Place, People, Power

As I prepare to spend a week in my homeland – my formerly and currently colonized, beautifully diverse, and unfortunately battered-by-violence homeland – I reflect on my own yearlong personal and professional journey learning about place, power and people. I had the privilege of visiting several U.S. cities to learn about just, equitable places that dignify all peoples. It was a journey that revealed the pain of racialized oppression, highlighted the stark reality of systemic injustices and challenged everything I knew about how our country functioned, but ultimately, it celebrated the beauty of humanity that found joy in its fight for justice and liberation.

The Lakota people at Standing Rock in North Dakota powerfully demonstrated the centrality of place. Even though they were systemically removed from their ancestral lands, and have since had access to their resources slowly stripped away, they continue to honor their past and present homelands as sacred. They are some of the most innovative climate justice warriors – finding creative solutions to protect their access to water and farmland – because they saw it as their sacred duty to preserve these resources for generations to come. They see their land not as a commodity for self-gain, but as a gift from their forefathers that they must steward. They root themselves on these sacred lands, those roots weaving together centuries of history and heritage into beautiful manifestations of culture celebrated in community – all in honor of the land they live on.

In El Paso, I saw how people would come together to celebrate each other’s humanity, even when their own government would reject it. There were the countless residents that came together to combat white supremacy in the wake of the tragic, hate-filled shooting. There were the hundreds of volunteers that gathered from around the country to meet the growing humanitarian need of displaced asylum seekers who braved their lives to find freedom, only to find themselves caged by the very people they thought would free them. There were the community organizers who committed their decades-long careers to uplift the humanity in their communities and to honor the story of every single individual they serve. The resiliency of the people of El Paso was yet another reminder that places cannot thrive unless we celebrate the people that live within them and the stories each of them hold.

Across these communities, we were reminded that while we stand witness to oppression, it is also our responsibility to tell the stories of resiliency and humanity. For those whose voices are heard by the powerful, there is a responsibility to assert that privilege to tell the stories of those who are not heard. We know that poverty is clearly visible, but our privilege is hidden. It is hidden because many of us often choose to hide it, or pretend it’s not there. We choose to hide it by claiming that we can choose to put on different hats – to claim one of our different identities at different times. I have had the luxury of claiming my identity as an American, as a first-generation immigrant, as an Asian person, as a college graduate – all at different times, because the reality is that each identity gives me privilege at different times. But what we, and more specifically, I, have often failed to realize is that the ability to highlight different identities at different times is a privilege many cannot afford. Oftentimes, in our society, our identities are placed upon us based on what others perceive of us. The ability to choose what identities we project; that itself is a privilege.

Indeed, it is only when these stories of place and people are told that power can truly be transformed. When we choose to hide our privilege, we also fail to see the power we hold. I have often been blind to my own power – power that comes with access to capital, with access to information, with our vocational or educational careers. Perhaps even frequently, I recognize my own power but have been reluctant to sacrifice it, because if we’re honest, I benefit from it. I benefit from the convenience power brings, or the influence it affords so that policies and programs can meet my needs. Spending time in places like Bismarck and El Paso were a reminder – that I can no longer claim to be “down” if I fail to see my own power, or worse, see it and refuse to cede it.

As I board this next flight, the last leg of my journey home, I’m convicted by these lessons as I prepare to witness oppression. I’m scared of what I’m going to see – my peaceful, beautiful home stricken by government-sanctioned oppression of individual liberties, by violence caused by sheer desperation, by a community fractured, perhaps beyond repair. I’m scared that my homeland will be unrecognizable, if only because the threads that connect us as a people seem to be torn by the threat of even greater oppression.

But in my fear, I think of the resiliency of generations of people that came before me. The resiliency of centuries of people groups displaced from their homes, but found a sacred purpose in stewarding lands they now live on. The resiliency of communities whose response to oppression was to celebrate the humanity that existed within its people. The resiliency of people who fought relentlessly to tell their stories and uplift the voices rarely heard. And so, even though I know that I will stand witness to oppression, I have the privilege of telling the stories of the resiliency and humanity of my people. I pray that I will never cease to see my homeland as a sacred place – the place of my forefathers and the culture that raised me, and to always uplift the humanity of my community. These are the stories we must tell.