Can we afford to implant an emotional sieve anymore?
As I write this, my heart beats several paces above normal. It’s not from working out. I skipped the gym today, blaming it on the mountain-high workload that I had to finish. I did the same yesterday.
But I know, deep down (and I’m finally admitting it) why I skipped the gym — my primary avenue for endorphins that I desperately need to deal with my mild-yet-chronic depression; a safe space that has never failed to calm my nerves when my anxiety tries to take over my already-chaotic Type A mind; a place where I can vent out and cry about all that I’m going through by tearing through my muscle fibres; a stage from where I can be heard, even if the only ones listening are lifeless equipment strewn around and my reflection.
I skipped the gym because it reeks of privilege. Specifically, of my privilege. And it finally caught up with me.
There is a killer virus out there, right outside the window of my room in a three-bedroom apartment I call home, in the suburbs of Bangalore. As it wraps its deathly fingers around another unsuspecting household, wreaking havoc on their respiratory systems, I breathe in (oh, the irony! #ICantBreathe) the delicious evening breeze blowing through the netted window and record time-lapse videos of multi-hued sunsets to post on social media. These hues are the only plus side to Amphan and the impending cyclone Nisarga — the former ravaged the eastern coast, claiming lives both human and animal, destroying property and several hundred kilometres of natural habitat — while the latter is set to unleash its wrath on the western coast of my country.
My country, currently facing a humanitarian crisis brought about by an unplanned pandemic-driven lockdown and most of all, by apathy towards those deemed disposable, is also holding onto the tattered shreds of the foundational fabric of secularism and democracy it’s supposed to be cloaked in. Migrants of minority religions are being stripped off their citizenship right now, as I type away sipping on a mug of protein-shake to which I added a banana and a dollop of peanut butter. Peanuts were probably what the lone pregnant elephant was looking to feast on, as she trustingly made her way into a farming village in Kerala where she was instead fed a pineapple stuffed with firecrackers — an act of pure human malevolence that cruelly claimed her life. Farming villages in Northern India are being ravaged by locust swarms of a scale not seen in the last hundred years, indifferent to crop or construction — a direct result of us treating our planet with utter disregard and disrespect.
Just like these powerful swarms, crowds of people have gathered in other parts of the world in protest of the murder of George Floyd and many like him who were handed a death sentence merely because of the colour of their skin, and through it, they stand in unified action against deep-rooted systemic racism and the anti-black sentiment that is as viciously embedded in the United States and other countries (including my own) as the obsession of Indians over Bollywood actors — so much so that their heinous crimes of murder, physical and sexual abuse go unpunished, as do their PR stunts of tweeting #BLM while they turn a blind eye (and sometimes even support through silence) to the racial persecution and casteism rampant in their home country, all the while endorsing brands that earn millions by crushing the spirits of dark-skinned Indians.
When all of this is happening simultaneously, how can I go about as though our world is not on fire, and work out?
In a season finale episode of Patriot Act, Hasan Minhaj had invited us to ‘close some tabs in 2020’.
It was a good episode. And his statement made sense to me at the time. I’m a single, brown, Christian woman in her late twenties living in an urban city in South India. This single sentence can be fleshed out into a multi-chapter factual series, a steamy tell-all account of everything I’ve endured in the last few years alone —
- Gender bias
- Sexual abuse
- Religious bias
- Religious benefits (ask me how in the comments)
- Societal prejudices and pressures
- Racial prejudice
- Gaslighting and toxicity
- Body shaming
- Choice shaming
- Mansplaining
- Unwarranted hate from cis women
Kowing where I stand on a scale that has ‘the oppressed’ on one end and ‘the free’ on the other, I began, at an early age, showing my support to causes I felt shouldn’t go unvoiced.
I became a staunch advocate for animal rights, equality, feminism, and environment protection. I switched to menstrual cups, cut dairy from my diet, bought steel straws and bamboo toothbrushes, embraced slow travel, and I’m trying to go zero-waste. I rescue animals in distress and rehabilitate/rehome them, run a blog that highlights cruelty-free brands across the country, and I’m on the path to veganism. I’m vocal about mental health and self-care, and I might as well have had feminism and equality tattooed across my forehead in Pride colours. I also regularly donate to credible charitable organizations.
Because of the above, I believed I was an ally of many things, and that that was enough. I believed what I was doing was enough. So when matters such as the humanitarian crisis in Yemen or the deaths of manual scavengers in India invariably made their way to my news feed, I’d read about them voraciously. I’d express my sympathies to like-minded friends who would mirror my sentiments. I would take to social media — a tweet here, a story there, all liberally sprinkled with relevant hashtags (I’d also quietly wonder if this would stray from ‘my personal social branding’).
Then, I believed I did enough. I would follow Hasan Minhaj’s tried-and-tested tactic in a bid to avoid overwhelming my already burdened mental and emotional well-being — I’d close those tabs. And I’d hit the gym.
Mostly, I’m tired of people being ugly to each other. I’m tired of all the pain I feel and hear in the world every day. There’s too much of it. It’s like pieces of glass in my head, all the time — The Green Mile
This emotional sieve I self-implanted isn’t a novel fitting. It’s a coping mechanism, one used by nearly everyone I know, and used from time immemorial. It’s what keeps us sane amid chaos, prejudice and death — this ability to apply filters to gut-wrenching situations based on how dearly they affect us.
I also didn’t want to be troubled by all the negativity.
I already was a staunch advocate of so many causes, another one would simply tip my boat into murky waters. And I didn’t want to get more damp and dirty than I already was.
What I didn’t imbue into my soul was that the so-called oppression I am subject to, one that stems from my being a single, brown, Christian woman in her late twenties living in an urban city in South India, is not a death warrant. At least it isn’t one yet.
Because I’m still privileged, by my being cis, straight, ‘almond-hued’ (cringe-worthy, I know), educated, employed, middle-class, multi-lingual, fully-abled, financially secure, with free access to information. I’m living comfortably, nay, I’m swinging lazily in a hammock flanked by palm-frond trees on a silky sandy beach that is the second-last (if not the last) tier of Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs.
But to fellow humans who are black, L.G.B.T.Q.I.A.+, Dalits, migrant labourers, indigenous, tribals, of religious minorities, in war-torn nations, in Kashmir — and these are just to highlight a few — every day is pierced by an eerie death knell.
So, is it right that I continue to close the tabs, and filter out causes that are, while sensitive, not as ‘dear’ to me? Because while it may be an inconvenience to me for the time being, to my fellow humans, it’s a death warrant. And one that they have to actively navigate around every single day, right from birth.
A time comes when silence is betrayal — Martin Luther King, Jr.
It seemed like the emotional sieve went against everything human. It stopped being a helpful tool and started to become a murder weapon.
How do we manage our emotional burdens while supporting all causes?
Is this even possible?
Truth be told, I don’t know. I’m still trying to shed some layers of my emotional sieve and become a stronger voice in a sea of supportive allies for as many causes as I can. And it is brutally exhausting. What’s helped is getting to the root of the reason as to why I need to (and want to) be a true ally.
I absolutely love the Sandra Bullock starrer The Blind Side. At first watch, it’s a feel-good movie about a homeless black teen finding a loving home that nurtures his natural talents. But that’s the glossy outfit it dons.
The more the rewatches, the more you realize that the movie portrays the stereotypical dysfunctional black demographic who’s only hope at a normal(and plush) life is in the arms of the stereotypical up-on-a-mantle white family. When I finally saw this side to the movie, it began to fail me. Don’t get me wrong, it still makes me cry, but only when I can successfully stifle the air of white guilt it emanates, which is becoming increasingly hard to do.
Interestingly, there is a reference made to white guilt in the movie.
This made me introspect — why do I want to be an ally? Is it because I’m guilty of enjoying my privileges, and in a bid to ease the burden on my conscience, I must make my voice heard in support of those who do not enjoy these privileges?
100 points to those who can give the obvious answer.
Yes, my allyship did — and continues to — have elements that worked in self-interest — and while it isn’t wrong to be a supporter based on these reasons -selfish motives make for good fuel — the question to ask is
What happens to my stance when the cause stops feeding my need? In this case, my need to wash away my guilt of enjoying my privileges?
It’s a difficult evaluation. For example, I’m extremely passionate about the environment because of the following reasons -
- Our over-consumption and utter disregard destroy the only planet we (and I) call home
- I love our environment, the planet, and its creatures in all shapes and sizes (I’ve managed to make peace with those nasty flying cockroaches too), to the point where it physically hurts me to know that we are consciously destroying it, and mentally affects me by way of climate anxiety
Both statements have one thing in common — my selfishness. How the environment serves my well-being has a lot to do with how strongly I feel for it. I’m unashamed to say this only because the environment will never become a non-necessity for me, and thereby my reasoning (one of many) for working in favour of protecting, preserving, and nurturing it will always be outweighed by the positives.
On the other side is the anti-racism movement, specifically Black Lives Matter. Honesty is key here, so I beg you to spare me the rage for a few moments.
My fellow Black humans do not impact my well-being as much as the environment does. This is my truth.
Sure, the tremendous acts of protesting and fighting for what is rightfully theirs is sending ripples across the globe and urging others facing similar plight to shake their sleeping governments, hold them accountable for their silence and perpetuations of these discriminations, and ultimately bring about meaningful change.
That said, I will never fully empathize with what my fellow Blacks go through. I will also never fully empathize with what my fellow Dalits go through. I am not them, I have not lived their lives. I never will. And I don’t want to.
But if I were them, would I be okay with the way I’m treated? Would I keep mum on the brutality I face?
So, while they do not affect me directly, I will still be their ally.
Why?
Just because.
Not everything has to serve my interests for me to care about them.
It’s the right thing to do.
I have to.
I just have to.
It’s what makes us human.
Come tomorrow, I will wake up with sleep-laden eyes (it’s 1.30 AM right now) and go about my day. I’ll navigate through my mountain-high workload (even during the lockdown, yes). I’ll play with my cats and feed my street dogs. I’ll spend time with my family. I will breathe in the fresh monsoon air that blows into my window and capture another sunset time-lapse. I’ll read a book, and then I will go to the gym.
I will also vocalize, protest, contribute, and support in every way I can to every cause I may come across. I will be inconvenienced. But I will get to rest my head on my pillow and sleep a safe, sound sleep.
George Floyd cannot.
Neither can my fellow Blacks, L.G.B.T.Q.I.A.+, Dalits, migrant labourers, of religious minorities, tribals, in war-torn nations, in Kashmir, and so many others.
For them, we will put our inconvenience aside. We will recognize our privilege and use it to amplify our voices. And while we will prioritize our mental well-being, we will also prioritize their right to live.
Hasan Minhaj wasn’t wrong. It’s fine to close the tabs at times; in fact, it’s necessary. Keeping them open for too long will cause the browser to crash. Compassion fatigue is a real bummer. Only when we rest and repair our minds and souls will we be able to fight with all we have, for all that is right and true.
It’s also necessary to recognise when the tabs ought to be reopened, and when the emotional sieve ought to become a temporary fixture rather than a permanent one.
It’s time our voices resonate louder than those death knells.
All lives cannot matter if Black lives don’t matter.
All lives cannot matter if Dalit lives don’t matter.
All lives cannot matter if we do not provide reparations to those who have been subjected to any form of oppression and continue to provide them until they truly believe that they are equal.
