No clever reflections this week — because, busy (!!!) which is a funny state to be in in the midst of the pandemic. I mean I love what I am doing but the concept of needing everyone to work in order to survive, not because we want to? What a perverse concept don’t you think?
This week I am thinking of this WITI edition that speaks about the pipe organ that miraculously remained intact during the fire at Notra Dame cathedral last year. This year, the work to restore the pipe organ began. The work, which would include dismantling, cleaning, and reassembling in the hands of a team of skilled labour and artisans, would also involve another six extra months to tune the organ. The whole timeline would take about four years, and the organ is expected to play for the first time since the restoration work on April 16, 2024.
WITI talks further about the trade-off between digital and analogue artisanry in the times of this digital age, but I couldn’t help finding the parallel between the pipe organ and surviving any form of trauma, even if it looked like it, or us, survived the situation intact. The work it takes to heal is not quite linear or as straightforward — even though it, or us, seem fine on the surface (after the dismantling, cleaning, and reassembling) and one does not often talk about the extra work of recalibrating the harmful values we have internalised, or the boundaries we have failed to set (the work of tuning). It might seem I am likening you, or us, who survived the trauma of any kind, to a pipe organ the way religious zealots have likened women to some wrapped lollipops, but I hope it does not transpire as so. But even so, if you, or us, need extra time for tuning, it’s completely OK.
The New York Times with a deep, immersive piece of journalism detailing how exactly the explosion happened in the Port of Beirut, a little over a month after the deadly non-nuclear explosion took place in the city.
“By so rarely naming whiteness, these statements normalise the ideas that white people are raceless and that only those oppressed by the racial structure need have any interest in dismantling it. This language also suggests that dismantling racism doesn’t require confronting those privileged by racism.” What’s missing from corporate statements on racial injustice? The real cause of racism.
I don’t have a TikTok account (and I don’t think I want to) but I am always intrigued about all the accounts about how addictive the algorithm is.
On Save the Food you can find recipes to cook with your leftover scraps or food that’s ‘past its prime’, build a meal prep plan, create a shopping list based on the number of people in your house and the number of days you are cooking, and other tips and tricks to keep your food fresh.
Listening: This Earshot episode about Kylie Webb, who compiled her ‘sonic bucket list’ — a list of “11 sounds that I want to commit to memory” after being told that she has a condition that at some point she will lose her hearing.
Food & Drink: My town is under enhanced lockdown right now, which sucks — but it sucks less when a neighbour dropped some bananas in front of our house and we got to make some pisang goreng (banana fritters) today.
About last month before the schools and offices were reopened in Malaysia, I set up a video call for my mother as one of her weekly rituals to talk to her grandnieces. Only about 10 minutes in the video call, Aufa, 7 years old, decided to throw tantrum and wailed to her mother, who was perched attentively by her side, that she does not want to “do video” anymore. “Too many video,” she lamented, “video with teacher, video with Ustazah (for her Quran class), video with friends, video with Tok Teh (my mother), no more video!” We ended the call abruptly, abiding by the request of the disgruntled child.
There is no back to normal now, a reality that I have slowly accepted as I no longer number the days of the (semi) lockdown on the top of my journal page on a daily basis. Just like the anxiety-inducing needle during the 2016 US election, it’s an imposed feature I decided to do away with and no longer pay attention to, as it would no longer serve me or my mental health.
At the end of The Plague, Albert Camus writes: “The plague bacillus never dies or vanishes entirely […] it can remain dormant for dozens of years in furniture or clothing […] it waits patiently in bedrooms, cellars, trunks, handkerchiefs and old papers.” It is here to stay, mutating in many ways that we, somehow as resilient social creatures will find ways to navigate as we always do. Like Camus’s plague however, our unconsciousness stays with us — in a sense, somehow we still use a language that serves the ideology to think that the pandemic is a great leveller that renders us homogenously by going through the same kind of struggle, when it fact it does not.
Consider the Zoom video calls, which is a great example of the blurring the line between the distinction of the digital public and private sphere, not only when it comes to the work hours boundaries (which had been relinquished ages ago when we had Whatsapp, emails and Slack on our phones), but also clearly physical boundaries. When we turn on the video on Zoom calls, we are essentially inviting everyone into our personal space. In the very same setting we can probably see “a menagerie of rooms and homes, some generic or simple, others less so. […] The Zoom background immediately crosses the professional-personal boundary and eliminates any illusion of in-office equality. It’s as if everyone had just said their salaries out loud.” This is, after all, just one of the instances, we have not even talked about the digital divide — globally, only just over half of households (55%) have an internet connection, according to UNESCO. Even in the developed world, 87% are connected compared with 47% in developing nations, and just 19% in the least developed countries. Not to mention, being cooped up within the same four walls of the Zoom frame does not necessarily level the same amount of space one takes up. Someone is bound to hog the conversation and interrupt people all the time. Mansplaining would just find ways to manifest itself despite all platforms.
This week, about 1.2 million consumers in Selangor and Kuala Lumpur were affected by the water disruption caused by the effluent polluting in Selangor River. I saw a tweet going around, “tua muda miskin kaya, masalah air menimpa semua” (young old, rich and poor, the water cuts affect all) and scoffed as the timeline served us posts and pictures of folks booking Airbnbs and hotels out of state for their “MYR200 per night” showers, along with an Instagram post from the wife of the Selangor Chief Minister showing her family swimming in their private swimming pool. In the very same vein, other folks were lining up to fetch water for their homes from the water tankers, carrying pails and buckets of multiple sizes.
Is this a form of disaster capitalism, a term made popular by Naomi Klein to describe how societies, during times of catastrophe, become accustomed to capitalist practices? I don’t know, it could be. And just how capitalistic societies function, for those who cannot compete, fail. What a perverse ethics, that in fact, lacks ethics, in the words of Paulo Freire.
Coronavirus, or any disaster for that matter, is never a leveller. It just exacerbates what you see on a daily basis, if you care to pay enough attention.
Must read: “When my Beloved died, a doctor told me: The last sense to go is hearing. When someone is dying, they lose sight and smell and taste and touch. They even forget who they are. But in the end, they hear you.” Writer Jesmyn Ward, who wrote Sing Unburied Sing, Men We Reaped, and Salvage the Bones among others, lost her husband to the coronavirus. This is her moving essay on grief, personal and collective.
“This work examines how Western tech monopolies, with their desire to dominate, control and influence social, political, and cultural discourse, share common characteristics with traditional colonialism. […] By drawing examples from various parts of the continent, this paper illustrates how the AI invasion of Africa echoes colonial era exploitation.” Abeba Birhane on the algorithmic colonisation of Africa.
A group of researchers realised that China’s Baidu blanked out parts of its mapping platform, so they used those locations to find a network of buildings bearing the hallmarks of prisons and internment camps in Xinjiang. Here’s how they did it.
“[…] scholar Saidiya Hartman bemoans as “the demand that this suffering be materialised and evidenced by the display of the tortured body or endless recitations of the ghastly and the terrible,” only for very little to change. […] If wider society recognises data’s limitations, it, too, can move on from overly relying upon it as the only proxy for evidence.” While data that demonstrates racism might be useful in clarifying the things we already know to be true, it has limited power in terms of shifting public opinion. Also related: This essay on the ethics and aesthetics of protest videos.
“As a product leader, I ask myself: ‘Will users regret using the product I build? Ten years from now, how will we look back on the human impacts of what we create?’ The Ethical Explorer Pack is the perfect set of conversation starters to think through and futureproof the product development process.”
I’m nerding hard on this idea of digital gardens. “These creative reimaginings of blogs have quietly taken nerdier corners of the internet by storm. A growing movement of people are tooling with back-end code to create sites that are more collage-like and artsy, in the vein of Myspace and Tumblr—less predictable and formatted than Facebook and Twitter. Digital gardens explore a wide variety of topics and are frequently adjusted and changed to show growth and learning, particularly among people with niche interests.”
“These studies provide a reminder that intellectual humility doesn’t occur in a vacuum, and that our relationships can shape how defensive we are about our own knowledge and beliefs. To be more open-minded, it helps to feel loved and respected. Of course, this also works in reverse. If you wish those around you to be more open, consider whether you provide them with the respect and understanding to let down their defences.” How to foster ‘shoshin’, or ‘beginner’s mind’.
Oh if I were to have all the time and financial privileges in the world to just learn, I would enroll full-time in this Anthropology + Design course.
My new discovery down the Internet rabbit hole: Asknature.org is a free online tool where you can search thousands of nature’s solutions to various challenges.
Every day I take a 1-second video using the app 1 Second Everyday to record what’s happening in my life. This is for August 2020, where I had the opportunity to work within some feminist spaces and learned how to work with care and safety, a notion I have always wanted to be involved with and champion!
“Everything that you fought for was not for yourself, it was for those who came after you.” — Howard University alumnus Chadwick Boseman provided words of inspiration to the Class of 2018 during Howard University’s 150th Commencement Ceremony on Saturday, May 12 in Washington, D.C.
If you have survived grief before, you would understand there is no linear way the whole Kubler-Ross stage runs — you would almost experience denial first, with anger, bargaining, and depression filling in the between interchangeably, and when you thought you had reached the end with acceptance in sight, in then waltzes in the retrogress. I would know, for most of the time, I linger way too long in the anger phase, trying to fend off every faux positivity dispensed by sometimes well-meaning, although less informed people to look for the silver lining in my father’s passing. Bleurgh shut up.
Chadwick Boseman’s death, and the revelation of his diagnose of colon cancer over 4 years ago, brought out the lingering anger in many of us, also particularly me. Out sprouted all of these faux positivity, inspiration porn Twitter accounts going, “Chadwick was in 5 movies while battling cancer, what excuse do we have?!” I don’t know man, I am sure Chadwick loved what he was doing, and he probably had more resources than other Black men and women out there trying to fight for their health insurance and rampant racism that are currently structurally killing them, but try to not romanticise how someone had to work through illness and/or a disability? Or do better and try to hire disabled and/or chronically ill people for once, so for once no one should live without fear of losing housing, food, or health insurance? I don’t know, make something easy for some other people who don’t have it easy as you for once?
And Malaysians, it’s not lost on me that while you are currently mourning the death of a Black man — just a few weeks ago your beloved Malay, fair-skinned sweetheart was called out for cultural appropriation after she chose to don a traditional Indian attire for a commercial photoshoot. While she half-heartedly apologised for the ‘oversight’, citing her choice to do so was out of her fondness for the Bollywood culture, the rest of us (I’m saying ‘us’ because as long as this racism is still going on, I am still complicit in it and need to do better) chose to cyberbully the Indian girl who called her out, tossing every single racist, stereotypical language her way, further proving her point that we only love the Malaysian Indian aesthetics where they suit and benefit us, but not the people. I don’t know, like, listen to other people who look different than you are, and are treated differently than you are and not as well are you are, in a country where racial politics is still widespread, for once?
Someone mentioned to me the other day that the year 2020 has been “a ride” so far. I’d like to add that it is like being on a ride on an engulfed roller coaster carriage whilst donning a surgical mask, with leering patriarchy catcalling “hai kak long you’re looking good cium sikit eh sombunk” on the carriage behind you, and murder hornets swarming around your heads on the carriage in front, bringing buzzy news about the largest ice sheet melting in Greenland, all the while having power-hungry politicians ready to push you for your own demise from the carriage, and having the lesser evil of the other side of the politicians ready to catch you from below, only letting you fall to the ground once someone hails them as the hero. Fun.
Mentally, I am currently this paddling forlorn dog.
“This tool kit and website brings together on emergent best practices, workflows, and tools that communities, educators, mutual aid groups, designers, artists and activists are using right now to host gatherings, and how design needs to change to best suit people, right now.” Responsible design for digital communities.
“[W]ithout the hearing aid I can come unstuck, plunging below the surface layer of Toronto into the city that lies beneath — a place full of monstrous shapes and shadowy figures, where clarity is only found in small moments of concentration, as I lean in to listen with my brow furrowed and neck crooked. I didn’t know then that my balancing line between different cities was the same line between a pre- and post-pandemic world, where everyone is forced to join me in a dimension of muted sound.” Ben Berman Ghan is partially deaf, and this is his essay on newly quiet cities.
“She also suggested that we may get it wrong when we focus on individuals — on chief executives, on social media activists like her. The probable answer to a media environment that amplifies false reports and hate speech, she believes, is the return of functional governments, along with the birth of a new framework, however imperfect, that will hold the digital platforms responsible for what they host.” How technosociologist Zeynep Tufekci keeps getting big things right. I researched leadership emergence in a leaderless networked movement for my PhD, and Tufekci’s work had been instrumental in guiding my thesis.
Practical Data Ethics course, run by fast.ai and USF Data Institute, covering disinformation, bias, ethical foundations, privacy & surveillance, Silicon Valley ecosystem, and algorithmic colonialism.
Catherine D’Ignazio and Lauren Klein’s Data Feminism is available for free online. I plan to get my own copy once my budget permits.
Watching: “Political change takes only about 3.5% of the population to be actively engaged.” — Political scientist Erica Chenoweth. This is proof that individual actions, if harnessed strategically, do add up.
Food & Drink: Salmon teppanyaki and hojicha latte!
Image description: Four panels of comics drawn by illustrator Hasanthika Serensina, from an article in Electric Lit called What It’s Like to Lose Your First Language. The caption above the first two panels wrote: “Scientists say there is a process to how you lose a language. It’s called language attrition.” The first panel contains: A part of a pocket watch visible against a black background, with the caption: “First you lose the word. Then you lose the grammar. Last you lose the sound.” The second panel contains Part of a hand holding the pocket watch visible against a black background, with the caption: “But scientists don’t believe the language is completely lost.” The third panel contains: An old white man in a suit holding the pocket watch against a black background, looking towards the reader, with the caption: A process like hypnosis, for example, might be used to help recall. The fourth panel contains A black background, with two speech bubbles. The first speech bubble is captioned: “Stop!”. The second speech bubble is captioned: “I don’t want my first language back.”
After fostering three stupid kittens (who are still here) who showed in my yard and almost made their way into the car tyres, my home office, my precious space, was almost dismantled completely to let these dumdums roam / zoomie around without causing much damage (‘much’ is an understatement). The wires are coiled and kept away safely, the second monitor shelved in another room, and my favourite swing arm standing lamp (which I call my ‘focus lamp’ as when I switched it on to work on my thesis, the rest of the world in my peripheral view can wait for a few hours) folded away. Precious books I referred to more often than the rest that I kept on a stool next to my desk were also returned to the shelves, no more hierarchy, as it was feared that one, or two, or three of these furry sprightly babies would run into them and lest they’d tumble to the ground and hurt them. For a few months, I worked on my laptop from my dinner table downstairs, occasionally pushing my files and papers away to make space for actual dinner to be served on the very table.
After graduating, I was sickly worried with the neverending job hunt in this pandemic and this recession that got me nowhere. Plus, as the Malaysian economy ‘reopens’, companies which had never been accustomed to WFH were so eager to drop the idea altogether and return to the office, so the remote working option — which is the option I am opting for — is out of the picture for most of them. I am not looking to elaborate more on this absurdity on requiring newly hired employees to uproot their lives and relocate across the country solely for work when the pandemic is still ongoing and the precarity of the economy is still hanging by a flimsy thread, ready to snap at any second. So as the kittens grew up and it seemed much safer to return my home office, my precious space, to its previously welcoming state, was put to a halt.
A month ago, I had been getting a steady requests for paid work, which I am grateful for my wonderful circle of friends. In one of the first few stints I was going to be commissioned for, I spent hours sitting on a stool (for one of the kittens had claimed the chair as his own) typing and transcribing hours of workshop materials. As a result, my back felt like a twig about to snap if I were to move in a slight haste. That weekend I decided this was it — maybe if I return this precious space of mine, this home office, to its state of former glory, some magic will invite itself back in — physically (as in my back will never hurt again) and mentally (*this, obviously, requires more work). So I had to apologise to the Chair Stealer Kitten as I reclaimed my chair, dusted off the work table, placed the monitor in its appropriate angle again, rearranged the stationeries and my favourite books (the hierarchy is back) and decided to forgo working from the dinner table altogether.
*In accepting all of these wonderful jobs I was entrusted with and lined up for me, I am also forced to face head on with my previous workplace trauma and my healing. It helps a lot that one of the work I am doing with deals with the idea of care and safety, a notion somehow I felt disconnected with after so many years. There are these safe and warm voices from all of the talented people who recommended me saying I am totally qualified to do all of these — which of course I am! — but there are also all of these strange, foreign, vicious voices I anticipate to emerge from one of the chat backchannels telling me I will screw this up and they will never expect any less. This is also another topic I do not want to elaborate further, except to let you know I am learning to lean towards the good voices (which are real present people) rather than the past voices, so I am good and there is nothing much to worry about. I am sharing the lesson from Foreign Bodies on trauma (although the edition is on intergenerational trauma):
Don’t believe everything you think! Traumatic events are watershed events in most people’s lives: there is a “before the accident” and “after the accident” so to speak. Because of the nature of how big these events are and their impact on life, it’s normal for your thinking patterns to feel very much unlike yourself. It’s important to recognize: “Hey, this isn’t really me. I need some help to feel and process like myself again.”
“[A]ll parts of who we are are present in this work, especially when it’s around racial justice. And so, we should be carving out space for people to just name their limits and also name their vulnerabilities and saying, ‘I can’t right now….and that’s fine.”” On Black activism and burnout, and how the well-being of activists is interrelated with the well-being and sustainability of social movements.
“[A]s I am writing this, my lumchum is encased in a bag covered in stripes and musical dinosaurs; I am sheepish but largely unfazed by this. A cursory survey of my friends and family has found that on average, chaochaos tend to stick around well into a person’s thirties, forties, even fifties. You never buy a new one because you want to, but because you are forced to. There is also no telling which pillow will do it for you. Much like love, it just happens.” An ode to the chaochao, or the ‘smelly pillow’, a must-have in every Malaysian household that I remember (including mine).
Can’t afford Masterclass(es)? Here’s masterWiki, “stolen from MasterClass, republished as wikiHow”.
Universe is an app that allows anyone to design a web page on their phone, no code needed. Perfect for individuals as well as small businesses, as it can handle the merchandise, manage inventory, shipping, and operations on the back end. There might be limitations, but I am excited to see where this might lead. Thank you WITI for the link.
Reading: Angela Saini’s Superior: The Return of Race Science. I also just finished Silvia Moreno-Garcia’s Mexican Gothic and honestly, what a ride! I am not always into horror novels, but I am enjoying every bit of Moreno-Garcia’s book — part Lovecraftian, part Alfred Hitchcock, all Gothic setting — very much.
Watching: My weekend Youtube rabbit hole adventure had lead me to the discovery of Two Minute Papers, a channel featuring short, well, 2-minute videos created by a professor who reviews science-related research papers. Also, sign me up for this kind of work stress!
Food & Drink: We made pulut kuning today to send over to the neighbours’ houses as a kenduri (feast) now that I have levelled up as Dr. Zana Fauzi!
This week’s illustration by the ever brilliant Bangalore-based Sonaksha Iyengar, whose work revolves around the ideas of self care, body image, gender, feminism, social justice, community care, and inclusion. Hire her for your illustration needs!
This week I am thinking of the trust I am bestowed to be allowed in one of the many opportunities where I get to reflect how to consider care and safety in the work we do, and the spaces we share with others. I am also thinking of how honoured I am to have amazing, talented, and self-actualised friends who would never hesitate to invite me along in their journey of growth and learning.
This week my heart is with my friends and everyone in Beirut, in Belarus, in Zimbabwe, in Palestine, in Kashmir, in Xinjiang, and elsewhere. It is depressing to think that the list is still going on. Not to forget all of us in this Bolehland, having to contend with the audacity of our political leaders obsessively mired in their drive for individual power, while the country and the world is ravaged with a deadly pandemic and a debilitating recession. How dare. It feels futile to even hope. But wherever there is hope, there is resilience. Wherever there is resilience, there is action. Wherever there is action, there is change. What better way to alchemise anger, tire, and hope than to turn them, one day at a time, into action. After all, in the words of Ursula K. Le Guin, “Any human power can be resisted and changed by human beings.”
I also couldn’t stop thinking of this incredible photo of Frida Kahlo and the accompanying letter she wrote to Diego Rivera before her leg was to be amputated, or in her words, “to be chopped up in peace”. Whenever I think of how I want to express myself, I want to do like this exactly.
“I came to think of Amazon and Google as the providers of the very infrastructure of the internet, so embedded in the architecture of the digital world that even their competitors had to rely on their services.” Urgh break up the tech giants!
“Promoting openness and transparency nurtures mutual trust—and when the people and the government trust each other, new possibilities for collective action blossom. So the question becomes: How can digital tools be deployed to engender trust?” A profile of the fascinating Taiwanese digital minister, Audrey Tang, the country’s civic engagement approach, and the evolution of democracy and the Internet in the country.
“[T]he Black experience is defined by a historical struggle for existence, the right to live, to be considered a person, to be afforded basic rights, in pursuit of (political, social, economic) equality. Because of this, the Afrofuturist can see the parts of the present and future that reside in the status quo’s blind spots.” How Afrofuturism can help the world mend.
Food & Drink: Ordered Korean spicy fried chicken from 4Fingers. Also, we have rambutans! My prefered way to eat them is to peel the rinds off, keep the peeled fruits in the fridge for a couple of hours, and consume them cold! The Instagram consensus, where I shared a Story on this, agree with the method.
(Announcement: I started a Substack! The content, while pretty much similar to the blog, is more polished since, well, there are audiences. The pressure hit me the moment I sent out my first edition and realised I have to commit to sending this out x times y month/week and that there are people, most of them very smart and articulate and informed, signed up to read my shit. But there’s the challenge, and let’s see how long I can keep up with it.*nervous laugh*)
I am currently halfway into Maurice Carlos Ruffin’s brilliant satire We Cast a Shadow, and the question that had been the running theme in the book, in my mind, was: How much racial trauma— just like every other trauma — can affect how much you navigate the world that never intends for your safety, and how you treat other people who look like you, and the people you love?
Ruffin’s We Cast a Shadow started as the protagonist, an unnamed Black man, tells us his name does not matter, “I’m a phantom [and] a figment.” He’s an associate at a high-profile law firm, and he’s standing in the midst of an annual party dressing up in a Zulu chief costume, trying to vie for the attention of the shareholders along with other two Black coworkers. Those who succeeded will be promoted, those who failed will be sacked. Our protagonist, despite the humiliation and a minor setback involving a wardrobe malfunction, bags the promotion. He is now the new chief diversity chair in a committee where none of the others looks like him (clue: they are all white) but not as a shareholder (which means there is no pay raise). In order to get the pay raise, he has to create a campaign for the firm to create the illusion that they care about ‘the community’ (read: Black people) which lead to the protagonist venturing into his childhood fenced-in ghetto to film the people he grew up with.
At the heart of it all is the people he loves most, and the reason he is chasing the pay raise: his biracial son Nigel. Born with a birthmark as only “a fleck of oregano” in his eye area, the mark eventually developed and darkened as he grew up. In an attempt to contain its growth, he makes his son takes a whitening cream that burns, and that Nigel is made to wear a hat wherever he goes. The issue, it seems, is much more than a skin condition.
A dark-skinned child can expect a life of diminished light.
Growing up with racial trauma throughout the years, the protagonist is determined that the world is not going to change, in a sense it is going to become even more racist so they are the ones who have to adjust themselves to the world…
Somehow the grinding effects of a world built to hurt me have not yet eliminated my every opportunity for a happy life, as is the case for so many of my brethren. The world is a centrifuge that patiently waits to separate my Nigel from his basic human dignity. I don’t have to tell you that this is an unjust planet.
…even if this means having him to do the undignified things like filming his Black neighbours and brothers for the campaign in an attempt to participate in his company’s performative activism, in so that he would make enough to pay for his son’s ‘demelanisation’ procedure that would not only remove his birthmark, but also give him an overall whiteskin.
On the question of survivorship bias
A few weeks ago, Al-Jazeera produced a documentary titled Locked Up in Malaysia’s Lockdown, which reported the inhumane treatment to the migrant workers arrested during raids in areas in capital Kuala Lumpur that were placed under tight coronavirus lockdowns. Human rights activists and informed citizens alike condemned the arrests, the poor treatment, and the clampdown of freedom of speech and media independence as the government threatened to deport Rayhan Kabir, the Bangladeshi man appearing in the documentary (update: he had been arrested 😦 ) and also towards Al-Jazeera (update: their office had been raided and computers seized).
Over Twitter, someone created a petition demanding an official apology from the news publication for ‘tarnishing the good name of the Malaysian government” and that […] they have no valid documents whatsoever, and we feel that the treatment given to them by our government is more than humane”. While it had been gaining traction, someone pointed out that the person who started the petition is, by any funny chance, a migrant themself. They, at a stroke of luck in a form of the genetic lottery, is fair-skinned, a privilege that afforded them some substantial space of privilege in a country so permeated with xenophobia and colourism, despite not being a Malaysian themself.
Would they say and do the same if they was also born brown and Bangladeshi as Rayhan? Would we also listen to them, or would we also come marching with pitchforks demanding for their documents to be checked and deported?
The term survivorship bias is defined as “your tendency to focus on survivors instead of whatever you would call a non-survivor depending on the situation.” In Ruffin’s book, the Black protagonist narrates as:
I am a unicorn. I can read and write. I have all my teeth. I’ve read Plato, Woolf, Nikki Giovanni, and Friend. I’ve never been to jail. I’ve voted in every election since I was eighteen. I finished high school. I finished college. I finished law school. I pay taxes. I don’t have diabetes, high blood pressure, or the itis. If you randomly abduct a hundred black men from the streets of the City and deposit us into a gas chamber, I will be the only one who fits this profile. I will be the only one who survives. Is it because I’m better than the other ninety-nine? No. It’s because I’m lucky, and I know it.
He says this while at the same time, admitting, albeit subtlely, about the racial trauma he grew up with. He attempts to paint himself as ‘different’ from other Black people, and he is horrified Nigel is friends with another Black girl at school. But he grew disillusioned with the world, and he was tired of fighting, and in an attempt to maybe protect his son from feeling so as well, he asked himself, “What if I can ensure that my boy is not perceived as a black man? What if he is simply a man?” It’s a simple question, but it was loaded with the notion that when you are something other than white, you are not a human being.
There may be beauty in my blackness and dignity in the struggle of my people, but I won’t allow my son to live a life of diminished possibility. I see a constellation of opportunity that those of my ilk rarely travel to. I see my Nigel at the center of those stars.
If there’s anything to call Ruffin’s protagonist, is that he is not a malicious person. If I were to read this book a few years ago, unaware and uninformed, I would have quit halfway because of how shallow he seems in disregarding and not appreciating of his own roots to the point he is willing to change his son’s appearance altogether. He should have stopped, but his experiences were not ours, and if we are not Black none of our experiences will never amount to the gravitas they had shown despite it all. We will never know — but we can keep questioning, how far will we go to ensure safety to our loved ones in a world that would seek to harm them anyway?
Reading in my tabs:
“Growing up in Lebanon taught me that an explosion resonates across time, that the shock reverberates forward into your life, and the pressure reconfigures the landscape of the mind. I know that it comes to shape everything you think you deserve from the world.” If there’s one thing you want to read about Lebanon, the explosion, and the long-running issues their people had to endure, make it this one by Lina Mounzer.
AI issues are rooted in colonialism, and here are their five manifestations: algorithmic discrimination and oppression, ghost work, beta testing, AI governance, and international social development. Three ways to overcome them: context-aware technical development, reverse tutelage, and solidarity.
“We also need to recognise that the way women get dragged into the role of primary caregiver isn’t always explicit — it’s insidious. Maybe a husband tells his wife that she’s just “better” at handling the toddler’s tantrums, or that the 10-year-old won’t listen to him the way she listens to their mum. He doesn’t remember the name of the kids’ pediatrician — because he’s not the parent who takes off of work when they’re sick — to make their appointment, so his wife might as well do it. He has no idea what his daughter’s shoe size is, or even that she needs new shoes at all. It’s the “myth of the male bumbler” — the absurdity of men believing themselves fit to run the world, but unable to figure out how to do the laundry or put a child down for a nap.” The pandemic isn’t forcing mums out of the workforce — dads are.
“Encased in gold aluminum, the sweet treat was a glowing orb that concealed the pains, joys, and dreams of immigrants between layers of crushed hazelnut and chocolate filling. It was a secret handshake, a sign of respect and good taste. It was a symbol of “the good life,” a tangible thing that vividly encapsulated social and economic aspirations in a way no other food item could.” How Ferrero Rocher became a status symbol for immigrant families. My family and I don’t come from an immediate line of immigrants in our country, but I do remember feeling overjoyed everytime my dad came home from work and brought home a pack of three Ferrero Rochers (the smallest), which was also how I knew it was his payday. That, or a monthly dinner to the local KFC or the Viennetta ice cream.
“I find this framing troubling. Most obviously, it shifts responsibility for global emissions from systemic actors like fossil fuel companies and governments onto individuals. By doing so, it gives corporations a pass while placing moral responsibility on people who live within systems where they are not free to make carbon-neutral choices. It accepts as inevitable the neoliberal order that has driven the climate crisis, and insists that our responses to this crisis take place within the same system.” Is it OK to have a child when the world is literally slowly burning?
“Is there a word for this strange dissonance that I feel when I see and hear spring unfurl its beauty all around and yet the air is heavy with the news of death?”
“You write in order to change the world, knowing perfectly well that you probably can’t, but also knowing that literature is indispensable to the world. In some way, your aspirations and concern for a single man in fact do begin to change the world. The world changes according to the way people see it, and if you alter, even by a millimeter, the way a person looks or people look at reality, then you can change it.”
Listening: Drive & Listen, which pulls dashboard cam videos from YouTube and pairs them up with local music channels so that you can feel like you’re cruising around in a foreign city, blasting the radio, all while sitting at your desk.
Viewing: Did everyone miss how good On My Block was? The series revolve around a group of four teens living their lives in a rough inner-city LA neighbourhood. Many great themes around friendship, trauma, navigating racial identities, and challenging the antiquated idea of masculinity, among others.
Food & Drink: Made grilled chicken to have with brown rice today!
As an Internet Elderly™ who had been spending my time online since I was 15 — that has been aeons ago — I am equally baffled and fascinated by the phenomenon that is TikTok. It’s social, it’s political (to the point it is nearly banned in America) — two criteria that should have immediately made me jump into launching research about the platform, but not yet as far.
Because of the pandemic, I haven’t seen my nieces and nephews for over 130 days, despite living only half an hour away from some of them. We had occasional video calls, but they were just not the same. Over the first few months as we kept having the calls I sensed we experienced some Zoom fatigue, so they were getting less and less frequent. Texting and normal calls could never replace in-person interactions, so I just missed seeing them in their natural habitat as kids, loud and exuberant and disgusting but just as lovable.
One of my nieces had been re-posting the TikTok videos she did to her Instagram. Most of her posts were ones where she did some form of dance where the anatomy of the dance is almost identical of all the other TikTok dance videos I came across — the TikTok dancer would often stand in one place, the choreograph would always include some intricate and sequential hand movements, sometimes followed by a hip wiggle, complete with a facial expression that was devised in a way that the dancer would lock eyes with the viewers all the time. The moves are fast and formulaic, and I observed that she improvised the moves to every different music on other different TikTok posts. I never knew if she had devised a choreograph of her own, but I am tempted to ask her one day. The movements seem easy, but I gave up trying after a while. It’s very fascinating to me because I have always known how dance techniques have always been influenced by their spatial and temporal limitations.
For ballet, the confines of a stage instruct choreographic patterns that cater to the rows and tiers of seated audience members. Breakdancing was developed on the streets of New York City, where cardboard was used as a surface on which the technique was perfected. TikTok dancers are ruled by the necessity to fit their choreography within the restrictions of a one minute time frame if they want to appeal to the attention span of an average user.
There is also a social aspect to TikTok dances, as the article suggested. Some of the dances my niece did included her younger brother — who tried to emulate how his sister did and failed spectacularly, but still cute. It’s also something fun you can concoct with the rest of your family, in the case of this Malaysian family who, amidst having to celebrate Eid in the middle of the pandemic lockdown, posted this video that had managed to garner 9 million views.
Humans, despite all our shortcomings, have the way to adapt to every terrible situation we are thrown into. These social platforms might be prone to the abuse of power given any opportunity, but along the years they have served as ways for us to get in touch with each other, or to offer a window into one’s soul — to get to know how one is truly is, or what things they like. The pandemic might have brought us farther in distance from each other, but in a way, these TikTok videos of my niece doing the things she enjoys is the closest thing I could get in a time when being out and touching any random doorknobs seem like radical action, until it is safe to do so.
Reading in my tabs:
TIL ‘anthropause‘, the situation of the seismic hush caused by coronavirus lockdown measures.
Most articles about WFH (working from home) are usually always Western-centric, where the challenges are more organisational than infrastructural (electricity, Internet speed etc) and cultural. This article is on how people are adapting to the WFH era in Lagos, Mumbai, Tallinn, Amman and Ho Chi Minh City.
“Your name is a poem I’m required to keep to myself. Who were you before the virus, before you were this — this list of failing organs run in despair by a repurposed trainee neurologist? Do you have children who smile at the sound of your voice? What was the last thing you were allowed to tell them, before you came alone into the hospital, before the breathing tube, the drug-induced coma?” A devastating letter from a doctor to his patient with Covid-19.
“I finally did what I wanted to do for so long. I couldn’t have those experiences as a kid, so I made them for myself as an adult. I don’t necessarily feel like a brand-new person since I started ballet; I’m still figuring out who I am. I do, however, have a more specific perception of my identity as a queer person. I’m not in my head as much. I am more whole, and dare I say, happier. Plus, my legs have never looked better.” A beautiful essay on the struggle of embracing your identity in a conservative society, and finding it through dance.
Listening: “You don’t get to pick your family of origin or the place you grow up. But you do get to choose your friends, and those choices say something about the kind of world you want for yourself.” This episode of Call Your Girlfriend on navigating relationships with deep divides of identities, which makes me grateful for my small circle of friends and how our differences brought us together. Also, this is exactlyhow I sing Taylor Swift’s Exile.
Viewing: This 14-minute stop motion animation set in Mumbai about a father-daughter relationship. The animation took 8 years to make! The details! Check out also the behind-the-scene video.
Every day I take a 1-second video using the app 1 Second Everyday to record what’s happening in my life. This is for July 2020, where I received the Senate letter from my university, hereby making me officially a Doctor in Philosophy!
This picture of a small green grassy compound of my university campus was taken during the first weeks when I first enrolled in my PhD programme about three years ago. I remember I was ecstatic because the initial proposal to my PhD thesis that I spent two weeks crafting was accepted by my potential supervisor at the time, at which he said, “it’d be an honour to supervise you.” I was at the time slowly healing from severe work burnout and I was losing a sense of who I was and what I was good at. I was desperate to grapple at any semblance of validity to prove that I was, ahem, in Thor’s voice, “still worthy”. The fact here was that my supervisor himself never knew his words actually helped to open doors for me.
I was in a social science programme and while most of my work involved making sense of huge chunks of social media data, I was privileged to have been able to afford a computer and a variety of software where I could spend a large amount of my time working from my home office, 80 km away from the university. I was also lucky that my supervisor trusted me with the autonomy to figure things out on my own, provided that I would always go to him first whenever I stumbled on my work — where, even so, most of our meetings took place online or through phone calls. That being said, unlike a number of doctoral students, I did not spend much of my time on the campus. I have not even explored the full campus — if you ask me where this one particular building is, I still had to look it up. But today after dropping by the library to return some books, and on top of the fact that I just received my Senate letter the day before confirming I am officially a Doctor (!!!), I could not help feeling the tiniest bit of emotions, “So I spent three years here! And it’s done! Now what???”
The one constant question I kept asking myself throughout my doctoral journey, and moving forward is, “What good shall I do with this knowledge I have earned?” My research involved going through over 50,000 public tweets of political nature and figuring out their relations and some form of opinion leadership emergence. In accordance to Twitter policy, users on Twitter with a public account were considered to have made their tweets publicly viewable and available, and therefore informed consent was not needed and their tweets could be published in an academic work alongside their handles. But I realised a few things — women users — who were especially vocal on their stance — were disparaged, cyberbullied, harassed, and doxxed based on the fact that they are women-representing, more so than their views. I had to take a break from working for a few days after having to analyse lines of tweets with words such as “b**ch, c**t, b***na” etc. It, however, worked differently for men-representing users — while they were just as provoked, little of their gender was mentioned in their ‘debates’. All of these tweets were public, and while according to the policy it was OK to publish them, I felt it wasn’t right to disclose and out these women, of whom these vile tweets were directed, even more. “What good shall I do with this knowledge I have earned?” I asked myself, while trying to figure out how to go ahead with this research anyway. After consulting a number of experts, I was advised to not disclose the handle, and rephrase the tweets that were going to be used as samples. It was definitely a lot of work (!!!) but there was that feeling that you have done the right thing, and despite the painstaking hours rephrasing thousands of tweets, it was WORTH it. This was just the start of so many things, and while I am now at the end of my doctoral journey, I can’t claim to be an expert of things, only that I am now more equipped to find out ways on how to figure things out.
The question “What good shall I do with this knowledge I have earned?” is especially monumental now in the times when technology — my field — had been used for numerous reasons to oppress rather than liberate. A lot of times, it was described as ‘indeliberately’ causing harm, reducing the matter of the widening gap of inequalities in the tech industry and the harm our products and processes perpetuated as just an ‘oopsie’. Furthermore, having a good intent is not enough — you can post all the black squares, all the black and white photos — but if none of your intent is accompanied by an actual thoughtful rumination and reflection of how it could do good in the simplest goal of recentering the people who actually deserve it, and doing no harm towards everyone and the ecology as a whole, we might need to rethink some of our existing processes.
What good shall you do with the knowledge you have earned?
“How else to clear the field except to render your peers incapable, unlikable, unprofessional? Whether or not men are saying it out loud, via street catcalls or in front of political reporters, the reduction of their would-be female peers — their ideological and electoral adversaries and competitors for power — has helped clear away potential impediment to their own professional trajectories.” The poison of male invincibility.
“I have learned that mispronunciation is often the downfall of people who read widely as children and form the incorrect pronunciation in their mind before actually hearing the word said aloud.” As an avid reader growing up, I have experienced many instances such as the author’s where I realised I had mistakenly pronounced some of the words after they invited howls of laughter from the room. These days I don’t care anymore. Can you speak my native language when I can converse and understand comfortably in yours? That’s what I thought.