black people and women, everywhere.

‘FLY’ means Freedom Loving You which could not be more fitting given the constraining nature of stereotypes that women of colour often confront in a bid to show they are politically or academically as capable as their white counterparts. Whether it is the proverbial “race card” when women of colour call out prejudice, or the “quota” jibe, which seeks to discredit our place in academia, women of colour have to collectivise and build their own platform on which they can be heard. I am honoured to have been part of this trailblazing collective of women who set down building blocks for minority women who will arrive at the halls of Cambridge for centuries to come.

It was Audre Lorde who stated ‘Black feminists speak as women, because we are women and do not need others to speak for us.’ The essays you will find here are just that. They belong to the women of colour who defy the sometimes latent, sometimes overt, prejudice and discrimination which seeks to polarise, mystify, or demean their lived experience and equal membership in this world.

Women of colour continue to fight for the complex nature of their existence to be rendered as equally valid, real and nuanced as their white counterparts. Thus, I no longer agonise over what might become of FLY when my time within the Cambridge bubble ends. I know that as this political, cultural and academic fight continues, so too will FLY.

Priscilla Mensah, FLY Co-Founder

Cambridge, Cambridgeshire, United Kingdom, July 2016

Notes

1 BME stands for ‘Black, Minority and Ethnic students. BME students organized from the terms used in the UK census.

2 Massachusetts Institute of Technology; a university in Cambridge, Massachusetts in the U.S.

PREFACE

i will hold this space for your return.

i will hold this space because

everyone of your lives, is our life.

this poem is searching for

You.

You.

You.

….

this poem will find you.

– chibol (the immutable measure of black life.) nayyirah waheed

The words of nayyirah waheed sit with me as I reflect on the process of writing and editing this book with three other women of colour I am grateful to know. There is no amount of pages that exist that could capture the experiences we have all had in our lives. No concoction of phrases that could adequately describe the feelings and emotions that walk with us daily in the spaces we enter—whether because we are welcomed in them or not. It is through this writing, however, that I have found a language to share in that honours the spaces we create when we inhabit institutions like Cambridge. Living within, yet beyond, those spaces with the audacity to refuse their questioning of our existence. Whilst our backs bear the burdens that the world lays upon them, they are also the strength upon which we stand—alone and together.

The Oxbridge3 experience has a face and a narrative attached to it. That face is often the main character in a story of white cisgender males that society has laid out a path to traditional positions of ‘power.’ It is a narrative embedded in systems of oppression and serves as the proof-point for the maintenance of old boys clubs. These institutions are aesthetically beautiful places, but surrounded by ugly walls of insulation—ivory towers that allow others to look in and maybe enter, but never to fully participate. But that is not a complete narrative.

There are those of us who find ourselves, for a multitude of reasons, on the other side of those walls, within the ivory towers. Our existence is acknowledged as ‘progress’, but only as long as we play the role in the narrative that is written for us: studious, quiet and grateful, without intent to rock the boat. But we do exist. We are here. There may not be many of us, but we are very much present. These institutions must be made aware of this, even if they don’t expand their spaces for us. We do not seek equal representation to take part in systems of oppression, but rather the ability to freely create and become, without fear of obliteration.

In the summer of 2015 I began to reflect on my time at Cambridge as my studies came to an end. I was a graduate student who had found herself once more in the midst of a world shrouded in whiteness and its power and privilege. When I spoke to people about Cambridge, they too believed the narrative of the white, cisgender male who graduated atop the rest of the country, the world at his fingertips. When I shared stories of police harassment, marginalisation, and erasure, people either did not know whether to believe them as singular events, or they sympathised at a surface level.

But I am not the only one who has ever looked around in fear or frustration when the ivory walls closed in around them. And I am not the only one who has made it to the other side without being completely crushed by those walls. Yet, I also recognise that survival often comes from making sacrifices of self and being granted certain privileges. Through all of this, there are those of us who have to tell ourselves that it is okay if all we did today was survive.

This was the story I wanted to share.

At first I planned to write the story with a black male friend from my master’s program. I then thought I would write the story alone. As I began to write, however, I felt like something was missing. I was reminded a few weeks into my writing about FLY, the organisation for women of colour at Cambridge I had joined, and the blog in which those women had posted about the very topics I was penning to paper. I knew that without some of those voices added to my own, the telling would be incomplete. Even in this collection of four voices, the telling is incomplete, as there are voices we cannot and should not speak for. I hope that in the sharing of our truths others will do the same for theirs. Collectively we begin to form the narrative that is often pushed to the peripheries of institutions such as Cambridge. However, just as bell hooks wrote, it is in these margins—these peripheries—that we have found our power both individually and together.4

It is a deeply peaceful feeling to know that you have spent your time in academia honouring those who go unnoticed despite the work they do each day to survive and make spaces for us. I could never thank Waithera, Lola and Suhaiymah enough for sharing this journey with me. Sometimes I wonder why they accepted the idea to write this book, thrown out to them via a social media chat. I know, however, that they too had stories weighing heavily on their tongues and yearned to speak that truth to power.

In fact, they were already speaking those truths. We just had to find each other.

To Waithera, Lola and Suhaiymah:

I am honoured to be in your company. I am grateful to share language and stories alongside you all. Our voices have reached further together than they ever could alone. We have so many more stories to tell. May this only be the beginning.

-Odelia S. Younge, Editor

San Francisco, California, USA

April 2016

Notes

3 Oxbridge refers to Cambridge and Oxford.

4 hooks, bell. “Choosing the Margin as a Space of Radical Openness,” Yearning: Race, Gender, and Cultural Politics. Boston, MA: South End Press, 1990. Print.

A FLY Girl’s Guide to University

Dear FLY Girl,

‘Why don’t you smile more?’ they’ll ask you.

‘You’re one of the chosen ones,’ they’ll remind you.

So when the professors hand you syllabi with aged inked lists of

white men

Or the porter stops to ask you who you are,5

(Even though you told them yesterday)

(Do you even exist here?)

And you decide to say something

To open your mouth and speak the truths that

Weigh down your tongue

They’ll ask you what more do you want?

They’ll smile and tell you how grateful you should be

How anyone would want to be in your position

And pierce through your words with eyes that ask again

‘What more do you want?’

What do you do?

Do you celebrate the ability to play the game?

You learned the game faster, ‘better’ than everyone else

You learned to play the part.

How to manipulate the pieces

But as good as you can claim to be,

You did not create these spaces.

And as you learn it, they’ll let you win

So they can say

‘See, they did it. So can you.’

And your people will say

‘They sold out.’

Or, ‘They were the chosen one’

They made it out.

But for what?

All you learned was safety.

And how to look at a stranger in the mirror.

You learned how to speak the foreign tongue, sometimes better than

your mother’s tongue.

And you’ll wonder if you ‘made it’?

Or if they chose you because they thought they could make you.

You could drive yourself mad wondering if anything is ever earned.

You could slit your wrists every night in your nightmares as you

awake to the ‘dream’.

You could let every instant that they drag up

to distract you, hurt

you, make you spend even an ounce of energy on

feeling any less than human.

You can even say that you found no answers, so the solution must be

to not ask any questions.

(I have choked on my words, while I swallowed theirs and like acid

it ate right through my body and rendered my soul

catatonic)

But there is so much more.

You have to create yourself.

There are worlds beyond the confines of what they tell you is theirs

and what is yours.

Sharpen your oyster knives, dear sisters.

Slit the noose of white supremacy

Slice through the chords of patriarchy

Slash at every string that threatens to entrap your soul

Your spirit

Your world

Threads that would bind you down and make you choose.

Do not be burdened with their distractions.

You are more than an antithesis.

You can live beyond their grasps.

We are too busy being ‘FLY’ anyway.

We must learn to heal ourselves

And love again without force or fear.

That is one thing we have always known how to do:

Grow—again—in the midst of the most barren landscapes.

-Odelia Younge

Notes

5 Porters are the staff members who work in the porter’s lodges which are at the entrances of most Cambridge colleges.

PART ONE:

Revelations

and how strange too, that I speak in a language my

grandparents will never understand. that my accent is

unrecognizable, that I am white but for my name and colour.

that I use the same words they used so long ago to pacify

the natives, that I live in the shadow of a peace that did nothing

but burn; the beginning of history in its wake.

-Jun Pang

The Breaking and the Making: Becoming Brown

Suhaiymah Manzoor-Khan

It was 8am on A-level results day when my offer to study History at The University of Cambridge was accepted. Almost nineteen, still in my pyjamas, and very much in shock, I could hardly conceive at that time how monumental a change this would be for my life. Not just in all the ways it was supposed to be – not just because it was Cambridge, and not even just because it was university – but more significantly, because Cambridge was the first place I began to think of myself as ‘brown’.

Coming from a mixed comprehensive state school in cosmopolitan Leeds, I had rarely experienced being the only brown or Muslim person in a room. Yes, I was aware of being brown; aware of the in-group and the out-group, the difficulties my Pakistani grandparents faced in migrating and the difficulties my parents faced in remaining. I was aware of racist rhetoric, of racism, and the tokenism that followed my successes (often viewed as successes because I was brown and a Muslim). But on the whole, I had a comfortable ride. On the whole, my brownness, and, overlapping with that, my being Muslim, were just parts of who I was. I did Urdu GCSE, I wore a hijab, I used spare classrooms to pray at lunchtimes, and I made jokes about how similar we looked when my white friends came back tanned from holidays. Brownness and Islam were just aspects of my being; just asides to the main spectacle: me.

What changed at Cambridge was that for the first time they weren’t just asides, they were the main spectacle. I wasn’t just me anymore. First and foremost I was a brown Muslim woman. Arriving there was, as another woman of colour once phrased it, ‘like being dropped into a sea of mayonnaise’. Once surrounded and engulfed by whiteness, I not only realised my brownness, I was consumed by it.

I say all this in hindsight. I don’t think it hit me immediately. In fact, it took weeks of social anxiety to wonder why people interacted differently with me than they did with others. It took weeks and even months to understand that whilst I was not yet used to having to remember my brownness – to explain and justify it – it was what was first and most apparent to these new strangers.

When people were confronted with me they didn’t see the person I knew me to be. What they saw were two things: my hijab and my skin colour. I wouldn’t say that every single person treated me as such, but for the many who had clearly never interacted with people who were not white before (or who weren’t from private or grammar schools), or those who had gained their only knowledge of Islam and Muslim women from mainstream media, the feeling that I had first to prove my individuality and thus ‘humanity’ to people, was overwhelming.

It was overwhelming when I was simultaneously battling the fact that student ‘normality’ was not my normality. Drinking, clubbing, and hoping to ‘get with’ anyone were not high, or even on, my agenda. Indeed, being a Muslim before Cambridge had often distanced me from ‘normality’, but the student-stereotype was even further from what I wanted to do or be. How could I prove my humanity when I fell outside the norm of who was ‘human’ in that space? My abnormality made me Other. I was abnormal every time I asked for the soft drink option instead of ‘down[ing] it Fresher!’ Every time I went to bed early with time to pray rather than trying to soberly socialise with drunken peers in darkened clubs. Within days I felt ostracised and that I had made no friends.

Of course, this is to some extent, a common feeling for many new university students (had I only known it then). But added to the general experience was the fact I, as a Muslim woman of colour, was specifically excluded from being ‘one of the girls’. Though I laugh it off now, it will always perturb me that I was never added to the Facebook chat group set up for ‘all’ the girls in my college year. Of course there’s the petty side of it, but the point I’ve never managed to articulate to close friends was that for some reason, something prevented me – good or bad – from being included in the bracket, ‘the girls’. I was always seen primarily as “Muslim”, or ‘not white’, rather than ‘woman’ - because ‘woman’, in that space, was singularly perceived as white. The fact I was a woman who was brown and Muslim destabilised my identity. I existed in a space where I was invisible and confusing because I did not fit the tropes of white femininity. In simply being myself I became an anomaly.

Contrastingly, I felt strangely comfortable around many of the white men in my college. Surprisingly, I even felt at ease, like I was almost ‘one of the boys’. In many ways this is a credit to the men I befriended, however, it is certainly not a case of me arguing a misogynistic logic of women being more difficult to befriend. No. Instead I believe that my inability to fit conceptions of white femininity also played into this strange outcome. Under white supremacist patriarchy, white women are the only women deemed ‘women’, but are also subsequently sexualised for it. My being overlooked as ‘woman’ seemed to exclude me from the category of ‘potential heterosexual partner’ in these homogeneously white spaces then. Moreover the legacies of colonialism, orientalism and Islamophobia meant my racialised and hijab-wearing self was excluded from mainstream patriarchal perceptions of beauty, now, sexuality and femininity. In this troubling and convoluted way I found my invisibility as a ‘woman’ in masculine spaces was what made it possible for me to be disproportionately comfortable around white men; however, that same invisibility felt like uncomfortable hypervisibility in feminine spaces. Therefore, the often intangible forces which so shaped my first-year friendships and socialising were deeply informed by the fact I was not white.

Of course, these theoretical elements of my experience at Cambridge cannot explain everything, and in many ways they are things I have only considered in hindsight. However, what I was aware of at at the time was that the safest I felt in those first few weeks at Cambridge was when I was most able to blend in. This meant that for a long time I hid myself, to protect myself. I internalised the notion that what made me different was also what barred me from ‘fitting in’. I internalised the message that I inferred from my surroundings: that I had made it to Cambridge despite being a brown Muslim woman.

I became accustomed to being the only person who looked like me in my lectures, at formal meals and in the college bar. I tried to ignore that I was, and I tried to downplay it as much as possible. I handed in every essay on time, stayed very hush-hush about running off to pray throughout the day, always ordered ‘vegetarian’ rather than the more problematic ‘halal’. The safety that came with doing those things – with neutralising what made me stand out – made me believe that others had come to think of me as ‘one of them’ too. Except they hadn’t.

I never became ‘one of the girls’. I continued to feel I had to explain myself to porters when entering a college that wasn’t mine. I still had to have the extended ‘where are you from’ conversation: ‘Well, I’m from Leeds and my parents are British but my grandparents are from Pakistan, yeah.’ I still couldn’t really share stories with the same confidence that others could knowing they would be met with nods and agreement. My family, the norms I had never previously thought of as odd, my religion, food, and school all made me feel different. So I hid, as best as possible, many of these things.

In these ways, what I had perceived as safety was actually a loss. A loss because in quieting myself I accommodated prejudice rather than disrupting it and tried to blend in instead of asking people to confront their conceptions of gender, race, Islam or anything else. I allowed people to make me the exception. They made me the one who slipped through the stereotype net. I was likely perceived as the coconut or the not-really-Asian ‘Asian’6. Therefore, rather than asking for the people and institution around me to change their workings, the change I made was wholly to myself. I completely internalised what ‘fitting in’ looked like.

I never considered that success was not the colour of snow and that perhaps I could be my own version. Instead, I swallowed the idea that being a student, doing well in Tripos7 and rowing down the River Cam were all ‘white’ things and that in enjoying them I had become less ‘authentically’ brown. I swallowed the idea that ‘cultures’ were static, unchangeable realities and that certain traits and behaviours did belong to certain skin-tones. I myself began to believe I was the racial exception. In trying to fit in as a result of the alienation caused by my own identity, I hid my identity. I sold myself short. I ignored my reality rather than claiming it, and the people around me followed suit.

It wasn’t until a few months had passed that I began to realise the injustice of all this. Slowly I got tired of pretending and ‘fitting in’. I realised that no matter how hard I tried to be Cambridge, Cambridge wouldn’t let me be. I could sit in that boat at 6:00am but still feel unseen by the other women. I could be ‘taught’ to debate at the Cambridge Union but still make my opposition feel confident simply by virtue of not looking like them.8 I could go to a feminist talk on the harms of pornography but still feel directly othered by an audience member’s remark about it being more pertinent to liberate Muslim women who covered their bodies.

It all came to a head. I wasn’t fitting in. I couldn’t fit in. I couldn’t fit in because ‘in’ was external to me.

So instead I began to ask why so few people at the University of Cambridge looked like me. The wider system of education and social fabric of the country accrued the majority of the blame, but the work Cambridge was doing simply did not feel enough. I became the Access Officer at my college after realising the mass fallacy about ‘state school’ intake at Cambridge (that the majority of ‘state schools’ that got pupils into Cambridge were majority-white and middle-class biased grammar schools rather than mixed comprehensives like my own as I’d assumed). But my year in the post was difficult and disillusioning. ‘Access’ itself felt limited in scope. We emailed many schools but only those responded that already felt Cambridge was achievable. Only those responded whose pupils could easily consider leaving home for University and whose teachers needed no introduction to the ‘college system’. This was access, but access to the most accessible. Access to those whose accents would blend in here and whose skin tones would not show up. It was cyclic.

I felt helpless and naive. My mental health deteriorated, my belief in myself dwindled, my self-esteem was a far cry from where it had been in high school, and the fact nobody around me seemed to share in, understand or empathise with my experiences just added to the alienation. I had supposedly ‘made it’ to the ‘height’ of academic success, but at what cost to myself? Would I erase myself for a Cambridge education? Would I silence myself and learn to hate my own anger just to defend my own suffering? Yes, things were changing – almost any time I voiced my concerns I was met with ‘things are much better than they were a few years ago.’ But just because they’re better doesn’t mean they’re good. And just because they’re wider doesn’t mean they’re open.

For me it was no longer fulfilling or right to exist passively at Cambridge. No longer fair that my peers and teachers could be ‘blind’ to my colour – that I should hide from them stories of racism (and how their own reproductions of it hurt me), and institutional prejudices when my very getting here was against the institutionally-racist-odds. In fact, to be anywhere in a system not built for you is radical and painful. In hindsight I credit myself with this, for even whilst I was not loud about my existence I still existed. And often I was quiet about it because I was afraid and in pain. Not acknowledging that pain was itself an acknowledgement of how deep it was.

But soon enough, the time came when being quiet was not enough. That was how I had slipped under the radar; how I had allowed the institution to pat its own back. While it was not and never will be my sole ‘responsibility’ to make people change their stereotypes, worldviews or institutionally oppressive behaviours and processes, being loud about being othered became a right I had been denying my own soul.

I realised being quiet had allowed people to assume the reason I was one of the few brown or Muslim women here was because I was more like them than I was brown or Muslim. For as long as I did not shout about being brown, as long as I did not make people uncomfortable by excusing myself to go pray salah, as long as I hid the fact I was ‘other’ and believed myself to be less brown because I was successful, I did a disservice to myself. I let people pretend to forget I was brown and Muslim, let them forget there are systems of inequality, and that injustice is embedded in the fabric of British society. I let them forget I am ‘Other’. And I forgot too.

It was in the white spaces of Cambridge then that I consciously came to recognise myself as racialised – that I consciously became ‘brown’.

Paki

the first time my brother comes home from school and uses

the word Paki

i flinch

gasp

almost spill the milk

i tell him

no

that is not a word we use to talk about ourselves

what i do not tell him

what hovers in the space between my words

is that that is a word only other people use about us

a word to crush and hurt us

a word to own us

but not be owned by us

the second time my brother comes home from school

and uses the word Paki

my mother admonishes him

tells him how that word was used to break her bones when

she was a child

tells him the neighbours would think he had no respect

for himself if they heard him

what hangs in the air

unspoken

is that that is because Paki deserves no respect

that to say it

might remind them

that our skins are not white

and to our ancestors

this was never home

my grandfather pours over a three inch

pixelated photograph on a phone-screen

cradled in his muscular autumnal hands

hands that taught themselves how cotton was spun

in bradford mills where the lack of light blurred

young men’s sight

hands that held twenty one grandchildren

in a foreign land

to give them hopes and dreams

on these streets paved with gold

and lined with blackened terraced housing

that’s not what it looked like when i lived there

the words drop from his mouth

fifty five years heavy with the weight of not forgetting home

the third time my brother comes home from school

and uses the word Paki

i ask him why he is using it pejoratively

why he is synonymising it with filth and sub-par

he says that is the only way he has heard it being used before

the fourth time my brother comes home from school

and uses the word Paki

i smile

i lead him to the kitchen

cut out our tongues

slice them up

and sew them back together in new shapes

relearning the language of our grandmother

i take him to the mirror

show him how to wipe

these ivory-white apologies

from our skins

i stand him in the garden

tell him to look up high

let the sun

work her art

on his beautiful face

we spit out sorry

and vomit attempts at assimilation

all over the grass

for assimilation without acceptance

is not that

the rain comes

and washes the dust

from our hands

a colour of pain

and this

is what it is to be a Paki

Notes

6 Coconut’ is a colloquial term sometimes used to refer to people who are, ‘brown on the outside but white on the inside’ - problematically equating traits, behaviours and ways of speaking to racial logics.

7 The name for the undergraduate examinations at Cambridge university.

8 “The Cambridge Union”, is the oldest continuously running debating society in the world. It hosts weekly debates between well-known figures on contemporary and contentious topics often for no real consequential reason other than posturing and prestige.

Pulling the Knife

Waithera Sebatindira

It used to be easy to chart my path from apathetic black girl to angry black woman. Knee-deep in passive aggressive Facebook statuses and think-pieces with which I no longer totally agree, I believed that it was enrolling at Cambridge that made me vocally anti-racist. Then I stumbled upon a sermon I wrote in my final year of sixth form.9

In it I called for all of us students to use our privilege to improve the lives of others. To proactively call out racism in our friendship groups, abolish sexist rhetoric in our boarding houses, and refuse to tolerate homophobia. It’s hardly a revolutionary message, but I was struck by how much anger lay behind the sermon. I suddenly remembered how desperately I’d hoped the message would be heard by the congregation as I watched the women in my boarding house deliver it.10 It became clear to me that the reasons why I got so involved in liberation politics at university couldn’t be found purely in my time at Cambridge.