A prose piece about the ritual of chai-making by Mandeep Hothi. My mom taught me how to make chai when I was young. It didn’t involve a big, coming-of-age ceremony but after a lifetime of preparing it for guests, family, and friends, she’d grown tired of making it herself. Any time I brought out […]
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An “illustration and invocation” by Sophia Terazawa. My grandfather was a Japanese prisoner of war when the first atomic bomb dropped over Hiroshima. He slept next to an open window that August night in Siberia. The following morning, he woke to a cell full of dead inmates. They had all suffocated on carbon monoxide. […]
A visual art piece by Joelle Riffle. From the creator: Light Gold is a conception of heritage and genealogy as an ethnically ambiguous mixed race woman who has no connection to any of the cultures associated with the identities I claim or biological “ancestry.” Click on the images to move to the next page.
A prose piece by Sanaa. My mother and I are having an argument about the hair on my arms. It grows thick, long and casts a permanent halo over my skin. It grows against her wishes. “I don’t understand why you don’t get rid of it. It doesn’t look good,” she tells me. Since I […]
by GRAY. Cut the umbilical cord. Leave and never return. Never look back. This was my advice to myself upon leaving Singapore years ago. I hoped my life was a nightmare I could wake up from, a bad dream I could forget. However, trauma doesn’t work that way. It sticks with you – and there […]
My mom turns to my cousin and exclaims, “At least I’m not as crazy as your mom! She was running a whole restaurant by herself. Doing everything! Even I couldn’t do that. I don’t know how she did that!” My aunt in question takes a sip of her tea and responds, “I had to. What […]
by anna saini Amongst her six sisters my mother was the undisputed champion of sari tying. When it was time to put on a sari for a function I would play mannequin for her to drape and wind the fabric through the maze of her hands to produce the delicate design of pleats and cloth […]
Questions about Pakistan are now a fact of living here, no different from damp weather or calls from salespeople. Some I deflect, and others I frame around my own terms.
The following post is a response to American Apparel’s recent ad, “Made in Bangladesh.” An image of the ad can be found at the first hyperlink. -AZ The woman in the photo is wearing no clothes. She has light brown skin, lighter than me, and her dark hair is swept back in a wave.
I have few vivid memories of my biological father. I remember strong arms carrying me to bed. I remember his voice. I remember playing chess together. I stare at the chessboard, while my fingers clutch my knight. Advancing it into position, I check for traps. As I slowly release my grip, he interrupts.
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