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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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 […]
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.
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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