Sarah Shamy, Author at The McGill Daily

A Solidarity Shackled by History

Sarah Shamy — Tue, 26 Feb 2019 17:12:59 +0000

Outrage emerged in Ferguson, Missouri in 2014, when white police officer Darren Wilson shot and killed Michael Brown, an unarmed 18-year old Black boy. The grand jury’s later decision not to indict Wilson for his crimes served as a reminder that the American state does not care for and will not protect Black lives. “From Ferguson to Palestine,” shouted protestors carrying the rage and desperation of a failing system, “resistance is not a crime.” In the greater St-Louis area, Palestinians immediately took action and protested alongside their Black siblings. At the international level, Palestinians in Gaza also shared many tips and advice with Black protestors on how to cope with tear gas during protests. Stephen Tamari, a Palestinian residing in St-Louis, writes that on his way to the march against police brutality in Ferguson on August 30, 2014, he saw a Black protestor waving a Palestinian flag stating, “this is our intifada.” The solidarity between Palestinian and Black communities is concrete and powerful. However, even as they chant in unison, there is no way to deny that they are one beat off from one another. The long- standing relationships of solidarity between Palestinians and Black folks cannot and will not ever erase the long history of anti-Blackness in Arab communities.

In order to promote and maintain positive, long-standing, and genuine solidarities with Black people, we must, as Arabs, dedicate ourselves to Black struggles and resistances. It is not enough to show up at the protests with a sign declaring solidarity; Arabs must further commit to each and every campaign by ensuring their actions abide by their politics of solidarity and support.

This piece is dedicated to outlining the ways in which Arabs have contributed, profited from, and promoted anti-Blackness, as well as the ways in which such harm can be repaired. Much too often, the discourse on Black-Arab relations has been saturated with denial, defensiveness, and obfuscation. While Arab racism against Black people is rooted in a violent colonial racial hierarchy within Middle- Eastern, North African, and sub- Saharan African societies, we must not ignore the ways in which current Arab communities perpetuate anti- Blackness. It is also important to note that the broad categorizations of “Black” and ‘“Arab” are extremely reductive to the intersecting identities of both. There are many Black Arabs and dark-skinned Arabs who do not have access to the same privileges that lighter skinned Arabs do. Afro-Arabs are often excluded from conversations on Black-Arab solidarity, which ignores the many Black Arabs residing in Kuwait, Qatar, Oman, Yemen, Iraq, Jordan, Bahrain, Sudan, Egypt, Morocco, Algeria, Tunisia, Libya, and more. This article is mainly focused on the ways in which light-skinned and self-identified Arabs have contributed to an ongoing history of anti-Blackness against both Arab and non-Arab Black folks. Hence, for the sake of this article when invoking the identity of Arabness, it refers to non-Black Arab folk and when invoking the identity of Blackness, it refers to Arab and non- Arab Black folk.

In order to promote and maintain positive, long-standing, and genuine solidarities with Black people, we must, as Arabs, dedicate ourselves to Black struggles and resistances.

Historical Context: Arabian Trade of Slavery

The transatlantic slave trade started in the Mediterranean world, specifically in the Middle East. According to Duncan Clarke, whose book explores the history of slavery, Bosnia was the intersectional point wherein “Slavs [which refers to the inhabitants of the Eastern shores of the Adriatic Sea] were shipped as slaves by Venetian merchants, to supply new markets in the Islamic World.” The conquest of the Islamic World by Ottoman Turks in 1463 halted the exploitation of slaves originating from the European continent and coincided with the Portuguese colonization and exploitation of the West African coast, creating an entirely new channel of slavery.

This piece will take for granted Arab complicity in the slave trade, as it is has been widely researched and well-documented. There are many reasons why most scholarship on slavery has focused on the transatlantic slave trade as opposed to the “Islamic African” slave trade – primarily, the fact that the systems of slavery in Europe and the Americas transformed into an economic superstructure wherein the development of capitalism relied on slavery and plantations. On the other hand, the growth and flourishment of the Islamic World was not contingent on the structures of slavery – their economic development did not rely on the exploitation of slaves and was not practiced in a widespread fashion as it was in the West. In short, in the West, slavery was part of an external trade necessary for the development of the region, whereas in the Islamic World, it was part of a historical exploitation that does not constitute the heart of their economy. These nuances, while important, do not erase the acts of violence perpetrated by Arabs, as well as the way in which they profited off of forced and deadly slave labour. Before going further into this discussion, it is important to make a few side notes: the use of the term “Islamic Africa” refers primarily to North African countries such as Morocco, Algeria, Tunisia, Libya, and Egypt. While Islam is continent, the use of this term is part of a larger discussion of North African countries benefiting from a dual identity (Arab and North African) while also having access to a particular type of privilege that will be discussed later in the article.

Though the Arabian slave trade has its origins within Islamic Africa; more contemporarily, anti-Blackness can be found within most Arab communities.

According to Paul Lovejoy, a scholar of African and African diaspora histories, the Arabian slave trade culminated during the 19th century, and an estimated 9.85 million Africans were shipped out as slaves to the Islamic world between 650 AD and the 19th century. It is important to note that it was primarily women and girls who were abducted into the Arabian slave trade, to then be turned into concubines. The slave trade, while not as central to Arab economies as it was to Western economies, contributed to the long racist history that defines Arab- Black relations today.

Contemporary Anti-Blackness: Politics and Language

The existence and promotion of an Arabian slave trade are more than just historical facts. Its geographical and intergenerational effects cannot be ignored; the slave trade necessitated the forced displacement and dispossession of African peoples in the Arab peninsula and created a structural legacy allowing for anti- Blackness and the remnants of slavery to persist within Arab communities. Though the Arabian slave trade has its origins within Islamic Africa, more contemporarily, anti-Blackness can be found within most Arab communities. In 2017, it was discovered that Libya is profiting from a modern African slave trade. An estimated 400,000 to almost a million people were apprehended by the Libyan Coast Guard while trying to go to Europe and were put in “[overrun detention centres with] mounting reports of robbery, rape, and murder among migrants, according to a September [2017] report by the UN human rights agency.” Most of the detention centres detain refugees from Eritrea, Somalia, Sudan, Ethiopia, Nigeria, and other West African nations. These African refugees are then being illegally sold off as labourers in open markets. The victims of such cruel human trafficking endure brutal physical and mental torture. Moreover, some of these refugees are also forced into prostitution and sexual exploitation, while others are murdered by their smugglers. Though the complicit Libyan government is launching a formal investigation with the aim of repatriating refugees and migrants (mostly Black Africans) who are facing such abuse and exploitation within detention centres this is not an anomalous tragedy – it simply falls in line with much of Arab and North-African anti-Black history.

Today, many Arab nations have a high percentage of migrant workers who are are mostly African or Southeast Asian. The labour laws (or lack thereof ) in Arab nations work against these migrant workers and allow for extended discrimination and exploitation to take place. Mostly, as Al Jazeera reports, “they have little to no protection under the law and are particularly vulnerable to exploitation, including extraordinarily long working hours, withholding of salaries, sexual, mental, and physical abuse, and denial of travel.” The exploitation of Black people by Arab countries cannot be thought of separately from said nation’s profiting off of the historical dispossession of Africans. According to a 2008 Human Rights Watch report, “at least one domestic migrant worker in Lebanon was dying each week as a result of ‘unnatural causes,’ such as alleged suicide or after suspiciously falling from tall buildings.” Moreover, these widespread practices of subjecting African migrant workers to slave-like labour are largely ignored by complicit North African governments.

Anti-Blackness takes on many forms – from the horrendous human trafficking of African migrants and refugees to the expansion of colourism through the promotion of white beauty standards and the practice of skin bleaching.

Anti-Blackness in predominantly Arab communities also manifests itself through perceptions and conceptualizations of beauty. Susan Abulhawa, a Palestinian scholar and activist, argues that much of the Arab conceptions of beauty are rooted in anti-Blackness. She further explains that these beauty standards are essentially “[an aspiration to be what is] powerful and rich, and the images of that power and wealth have light skin, straight hair, small noses, ruddy cheeks, and tall, skinny bodies.” On a more concrete level, these aesthetic standards translate into dangerous skin bleaching and hair straightening practices, which have become widely popular. More importantly, these practices set the foundation for a social structure in Arab countries rooted in colourism and anti-Blackness. Afro- Arabs’ identities are systematically denied in such societies; further, the ways in which the nation’s channels of economy are tied to these colourist privileges further exploit Black Arabs. The toxic standards of beauty are not just racist ideologies – they permeate the very social and economic structures of the nation. In fact, rough estimation states that the value of the global market of skin bleaching is at around $10 billion annually.

The systemic discrimination of Black folks is deeply embedded within Arab countries, as seen through the current slave trade occurring in Libya. Anti-Blackness takes on many forms – from the horrendous human trafficking of African migrants and refugees, to the expansion of colourism through the promotion of white beauty standards and the practice of skin bleaching. In addition, such violence can also be found within the Arabic language itself, as seen through the use of the word ab**d. The root of the word – abd translates to “slave” and is usually accompanied by one of the ninety nine names of God to reference worshipping Allah. The usage of the word is not harmful in common names such as Abdel-Hakim or Abdallah, which literally translate into worshipper of the Sage One (referring to God) or worshipper of God. However, its plural form has been used to refer to Black people in derogatory ways, as denounced online by Black activists, some of whom started the “Drop the A-word” campaign. The slur emerges from the conflation of Black identities with “slaves,” transforming its original meaning into a derogatory one. The usage of this word persists today and is part of a much larger anti-Black racism perpetuated by Arab communities.

How to Move Forward?

Margari Hill, a Black educator based in Southern California, has spoken publicly about racial microaggressions that she has witnessed or experienced within Arab communities. She argues that the main factor prohibiting genuine solidarity between the two communities is “the lack of vision, cultural sensitivity and anti-racist training within our national and local organizations.” Anti-Blackness has been instilled institutionally into Arab culture, first by colonial powers, and later by local Arab leaders who profit off colourism and racism. Much of the harm is also passed down through informal channels of socialization. Once Arab communities commit themselves to unlearning the harmful behaviours that have been maintained and perpetuated by their systems of governance, they can start producing meaningful and genuine bonds of solidarity with Black communities, both locally and worldwide.

Arabs’ commitment to real allyship in Black struggle and resistance is not something that necessitates direct reciprocity. Much of our understanding of solidarity is transactional, and demands an exchange of support; however, if meaningful and long-standing relations of solidarity are to be strengthened, Arab communities must first show genuine support of Black communities that address and unpack the anti-Black histories in their own communities. When Black folks dedicate themselves to Arab struggles such as the Palestinian liberation struggle, they do so at great peril. While both Arab and Black people are marginalized under the same overarching structure of whiteness, Arabs, unlike Black folks, have profited off of such a structure, both historically and contemporarily. The dynamics of Black people supporting Arabs are radically different from Arabs supporting Black folks, as Arabs also have a long history of co-opting Black struggles and history for their own marginalization. While it is always beneficial to put two distinct histories in dialogue with one another or to draw on Black histories in order to develop narratives of solidarity, we must be careful not to reduce Black histories to binaries in order to fit a particular argument. Choosing to focus exclusively on the history of solidarity between Black and Arab communities ignores the decades of past and present anti- Blackness and is not the path through which solidarity is paved. In fact, it actively marginalizes Black folks in Arab communities.

Much of our understanding of solidarity is transactional, and demands an exchange of support; however, if meaningful and long-standing relations of solidarity are to be strengthened, Arab communities must first show genuine support of Black communities that address and unpack the anti-Black histories in their own communities.

This does not mean that Black-Arab solidarity is impossible, but simply that Arabs cannot continue to engage with a discourse on solidarity without unpacking the racial prejudices that they have been socialized to perpetuate. It is equally important not to navigate this topic with what could be considered the Arab version of “white guilt” – while we should feel both guilt and shame about these histories and realities, they should not be at the forefront of solidarity-based discussions, at the risk of engaging in performative and selfish, rather than useful, solidarity. Instead, it is much more useful to dedicate ourselves to campaigns that fight anti-Blackness, to unlearn our own harmful behaviors, and to establish systems of accountability amongst ourselves.

Not only has history proved that such solidarity is possible between the two communities, it has also shown its strength. Black-Palestinian solidarity, for example, has expressed itself through the politics, discourse, and activism of Malcolm X, the Black Panther Party, the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee (SNCC), the Patrice Lumumba Coalition, Muhammad Ali, and the Black Lives Matter movement. The mass incarceration, systematic state violence, military occupation combined with a(n) (inter)national silence on their suffering established a natural solidarity between Black and Palestinian communities throughout the 20th and 21st centuries. To clarify, the use of “natural solidarity,” Palestinian scholar and activist Rabab Abdulhadi argues that commitment to the Palestinian liberation movement is “[a struggle] against racism, Zionism, Orientalism, Islamophobia, and all forms of structural inequalities, based on gender, sexuality, class, age, ability, citizenships, etc.” This commitment naturally entails a solidarity with Black radical politics as it overlaps with Black liberation movements. The history of Black writers, scholars, and activists supporting and dedicating much of their activism to Palestine and vice versa is a historical reminder of where and how Arabs should move forward with their solidarity.

This does not mean that Black-Arab solidarity is impossible, but simply that Arabs cannot continue to engage with a discourse on solidarity without unpacking the racial prejudices that they have been socialized to perpetuate.

Some of the most moving examples of such solidarity could be seen through the life of Angela Davis, who has publicly supported Palestinians and has stated that “Palestine has always occupied a pivotal place [in her own political history].” June Jordan, a Black poet and activist very famously wrote, “I was born a Black woman and now I am become a Palestinian,” in 1989. In doing so, she irreversibly revolutionized the paradigms of Black-Arab solidarity by transcending toward an ontological solidarity. Muhammad Ali, a famous boxer who converted to Islam in 1964, dedicated his entire life to fighting not only in the ring, but also against imperialist interests behind the Vietnam War, for Islam, and for Palestine. Ali became a symbol and inspiration for the Muslim community through, as Al Jazeera reports, “his ongoing struggle, [which] was one of the reasons why many Black Muslims used Ali’s passing as an opportunity to not only celebrate and promote the importance of racial equality, but also to criticize the lack of racial equity in the form of anti-Blackness, colourism, and otherness.” Ali was one of the few and first famous Americans who very vocally opposed the settler-colonial project in Palestine. Though his support for Palestine is often erased, Arabs, Muslims, Palestinians and their allies have not forgotten. As such, he soon became a staple representing that which we all wish to fight for or against. Arab-Black solidarity is quite simply the ink with which Palestinians penned their letter to political prisoner and Black political activist Angela Davis in the 1970s, it is the desperation that plagued June Jordan as she beautifully wrote that she has become a Palestinian, it is the rage behind Muhammad Ali’s punches as he fought for Palestine, and it is the solidarity that Arabs must commit to every day.

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Interview with Former Black Panther Members: Sam Anderson and Rosemari Mealy

Sarah Shamy — Mon, 14 Jan 2019 11:03:33 +0000

Sam Anderson and Rosemari Mealy visited Montreal to take part in a symposium last September. This two-day symposium coincided with, and commemorated, the thirty-sixth year anniversary of the Sabra and Shatila massacre of Palestinian refugees and displaced Lebanese following the 1982 Israeli invasion of Lebanon. It aimed to remember and honour its victims and to work to build knowledge about women and war. Sam and Rosemari were part of a roundtable panel called “Black and Puerto Rican Solidarity with Palestine.” They outlined their various activism in the context of Palestine, while emphasizing the indivisibility of solidarity across different communities.

Sam Anderson is a retired mathematics and Black history professor who has been active in the Civil Rights and Black Liberation movements since 1964. Being a member of Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee (SNCC) and a founding member of the Black Panther Party has allowed him to combine his decades-long activism with his scholastic work.

Rosemari Mealy is a writer and an educator who was also an original member of the Black Panther Party. Mealy has organized events, programs and rallies which provided necessary gender and queer analyses within the Black Panther movement. She is also an activist in the International Human Rights and Political Prisoner movement.

Sandrine Appiah and Clement Bélanger Bishinga (who are members of the Students of Colour at McGill support group on Facebook) sat down with Sam and Rosemari to have a discussion on intergenerational activism, feminism, and the pitfalls of contemporary activism.

[ Music video of “Black Lives Shattered” by Panther starts to play via a laptop on Youtube.]

Sandrine Appiah: We wanted to start this interview by showing you both the “Black Lives Shattered” video from the artist Panther. One of his lyrics states, “I can see your stress is in the red / come thru I can give you rest / sit down take a deep breath / maybe we can help each other heal from this.” Artists like Panther are conveying specific messages through YouTube and social media to alert others and bring awareness to social issues, and are using these social media platforms as a way to call people into a particular struggle. Do you think social media hinders the truth on some of the issues prevalent in the world? Particularly because of the way in which many of these messages keep getting labeled as “fake news” by people like Donald Trump as a way to deflect the intended message.

Rosemari Mealy: I think that those who are using social media as a platform for social justice need to be more in control of their content. Because the problem is, if you don’t have control of your content, then you lose the power of the message. I think that the younger hip-hop artists are sometimes afraid to cross the line because they’re afraid that their honest and intended message will be twisted. Many revolutionary artists were not afraid to identify the economic rationale and reasoning to explain the conditions of oppression, or to describe why we are in a particular drastic situation. Nowadays, people are not really addressing the conditions that created the problem; they focus on the problem itself. Therefore, the ideological component, the fundamental reasoning and the illogical basis for why we are oppressed, is often lost. Framing is important, and we have to address the cause of the problem for people to understand the result of the problem.

Sam Anderson: Right, another problem is that social media makes everything equal, and with equal access to social media, anyone can say anything they want (even if it may not be necessarily true). If you aren’t able to mentally distinguish anomalies yourself, or are not curious enough to doubt everything that is said to you, it’s easy for you to believe what’s being fed to you.

Appiah: It is their reality versus your reality.

Sam and Rosemari Watching Panther’s “Black Lives Shattered” Sandrine Appiah and Sarah Regab

Anderson: The conflation of both realities is one of the challenges with social media. Another one is that the younger generation, particularly in the US, have gone through a public school system that destroys critical thinking skills. And on top of that, [the education system is] anti-historical. So people watching Panther’s video, or watching the video of a racist incident happening on Facebook, or seeing images from the 1960s, aren’t given any historical context to it. It’s just boom! An image here, an image there. Then you might see an image of a Black Panther, with the beret and fists, but there’s no context to it. And they don’t even know that there is no context. They just see these pictures and they don’t know what to do with them[…] I’m not saying that videos like Panther’s “Black Lives Shattered” is a kind of propaganda, but rather I’m making the argument that the typical young Black person who is between 17 and 21 in the U.S. isn’t going to know that legacy. Their legacy. Precisely because of the levels of miseducation that exist. This often results in popular and highly political hip hop music /content that is often taken out of context, which is frustrating. It’s important to highlight this in order to truly understand the meaning of these images. But we, as ancient people, we get it. We’ve seen it. We’ve lived that.

Appiah: You talked about power. Do you feel that groups like Black Lives Matter (BLM) today, have the same effect or stance as the activism you partook in back then? Do you feel like your activism was more powerful and impactful than activism today?

Mealy: It’s important to know that we were just one component of the broader struggle that was taking place. For many, the starting point for Black struggle starts with the Black Panther […] but [Sam and I] are trying to unpack this idea and really show people that there was something before the Black Panther. One of our main problems was the power dynamic between our movement and the state in the U.S. The worst thing that our movement had to face was when we realized the role of the FBI in the continued oppression of our people. With J. Edgar Hoover as the head of the FBI, they were creating a counterintelligence program — the Co-Intel Program. And even though many of us knew we were being spied on, and we knew we were being infiltrated, we didn’t realize just how organized and mobilized they were. Therefore it was very easy to create divisions within our movement, which was quite disruptive to our continuity and success. We weren’t as impenetrable as people think. In hindsight, I think that it’s important in these intergenerational discussions for us to be honest, to be transparent, and to talk about the negative as well as the positive, which is why I feel comfortable giving the following analysis of BLM.

The difference between our activism and today’s activism is the fact that BLM is a leaderless movement. Today you could say that you’re a member of BLM Montreal and once you express the reality of what’s happening to Black people here, you’re offered a mic and you’re instantly a member of BLM. There’s nothing wrong with that […] but what happens when a member’s perspective opposes yours? How will there be accountability when it isn’t an organized formation with internal accountability? That’s one of my concerns with having a leaderless movement.

Anderson: My other concern is the economic aspect of the movement. By seeking financial assistance through foundations, you automatically get cornered because [the foundations] feel entitled to dictate your policies. Let’s say a foundation offers you $70,000 and then you proceed to make a statement of support for BDS (Boycott, Divestment, and Sanctions) movement; you are suddenly at risk of having them quit funding for your movement. So a challenge that BLM, or any movement really, will have to face is: how do you get funding? Turning to foundations means you fall into the trap of having to design your policies and strategies based on keeping funding. Because soon, you start saying “well, if we do or say this, then we get this much money; but if we do this instead we get even more money.”

And to go off what Rosemari said about us wanting to unpack the idea that the starting point of the Black struggle is the Black Panther Party — I want to point out that the BPP did not start the revolution. There’s an entire historical lineage before that, and it’s very important that people understand that the resistance was always organized by Black folks. Always. That resistance took on many different forms, and many different organizations.

Appiah: Exactly. You mentioned women, we know the Black Panther Party started with very little women in the beginning, near the cessation they were almost [at] 70 per cent. I wanted to ask you — how was the sisterhood back then compared to a group now like BLM?

Mealy: It depends on where you were. Where and when. Absolutely. The early part, the early 70s, when the party started to disseminate, women played a key role. We were the backbone of the organization. We were dealing with the finances, running the liberation schools, organizing the health clinics, and did just about everything else. The image of the party was that of the macho male, holding a gun right? The beret on and confronting the police all the time. That image was true, but in some ways it wasn’t. Many of the women who organized in the Black Panther Party defined their activism and themselves in relation to the men. And sometimes, they came in the party only to maintain relationships with the men. But those of us who already had political experience were very conscious of that fact. And so we sought upon ourselves that we had to do some serious work around the whole question of male chauvinism and self-identity. One of the strongest people who really worked on issues of patriarchy within our movement was Afeina Shakur, Tupac’s mom.

Another really important gender dynamic to point to in our movement is the question of credit: who is given credit, and for what? If you look in some of the old Panther papers, you will see the drawings and the artwork of our movement always being attributed to Emory Douglas. However, many of those images were done by a sister Panther — Carol Rucker. She never gets any credit for that, which I think really articulates the lived experiences of Black women in the organization. I don’t have a problem saying this publicly because I always tried to take on the role of identifying the way in which gender issues played out in our movement. I was called the women’s liberator in the Black Panther Party because I could really see how some sisters would be devastated when they would join our movement and their relationships would fail. They couldn’t function.

Appiah: Did you resent them?

Mealy: Oh no no no! That’s the whole point! It was an embracing of those women and dedicating time when we got together as women, where we really talked this thing out. In fact, some women, once they joined the party, realized their own power and their sense of self. They ended up terminating the relationships that they came into the party with. And that was really important. On another level it was constantly struggling against physical violence and abuse — our party had a strong position that deemed that type of violence to be unacceptable. It was a very strong and powerful stance, but that didn’t mean that in some places it wasn’t happening. In our own homes, and in our own households, […] we have our mothers who were victims of domestic violence and we didn’t really know it until much later. We have to deal with that, somehow. This was all representational of the movement’s political work. But once women started talking, and they felt empowered to be their own self, we started addressing these issues more. So yes, sexism was an issue, in all of the movements.

Appiah: How did you [Sam] deal with that? The sexism in the party? When they were coming in, how did you feel?

Anderson: At first I didn’t deal with it, but then I started to confront some of the brothers about their negative actions towards sisters. And often when you confront other brothers about their violent behavior, especially when you’re doing it as a young Black man, […] you get put down. But it’s important to build up enough courage to deal with that issue of confronting male chauvinism. But once it’s done, there’s no turning back. In some ways, it creates a domino effect, and more and more men started supporting feminist efforts to criticize brothers who were chauvinistic. Sometimes, you have to intervene in domestic violence issues.

Mealy: It’s a contradiction to call yourself a revolutionary activist when your own behaviours don’t align. It’s a constant and ongoing struggle […] I mean if we take a look at the ‘Me Too’ movement which was started by Tarana Burke*, a Black woman in Alabama. She worked with young girls who were victims of sexual abuse. Nobody could hear her, but it was only when it started hitting upper-class artist[s] and white women from the arts world that the ‘Me Too’ movement became powerful. ‘Me Too’ started with us [Black people]. It started when we were sold on the auction block. So we have to constantly frame that in the historical context.

Bishinga: The general public tends to only be exposed to stories of Black cisgender heterosexual men experiencing racism. Consequently it forgets other marginalized populations, like women of colour, in the discussion of racism. I am wondering what you feel it does to the movement?

Mealy: It is not a contest about who is the most oppressed. What you need to do is frame it in the context of the origins of your reality. If we talk about Black people of African descent, you have to bring in the role of the slave trade and how it laid the basis for creating the social construct of what race is. It is a social construct, same as gender and class. You can come together in unity and have respect and understanding of each other’s culture and each other’s experiences. If you don’t do that, it allows a narrow nationalist perspective, which dismisses others people’s experience. Ultimately, that is what racism does. Racism dismisses the others. This will never go away. We are first perceived as Black. We got to be conscious of that. But at the same time, we have to understand that being united is really important. Just as white people have privilege that is immutable, men do as well. There’s still a long way to go, and we still have to continuously re-educate ourselves. In some ways, men have to decolonize themselves.

That colonial mentality is so deep. We get back to the issue of patriarchy and it is difficult. Nobody is saying that you should lose your manhood. The concept of manhood itself is difficult — what is it? That’s where community is important because we shouldn’t be having these conversations by ourselves. We must have it as a community. For example, a lot of white people’s gut reaction to being called privileged is to say, “I had nothing to do with the slave trade.” In saying that, they forget that it’s not about having personal or economic stake in the slave trade, it’s about what white privilege allows you to have access to. And this isn’t rhetorical. This is real. And it’s important that we stop using terms such as “marginalized populations/community.” We aren’t marginalized. We have been marginalized, but we aren’t inherently so.

Bishinga: We recently started a mentorship program called Supporting Young Black Students’ Careers in Health (SYBS). Our objective is to create a longitudinal pipeline to help young Black students to enter programs in healthcare professions, because Black students are underrepresented in most of those programs, especially medicine. Do you have tips or suggestions for us or for similar initiatives?

Anderson: It is very important work and we must be intergenerational. It is important to set up a structure that allows us to keep that going, to keep our stories and our struggles alive. I think you need to keep in mind that you are institution-building. A movement that is institutional is a long-lasting movement. Once we institutionalize our struggles and our community, we eternalize them ourselves.

Appiah: What do you think propels you into activism? For example, a lot of activist culture stipulates that if your activism is triggered by a sudden death, then it is disingenuous.

Mealy: If it takes somebody’s death to get involved, it’s sad to say […] but whatever the force is that will energize you to say “I’m going to do something” is legitimate. On my part, what propelled me was the work I was doing as a a child development specialist. I remember going to Chicago and seeing the blood-stained mattress with Fred Hampton laying on it. […] I never went back to that job again. That’s what triggered my activism, seeing the blood.

Appiah: When you guys were in the party, what did you see coming in the future?

Anderson: Like we said, revolution was right around the corner. Every day was tumultuous. This vision of a socialist America and working-class solidarity, was just down the road in our lifetime. I think the vast majority of us who were active in that moment were a bit disillusioned. We thought we were going to get a revolution, but then we got the Reagan era and the fascist right-wing era. Some people gave up after that!

Sandrine Appiah and Sarah Regab

Appiah: We just have one question left: how do you feel about being in the world today, and what advice can you give to somebody that wants to do something, but can’t be a full-time freedom fighter? Is there any advice you can say about that?

Mealy: We are at the end stages of our lives where we aren’t going to be around for a lot longer. We don’t have the security that other people have, but you make do with what you have and find solace in it.

Anderson: And in a community of like-minded friends, comrades.

Mealy: Right, right. And you can develop those over the years.

Anderson: You guys are in a different time now. We used to have a social movement that informed us, and the work we were doing. It wasn’t just national, but global in that period. It informed the youth. In the US, if you were a young Black person in the 1960s, activism was the hip thing to be involved with. It was in the air, but now it’s not. It may happen. It may bubble up on a global scale next year. We recognize that there are powerful movements right now.

Mealy: It all goes back to having a world view and an understanding of what’s going on, and that you’re not alone. That’s what’s so important. You’re not alone in this.

Anderson: And to remember that there are different levels of participation. We were deeply involved in a full-time way with many organizations for many years, and we had friends who are extremely supportive, but could not make that next leap. They were extremely supportive, they’d come out to the meetings and demos. They would give money. There are different types of support.

*Tarana Burke started her activism in Alabama. She created a non-profit in 2003 called “Just Be.” It was aimed to be a place for Black girls, but three years later she renamed it “Me Too” because of the overwhelming sexual abuses and assaults that many of these girls had experienced. The “Me Too” phrase went on to become a worldwide movement. Burke moved to Philadelphia and participated in different kinds of activism — mainly contributing to the founding of different organizations.

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How much does a promise cost?

Sarah Shamy — Mon, 13 Feb 2017 11:00:07 +0000

As an Arab Muslim woman, I expected to run into some issues at an elite settler-colonial institution like McGill. However, I could never have imagined just how much bigotry, racism, and sexism ebbs and flows in the institution. I am in my first year at McGill and I can confidently and truthfully say this: McGill is not an academic institution that cares about its students. From a very young age, I accepted the fact that I will never fully feel like I belong in a classroom. This feeling of isolation and alienation is one that I am familiar with, and it is deepened because of my religion, race, and gender. This was partly the reason why I decided to double major in African Studies and World Islamic and Middle East Studies. After all, how can I not belong in an academic field that overlaps with my own identity? Taking a class in the Islamic Studies department was the worst decision I have ever made. My expectations for this specific class were very low, I was very apprehensive about the Islamic Studies department in an institution like McGill. However, I decided to give it a chance. I naively believed that McGill would protect me and provide me with safe spaces. That was the first lie I believed.

Personally, this class has always made me tense. I assumed that a class in the Islamic Studies department would be diverse; however, upon seeing that the majority of students were white, I felt like it would be easy for the information to take on a propagandic nature or an Islamophobic turn. (This is not to condemn non-Muslim or non-minority people who take ISLA classes — I believe they prevent people from being ostensibly arrogant and naïve in the twisted mainstream interpretations regarding Islam.) I allowed myself to become very critical of the statements made by the professor; such as: “ISIS does not invent any Quranic verses or hadiths,” which undoubtedly implies that Islam is compatible with terrorism. That is when I decided to discuss my discomfort with the teacher. I voiced my concerns to him and he seemed very eager to take in my criticism. He claimed that he had given adequate warnings about Islamophobia, but given my concerns he promised to address Islamophobia more frequently. Three days later, in Quebec City, six of my Muslim brothers were killed in an Islamophobic terrorist attack.

As a response to the tragedy, the professor walked in, poised and grinning, and suggested enthusiastically that we take a moment of silence for the innocent lives lost. After the moment passed, he sparked a debate in which we began to argue with a hypothetical Islamophobic uncle. As soon as he uttered these words, the charismatic, charming, grinning professor was eclipsed by an unruffled man who used the tragedy as a platform to express any students’ internalized and/or externalized Islamophobia, instead of using it as a platform to incite change. Of course, this is wrong for many reasons, all of which I will address soon. However, during this debate, he repeatedly interrupted me (a visibly Muslim woman) and did not give me enough time to properly articulate any of my thoughts. A friend of mine in the class decided to send a personal email to the professor the night of the lecture to explain her discomfort with both the timing and framing of the debate. In his trademark boundary-less approach, he decided to respond to her by sending an email to both her and myself, even though I did not email him regarding this issue. He asked us if we would be available after the next class to discuss the issue of Islamophobia, and invited us to voice our concerns (Keep in mind that I had already voiced my concerns to him, and despite his promise that he would address them, he still decided to undertake an offensive debate). I accepted his offer to meet with him – after all, who was I to deny a man his right to redemption?

On the day of our scheduled meeting, the professor brought up the personal email that my friend privately wrote to him. He asked the students if anyone else thought the debate was offensive, to which a student bravely declared that it is inappropriate to have a forum in which he expects students to raise their hand at that question. He dismissed her comment and said that he still thinks it would be useful to open up the discussion, after which, I raised my hand and voiced my discomfort. I explained that it was not so much the nature of the debate that was the issue, but rather the timing. I felt like framing Islamophobia as a debate with a fictional ‘Islamophobic uncle’ was demeaning to the tragedy that had transpired a few days prior. I did not believe it was appropriate to expect students to reason with an Islamophobe and provide arguments to refute Islamophobia, especially in light of recent events. I explained that if there was an argument that could stop Islamophobes from being ignorant, then there would be no Islamophobia. I stated that although I didn’t doubt that the professor’s intentions were genuine, the ends were not – in trying to challenge Islamophobia, he created a platform for it. I expressed my discomfort in having to rationalize with a fictional Islamophobic uncle, who isn’t actually fictional. Islamophobes a reality that many Muslims must face. I didn’t (and still don’t) understand why we were expected to exclusively discuss it within hypothetical, academic contexts.

Despite clearly voicing this, some fellow classmates, who are non-Muslim, took it upon themselves to state that the debate was “needed” and “necessary” especially after a terrorist attack. They made statements such as “I’m going to speak on behalf of the province of Quebec” (disregarding that I, myself, was born and raised here and this is as much my province as it is theirs). One particular female student tried to excuse the terrorist’s wilful ignorance by saying that Quebec city is “homo-Quebecus” (a direct quote)– which is not truthful (unless she has taken it upon herself to discuss “alternative facts”). Statements like these exclude the entire Muslim community of Quebec as well as other minority groups, because they are implying that my fellow minorities aren’t really ‘Quebecois.’ The environment was hostile and deplorable – it had an overall effect of “us versus them.” In this case, the ‘us’ refers to me and those who spoke up against the debate during the class. My white, privileged classmates, who have never faced the consequences of Islamophobia or racism, raised their hands in response to the question of whether they thought the debate was effective. The professor tried to use this as an opportunity to close the debate once and for all. Halfway through his monologue, I ended up walking out of the class. Two other students did as well.

The environment in the class was extremely hostile and uncomfortable. The professor continuously disregarded Muslim women’s feelings and, instead, relied on white women in the classroom. He repeatedly interrupted me; however, when a white classmate defended our position (though, it’s not just a position – it’s our safety, our dignity, our worth, and our lives) and simply reiterated my and other Muslim women’s arguments, the professor gave her his full attention and validation. When I dared assert my right to speak freely, and spoke over anyone who tried to interrupt me, the professor unflinchingly asked me not to interrupt anyone – even though he gave me the platform to speak when he called on my raised hand, and let himself and the students freely and repeatedly interrupt me. He validated white women’s opinions and thoughts over Muslim women’s blatant discomfort. We were made subordinate and unimportant. He did not provide Muslim women a platform to express our concerns, nor did he allocate us enough time to do so. Ironically, the professor likes to promote his class as being a safe space for everyone (and I truly believe that he means that); but this sense of safety seemed to be exclusively allocated to non-Muslim students. If he truly cared about the discomfort of his students, as he has often stated, he would have waited for our scheduled meeting. However, I think we can logically deduce that he does not care about how his students feel. He has proven himself to be inept at handling difficult situations, though I still cannot understand how difficult it is to be respectful and mindful of marginalised people’s concerns.

Despite feeling continuously attacked in the classroom by both the students and the professor, I still decided to scream my voice hoarse until someone listens. Student journalism is the only venue available to me at McGill that allows me to voice my concerns. The institution has provided me with no other (effective) resources to express my grievances. McGill seemingly condemns violence against Muslims, but will allow Muslim women to feel unsafe and marginalized in the classroom. Muslims don’t need token pity. We need action. We need promises that will not be broken. The true violence was not in the debate itself, but in his (and my fellow classmates) inability to recognize the act as being inappropriate or provide a shift in attitude through empathetic understanding. Everyone who participates in this oppressive social order is complicit in it. However, given that the “sweeping majority” (his words, not mine) of them were Caucasian – they were unable to recognize their privilege. The fact that they weren’t offended by the debate proves that they ostensibly ignore and deny the fact that they have the privilege and the luxury not to be offended. The classroom depicted the world as an easy fix, to be solved by enthusiasm and academic debates.

I am tired of having to walk the streets of my city, nervous and afraid. I am tired of feeling like everyday needs to be a battle, in which I must both protect myself and defend everything I represent. I am tired of feeling like I don’t belong in an academic institution that continues to boast about its diversity and acceptance. I am tired of taking classes where I can (finally) feel like I relate to the material on a fundamental level, only to find students trying to quench their white guilt and using marginalized people as a venue through which they can exempt themselves from any responsibility. I am tired of having people call upon my tolerance and demand I be lenient in the face of violent behavior. I am tired of feeling guilty for being angry, and feeling responsible for people’s conscious decision to remain ignorant and violent. I am tired of feeling irredeemably broken and fragmented. I am tired and I am only 19 years old.

I am not only holding accountable the students who have contributed to Muslim women’s feelings of discomfort in the classroom; I am also holding accountable the professor who made it possible for Muslim women to feel unsafe and uncomfortable in what is supposed to be a safe space; I am also holding the Islamic Studies department accountable for choosing to turn a blind eye to ongoing violent behavior; I am holding accountable the institution of McGill, which has just made it clear that the comfort of their students is not a priority, if even a concern; I am also holding accountable the reader of this article. You have a duty to stand up for what is right, you have a duty to prevent the further marginalization of minorities in the classroom. You have a duty to be human and to treat others as such.

Upon coming to North America, my people were promised freedom. Upon coming to this land, we were promised rights. Upon coming to Canada, we were promised peace. Upon coming to Quebec, we were promised acceptance. Upon coming to Montreal, we were promised multiculturalism. Upon coming to McGill, we were promised safety. These are promises that have all been broken; and with it, so have the spirits of my beloved minorities. The price of a broken promise is the dreams of all the students who have ever felt unsafe within the walls of McGill.

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