Veera Ramayah4 April 2018
It is the year 1600 and India is dressed in the colours of the Mughal Empire. One of the world’s richest countries, it has a 23% share of the world economy. India opens her arms to the East India Company and over 200 years, royal colours of maroon and gold are forcibly replaced by white, blue and red. By the time the Company leaves in 1947, India has been turned into a poster child for third world poverty.
The evening we found out that my grand-uncle had been brutally taken from us, my childhood home no longer felt like home. The air hung heavy and the humidity that served as a reminder of the inevitability of summer, clung to my skin, making it hard to breathe.
Shakespeare once said, “What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other word would smell as sweet.” Although, he was probably referring to white names because we all know that Rose rolls off the tongue a lot easier than Mishti does.
Alien. That’s the best way to describe it. Being an immigrant often feels like you’re between a rock and a hard place. But the rock is the place you are now, and the hard place is fitting in. Always in between, always not quite there, mentally or physically. Physically, missing out on schoolies for a family trip back to the home that is spoken of at least once every family meal. Mentally, always worlds away, wrapped up in stories from family about faraway lands, of sights, smells and people that exist on what seems like an entirely different planet.
Veera Ramayah addresses white allies
Veera Ramayah on colourism
It’s raining outside. Stormy even. And, far in the distance, you can almost hear the faint chanting of “Grease lightning”.
Veera Ramayah on her education on colonialism
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