Breathe, on COVID19

This virus threatens the tree of life.
The respiratory branches.
 
It targets the magnificently structured pathways traveled by our breath.
 
The connections from within to out.
It damages and inflames,
causing protective fluid and cells
to betray our blood,
overproducing,
blocking oxygen from nourishing our veins.
It prevents movement and exchange.
 
Breath is known to be the essence of life.
The affirmation of survival.
The expression of our soul.
 
Diseased economies
designed for overproduction,
not nourishment,
puts us at greater risk,
accelerating the spread of the virus.
 
These economies threaten the breath of life.
The spiritual branches.
 
Our connections damaged, irritated, inflamed.
We betray our blood,
enforcing borders across veins,
the expression of our souls blocked,
obstructing oxygen
arresting our hearts
extraction only
exchange prevented
unable to transplant the marrow necessary for survival.
Life in service of greed impedes our movements.
 
We are in search of a cure.
In mystery and discovery.
 
The stages are clear.
 
We must love and protect each other.
Respirate from suffocating conditions.
Open pathways towards a society structured to affirm life.
Transform to ensure our collective survival.
 
Inhale dignity,
Hail to the ancestors,
heal, conspire, respire.
 
We will breathe.

It’s up to us

I refuse to allow humanity to continue on this poisonous painful way that we are in. To be on Earth and not work towards another way of being, to me– is allowing it.  It’s heartbreaking and absurd that human economies, governance, shelters, food, travel systems– everything—is set up in such a way that suffering, destruction, misinformation, and violence is not only permitted, but it is cultivated and spread.

Earth is a beautiful incredible place. Nature offers us such powerful wisdoms, magnificence, nourishment, and medicine. This Earth offers such great potential for humans to live joyfully. So many places where humans could live well-fed and sheltered with ease and joy. Places that humans were designed to inhabit. With all the potential, humans have to create and utilize complex technologies, there is even greater potential to live with ease and joy.

There have been many communities throughout humanity throughout time that have lived harmoniously with each other and the Earth.

In this moment, in time, however, humanity is set up in a way where most people throughout the world experience or contribute to violence throughout their lives from early childhood to elderly years. For centuries, unprecedented new forms of mass systematic violence have continued to emerge– embedding and infecting generations. Ancestral neighbors, families and tribes have been ripped a part and placed structurally and culturally against each other. The wars are increasing. Corruption is brazen.  Authoritarianism is strengthening.  The greedy & exploitative have been gaining more power, influence, control, and resources. There is so much unnecessary pain, suffering, violence and injustice.

I must resist being subjugated by such horrific ways. I can not surrender to the logic that this is just how things are and other ways can’t happen.  I feel too deeply to be on this beautiful Earth and not work towards a complete redesign of how human systems function.

I believe, like Aunty Norma Wong reminded me, that our futures have great potential to be more glorious than our most legendary pasts. Technology would serve to support happiness and care for all of us.  The priority of governance would be to cultivate joy, creativity, nourishment and peace for as many people as possible.  The energy, labor, time, effort, and resources once used to force people to comply with a violent, exploitative, bigoted system will be used towards technology races to provide humanity with the most creative, safe, and enjoyable housing and shelter.  Children will play with each other through hologram adventure games defeating some of the worst aberrations in human history and dancing the best dances.  We could harness healing and divine energies towards love and thriving throughout humanity.

You are right to think that achieving that is a daunting feat.  The greedy and exploitative will not relinquish power easily.

Freedom won’t happen on its own.

It’s up to us to accelerate us towards glorious futures.

Why Stay and the Mission

Andre’s passing brings me such deep sorrow.  I feel very in touch with the pain of humanity and how disgustingly unjust things are.  Human society causes so much unnecessary suffering.

Near 30 days of Andre’s passing, I went 3 days with only 3 hours sleep– which might have been a first for me.  Part of being so physical and aging is that I like a lot of sleep.  The sleeplessness sharpened my sensitivities and made most humans unbearable.  By the end of the third day I was in such deep agony, it seemed my heart ached with each beat and no breath could fill my lungs.  Only talking to the Spirits seemed to bring me comfort.

Andre’s passing thrust me back into comforting intimacy with Papa– my grandfather who became my guardian angel when I was 6 years old.  Amma had told me that Papa taught her that praying was just talking to God.  And that lesson poured into me as Papa transitioned from human to spirit form.  As a child, I talked to him daily.  I feel Papa has witnessed my life through my eyes, believes in me, and understands me in ways my family has been unable to.

This time has also brought me spiritually closer to my grandmothers– Grandmummy and Ammama.  As well as, so many of my ancestors.  Grief, I’ve been reminded of, is ancient.  This time has opened me to what my bones have carried from thousands of years before this time.  I feel my ancestors praising André for bringing me into deeper connection with the Ancestral Realm.

After 72 hours with only 3 hours sleep, the pain was so overwhelming, I began to ask the ancestors why I am still here?  Why be here on earth amongst the humans in this wretched way of being?  I know after-life to be bliss. I can feel Andre is free, no longer suffering.  I can feel his magnificent love, care, and peace.  Why should I remain on earth to endure pain, when I know what is beyond is freedom?– I’m too sensitive for the violence of humanity.  Too empathetic.  Too connected.  “Why must I stay here?” I asked.  I could feel my grandmothers talk to me.  The message I received was that: I have writing that must be done and that I need to return to Ilankai to teach our peoples what I’ve learned.  I was shocked by the clarity of inter-generational purpose.  I understood that it took time and work for me to come to these lands.  To learn all that I have.  And that I must return with the stories and knowledge that I’ve gained.  My ancestors have me here on a mission.  Once I’ve completed my charge, I can be free to leave.

The healer/fighter in me envisions this quest as one that carries me into elderly years,  overcoming the many challenges this life brings, and permitting me to witness the children in my life care for children of their own.  The wounded weary cynical part of myself is gearing myself up to finish my mission and let the ancestors take me.  Interestingly, both parts are deeply aligned.  Both parts of me, understand writing as essential.  The healer knows that writing is what I need to heal.  The wounded recognizes my mortality and the need to leave a path for our descendants to our ancestors and vice versa.

So with this understanding, I begin this stage of writing.  I do hope you will witness me emerge from this grief into a joyful healing magic that carries me through other inevitable loss and obstacle into peaceful elder years.  That is my goal.  And what Andre has also taught me is that just because one fights with all they can for life does not mean they are granted a long one.  So I must stay focused on my missions.  Love, love, love to all of y’all who read this.  I am so thankful for you.

 

let’s evolve not erode our ancient practices of grief

When I was young we had no choice but to gather quickly & often after a loved one passed.  There was no social media or cell phones or google sheets or cash apps or texting.  Our peoples would gather immediately to assess the situation.  Make sure that those mourning were not falling ill.  That grief did not pull anyone else across to the Spirit realm.  Make sure that the weight didn’t break a family, especially if life had already been squeezing them.

Our elders would gather resources and divide responsibilities. 

When we were children, we were all stuffed into one room, unsupervised with no bedtime.  A big slumber party with all our cousins, blood & chosen.  As young teens the “girls” and “boys” were divided.  The daughters were deployed serving coffee & tea, short eats and meals, gently tending to those too sad to eat “at least try a mutton roll?”  We learned our rank in the kitchen.  Assessed: who would make the better wives. 

I’m not sure what the sons did…. Were they being recruited into swallowing sorrow?  Learning to loosen the muscles gripping the ache with sips of arrack?  Were you blessed with a man who taught you that grief includes unpredictable tears and laughter? Forgiveness and fissures?  Shameless song and dance?  Irreverence and scolding?  Were you shown how to move through the pain with care, tenderness, connection, and love.  Or were you shown how to numb and ignore it, welling up the weighted layers, floating silence? 

It was a mix for us deemed to the feminine sphere.  Swallowing, welling, silencing, weighing our own feelings, maneuvering in order to float others.  And there were also those who showed us how to wail, cry, scream, sing sorrow at the top of their lungs.   There were people of both ways that healed and people of both ways that harmed.  Both capable of shattering tight orders into starry spaces and simultaneously magnetizing worlds, solar systems away.

In my later teens I loosened loins gripped by patriarchy through clandestine frequency at the dance clubs.  Here was a place for my body & spirit to be free.  Allow myself to ease into my intergalactic ways– unbound by the gender and cultural norms of humanity at this point in history.  It is where I learned Gay, Queer, & Trans culture.   Back then we had to gather in person.  I didn’t have an email address, yet.  There was no craigslist or grindr or tinder.  There were personals in print newspapers.  The club was a quicker way to meet people.  Even if you weren’t into dancing, folks went to the club, because that’s where you’d go to be yourself, be free.  And that vibration attracted other free-thinkers & freedom-seekers.  We were a mix of cultures, experiences, ages, genders, orientations all dancing, mixing, fighting, loving, and exchanging with each other.

Our club elders in the their 40’s experienced the free love of the 70’s and survived the worst of the AIDS crisis.  They had learned how to grieve together.  Like my Tamil elders in the diaspora mourning loved ones at home, ravaged by escalating war, our peoples knew the roles– what needed to be done.  Phone tree the news, taking note of how it hit.  Make sure that all loved ones were notified.  Liason between blood and chosen, if such an opening was possible.  Coordination of tasks.  Those responsible ensuring remains and belongings are attended respectfully.  Those in charge of ceremony and ritual.  Those who ensured those in deep grief were okay.  It was a given that if you were in the life, that your blood families would not know how to honor you when you transitioned.  Even straight people got that.  Chosen family would make sure that our Souls were given the proper support and respect.

Sometimes early at the club was the best place and time to meet and figure things out.  Who has our beloved’s keys and can get the sex toys out before Grammy comes to help attend to belongings?  Folks hailing from all over merged the best of their ancestral ways of grieving, breathing life into collective wisdoms and ceremonies.   There would be rituals, potlucks, stories, poetry, home visits, and dance parties lifting up our new ancestors and caring for the ones they left behind.  Us young ones, we learned their names.  We offered our dollars and fives to the collection.  Witnessed our elders mourn, remember, celebrate, and honor.

In addition to mourning my beloved Andre.  I’m also mourning the erosion of a simple ancient practice of gathering in the midst of loss.  I’m mourning a New York gripped by capitalism.  Once upon a time in New York City, ancient peoples from all over the world came together, reuniting with their separated tribes to counsel, tell story, make magic, and live freedom—especially in the face of the violent & subjugating….

I finally got to speak to someone who knew Andre & I’s relationship when we were young.  She said that she imagined me so devastated that I couldn’t get out of bed.  That it must have been one giant slumber party of crying, cuddling, and comfort.  On the contrary,  the week after Andre passed not one person in New York even offered to come over and give me a hug.  I wavered through the world, unable to collapse.  Much needed to be done.  The roles once divided by many were suddenly all mine.  Wailer, care-giver, coordinator, liason, gatherer.  A friend recovering from a traumatic brain injury, living over five hours away, left her partner alone with their toddler to come see me 6 days after I received the news.  She was the first to come visit my home.  

New York— BROOKLYN, I almost broke up with y’all over that.  I thought there must be some place in the world where I would be better attended to during my time of need.  I thought to myself, New York, I don’t really need to tell Y’ALL that Andre is my brother, do I? That I am mourning the loss of a family member?  After-all, y’all witnessed us for 18 out of 20 year relationship.  Now, don’t let those words hit you like poison.  We’re all hurting enuf.  I get it.  I love you.  And even tho culturally I experienced that first week as neglect, I know that y’all love me, too.  Let my truth be an invitation.  For us to resist these corrupt forces not only by fighting,  by not only preserving what so quickly eroded— but also deepening & evolving what it means to be community.  

Blocked Writer

Blocked Writer
by YaliniDream

When you know your potential

are hungry to fullfill it
yet find yourself having to fight each step of the way
fencing off harm
pausing for the pain
sharpening defenses
stitching your own safety net and parachute in one as you fall, tumble, & find your way back to ground,

the difference between where you are and could be
can make the distance you’ve come feel mediocre
regardless of your brilliance or journey.

And yet on the deepest days of doubt
when mediocrity, rejection, judgement, blame, fear, abuse, weariness
take thick ghostly grip,
it is that same pain that
compels many of us to live.

“I have so much more still to write.”

How tightly tied some times
is the wish to die

to the wish to thrive.

IMG_7044
photo by YaliniDream

This Step On the Path: An Artist Asks

Support Needed

Writing these words is my way of asking. Asking is hard for me. It is a spiritual and political commitment to activate my connections, ask for help to reach my aspirations, and advocate for what I need.

I am asking for conditions to change.

Next year will mark twenty-five years of my being in the theater. When I first came to that realization, a flood of tears pushed to the surface. I cried for three days on and off.  It was a powerful release of emotion, recognition of desire, and assertion of spirit.

With this moment came a sharper clarity of capitalism’s war for the artist’s soul and anger at the working conditions many artists face.

Despite having an age range of 15- 40, a radical range of gender expressions, and a look that passes not only for my own ethnicity of Sri Lankan Tamil, but also for Guyanese, Ethiopian, Indian, Bangladeshi, Trini, Malaysian, Somalian, Fijian, Iranian, South African, and numerous other nationalities;  I will have spent twenty-five years shut out of structures that says I look too unique, but in reality refuses to tell the stories of people who look like me.  And like so many brilliant artists who would rather expend energy building work than swimming across moats, I will have spent twenty-five years building my career as an independent artist creating groundbreaking work on my own terms.  I will have spent 15 years living in New York City as a working artist.  And I will have spent 17 years as an artist committed to social justice movements.

More and more cultural workers and artists are relied upon by various movements and sectors to serve as educators, outreach workers, content providers, healers, spokespeople, and entertainers.

Yet, I know too many generous accomplished independent working artists contributing to justice movements who have been performing, painting, filming, writing, composing, creating over decades, who struggle to make even $15,000 a year. I also know too many artists who remain tied to day jobs that mute their light because there is no way they could take care of their child or mother or self on what they would make from their art.

These artists have had films screened at the Angelika, edited anthologies, presented at numerous Ivy League universities, been on HBO, been on the cover of magazines, performed at Lincoln Center, exhibited at high end galleries, have thousands of youTube hits, shared stages with legends, and rejected invitations to the White House. Despite achieving high cultural capital, many artists find themselves not receiving due financial compensation for their labor.

In New York City one bedroom apartments rent for $2666 a month on average and two bedroom apartment rents average $3331. It remains one of the most competitive cities for the arts. Many acclaimed independent artists struggle to keep rooftops over their heads and food on the table. All the while maintaining the bravado, divadom and allure of success necessary to score the next decently paid gig.

According to a survey by W.A.G.E. (Working Artists and the Greater Economy) of visual and performing artists exhibiting in nonprofit exhibition spaces and museums in New York City between 2005 and 2010: “on average, the majority (58.4%) of respondents did not receive any form of payment, compensation or reimbursement for their participation, including the coverage of any expenses.”

Additionally power and privilege play itself out in artistic communities creating huge divides between artists with different accesses to resources. According to the same survey, women artists are less likely to get paid or reimbursed than their male counterparts. While the survey is limited on further statistics on gender, class, race, immigration status, ability and other demographic factors, we can imagine the infinite ways power and privilege play out in peoples’ lives. How do the challenges of being structurally discriminated increase for the artist responsible for their aging parents; the Trans or Queer artist ejected from their community, or the artist with disabilities unable to access necessary meds, assistance, or tools?  The conditions in New York City and other large cities are increasingly exploitative. The practice of bars and clubs to pay their Jazz musicians, DJ’s, Hip Hop musicians and other live artists has faded. Today many musicians find themselves in a position to pay to play with bars requiring $3000 bar minimums or producers requiring artists to pay fees to open for bigger names.

These conditions can encourage the worst flavors of competition, secrecy, back talking, social climbing, and individualism amongst artists as they scrape and claw to access the most basic needs survive and create.

Yet despite the currents encouraging otherwise, many underground/political/social justice/dissenting/targeted/persecuted/counterculture/revolutionary/conscious/independent artists and cultural workers—sitting at intersections of identities and warding off onslaughts of multiple bigoted forces remain committed to principles of love, generosity, and justice both on stage and off; in the studio and out. So much of our creative energies are poured into making ends meet.   And we do so beautifully– trading any skill at our disposal from childcare to choreography for skill-building, healthcare, website design, rehearsal space, studio time, video editing, and all else we need to create our work. We collaborate in our lives, sharing everything from photoshop to asthma pumps, guitar pedals, and ebt cards. We juggle who the check gets written to so that those with health conditions can stay on medicaid, mothers can stay on WIC, or that those who are undocumented can still get paid.  We fight our landlords to stay in our rent-stabilized apartments and have each other’s backs when our only means of survival is one that is criminalized. We love through the hardest of times. We model joyous ways to live within our means. We are ballers on a budget. We are resilient.

I imagine that in the midst of mass mobilization centered around the needs and aspirations of working people, the poor, and other survivors of violence; the cultural worker and revolutionary artist can be cared for, housed, fed, and healed. The practices of sharing, feeding, housing, and caring are necessary for these movements to even exist. Because it is difficult to organize day after day on empty stomachs.   It is also harder for a system to squash an artist who threatens the power structure when that artist is backed by hundreds of thousands of people.

In a US context, however, progressive movements often center NGO’s, nonprofits, and universities. There are few legal provisions to protect artists’ rights. In Canada the rights of artists are protected through a legal provision that mandates the payment of artist fees by non-profit organizations and ‘artist-run spaces.’ In the US we often see artists being exploited and pitted against each other by dynamics in the same movements they have committed their lives to. Without the power of a mass movement, artists catalyzing new conversations and speaking from the margins are at greater risk of being silenced, slandered, and shut out by the dominant power structures they challenge.

These dynamics not only impact the artist but often also the survivor. In the non-profit, ngo, and academic settings it is the artist, survivor and artist-survivor who serves as the heart coaxers. We perform, present, and speak at galas, fundraisers, events, and conferences for free in front of audiences who make two, three, four, ten, twenty times more than we do. We are the outreach workers, educators, spokespeople, content providers, connectors of dots, and heart string pullers. However, rather than giving artist fees a distinct budget line as institutions do for other contract workers or vendors; we are treated as what the financial market considers a speculator.   We are often expected to take a risk and perform/present for free with the hopes of exposure and a paid gig. This practice systemically positions artists to work for free for audiences with greater privilege.

Imagine if conditions allowed artists and other people who’s calling is to cultivate and channel insight, critique, light, laughter, wisdom, reflection, and mourning– to commit their lives to implementing and developing their skills. Imagine if more artists were able to commit their time, creativity, and thoughts to their art rather than making ends meet. Imagine if the production, distribution, and, evolution of art was back in the hands of the people.

Thus, I am writing these letters below as a means of asking. I am asking we work together to change these conditions. I am asking we work towards a time where we are all free from violent and exploitative conditions. A future where all people are able to engage in work that joyfully utilizes their full range of gifts and skills. A time where our collective utility provides healing, sustenance, and evolution for human societies.

Dear Artists,

It is hard. It is hard not to compare. It is hard when someone seems to come out of nowhere and catch all this shine and your hard work goes unrecognized. It is hard to pour your everything into a project and barely have enough money to live. Or to be tied to a type of work that doesn’t serve you or your art or hurts you because that’s what you need to survive. Or have a brilliant vision, the skills to execute it, but not the resources. Jealousy, fear, and bitterness are sign posts. They help direct us to our deeper desires and wishes.

For many these desires are simple. We want to be seen, recognized, granted the space and resources to create, live, and care for our loved ones. We want to be the best artists we can possibly be and make this world a less harmful place.

The details of those dreams are ours to unveil. Let our jealousy and fears teach us about our wants. When our community, comrades, and friends become our fiercest competition, perhaps we’re fishing in a pool too small. After all, we are part of a universe. We are part of a movement. Let’s reach for larger platforms in the service of justice and peace. In defense of this earth. Let’s break down those walls into larger, more resourced, playgrounds and laboratories together. Let our critiques evolve us instead of break us. As we claim our space, let’s create more space for others.  Let’s complement and collaborate. Let’s create artistic communities where we heal, trust, and build– where we can share our selves, resources, knowledge, and connections. Let’s tie our success to each other.

And to those of y’all who (like me!) find it so hard to do– ASK. In whatever way is yours. Ask, by writing a grant. Or asking a friend. Or writing a blog post. Or making an intention. Write your wish on a leaf and let it be carried away by wind or water. Sing it in your lyrics. Paint it on the walls. Ask to get paid. Even if you don’t need to get paid, ask in solidarity with those who do need to (and then donate the money or invest in another artist). There is nothing wrong with asking for the support you need to reach your aspirations. We are interdependent creatures. We need each other to survive. It is better to ask than to force, demand, exploit, or manipulate. If it seems there’s no answer or the answer is no or you don’t receive exactly what you want– it’s all good, don’t take it personal, and keep asking.

 

Dear Non Profits,

Let’s imagine new organizational structures, policies, and roles that implement and integrate the arts, support artists, increase organizational capacity, infuse deeper creativity, and is more sustainable for all involved. Create budget lines for artist fees, materials, accommodations, and travel. Compensate your artists as you would any other vendor, contractor, or consultant. Collaborate with artists in ways that generate revenue for both you and the artist(s). Intentionally integrate creative tools with leadership development, outreach, communication, basebuilding, and providing services. Collaborate with artists in disseminating shared messages and catalyzing deeper conversations with new audiences. Create roles that allow space for staff to cultivate and implement their own creativity.

 

Dear Academia,

Let’s work together to implement the vision of the early ethnic studies movements.  A vision that fosters interdisciplinary discussions between scholars, organizers, artists, healers, other practitioners, and community. Let’s work together in leveraging resources towards deepening progressive thought and action. Support artists, organizers, and community members by learning how to access the resources for speaker and artist fees, accommodation, and travel. Learn the resources landscape of your institution. Collaborate with artists to create programming that reaches beyond the current borders of academia, deepens the ethics of research practices, reinvents pedagogical approaches, integrates artistic tools, increases participation, and engages multiple intelligences and modes of learning.   Collaborate with artists in disseminating shared ideas and catalyzing deeper discussions through multiple mediums in as many spaces we can.

Dear Funders and Patrons,

Let’s actualize an environment where working artists are recognized for what they contribute and independent artists receive a living wage. Mandate that the organizations, initiatives, and projects you fund provide artist fees. Invest and cultivate the longterm health and success of the artists you support. Increase your accessibility to marginalized communities. Develop application processes that do not replicate administratively violent dynamics. Cultivate solidarity between artists of varying cultural and capital attainment as well as between institutions, curators, scholars, and artists. Through deeper investment, support the development of environments where artists thrive rather than barely survive. In doing so increase the potential for paradigm shifting work to emerge.

Dear Audiences,

Without you the artist’s work is incomplete. If you are shaped or moved by an artist, amplify their reach. Let others know about their work. Talk about it with your friends, share their work on social media, and give donations when you can. You are the independent artist’s marketing machine. Allow the artists who have touched you to make mistakes and grow. Most of all keep your artists in your thoughts and hearts. Make intentions and wishes for their journeys, cause their paths aren’t easy.

With Love and Faith,

YaliniDream

For more info regarding the rights of working artists in the U.S. go to W.A.G.E.

SUPPORT YaliniDream :

YaliniDream, her partner Hip Hop MC/photographer  Jendog Lonewolf, and long term collaborator cellist Varuni Tiruchelvam have been called to South Africa & Sri Lanka.   They’ve been invited to

  • perform at the Opening Ceremonies of the War Resisters International Conference in Cape Town, South Africa on July 4th at the historic Cape Town City Hall for an audience 1000 people!
  • performing and collaborate with anti-capitalist Hip Hop Collective Soundz of the South on July 7th.
  • work with war-affected communities in the North of Sri Lanka

Thus instead of sticking to their work plan of setting up paid work for the fall– they’ve taken a huge leap of faith to answer spirit’s call.  They’ve spent the last 6 weeks raising funds/stitching logistics; and will spend the next 6 weeks doing incredible, much needed, yet unpaid work.

As of June 22nd $3309 has been thru grants and individual donations.  We need $2200 MORE by the time we leave this June 28th!! to help cover the rest: Click Here to DONATE.

This Step On The Path: Growing Liberation

My family is ethnically Tamil and are from the war affected North & East of Ilankai/Lanka/Sri Lanka.  Like many people in our communities our family faced discrimination by the majoritarian ethno-nationalist policies of the post-colonial government of Sri Lanka that came in power.  My grandfather and other elders during my parents time supported Satyagraha or nonviolent demonstrations that were tear gassed by the government.  My mother and many other relatives have been amongst those tear gassed.  These responses by the Sri Lankan government narrowed space for nonviolent movements and garnered support amongst Tamils for militant resistance from my parents’ generation.  My father as a teenager was amongst those involved with militant youth movements.

In 1983 my mother’s sister, husband and my baby cousin barely escaped a horrific state sanctioned massacre of Tamil people that often marks the beginning of Sri Lanka’s Civil War.  Though those responsible for the killings of Tamil people were of the ethnic majority–Singhalese, my Aunty always complicated the story by reminding me that it was also an older Singhalese uncle who hid our family in chicken coops and helped them survive.  She believes that the divine can work through anyone.

The ’83 massacre and the bloody military offensives that followed made many Tamil people feel that a militant separatist movement was our only means of defense.  One militant group –the Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam (LTTE or more commonly known as the Tigers) rose to becoming the sole representation of the Tamil people by ruthlessly eliminating all other militant groups.  The message was clear– Not standing in line with the Tigers was punishable by death.

Growing up in the Tamil diaspora in the 80’s & 90’s was complicated.  Many in our communities had been traumatized by the actions of the Sri Lankan government.  Almost everyone knew someone they loved who had died at the hands of the army and felt they had no choice but to support the Tigers.  The Sri Lankan Tamil diaspora in the west was responsible for contributing to the funding of the Tigers.  Tamil nationalism gripped the diaspora– we were only to speak of the atrocities committed by the government– the crimes of the Tigers were silenced.  The Tamil Tigers cultivated a culture that sanctioned tracking teenagers– raped by the Sri Lankan Army and Indian Peace Keeping Forces– into suicide bombers: martyrs for the cause.  They evicted thousands of our Muslim neighbors.  Killed Tamil politicians, human rights activists, and freethinkers that refused to adopt Tiger dogma.  And the Tamil diaspora continued to collect money for the Tigers.

As I came into political consciousness and claimed my artistic voice in the late 90’s, I had to contend with this context.  Would I remain silent about the Tigers and only perform stories about how my family was oppressed by the state?  What was my responsibility to my fellow Tamils who suffered under the gun of the State and the Rebels?  Could I or my family withstand the backlash if I publicly stand against all armed actors that exploited our communities:  the Tamil gangs, the Tigers and the Government of Sri Lanka?  Would my communities sabotage my voice and dismiss me as a traitor? My family begged me not to get involved with Sri Lankan politics.  I was in America. I was safe.

Yet when I graduated university in 2000, the US experienced the dot com boom– a new generation of Tamil and Singhalese Americans my age in IT, business and finance were becoming the new funders of armed actors on the ground while my cousins ducked shells and evacuated their homes.  I became close friends and collaborators with a Illankai Tamil American cellist & teacher, Varuni Tiruchelvam who’s uncle –a well know human rights activist, Neelan Tiruchelvam was assassinated by a suicide bomber.  Varuni challenged me to step beyond what Tamil nationalism conditioned me to think and do.  As I quietly expressed my critiques of the Tigers, more and more Tamil people who had lost loved ones to the Tigers came into my life.

I was nervous of the commitment growing within.  I was feeling called to speak to the many truths that impact our peoples.  But we had been taught by our community that it was irresponsible and dangerous.  It was safest and most strategic for our people to stick to the single narrative.  The last thing I wanted to do is betray my community.

Yet as I began to get more deeply involve with progressive movements and learn of other liberation movements throughout history and the world, I came to hunger a higher standard of liberation for our peoples.  I began to understand my silence as the true betrayal of our peoples.  I had to join other dissenting voices and demand a liberation grown out of my grandparents’ –and the ancestors before them– dreams.

The challenge became how.  What was my role as someone born and raised in outside lands?

In the US it was far less likely that one would be assassinated for speaking out against the Tigers or the Government of Sri Lanka– though the possibility always hung in Illankai Tamil American minds.  With this privilege comes responsibility.  A responsibility to amplify the silenced messages, carve space for a fuller discourse.   People with a politic alternative to the dominant nationalisms that gripped our communities were very careful.  They warned me to be practical. “Once you come out publicly against the Tigers or State, you can’t go back.  You don’t want to lose access to community.”  So Varuni & I took advantage of being positioned on the margins.  The power of being a young non-threatening woman, no one pays attention to.  The power of being an underground performer. The power of being different.  The power in invisibility.

Through the impermanence of performance I accessed young people of our generation undetected.  We pried open room at the edges, carved space for the most vulnerable to heal & speak, and challenged the most privileged to question where they sent their money.

I performed and facilitated dialogue in living rooms, women’s shelters, convents, refugee camps, girls’ homes, hostels, political meetings, classrooms for two, five, twenty, sixty, two hundred people at a time.  Pushing the edges and opening space wherever I could. I have spent years organizing rallies & press conferences.  I spoke in front of over hundred thousand people on Feb 15th 2003 against the US War on Terror.  I’ve performed at countless protests, events, meetings, conferences, and universities.  I’ve organized direct actions and have been arrested for civil disobedience.  However, the practice of opening space through performance for dialogue in places sealed by militarism both in Sri Lanka and the diaspora has been one of my most powerful practices of radical nonviolence.  This is how I grow the legacy of my grandparents’ dreams.

The beauty of this journey has been knowing that we are not the only ones—dreaming, questioning, and working for a different way of being. We are not the only ones who believe a deeper vision of liberation is possible.  We have been growing for sometime.

 

Your Help Going to South Africa

YaliniDream has been invited with her partner Jendog Lonewolf and long term collaborator Varuni Tiruchelvam to perform at the at the Opening Ceremonies of the War Resisters International Conference in Cape Town, South Africa on July 4th at the historic Cape Town City Hall for an audience 1000 people!  Archbishop Desmond Tutu will also be giving a message!  We will also be performing and collaborating with anti-capitalist Hip Hop Collective Soundz of the South.  We’ve raised half the funds, but still need your help to get there!

Click Here to DONATE.