Confronting Black Consciousness and Wellbeing on my Travels- A Personal Account.

The Black Travel Movement is gaining momentum across the globe. Yet during my 5-month lock-down in India so far, I have had little-to-no interaction with other Afro-Caribbean travellers. Like most, I am accustomed to this reality and typically, I do not dwell on it. But, when George Floyd’s murder grabbed the attention of the world in May 2020- I became deeply isolated as a solo black female living in India. Distressed, I was triggered to confront and discuss black wellbeing and consciousness on my Indian adventure.

Here’s how my chance encounter in India became a story of liberation, sisterhood, and strength during a heartbreaking time. From this experience- I urge people from all walks of life to use their voices to discuss the urgent issues of racial discrimination and black wellbeing at home and abroad.

Lockdown India: 2 strangers

During a peaceful Indian summer’s day in the early stages of the lock-down in India. Black butterflies glide above soft winds, surrounded by the lush greenery of Rishikesh in the foothills of the Himalayan mountains. In the odd circumstances of COVID-19, 50 other backpackers and I are locked in our hostel together. Unaware of what an already turbulent 2020 would surprise us with next.

“I really love your music Sophia!” a Spanish accent calls out across the backyard one day. While a group of us sat jamming, playing a mix of Protoje, Chronixx, and Damien Marley from my speakers. Her name was Angie, and she smiled, while I proudly sang along, gold African earrings dangling, and a Bob Marley bracelet wrapped around my wrist. 

Curls and girls

“Your hair is beautiful,” I say nudging Angie, now the second time we’ve crossed paths at the hostel. Coming from the UK, where black women often tame their natural hair to fit western standards. I’ve always admired luscious and proudly worn Afros.

But this time- she Angie her lips, raises her eyebrows, and glares at me, almost confused. “Come on!” she says, with an unimpressed look on her face. Momentarily twisting my looser and longer curls through her fingers. Her look is one I know well; one seen in the eyes of my many black relatives and friends, one that favours a lighter tone of blackness. A blackness that tends to be seen as ‘more acceptable’ by Western society and thus seen as ‘more beautiful’.

Black girls, different worlds

My lock-down experience in India has been a crucial time for interpersonal connections to develop. Slowly, these short and infrequent interactions with Angela were forming a beautiful sisterhood in a strange period of uncertainty and fear.

Angela- grew up in a predominantly white world. Born into a reality that meant her Angolan father and Spanish Mother had to put her up for adoption. She grew up as the only black child at her school in Spain and was adopted by a loving white couple at a tender age. Without any insight into her Afro-Caribbean heritage, she’s been disconnected from her African roots all throughout her life. 

Me- Similarly, I’ve grown up within a loving and predominantly white family. But, with my Jamaican Grandfather present, and attending a majority Black, Asian, and Minority Ethnic (BAME) school in London. I’d had the luxury of being of mixed Jamaican and English heritage- and the presence of both my roots around me in the depths of South London. Further, I studied International Development at university, which significantly deepened my knowledge of recent colonial history and Britain’s present racial injustice.

Unlike Angela, I had a much clearer picture of the systemic racism that exists in the world today.

Little did we know, being the only two BAME people in this hostel in Rishikesh would become so powerful. I have often imagined travel to be an eye-opening experience. But nothing could have prepared me for what was to come in the following weeks. A firm reminder that being black wherever you are in this world means you are subject to a level of trauma that many others will never experience.

George Floyd.

Then came that fateful and disturbing event- on May 25th, 2020. In broad daylight, Derek Chauvin, a white Minneapolis police officer (with an already disturbing track record), took just 8 minutes and 46 seconds to murder an innocent black male. The horrifying clip showed George Floyd- a beloved father, partner, and respected community leader, handcuffed on his stomach as a white officer presses his knee into Floyd’s neck.

All of a sudden, another “is this real?” moment hit home. The frustration, fear, and anger I’ve known and felt too many times before resonated in my heart again.

My mind spun. How many times have we seen the same video, repeated over and over before? I asked. How many? Black men held down and suffocated, black women slaughtered in their own homes. Black children lying dead in the street with a white police officer standing over them, gun in hand?

Another traumatising video, sending waves of devastation into the hearts of the black community again. Each time, videos showed repeatedly on news channels, as white presenters commit to a smear campaign of the innocent dead. Each time reminding us that in 2020, the colour of our skin can still serve as a death sentence.

Devastation

My heart was heavy, but the problem was, in my loving Rishikesh community, no one was really talking about it. “Oh yeah, that black guy killed by police in the US?” responded someone when I mentioned the name ‘George Floyd’ to a group one day. The question rolling off their tongue like this was a normal occurrence. Without knowing it, their concerns felt hollow, as if the issue revolved solely around police brutality. It became clear that the frequency of these atrocities has desensitised many to such unspeakable violations.

I felt as though we’d been conditioned to accept the wickedness of one human pressing his knee into the neck of another human? As he distressingly calls out for his Mumma, narrowly drawing his last breaths? Alone in India, I could not figure out what to do with this pain.

Lost in India

In my devastation, I didn’t want to teach people. I didn’t want to unearth all the horrors I know about racial injustice. It was too hard to face questions fired back at me while attempting to gain some level of empathy. So alone I sat, like an alien in the room. Unfortunately, my loving community could not fully comprehend the levels of systematic injustice that solicit such horrific events. And why I would feel so heavy.

Like i’ve felt amongst white counterparts before, there was an emptiness in their concern- but I could not blame them. How could they really comprehend something so deeply embedded in the minds and systems of countries around the globe? Especially when it has never really affected them or their families? So, I found myself alone in grief, like the only person present at the funeral.

In the midst of this loneliness, I needed to put some of my thoughts into something creative. In early June, I wrote a short piece from my aching heart:

Isolated in Isolation

Still, in lock-down in India, I utilised my days buried beneath Facebook and Instagram posts blowing up on social media. Diving so deep it became borderline addictive. Surrounded by numerous people, but feeling completely alone. My mind felt consumed by frustration in my solitude, watching as life carried on as usual for everyone else. I actively isolated myself in isolation here, waiting for the penny to finally drop.

And while my mother, siblings and friends were out on the streets of London, in unity with other BLM activists, I felt helpless here in Rishikesh. I was existing in a bubble, smiling and nodding so others would believe I was present. But with an invisible barrier dividing us and removing me from the gift of their presence. Hours passed in groups of people. Yet, the conversations I desperately needed were not a priority for the numbers of western travellers here. Distraught, I yearned to figure out how I could do something to free my mind from this trauma. But one day, in this beautiful, yet very Western corner of India, I noticed I’d come across only a handful of other BAME people.

Clarity

Can I allow the possibility that my sons and daughters will be subject to this same discrimination in 5, 10, 30 years time? 

My isolation pushed me to explore my options thoroughly- in a rut, was I going to dwell in my grief, or was I going to channel it into something productive? I dug deep, and somehow pulled myself out of the hole I had been free-falling in since I watched that 9-minute video.

Anxiously, I began discussing systemic racism with different people in and around the hostel. Mostly speaking to 2 or 3 people at a time. BAME people often find speaking up about our struggles and addressing systemic racism with people can be so exhausting that we rarely bother. Our traumas are regularly downplayed, our concerns are trivialised, and the constant rejection of how we feel can become deflating. I say this all so that you can understand the depths of sorrow and pain I’d reached. Hurting so badly on my own, I began to put myself out there within my beloved Hostel community.

Reception

The reception was mixed, Marcel from Germany for example, admitted to ‘feeling scared’ the first time he encountered a black person. A fear fed to him only through media and social channels.

“Tell me how racism affects you?” says Mirka from Slovakia. It’s a challenge to get through to people who have never considered the extent of systemic racism. So tactically, I stuck to simple examples like my black friends and I being rejected from white-owned RnB clubs or workplace microaggressions. 

With lockdown in place and more time on my hands, I spent days watching documentaries, listening to the music of my favourite black artists, and reading books by fellow black authors. Clearly, I needed to be equipped for questions that would surely be fired back on me. People do not like to hear that they are complicity racist in their ignorance. I have drawn up a list of my key resources to help improve your knowledge here.

Which brings me back to Angie…

Unity

With different backgrounds and upbringings, we knew we had one thing in common. We are two mixed-race females that grew up in Western Europe in the 90s and early 2000s.

In my struggle to rebuild myself, I reached out to Angie to see what her opinions were on this topic engulfing my mind. She was also less aware of systemic racism but intrigued. And starting this discussion with her sparked a unity between us, and we found we had a lot in common after all.

One night over a thali in our hostel Angela said: “You know you’re my first black friend Sophie”. Her reggae and RnB musical tastes so similar to mine said something entirely different. Yet with kindred beats, our connection began growing stronger through the common love for Afro-Caribbean music. Another night, Angie was keen for me to talk her through the lyrics of songs we both loved including Black is Beautiful by my icon, Chronnix.

Finding Peace

The more we spoke the more I could see her begin to radiate from within, and me the same. Days passed and I saw a glow shine from her eyes as we discussed topics she had never discussed with anyone before.

Being the only black child in a white school, growing up adopted by white parents and also not speaking native English, the lyrics of her favourite reggae artists held a completely new meaning. Creating unity through reggae and soul artists that had been expressing messages of discrimination for decades before us.

And equally, I was beginning to feel fulfilled. From feeling completely alone to helping a fellow sister. Angela became a beacon, a powerful reminder of what’s important to me, to us, as a community. To educate people across the world on the pandemic that is racism, which continues to infect the lives of people across the world. A disease that infiltrates the lives of at least a quarter of the world’s population, due entirely to the shade of their skin.

Black is Beautiful, photo shoot

With this newfound connection, we decided to channel this positive energy into something creative. The”Black is beautiful” photoshoot resembled the strong unity in our sisterhood and soon partnered with Hannah Kern from hannahshappinessproject.com. Yet someone else I could relate to. Hannah recognises herself as an ally to the BLM movement, and in her exquisite poetry recites the urgent need for white peers to raise their voice in this fight.