The referendum’s over and I’m still trying to work through my emotions and feelings, which have intensified. The results have already started to come in, with the overwhelming majority of votes in favour of the South’s secession. This is not a surprise.

Conversations with other Sudanese friends and family, all who have lived outside of Sudan for a significant amount of time, and none of who live there right now, help me voice what’s going on.

I’ve been trying to word the emotions, and the closest I’ve come is grief. As in mourning death. Other Sudanese peers critique ideas of patriotism and nostalgia, deriding them as false and historically ignorant. But it’s not about that. I don’t feel the same sense of patriotism as older generations and those who still live in Sudan. I’m an “alien of Sudanese origin”, or so say my identification papers.

I barely know Sudan. And what I do know doesn’t stir up feelings of fervent nationalism. There’s plenty I find problematic there, merely on a personal, individual scale. My third culture self long ago gave up on reconciling fragments tagged national identity. I quietly do not respond when asked whether or not I am in favour of secession.

But… there’s still this confusing sense of grief. Someone described it as a sense of loss akin to the death of a close loved one. I lost my grandmother over a decade ago, but I can’t compare this to the sadness of losing her. It’s not like that. It’s not like not hearing her voice.

I think that this isn’t my awake, conscious sadness, but my body’s response to its inherited history. That explanation makes sense to me because it helps explain this intrinsic response; the physical is affecting the mental.

I’ve spoken about my grandfather and his poetry before. He wrote about the glorious nation, but his time was toward the end of the British presence in Sudan. His time was of new horizons, hopes, victory, possibilities. In contrast, this time seems to be about potential violence, failed states, further fragmentation. Fear of what is to come. I hear the sadness in elders’ voices.

It’s grief not for the end of Sudan as I know it, but rather for the death of an idea that contributed some of the pieces of a pastiched identity.

Still working through it. But I’m looking forward to getting through this grieving process so I can come around to the idea of new horizons, hopes, and possibilities.

[...]

I don’t have any particular or thought out response to the actual secession. I only lived in Sudan for a handful of years, and left when I was 10, as you know. Over 20 years later, and I’ve not been back for more than a couple of months cumulatively, over three visits. I’ve never left the tri-cities, I don’t know everyday life in Sudan, and I don’t feel like I have the knowledge or even much firsthand information to have a well-formed opinion. To apply an overused analogy, I don’t – and question my right to – comment on this divorce. In a partnership, one needs to do what they have to do, and I have no place in this relationship; any engagement I might have had was temporary and superficial. If I was allowed to vote, I’m not sure how I would cast my ballot.

What I’m interested in is how our identities are affected in light of what seems to be the inevitable secession of South Sudan. How this idea of homeland affects and shapes our identities. How the meaning of “I am Sudanese” has now changed to the point where I don’t know where its truth is.

I’m interested in how being Sudanese is changing. What it means for older generations who identify with a homeland that will soon no longer exists. What we will tell our children when they ask: what are we?

What will our points of reference in terms of performing our identities now be? Does this make us more Arab, and how is that more or less problematic, especially if it comes at the expense of our African-ness? What about our national symbols, will they change?

And my curiosity comes from a strange pain. One that I wouldn’t have guessed I would encounter or feel. That strangely affects the way that I now see myself and consequently, conduct myself. The pain that’s a lot more intense for older Sudanese, and people who live there. Contrast that with the infectious joy and celebration that’s been communicated by the South, a positivity I can’t contradict or begrudge. I’m bewildered by the intensity of this emotion, and my nature pushes me to find out more about the role nationality and citizenship play in creating identity.

[...]

I realise that this is disjointed and slightly out of context. But I’m sure there will be more. And a very special thank you to D., who triggered this response.

i sent this email out last night, to lecturers, journalists, my academic advisors, friends, family, loves. it was quite personal and very difficult for me to do. i hardly ever reach out. the response was amazing – tips, leads, and cyberhugs. encouraged and supported, i’m posting it here, to find out what will happen

Hello,

This is a mass email of a personal nature. My apologies to anybody I haven’t spoken to in a while, I do hope to rectify that soon. I hope you’re all doing well, and have had a great holiday season.

I’m having a surprisingly emotionally difficult time with the current events in Sudan, namely the referendum for the seemingly inevitable secession of the South. For those who don’t know, I’m of northern (a distinction I didn’t voluntarily proclaim until now) Sudanese origin. On a personal level, I’ve found it very disorienting, agitating and challenging to my own sense of identity, history, ethnicity and nationality. I’m still trying to sort out everything in my head.

On to the purpose of this email, as I’m not about to download my emotions here. When I disassociate from the emotional and visceral responses, I am fascinated by the relationship between boundaries and borders, politics and geography, and sense of self, identity and citizenship. As a journalist and an academic, my intellectual curiosity is getting the better of me, and I was wondering if you were aware of any research that explored the above topics. I’ve obviously done some research myself, but I can’t seem to find research on the above. The closest I’ve come is personal explorations of life after Partition in India and Pakistan, mainly.

If you are aware of any work (academic, institutional, media, artistic expressions) I might find useful, or know of anyone who is currently working on any of these topics, I would be extremely grateful to find out about it.

And if you don’t, I’d still like to hear back on how you’re doing, I appreciate the social contact.

Thank you, and looking forward to hearing from you,

Nehal
contact [at] iamnehal [dot] com

i don’t know yet what i’m planning to do. right now i’m collecting information, and late at night, i write. a lot.

orange light reflected off virgin snow. orange here is not the same as orange there desert lines drawn in sand erased by a gust the wind blew.

tonight is a night to be held. to be rushed to, scooped up. my romance, my vulnerability, is bathed in orange. fire or sodium, dust or snow, you choose.

tonight is for silent cab rides, for glass between self and other.

shift into neutral before you brake.

the driver doesn’t speak, i like to imagine he senses my need. take the long route please, i ask. the radio is off.

he takes turns i wouldn’t have chosen. two options – remain in reverie, or direct this brother through meandering routes that reflect my mental. i can’t afford the latter, so former default. less than ten dollars with which to indulge.

snowflakes fall so gently they feel like death imagined this new morbid obsession equated with reset. i’m a super soul sure shot. i’m a national breakout.

it’s all so so so so so silent. still. the only thing that moves on these streets is this car that smells like newness. this man that suppresses coughs. i like to imagine that he knows. that i’m not difficult. that this stranger knew me saw me. that i’m not difficult.

the blank canvas of strangers facilitates projection. blank canvas allows me to re-interpret actions as centred on this particular self.

leurs corps comme toile

seven days into newness. not two more until leftright updown get placed in a blender. vulnerability levels at orange like the lamps like the reflection like the snow that is white that is orange.

baby, be beside me.

like snowflakes on eyelashes, icicled i scream, i need to melt

into.

how am i ever expected to speak about this?!

the poets speak. this should have been an anthem.

but please. listen to me.

this is a pain older than mine. memories of what has been and what never was.

this is my pain. my grandmothers’. and i don’t know who else. countless.

i’m not a strong enough vessel. this will break me.

and the words stem from the one who lives.

it tears away. everything. it hurts so much. i cannot hold all of this in.

w’nmut 3aleik – in a heartbeat. one heartbeat. make it happen. i swear on all that is sacred to me, mine for yours. i won’t renege back up lie weasel.

but i’ve said it and i stay saying it. i’m sorry. i didn’t know. and if i knew i wouldn’t.

how does it feel after three suns? from collective consciousness to the hoi polloi.

i have to re-direct. i can’t survive understand?

it’s night time. i’m alone. it’s frightening. delirious heat turned up to eleven.

sadness for anger, don’t let it be so.

unwellness unlocks this gate.

oxidised silver kryptonite.

Another wordsmith said it better than I ever could. Again, I reach into lyrics, short stories, fragments from pieces I never was good enough to write. It annoyed you that I spoke in quotes. I still do.

Without magic, my own language needs to be gently, patiently, slowly coaxed out between the gaps in the scars that seal my mouth shut and trap behind them words I need to speak.

But there’s not time enough in this world for that. I shall swallow.

Damn you.

as i’m writing this, the moon is eclipsing. f’real. the greatest show on earth tonight, and i’m watching it from my front steps.

as the moon gets covered, i find my mind spilling. what can i say, i’m a sucker for melodrama, synchronicity, cycles.

i haven’t blogged in a while. haven’t really been writing in a while. since i’ve been gone, i’ve turned 31.

been pretty good mainly, but catching myself these days on the cusp. figured out a pattern for Darkness, and it’s not moon-related.

fear. fear is the little death that brings obliteration. somewhat related to la petite morte. rhetoric is never coincidental*.

the absence of control. can’t stand it. and i swear, if one more person tells me to be in the moment. i can’t time travel, but i have a new theory, came up with it today. time stops inside snow globes. now to move into one, a la coraline’s parents, frozen, trapped.

i could do with an escape, a somewhere-not-here, sometime-not-now.

<pause>

i’m writing this in shifts, in between watching the eclipse. tomorrow’s the shortest day of the year. i like omens, in a trivial entertaining way. selective in where i find auspiciousness.

flow – “austerity” keeps on coming up, wants to be word of the year. i don’t like the restrictions it imposes, but control and restraint are lessons i need to learn. it’s time to choose something character-building, although i remember how difficult and challenging integrity was.

<pause>

lovers, i know you’re watching the moon too.

<pause>

i shouldn’t know what this looks like. i’ve never seen a full lunar eclipse before. but it’s bizarre in its familiarity. my 21st century self is angry at the technology that makes this look like a special effect. it’s so distant, so silent. i thought i would be able to touch it.

years ago, i wrote a piece about the death of the sublime. how we define our humanity in relationship to that which is bigger than it. fear isn’t the mindkiller, the media is. where’s the classical music soundtrack? symphony of the planets. indeed.

<pause>

my girl is visiting, she’s been living on a tropical island. she has people back there, and i’m wondering if she’s watching this, wondering how they are. i’d be worrying. i’d be feeling alone, alien.

<pause>

my dark body is studded with silver. hard metal interrupts soft flesh. i want to hear my synapses.

today i wore/saw/touched gold(en).

something old new nothing borrowed everything blue.

fabricated a little stability. i’m retreating into my head. it’s not that safe there anymore. i’m going back outside.

<pause>

hot water rituals. i wonder what the moon smells like. i imagine it smells like unrequited love. i’ll never go there. that makes me sadder. thank god i’m a writer. quamdiu se bene gesserit.

austerity wins.

<pause>

ha! the last time i blogged, i wrote about the moon too.

<pause>

ending here. not the witnessing of the eclipse, but the writing.

<end>

___

*Words matter (become matter). – Saul Williams

there’s a halo, tinged with red. scorpio starts in two, i turn 31 in 21. apt time for this.

it’s called a hunter’s moon, follows a harvest moon. night so bright, spotlight. let’s look at the numbers.

clashed with golden. need vs. need. try hard to hold on, support, not feel threatened, but it’s something difficult. tried hard to word. it is the try-hard era. amazing how easily i can insert foundation have it shook stabilise it myself.

language is becoming more difficult right now, explained/now known as transition. everything’s more difficult these days. can’t tell left from right, up from down. moon time, but nothing’s been broken yet. except i’ve been broke (always temporary, pay day on the rise).

coincidence like never before, a game from the universe. clues, i’ll tell you this you show me that. i’ve never been a big fan of this game, understood that i would only win if i played nice. but nice can kiss mon cul. it’s really not fair if you don’t know the rules, and being told of them post- doesn’t really count.

if i were near the ocean, tonight would be a conversation for yemayah. tonight would be warm and i would fall asleep to a lap-lap-lap sound. instead, mid-week, mid-season solo to get over. aloneliness can’t stay for too much longer too physical. the body always responds and when it coincides with something else it’s devastating.

***

aside: this is the very first time un-whispered. i love you for that.

I left Toronto a little over 24 hours ago, and already my mental is bursting with new-ness.

I don’t know if it’s just my particular history with travel, but a flight away = instant reset. Somewhere between take-off and landing, clutter gets swept away. Related to something that’s been on my mind a lot, something I got a chance to think about while I sat in my 21st-floor hotel room, watching the sun set on Minneapolis. A horizon obscured by the city. The breathtaking moments of dying rays on skyscrapers reflecting back into the room, while I lie on a bed overpopulated with pillows as the room grows darker. I find the sublime in the urban. I find solace in watching the city from above, knowing that it’s a lift ride down to push me right into it. I’m questioning why I live at ground level, away from mirrored reflections, rooftops, observation.

I identify as a transnational, and one thing about us movement people is that we’re constantly in the process of arriving. We have never arrived anywhere. It’s a sense of temporary being that is so consistent, so defining. I’m never there, my very sense of identity is shaped by this idea of movement. For my parents’ generation of immigrants, the ultimate move was back to the homeland of their childhood, a sense that their departure was temporary (this isn’t usually the case). For my generation, immigration is a means to an end, not a destination, and often one of the earliest steps, a prerequisite for (easier) future movements.

This realisation has me questioning my location, and so my identity. Who I am in the light of so many things geographical. As my homeland promises to fragment within a year’s time, so many thoughts. I have no idea what being Sudanese will mean should secession pass. The mythological homeland in my foreign-bred imagination was constructed so delicately, and it’s crumbling into fine dust. There can be no memory of that which was never real, and everything I have known as truth will be proven false. I don’t know what this destruction will do to id.

I quite like Toronto. I’ve been here the longest I’ve been in any one place/country/timezone. It’s easy to live there, and when I question whether my nomad-ness will drive me away, the question to where? comes up. I can picture quite a few places I wouldn’t mind living in, but after seven years of being in Toronto, it contains plenty to make me want to stay. All the obvious things. And then there are all the things that make me want to leave. All the obvious ones there too.

Truth be told, I’d just like to have arrived. And it will probably be that need to go against what is expected from my kind that will be my primary reason for staying.

**

I stopped to ask for directions to any Starbucks location, the only place around here to find wireless internet that costs less than my roaming charges. The first person, a parking valet, didn’t know. So he asked his colleague. A man walking by overheard, stopped and offered the useful statement that he, too, didn’t know where to find one. A fourth man walking past overheard, tossed accurate directions over his shoulder. The whole scene was quite delightful.

ha.

i’ve been gone for a minute. caught up somewhere else, not being able to split, enter this space.

technically, i shouldn’t know how to do this. but someone showed me the secret entrance.

i’d been gone for a minute, not trusting i could use that key. but i’ve been needing to write for too long. and of course, i’ve been triggered.

deep breath, here goes.

<whisper>thank you</whisper>

the last few months have been… interesting. ups and downs.

been biding my time. no worries, i’m still here.

this is a borrowed title, from a different place/space (featuring a local rapper). meets grimace, three times repeat. it’s all repetitive. all these words, re-cycled.

so much has been undocumented. i wonder why.

i went for a search today, found everything i’d been looking for, but also found reminders. of ephemereality. we’re gone too soon.

and on that note, i’ll be back. soon as i finish _____.