Justice for all

I have just put down “Reading Lolita in Tehran: A Memoir in Books” (It was a very disjointed book; I don’t recommend it unless you are an enormous fan of James, Nabokov, Austen, Fitzgerald. Even then, I believe her analysis of these works is somewhat cursory.) The book is about oppression during the Islamic Republic in Iran, and mostly about how the Islamic Republic truly stifles any emotion, any depth of feeling — indeed, it destroys any attempts at even living.

Women, of course, bear the brunt of the regime’s repression. Women must wear a full-length chador outside, cannot be seen unaccompanied, cannot walk alongside a man who is not a father, brother, or son. Perhaps worst of all, the Islamic Republic prevents one from falling in love - that which we take for granted, and see as so sacred in the West. In such a brutal regime, love itself is corrupted, broken down into something worthless. Love is the “West” - it is tainted, unnatural, decadent, and worst of all - worth hating. The author, Azar Nafisi, falls ever deeper into the only escape she has - literature. She teacher her students how to appreciate literature, how to escape through literature, and perhaps most of all — how to utilize literature to better understand their own lives. Fiction, perhaps, is the closest these young women will ever get to experiencing love, happiness, joy, passion. For the Islamic Republic strips all emotion from the experience of life. And so, are the oppressed even living, or simply the dead on earth?

For some reason, the book made me think deeply about the journey of my own mind. In high school and perhaps the beginning of college, I still thought of myself as a largely artistic persona. I was constantly in pursuit of beauty - I too, like the girls in this book, was in love with fiction. I could read for hours, delve deep into the characters, find meaning to apply to my own experiences (though perhaps they were not so dramatic). I loved art and music, too. Most of all, I loved poetry. Poetry always held the most meaning to me because it simply represents a feeling. It magically captures a thought, freezes a moment in time.

But you know what? I am no longer able to appreciate literature in the same way as I did before. Instead my mind is overtaken by thoughts of poverty & human rights violations. I am constantly reading books like “Out of Poverty” by Paul Polak, and “The Rich Get Richer, The Poor Get Prison.” I’ve become a lover of non-fiction, a fan of practical applications. Theory and indeed, the magic of fiction somehow holds less appeal to me now.

This may sound a bit crazy, but human rights violations, poverty, the massive magnitude of problems in this world — they are, to me, the oppressive Islamic Republic. I myself am being oppressed by all the problems out there. When there is such ugliness in the world, I am restricted. I cannot turn away from the problems to simply take a deep breath and enjoy the simple pleasures in life - like art, fiction, or poetry. I cannot sympathize with fictional characters, because I am overwhelmed with concern, frustration, worry about real people and their very real human suffering. So I have to read about solutions to these issues instead. The level of human suffering out there is oppressive. It is always in the back of my mind, lurking behind me like a ever-growing shadow. (P.S. I do not mean to make light of the concept of ‘oppression’ - I obviously know you can’t compare the repression of the Islamic Republic to my own life, at ALL. I’m not complaining - merely realizing something that I didn’t see so clearly before).

Fiction begins to seem trivial. Art, unnecessary. Fiction and art, especially, are too particular. Poetry, for me, is the hardest. Poetry is still beautiful to me but only because it can take on any shape, any meaning — the meaning I want. I still appreciate and love poetry because it helps me put the amount of human suffering out there into words. It remains amorphous and I can take it with me on this journey of the mind.

Ultimately, Nafisi and her girls have to fight the Islamic Republic because they have no choice — they are forbidden from living, loving, breathing, being while under the oppressive hand of the regime. There are only three choices: fight, leave, or die. In other words: win, give up, or lose. Nafisi herself gives up. So do many of the others.

For me, I have to, have to do something to alleviate the human suffering that is so oppressive in my mind - that is not allowing me to enjoy the simple things that are at my feet. For me, there can only be one choice: win. I cannot concede defeat, nor can I bear the weight of losing. But winning may not be possible in my lifetime, sadly — and perhaps I will have to create a fourth option to fit into: die fighting.

Here is a guest post I recently wrote for my friend Grace’s blog. Grace is featuring guest posts by fellow Gen Yers on the topic “What Inspires You?” in order to find out what makes Gen Y tick. I’m honored that she asked me to write a blog for her theme, and I am posting my response here. You can read the original post here. In the meantime, go check out Grace’s great blog, and the other inspiring blogs in her series.

Name: Akhila Kolisetty

Bio: Akhila is a 19 year old (soon to be 20!) undergraduate student at Northwestern University. She’s majoring in political science and economics, and hopes to eventually go to law school. She’s currently studying abroad for the year at the London School of Economics and absolutely loves London. She loves poetry, writing, chocolate, social media, political science and law, deep discussions, and learning about the world.

Blog: Justice for all Twitter: @freestallion

I started writing poetry at the age of 12 or so, after reading the autobiography of Bengali poet and Nobel Laureate Rabindranath Tagore, given to me by my grandfather. My grandfather is incredibly intelligent. He has never left India, yet he has immense knowledge about the entire world. At a young age, I spent hours listening to his fascinating stories about history, science, religion, art, poetry, writing, and visionary leaders. My grandfather was my earliest inspiration. His guidance led me to discover writing and poetry. Since then, I’ve been in love with words. I love the power I have when I’m weaving words into poetry, when I see my haphazard thoughts come together cohesively to form something tangible, beautiful. I love the strength, emotional intensity, and symbolic depth that poems can convey.

To me, poetry is the ultimate expression of oneself. It allows one to put down on paper the abstract aches and longings buried inside – that simply can’t be conveyed through prose. I’ve been writing poetry ever since, and have even been published in a couple of literary magazines.

Since then, my love for writing has led me to be a reporter for The Daily Northwestern, my university’s newspaper. I loved journalism, but after a while it felt so cold and objective to me. I couldn’t inject my personality, my opinions, or my passions into my articles. And so I stopped after a year, realizing I could never commit to journalism. I’ve also always had blogs, but until a few months ago, they were mostly private and served as online diaries. For the first time, I recently began writing about issues I am passionate about – like human rights – on my public blog, Justice for All. I find blogging more fulfilling than journalism. It allows me to write about topics I care about engagingly and passionately. And at the same time, it’s allowed me to jump headfirst into social media, meeting like minded people and learning so much more about important issues.

Still, I feel like writing doesn’t allow me to make enough of a difference. Rather than simply informing people about the challenges we face, I want to do more. I want to actively do something to change our world. I am inspired by leaders, activists, and organizations that are passionate, talented, and truly innovative. I admire Muhammad Yunus for turning traditional finance on its head and creating a world movement for microfinance, allowing poor people access to loans for the first time. I admire Karen Tse, a lawyer who has started a nonprofit called International Bridges to Justice, which works to end torture in the developing world by training public defenders. I admire NYTimes columnist Nicholas Kristof for bringing to our attention the things that we have to care about: war, famine, genocide, poverty. I’m inspired by organizations like the ACLU, Human Rights First, Equality Now, and Legal Aid who work tirelessly to protect human rights and civil liberties. I believe strongly that law is an effective tool for social change, because it can really empower people. And I want to be a part of this. It is a way to combine my love for writing – since law involves so much writing – with my desire to better the world. And so, I will continue to be inspired by writers but also human rights activists. Someday, I hope to pursue both passions together – and I hope my inspirations will help me forge my path ahead.

Photo Credit(s): moleskinart and With Love & Such

Recently, Grace invited me to write a guest post for her blog on “What Inspires You?” The topic really did get me thinking, and even inspired me further. One of the things I wrote about was writing itself. I’ve always been incredibly inspired by writing, and by words. I’ve grown up on poetry, and I feel like I’ve always had the natural gift of being able to spin words into poetry and poetic prose. Poetry has always been my escape, my way of letting go of my deepest emotions. It’s cathartic, and it allows you to let go of frustration and confusion.

Writing clears things up for me. Even when my thoughts are all jumbled up in my brain, everything begins to appear so much more clear once I actually take the time to write them out. But best of all - I love going back to my writings after a while and reading them after months or even years. And then, it is amazing to me how much my words form a snapshot of my feelings and thoughts at the moment. Reading my past poetry or prose really brings me back to that exact moment in time. It’s a frozen slice of time, and I often feel like I’ve stepped into an faded photograph, made bright and new again by my words. My writing jogs my memory much better than even pictures can, because it captures not just an outward image but the inner spirit of that moment.

But I miss writing. It seems odd to say on a blog, especially as I have been writing quite prolifically here. But this isn’t writing to me. It is more like journalism, and there is a difference. What I blog about here sometimes saps my creativity, sometimes boxes me in to news stories and political science and human rights articles. Of course, these are things I am passionate about and care about. But at the same time, it does not allow me to really tap into my creativity. It makes me feel like I am a reporter, and that is a very different writing style. And when I read my old entries, there is no dimension of emotion, nostalgia, or memory. It is almost dispassionate, even while I am writing about an issue I clearly care about. It is, after all, not personal. This blog is not about me. It is about the world, and my observations of it. 

And I have not written a poem in months. Because I spend my days reading various blogs about human rights, the news, Brazen Careerist,  and Twitter. I joined Tumblr in hopes of reinvigorating my creative self, but it hasn’t worked. Because in order to write poetry, I have to read poetry. And that, I haven’t had the time to. Perhaps that will be my next goal - to make more time for creative writing. Because in the end, I miss it….a lot.