Are you the girls who made that movie?

The thread trickles down from one wrist to the next.

Wow, look at that colour! So ethnic.

You drippin' desi-chica-chandni—

"Are you the girls who made that movie?"

Are You Those Brown Girls?

I've been one of the lucky few who can forget, from time to time, the weight that identity, race, and culture can bear on you. In my past, a lot of learning happened through books and coming-of-age novels, or in periphery through recounts of stories by people who've been pinned to the wall by their skin and bones. I've always been protected by the thick cartilage of privilege, even from microaggressions; at least, my awareness of it— something I only learned to recognize later in my adulthood, when it became a bit more blatant.

So, it was funny being reminded of it at the local short film festival, VSFF. After watching the incredible films in Program Four, a gentle lady came up to me and my sister to commemorate us on our creation of "Unibrow," a short-film about a young Iranian girl who struggles with accepting who she is, written and directed by— not me or my sister— but the talented Nedda Sarshar.

Now, don't get me wrong, I was flattered. That was one of the short films that brought me to tears with its sincerity. It was a raw, heartwarming, at times even a humorous exploration of identity and beauty standards.

"Oh, sorry, no," was my response. I chuckled, because, really, what was the issue?

"Haha, no, we're just brown," my younger sister replied jokingly at the same time. She was teasing, of course, but, her words sent me reeling. She was right. This is an issue. Whatever her intentions, the lady should be called out for her mistake.

Funnily enough, the lady turned to us, then, and began lecturing my sister about how she doesn't see colour. At this point, I couldn't help but chuckle. Her defensiveness made the situation worse; it painted her discomfort so that we could feel it, too. Unintentionally, she switched the narrative, demanded our apology — how dare you read me as racist? Which was funny, because up till that point, I didn't consider her that way.

Yet, the more that she spoke, the more I started seeing colour, how the shadows and lights contrasted between the lot of us, how my sister and I were different in this regard; and somewhere in between the women's desire to prove us wrong and my own confusion, I started losing sense of myself. Or, rather, I started feeling hyperaware of myself. My skin texturized, like a bright red mori carpet. My otherness wove in and out of me like those thick, red threads.

Suddenly, I started feeling embarrassed. Both for being a part of a conflict, but also for being too afraid to call it out.

I'm a tapestry. Unwind me to the tatters, the shade

that I am. You couldn't find me without colour.

You couldn't find me.

A Step Into the Dark

The moment, as awkward as it was, couldn't have lasted for more than a minute. Soon, it was over, and we were walking back into the auditorium, into the darkness, to be embraced by a diverse array of voices and stories. (I have to give props to VSFF for showcasing so many different voices. They made sure that every story had a chance to be seen, and that every experience mattered.) It wasn't hard to forget about the moment; honestly, it barely left a scratch. Yet, tendrils of the interaction followed me into the auditorium, settled into the empty seats, emerged from the walls around me, and drew me into one of the many incredible films that I want to discuss now.

From My First Breath

This documentary is a call to action. It is a raw and personal account of a young Indigenous woman, Nicole Brown, whose mother went missing. Nicole's testimony reveals the obstacles and systemic prejudice against Indigenous people that exists in Canada to this very day.

I will be honest, From My First Breath is one of the most difficult films I've watched. It is unapologetically blunt. Intentionally stark. There is no prose hiding a deeper meaning; the film is here to spell it out for you: Canada is failing its Indigenous communities. The film doesn't hide how the RCMP continues to disregard them; Nicole even mentions plenty of times how her mother's case was treated as if it didn't matter, and that it was closed immediately after a half-hearted investigation. The point of the story is to remind you, the audience, of your complicity, of how you are also a part of the problem. It requests only one thing: listen.

Sitting in the theatre seat, pinned down by the muted, sorrowful colours lighting up the screen, Nicole's tear-stained voice tearing through my ears, I think I started to understand white fragility for the first time.

To Live Above The Earth

An eagle is a predator. An eagle flies above the earth and it watches. An eagle is brave and courageous.

Nicole shows us an eagle's wing. Her mother's beadwork. She tells us that the eagle contains her mother's spirit; somewhere, she is flying free.

Give Me Back My Wings

Nicole is standing on the stage, on two steady feet. Nicole is wearing her skin and flesh proudly. Bravely. Like an eagle. The film is over.

The film is over and we are sitting in our fabric cloth seats. The walls curl inwards and I can hear the cries of forty-nine women. Listen to our story. Sit in your discomfort. Of a thousand women. Only a decade ago were these stories ignored. Robert Pickton. These streets carry violence. These floors carry violence. The walls are heavy and dark. Canada is a geography of loss.

Nicole stands tall and proud in her colourful threads: Do not forget my story. Sit in your discomfort. We sit.

The silence is palpable.

Do not ignore this story today.

Loose Feathers Fall From the Trees

Q&A discussion begins. Director Rowan Brady reminds us of which story to keep in mind. She says, I acknowledge my privilege. I am here to magnify Nicole's story, to be a platform for these voices who have been so largely ignored. Listen. Do not forget.

Nicole faces us. Our mouths fill with feathers.

The Unweaving

So, the tendrils extend into the auditorium. Nicole stands on the stage and nobody asks her a question.

Someone commemorates Rowan's courage in tackling such a complex and heavy subject. Rowan is quick to remind them that this is not her story. She tells us her journey of learning about Canada's history and present. She tells us about what she learned, and how she felt it was important to share Nicole's story so that others might hear it.

I think it's ironic, the silence that follows. My own silence that carries.

Challo, bachi, tumarah vaqt ho giyah.

(Come on, little girl, your time is up.)

I Give My Breath

In the end, the moment couldn't have lasted longer than a minute or so. Yet, the effect occurred just the same. Nicole's story hovered at the fringes of the room, like a dusty ghost.

Later, in the halls, three women conducted a ceremony to remember and grieve all the people they had lost. By then, we were out of the story, merely witnesses to a language that could not reach us, one that we are unwilling to understand. I wished it took up more room. I wanted the drumming to be louder. I wanted their voices to take over us, to move us into their shoes, into that path where so many of these incredible women lost their names.

Leaning over that handrail, just outside the auditorium where a woman had so innocently mistaken me for someone else, I wondered why I couldn't ask Nicole a question. I wish I kept her story longer in the room; held it up in two strong arms so that we could drown in it.

I wished someone could have been brave as her, Nicole, as her mother, Frances, brave as the eagle in the room with her glittering wings.

Call it a manifestation of my own Canadian fragility. Call it a single, small step. I want to give the film room that it wasn't given. I want to let it overtake and overwhelm the page. I want to remind you that the questions you ask, and also the ones that you don't, matter.

I want you to

Give these voices room. Let them take over.

For more information about Nicole's story, make sure to visit: https://fmfb.myportfolio.com/work

#MMIW

Instagram: @from_my_first_breath, @rowanbfilms,