ARMED

Semenya is widely speculated to be hyperandrogenic -- meaning that she has higher than average levels of testosterone in her body. She has faced a decade of scrutiny from the International Association of Athletics Federations, and has been forced to take a humiliating “sex verification test” to prove that she is a woman. After Semenya won the women's 800 metres at the Rio Olympics this year, her fellow competitor Lynsey Sharp (finishing sixth) claimed “everyone can see it’s two separate races.”

This is not to dwell on specific examples of transparent racism, but to make a broad observation: women of colour, particularly Black women, are often hyper-masculinised - and have been throughout the entirety of modern racism. Their erasure from feminism has long been based on their perceived masculine characteristics. Never mind that there is little evidence to suggest that elevated levels of testosterone provide a discernible increase in athletic performance, or that there is no actual difference in testosterone levels between elite male and female athletes.

Badham may not have had this in mind when she conjured this phrase, but she has been irresponsible in evoking biological determinism and transphobic ideology, which ought to have been left behind decades ago.

Furthermore, the parallels between the Semenya affair and the content of Badham’s article are interesting. In both cases, women of colour simply do not exist, and cannot exist, as women. In her championing of Clinton, Badham repeatedly disregards and scorns any criticism of Clinton by women of colour across the Global South.

In 2002 Clinton voted in favour of military intervention in Iraq, a war which led to the deaths of half a million children and directly enacted US imperial power onto innocent civilians, over WMDs that turned out not to exist. Where is Badham’s solidarity, or even mention of the millions of Iraqi women and girls who suffered this disastrous war?

Shockingly, Badham finds it within her to call Clinton a “presidential candidate with relentless dedication to equality causes,” when Clinton has indicated that she will move to the right of Obama on the question of Palestine.

Is the cause for justice in Palestine not an equality cause? But more importantly, is it not a feminist cause? There are dozens of documented cases of Palestinian women in labour, for whom restrictions on freedom of movement meant that they were barred from accessing hospitals, and were forced to give birth at Israeli checkpoints. Many of these women miscarried, some died in childbirth.

Palestinian women, particularly those who were born in East Jerusalem, often make a desperate attempt to give birth in Jerusalem as a result of Israeli prohibitions around family unification.

Palestinian feminist Nadera Shalhoub-Kevorkian recounts the words of one woman, Aida, who asks: “Do you know any pregnant woman who needs to cross checkpoints, ride a bus, leave her kids alone at the mercy of soldiers throwing tear gas bombs… to make sure the new baby is born in Jerusalem?”

I find it difficult to take Badham’s notions of reproductive justice seriously when Palestinian women are exposed to tear gas while pregnant and forced to give birth in maternity wards destroyed by bombs. When they suffer sexual and gendered violence in Israeli prisons, including rape threats made by prison personnel who can indefinitely hold them without charge or trial. Surely this should rate on Badham’s passion for “the material improvement of women’s economic and social reality”?

This is all in the context of Clinton’s support for the $38 billion military aid package provided to Israel by the United States. Clinton is not unique in Washington for her pro-Israel stance, but any genuine feminist should take issue with aspects of her politics. Badham, however, has nothing to say about Clinton’s direct complicity in the oppression of Palestinian women.

By casting leftists who reject Clinton as the ‘testosterone left’ Badham tactically makes a feminist case for Clinton while ignoring over and over the human rights of women of colour. She frames criticism of Clinton as ‘propaganda’ from ‘unstructured blog posts’, while her silence on Clinton’s vote in favour of the Iraq war echoes.

There is no way around it, this is imperialism under the guise of feminism, and by supporting Clinton, Badham sings the praises of Western feminism while Third World women die in their thousands at the hands of the US military.

Beyond Palestine and Iraq, Clinton has shown tacit support for the anti-woman regime in Honduras. What would Badham say to indigenous activist Berta Cáceres, who was assassinated earlier this year, and singled out Clinton for her involvement in the consolidation of the military regime? What would she say to Honduran feminist Melissa Cardoza, who said of Clinton: “She is part of those who consider only some lives to be legitimate, obviously not rebel women and women of color that live here and who do not, at least not all, fit in with imperial interests.”

But all is well on Planet Badham, even as Honduras is in the midst of a femicide crisis where one woman is killed every 16 hours. Carolina Sierra, a spokesperson for women’s group Foro de Mujeres por la Vida, states the dire situation, “anyone can murder a woman in Honduras and nothing will happen.”

A white woman who supported the US invasion of Iraq, will continue to fund Israel’s apartheid regime, actively props up military dictatorships, and claims to be a champion of women’s rights is not a feminist, she is a liar. As Badham aligns herself with a war criminal like Clinton, imperialism, neo-colonialism, white supremacy and global capitalism become Badham’s mantra, and the words socialist and feminist cease to hold any meaning in her writing.

Women of the Global South have rightly criticised Clinton, yet in responding to commentary on her article, Badham called herself a “geopolitical realist”, insisting that intervention is necessary to liberate women.

This is epitome of white supremacy; claiming to free women from their oppressive, uncivilised cultures, their hyper-masculine, criminal men, sharing liberty through bombs and proxy wars. Badham’s responses could be a French propaganda piece from the Algerian War. They too, claimed to be liberating the women of Algeria, and justified their continued occupation on this basis. Martiniquais-born revolutionary thinker Frantz Fanon described the French colonial fantasies of unveiling Algerian women: “If we want to destroy the structure of Algerian society, its capacity for resistance, we must first of all conquer the women; we must go and find them behind the veil where they hide themselves and in the houses where the men keep them out of sight.”

Most of the ‘biggest’ artists of our time are women of colour: Beyoncé, Nicki Minaj, Rihanna; but their popularity is somewhat conditional. The stakes are higher for these artists, where talent and beauty rests on a binary: you either have it or you don’t. People are waiting for slippages, breakdowns, plagiarism (‘yeah she can sing but she didn’t write it’), failure, and deviance; whilst upholding rigorous standards to social norms that governs what an artist can and cannot do. What’s more, the fame of artists of colour permits people to justify a sort of post-racial fantasy, where the popularity of these artists means that racism and other oppressive ‘isms’ are over because Beyoncé kind of rules the world, so we must have reached the endpoint of whatever it was we for fighting for, right?

The crucial reality is that artists of colour — more so, black artists — are in demand for their art, labor, everything but their humanity. This exploitation is arguably the foundation of colonialism and capitalism, and discursive structures that are still manifest today, no less in ubiquitous popular culture.

Though women, queer, non-binary people of colour continue to carve space into popular music discourses, sites of politics and opinion remain nonetheless dominated by White Men With A Lot Of Opinions. A glimpse into the columns of left-leaning music sites and ‘taste-makers’ such as Pitchfork, Noisey, and (less so) Fader Mag who continue to prioritise the voices of these people, effectively creating a hierarchy of ‘coolness’ and ‘taste’ that naturalizes the dominance of their voices and, I feel, is bolstered by classed and racialised inequalities. There is something strange and jarring knowing that the expression and identity of people of colour are authenticated and rewarded by these people, and that the credential of ‘cool’ can also be contingent on discrete categories of identity (for example engaging with queer artists of colour when they are #fabulous but ignoring ongoing inequities that frame these identities).

Though I still engage with these publications, I believe the creativity and politics of people of colour has always managed to deploy itself in confined spaces, especially on the Internet; and using these platforms to provide vital intervention of damaging mainstream discourses with their own narratives, thoughts, commentary and feelings. With social media, too,  the distance between artist and audience is seemingly closer, with the tool allowing fans to interact, sometimes converse and even hold our favourite artists accountable. These interactions made me realize that I have responsibility as a spectator, and sometimes even the opportunity to enact my beliefs and exert this without conventional political or economical capital.

The infiltration of colourism into everyday life became clear to me as I spent more time with my family. I watched the careful rituals my step-mother and sister performed in order to keep their skin from tanning. I would stare in wonderment at the jumpers and jeans they cloaked themselves in when they left the house: how could they function in the oppressive heat?

Most of their time was spent indoors. They went from air-conditioned homes to air-conditioned cars to air-conditioned Starbucks and back again. I remember once walking the streets with my cousin under the sweltering sun. “No!” she wailed alarmingly, “I’m going to get dark now.”

Back home in Australia, I always knew that ‘beauty’ meant a certain category of features that I could never possess. All of the media I consumed eliminated me from that category by virtue of the features they showcased. Namely, white features.

I would often fantasise about how I would change my body. This ‘new, beautiful’ me possessed fair skin, blonde hair, blue eyes, a small nose. It has taken me years to accept myself, to recognise and unlearn the internalised racism which was the source of so much unhappiness. It is a process I am still undergoing.

The women in my family still use whitening cream. Their media perpetuates beauty standards that prize whiteness above all, and deem colour either non-existent or inferior and stereotyped with negative personality characteristics. My Indian family often urge my light skinned sister to work in Bollywood. The only requirement, they assure her, is fair skin.

To be clear, colourism in Indonesia pre-dates European colonisation: pre-colonial Indonesian women used plant-based treatments to lighten their skin. Historically, skin colour was indicative of wealth and class status. The workers and peasants who toiled in the fields were made dark by the harsh sun. Meanwhile the wealthy stayed indoors and their complexions remained pale.

With the invasion of Europeans in the 16th century, the various kingdoms and empires of the archipelago were united under a common identity. ‘Indonesia’ was born. What did this complex mix of ethnic, cultural and religious groups have in common? Their inferior status to the colonisers.

In the 19th and 20th centuries, these old caste and class systems crystallised and were further sub-classified under Dutch rule, with the colonisers occupying the top of the hierarchy, and pale-skinned Chinese merchants and business people holding middle class status. What’s more, modern Western racism attributed caste status to biological determinism rather than social structures. According to the Europeans, lighter skinned “natives” must be distant relatives of the Caucasian race: this explained their skin colour, their high social status, their superiority. Traditional colourism combined with racism,  congealed into a toxic mix of ideas that associated European features with power, wealth and beauty.

Centuries later, these ideas still plague Indonesian society and media. Anti-blackness is rampant. You only have to look at our treatment of the East Timorese, and the genocide and occupation that continues unnoticed in West Papua.

The problem of colourism is not specific to Indonesia, but is prevalent throughout South and East Asia, particularly in India, where British-stoked caste systems, Dalit racism, anti-blackness and Bollywood meet in a deadly web of violence, slavery and discrimination.

Shuffling back and forth between Indonesia, India and Australia throughout my teenage years, I encountered a pattern of conflicting images and messages. On my television screen at home, Dove beauty campaigns preached acceptance of ‘all body types’ while in my father’s home in Jakarta, Unilever (the same multi-national, incidentally Dutch company that owns Dove) advertised a smorgasbord of products to lighten skin.

Coming home to Australia, where my friends would remark at how ‘black' I looked (this was considered a compliment) was a disconcerting and alienating experience for a young girl. After all, I had just spent two weeks being told that my skin colour was undesirable.

Thinking about the way in which white Westerners prize tanned skin, and fork out money for fake tans and solariums, it becomes clear that this desire for brownness is due to another class bias. Those with tanned skin can afford to go on holiday and relax outside instead of working.

Similarly, my family’s access to whitening products was due to their social status as upper middle-class Javanese. It was these two conflicting, but intrinsically linked class systems that meant my skin could simultaneously repulse my family, but be celebrated and emulated (at some cost) by my white friends.

During my most recent visit to my family in Jakarta, I was saddened to see that the rituals I observed so achingly as a teenager were still ever-present in their lives, so when I saw the #UnfairAndLovely campaign on my newsfeed at home, I could not help but wish that something like it had existed when I was 13. Seeing dark-skinned South Asian women celebrating their colour might have made the treacherous path to self-acceptance a little easier. Those images of reclamation and radical self-love might have been enough to counter the white-washed media I was bombarded with.

My fellow South Asian women, if you are reading this, I urge you to throw out your whitening creams. The process of decolonising our minds and bodies cannot occur while these products lurk in our bathroom cabinets. We must eliminate colourism from within our communities, and we must start by freeing ourselves from the shackles of internalised racism which are the source of so much pain.

And it isn’t just white people calling on us to put on the brakes. People like Ahmed Abdulmageed a member of the Fort Wayne community and the director of Experiential Education at Manchester University’s College of Pharmacy are joining their ranks.

Craig Steven Hicks of the Chapel Hill shootings claimed he wasn’t motivated by hate, but that he shot Dea, Yusor & Razan over a parking lot dispute.

We must of course take the word of the perpetrator over recognising that Islamaphobic and racist violence is at an all time high.  

It is always just a parking lot. A mental illness. Gang related. Or just politics and surely Trump would never get elected.

How lazy are we, to label the death of three young black men as ‘gang affiliated’, allowing racist stereotypes to cast doubt on the hateful motives of a crime, and move us into silence. How ignorant can we choose to be in denying racially motivated violence, when a presidential candidate has no qualms in calling for the death of Muslims by bullets dipped in pigs blood.

The out-pouring of communal grief after the Chapel Hill Shootings was torrential, buoyed by the outspoken charm and strength of a family willing to take on the media storm and speak out against hate.

Instead, Mustafa Kedio, the father of Mohammedtaha, has come out and stated “…my boy and the other two have never been involved with gangs and they do not have one thing in any of their records.”

Can anti-blackness be any more crushing in its cruelty when a grieving father is positioned to defend his son even after his death?

Not even a hate-crime can wipe away the devastating racist reality that blackness continues to be positioned alongside criminality and gang-membership. It further illuminates the cruelty embedded in structural racism in which  black men are never allowed to be assumed innocent. Whether it’s a clear case of police brutality, or a hate-crime, doubt is always cast.

It reveals how black Muslim men face a double oppression of anti-blackness and Islamophobia. They are first marginalised by their own community, and then further condemned by wider society. This experience of #BeingBlackAndMuslim was highlighted by Dawud Walid of the Muslim Anti-Racism Collaborative; and while occasionally quite funny, it actually paints a  picture of the devastating reality of racism within the Muslim community.

We shouldn’t tiptoe around protesting against the Fort Wayne shooting. We should be screaming. Just like we should be screaming along with the protestors against police brutality in the aftermath of Tamir, Rice, Eric Garner and Sandra Bland. In the same way we screamed with protesters after the Chapel Hill Shootings. Just as we continue to scream in the fight against anti-Muslim hatred spewed by politicians and presidential candidates. We cannot pretend that the deaths of Muhannad, Mohammedtaha and Adam occurred in a vacuum - the current political climate undeniably continues to give rise to Islamphobic hate-crimes. To consider otherwise and hide behind these presumptions of gang affiliation is deliberately ignorant, if not dangerously naive and completely racist.

The Muslim community needs to be fighting on every side of this battle. We need to defend our black brothers and sisters regardless of faith, and we need to defend our Muslim brothers and sister regardless of skin colour. These battles are intertwined through the relationship between Islamophobia and anti-blackness, and if anything - the deaths of Muhannad, Mohammedtaha and Adam highlight the inextricable link between these issues in the fight against this matrix of intersecting oppressions.

Ali ibn Talib is quoted as saying, “man is either your brother in faith or your brother in humanity”. Islam as a theology of liberation is our tool to fight. So if our faith is holding us captive to silence, then our faith needs some seriousre-evaluating.

We cannot continue to be silent over the deaths of Muhanned, Mohammedtaha and Adam. As a family member stated, “I should not have to state that for you to see them as human. I should not have to state that at all.”

And this family member is heartbreakingly right; in fact, we should not even be having this conversation. Just as we lament about white people only caring about white lives and trying to sell it to us as #alllivesmatter, we need to interrogate our own racism and how the image of the ideal Muslim is upheld by centring the Sunni Muslim light-skinned Arab male, and his covered wifely counterpart. Their humanity is imbued with a value and visibility that is often denied black Muslim members of our community. And in the case of Muhanned, Mohammedtaha and Adam, it has resulted in a posthumous erasure that renders their deaths less worthy of our attention.

All that matters is that Muhanned, Mohammedtaha and Adam were young men unjustly killed in a hate-motivated crime. A crime made possible by the violent rhetoric of presidential candidates ferociously fuelled in the years since 9/11. A crime made possible by a legacy of structural racism and anti-blackness that is not only exclusive to America, but one that plagues us across the global Muslim community.

In honour of their deaths, we have a responsibility to fight back against the erasure and silence that has compounded the devastation of a family in the aftermath of the deaths of their sons. We need to learn that the fight against oppression is one in which we are ready to stand up against it in all its cruel and pervasive forms. We have a responsibility to step-up the fight against anti-blackness in our community, and commit ourselves to #blacklivesmatter.

We need to step up for #OurThreeBoys

The footage showed three young Black African high schoolers (of Somali, Sudanese and Eritrean descent) being barred from entering an Apple store by staff who were afraid that “they might steal something”.

Of course, the usual Twitter shit-storm ensued. Everyone was outraged, Apple apologised and pretty soon afterwards everybody moved on. With the emergence of so-called “social justice warrior” movements on Twitter and other online platforms, attention and hysteria around such occurrences are not uncommon.

But what stuck out to me about this particular incident was that it happened right here, in Australia. Don’t get me wrong, I am by no means oblivious to the anti-black racism that happens here. For some reason, I just felt like it wasn’t as valid as it was in America or Europe or even the Middle East. My whole life I had been fed this idea that racism in Australia “isn’t as bad as everywhere else.” The reaction to that video showed me otherwise.

It showed me that the racism here is just as bad and just as wrong.

It also showed me that I am different to the millions of writers online. Why? Because I am part of a demographic that is continually overlooked and ignored in the conversations happening within the global diaspora. My experiences are so unique and so unexplored; my perspectives are unusual and often misunderstood. I am a Black African Australian. I feel obliged to make two disclaimers. First, throughout this piece I will not be using the term “black” on its own, as I am only discussing Black Africans. Australia’s first black people are Aboriginal folk and this is black land, and so using the term “black” when what I really mean is “Black Africans” would be straight up erasure. If you want to read up on Indigenous Australians and their experiences, black-australia.tumblr.com is a really good place to start.

Second, I feel the need to say that life for me in Australia, for the most part, has been really good. And no, I’m not just saying this to appease the “love it or leave it” gang, I really mean it. By the end of every scorching summer my family and I are pretty much ready to pack our bags and move to Antarctica and the TV here is absolutely horrendous, but Australia really is my home and I can’t imagine living anywhere else. I guess what I’m trying to say is that this essay only encapsulates a certain part of my experiences here. I could write novels on skipping lectures to frolic on Coogee Beach or seeing kangaroos on the way to school (I saw emus too), but that’s a side of Australia you probably already know. I’m here to break down the side that you don’t. To understand what Black Africans experience here, you first have to understand Australia’s bizarre and painfully ironic brand of xenophobia and racism. Ironic because if it wasn’t for the arrival of foreigners (otherwise known as thieving colonialists) this country wouldn’t even exist. Bizarre because, ever since the abolition of the White Australia policy, this country has developed a very self-deluded image. An image of openness and tolerance. An image that many (if not most) ethnic minorities here would argue is a farce.

And that’s where Australia’s main problem lies when it comes to racism. We simply cannot accept that it even exists and on the rare occasion that we do, we dismiss calling it out as being “un-Australian”.

See, that’s the thing: racism is very Australian. It is a fixture in the culture of this country and honestly, why is that even a surprise? After all, Australia was built on colonialism and has implemented internationally condemned refugee policies for decades. Even more frustrating is the way this delusion plays out in the media. At least once a week, talk shows and current affairs programs ask the question “Is Australia racist”? Most of the time it is met with a resounding “no”, with people accusing victims of racism and their supporters of being “too politically correct.” I’ve noticed political correctness is the go-to scapegoat for the typical Australian bigot. These shows, typically hosted by middle aged white people, want to look nuanced and “neutral” but in the end they just become a platform for bigoted people to talk shit.

For example, in one episode of Channel Nine’s The Verdict, middle aged white men argued “Negro” is an acceptable way to refer to black people. And Mark Latham, certified-dickhead and former leader of the Australian Labor Party – Australia’s supposedly left-wing stronghold in parliament – said that he “missed the memo somewhere in the '90s or more recently as to when 'Negro' became unacceptable.”

"I'm happy to make my weekly donation to Australia's outrage industry by saying 'Negro, Negro, Negro'."

When a former leader of a “left-wing” Australian party can make these statements on national television, there should be no surprise that feelings of isolation and animosity are quite prevalent among ethnic minorities in Australia. As an Aussie-born Ethiopian, the very first kind of microaggression I ever came across was the ignorance people here have about my background. During my first few years of school many teachers and students enquired about where I was from and my answers were met with responses such as: “Ethiopia, where’s that?”

“Did your parents come here because they were starving back in Africa?”

And my personal favourite: “Ethiopia? Yeah my cousin went there when he was backpacking in South-East Asia.”

A particularly traumatising experience was when I was in year one, watching the Lion King in class. During the opening scene, where the famous song “The Circle of Life” is sung in Zulu, my teacher decided to pause the tape, look straight at me and ask “Rebka, would you mind translating this for the rest of the class? It is in your native tongue after all”.

Of course, my confused, non-Zulu speaking six year old self simply replied with “Sorry, Miss, I don’t know what they’re saying.”

That was the first of many similar incidents that I faced in school and continue to face today. While the ignorant stereotyping and homogenisation of Africa is a global issue, I have always felt that Australians are especially clueless about the continent. I’m sure we can all agree that colonialism and slavery were/are horrific, but at the same time they gave Europe and The Americas an exposure to African cultures that does not exist here.

Those regions have had contact with Black Africans and have included them in their societies for centuries (albeit in a dehumanising manner). White Australia really only encountered us as immigrants during the 1980s at the very earliest. So, I eventually figured that this lack of exposure, combined with the media’s lazy depiction of Africa, was the root of Australia’s obliviousness towards it.

Yet at the same time I also think otherwise. Is this not the digital age? What excuse do people have, in 2016, to be ignorant? I feel like the problem has switched from not being able to know to choosing not to care. Growing up I always had this niggling feeling of inferiority when I saw that frown of confusion on people’s faces when I tried to explain where I was from. I felt like I was causing such a hassle by refusing to speak about my background in a more generic or general way. How dare I be so specific and complicated, couldn’t I just say “Africa”?

And that’s what I eventually started doing. People would ask about my background, and I would just say “I’m African” with a docile smile. Nine times out of ten, the person would be more than satisfied with my answer and it saved me having to awkwardly explain what the Horn of Africa is. But every time I did it, I felt like I was selling a tiny part of my soul. Am I, and people like me, not worth learning about? You can tell an Englishman from an Italian, so why do you assume me and the Nigerian boy from the grade below are cousins? It’s no secret that African American culture is very prominent in contemporary society. Music, movies, social media; are all dominated by it. Don’t get me wrong, it’s great, but it’s also no secret that media portrays African Americans in a certain way. That portrayal and the stereotypes that come with it have affected Black Africans around the world in many ways, including here in Australia. For me, the biggest issue is that people here think they have Black Africans all figured out because they’ve seen a few episodes of Oprah and got front row tickets to a Beyonce concert. When I was in year 11, my Religion teacher was handing out jelly beans. A girl near me innocently remarked “black jelly beans are so pointless, nobody ever eats them,” to which a little prick who I shall call “S” replied “well, they probably have to since some people would think it’s racist if they don’t.”

Of course I am seething and trying my best not to throttle her. “Who, S?” I ask, “Who would think that?”

“Well no offence, Rebka,” she said, pursing their non-existent lips. “But black people are a bit oversensitive when it comes to the whole racism thing.” I. Was. Livid. Firstly, this girl was from Penrith. PENRITH. For those of you who don’t know, Penrith is pretty much Western Sydney’s biggest mayonnaise factory. What did she know about us? Yet she seemed very pleased with herself, so confident that she had made an accurate statement. The matter of factness in her tone was what got to me the most. Like she knew it all, like she was just so tired of us negroes, when in reality I was probably the only one she knew in real life. Like she was the reasonable one, like she was some well rounded nuanced individual and I was the crazy, angry, race card pulling black woman. It was so painfully obvious that her assumptions had been based off of stereotypes from the American media, and it was also obvious that S had been itching to say this from the day she met me (“my first real life Negro, yay!”).

I mean jelly beans, really? How does one take an innocent conversation about sweets and turn it into a race issue? I feel like she wanted to get a reaction out of me, see if I really would go all Shaniqua on her, just like in the movies. She didn’t get what she wanted though. I simply told S to shut her uneducated ass up and stop pretending like I wasn’t the only black person she knew. Her face turned the most delicious shade of red and she stayed silent for the rest of that class. Of course there’s also the way African American stereotypes have affected our behaviour as African Australians. In the Western world, African American culture is the most palatable form of blackness. I mean, if you’re gonna be a nigger you might as well be a cool American nigger right? I’ve noticed that we often mimic African American mannerisms and stereotypical behaviour.

Looking back at my younger teen years, I remember playing into those stereotypes for social approval. Making “hilarious” references to my non existent weave (cringe), excessively using the N word (cringe x 3), and listing “twerking” as one of my talents (cringe level one million) were just a few of the things I did as a high schooler to fit into the African American stereotype.

Don’t get me wrong – there’s really nothing wrong with any of these things, but they’re not me. And I think that the fact that I felt like I had to pretend is very telling.

Recently, via Twitter, of course, I found out that white public school kids in London go around saying “wagwan” or call themselves “oyinbo” and I was consumed with envy. It just amazed me that the diaspora has had so much impact on the culture over there and how they don’t really have to pretend. We haven’t been here for very long and we haven’t had the chance to create a subculture yet. We don’t have anything to claim. So for now, we’re either stuck pretending or must settle for being outcasts. And I know it’s a transitioning period for us, I know it won’t be like this forever, but it still sucks. Then there’s the whole issue of speaking up against all this bullshit.

Australia is a nation that prides itself on being laid back and down to earth. The idea of everyone having a “fair go” is something most Aussies claim to value. For reasons I can’t quite pinpoint, it’s a strangely sacred part of our national identity. So when marginalised people speak out against oppressive forces, I guess this image of fairness is threatened and people simply don’t want to face it. Speaking out, or “having a whinge” as many here like to call it, is also at odds with the great Australian tradition of not giving a shit about anything except sport. If you get too serious with people they just tune out, and see your passion as tedious, offensive even. I mean why talk about systematic oppression when we could just throw some steaks on the barbie and have a beer?

Your mother’s family has lived in Indonesia for three or four generations, but they are ethnically Chinese with no marriages outside of this specific category until her. Your father is Australian, a second generation migrant whose parents are from Greece – “Wow! What an interesting mix!” – Blah blah blah.

So Greek people think you look Chinese, and Chinese people think you look Greek and White people think you look Indian, Latina, Fijian or “Arabic”... which is a language, not an ethnicity. Where does this leave your identity? Both your communities ‘Other’ you, and mainstream (read: White) Australia likes to ask you where you’re from – “No, where are you really from? Like originally?” – Your identity is a maelstrom of misunderstanding, internalised racism and an intense fear that everyone is going to find out your middle name is Ying. That is your best kept secret for 15 years.

At eighteen you start studying your mother tongue at university, because it will be an easy subject, right? And I guess you’re kind of interested. Which mother tongue exactly? Not Mandarin, your mother doesn’t speak that. Not Greek, your father only speaks that to his parents. Bahasa Indonesia. Too bad you didn’t realise your Mum spoke a Jakartan dialect from the 70’s. Class isn’t as easy as you thought, but you’ve still got a leg up on everyone else.

As you get more involved in politics at university, you grow a race consciousness. You start to realise that all the anger you had towards your mother was because of how people racialised her, and how that racism dripped onto you like burning wax. You start to identify as a Person of Colour, who has experienced racism all your life. These flashes hit you every now and then, of things that happened to you that make you realise: that was racism. That was whiteness burning a hole into your sense of self.

So you identify as Asian. Which any person from ‘Asia’ would laugh at. How can you identify as a continent? Well in Western countries it’s pretty easy – “All Asians are the same” – An erasure, but one that also creates solidarity.

You decide to go on exchange, to live in Indonesia. You don’t really remember making the decision or why, it just starts to happen. After all, it is the culture that has had the largest influence on your life. You are Indonesian. There’s just one small problem. You haven’t been there since you were five.

So how do mixed-race Third Culture Kids who’ve grown up in entirely different countries, with immense privileges and no real understanding of the country their parents are from, deal with this? How do we claim a culture we’ve never lived in, whose customs we don’t know?

When you get to Indonesia, a lot of people think you’re half Indonesian because of your darker skin (oddly enough, you have the island of Samos in Greece to thank for that). Most people you meet say to you – “Sudah lancar” – already fluent, or ask you – “Berapa tahun tinggal di Indonesia?” – how many years have you lived here? It’s a comfort to know you’re not usually considered a bule (albino, white, foreigner; take your pick). To speak only Indonesian and have it come out easily, to be able to blend in a little more, to know people see you as part of the majority, it legitimises your identity. Your accent improves, you learn the phrase – “Saya ada hati di sini” – I have heart here. That’s why you’re in Indonesia. You have heart here.

Even though you’re living in a city with one of the highest average standards of living; with air-conditioning, a queen bed and and a private bathroom, you don’t feel the irony just yet. You feel Indonesian. For once, you feel part of the mainstream.

But the questions don’t stop. How do you balance your Western privilege with your Indonesian identity? How do you reconcile the ridiculous amount of money you have compared to the millions of Indonesians living below the poverty line? You have never even lived here before your Australian government funded exchange, you are a stranger to this country. Are you even a part of the diaspora, with your Chinese culture and mixed race complications? But it’s comforting to know you are not alone. You know other Third Culture Kids who are returning to their motherlands, trying to go back and make a difference, to use our privilege and create change. To reject the countries we were raised in and the affluence reaped from the colonisation, theft and genocide of black and brown bodies. We explore the yearning to find that something that’s always been more disconnected in us than in anyone else. And when the wind whistles past your ears, you hear it.

My mother is Black. For most of American history, that would have made me Black too, and that is indeed still the case in many places throughout the United States. But my brothers and I grew up in diverse, liberal California, where mixed-race kids of every combination imaginable are everywhere. So for as long as I can remember, it seemed the most natural thing in the world that my light-brown brothers and I would share a dark-skinned, dreadlocked mommy and a pink-looking (sorry Dad) father with blue eyes. Looking back, I can see that my parents took pains to expose us to positive representations of brownness and Blackness–not a single one of my dolls was white; practically every storybook in our house featured characters of color. We had frequent, open discussions about race and racism–but it never occurred to me to identify as Black, because practically every other aspect of my life was steeped in whiteness.

Nearly all of our friends, classmates and neighbours were white (none were Black), and our extended family consisted only of my East Coast upper-crust grandmother, whose brand of boozy WASP gentility made a deep impression on my ideas about taste, education and etiquette. My mother’s only engagement with Blackness seemed to be cooking incredible soul food and having my difficult mass of hair braided into cornrows every few months. No version of AAVE was ever spoken in our house, we didn’t celebrate Kwanzaa or Juneteenth, and we were deeply estranged from her family in south-central LA.

It sounds strange, even transgressive or shameful, but I’ve always ‘felt’ more or less white, despite being passionate about racial issues and social justice since childhood. Whiteness and its dominant place in American culture, along with the lack of an ‘alternative’ ethnic or racial dimension in my upbringing, has for better or worse (probably for worse) engendered in me an uneasy but deep identification with whiteness.

This does not mean that I am white, pass as a white person, like white people in general (nope), or that I want to be white (hell no); it means that when I am addressed as a Black person, or even as a generic “person of color”, I feel guilty, misrecognized, a fraud. Misrecognized because in my daily life, I don’t perceive myself as “racialized” at all, until someone else takes it upon themselves to remind me, intentionally or not, that my light skin, freckles, narrow nose and coily, red-brown hair mark me as an exotic oddity (on the flip side, in my first year of University I learned that I had not been invited to join the campus Black Student Union because the members assumed I was fully white). I feel guilty and fraudulent because, in America and everywhere else, to be unambiguously non-white is to be permanently a target for oppression; whereas the privilege and culture of my upbringing, along with my appearance, have insulated me from the worst of that. I experience racial scrutiny, but rarely direct racism. Race, unlike gender, is a sociological phenomena rather than an internal one, so because of my upbringing I can’t honestly say that I fully identify as a person of color, although that is where my political allegiance lies–I am closer to grey, or beige, or ‘off-white’. Not-quite-white.

For whatever reason, Rachel Dolezal ‘feels’ Black, possibly in the way that I ‘feel’ white, but her stealing of Black identity demeans and obfuscates the experiences of mixed-race people. Clearly Dolezal feels a deep affinity for Black culture, but appreciation of a marginalized group does not give you the right to access it. Instead of engaging respectfully with the cultural and social positioning of American Blackness, she appropriated its crudest, most tired stereotypes for personal satisfaction. (It’s also no accident that as a “Black” woman, Dolezal physically changed her appearance to one, very like my own, that confers privileges in both Black and white communities). Blackness is not reducible to melanin levels, or hair type–it is a shared historical and cultural experience that is marked indelibly by ongoing, hereditary trauma, one that I don’t have access to fully, but that she has no access to at all. To be a brown person who identifies largely with the dominant culture of whiteness as a matter of circumstance is one thing, but to be a white woman who assumes that ‘feeling’ Black entitles her to pretend to be the descendant of slaves is quite another.

Soon, millions of people flooded Twitter with self-love and positivity, allowing the Black community to reclaim more and more online spaces like Tumblr, Instagram and Facebook, and reaching media outlets like BuzzFeed and the BBC. On their website, T’von stated that he wanted to give ordinary Black people their moment to shine and to be represented in the media. This movement is about challenging white- centric notions of beauty and saying loudly and proudly that Blackness is beautiful.

Positive narratives of Black people, diversity, and self-love are not what mass media is generally known for—so, naturally, #BlackOutDay was a huge success. The online community that was forged through #BlackOutDay and the support and love that shines through from Black people all over the world reveals just how meaningful this movement is.

Unfortunately, as YouTuber and Black activist Francesca Ramsey pointed out in her video on #BlackOutDay, the racist backlash was inevitable. To be clear: no, we DON’T need a White Out Day and yes, oppressed racial minorities should celebrate and take pride in themselves to share their own stories! Take a look at our media: every day is White Out Day… and who colonised and enslaved whom, again? Ultimately, #BlackOutDay was received very positively, particularly in light of the events at Ferguson and the police murders of Michael Brown, Eric Garner, Tamir Rice and many (many) more. Continuing to celebrate Blackness and reclaiming online spaces with positive narratives is an exciting win for African Americans and Black people who are all stereotyped, profiled and systematically discriminated against in modern society.

Similarly, #ReclaimTheBindi was a hashtag used in conjunction with #CoachellaShutDown to protest against the rampant appropriation of South Asian culture at Coachella music festival. Women who identify as South Asian, Desi and Hindu took selfies wearing bindis, some displaying their traditional dress, and celebrated their beauty and culture. The constant theme running throughout this campaign was that their culture is not a costume. Additionally, many pointed out the hypocrisy of traditional dress and cultural difference being a point of racism and discrimination for South Asian women, while bindis are seen as a mark of hipster fashion when adorning white bodies and faces.

Cultural appropriation is defined by its lack of consent, the absence of participation in a culture or community and the double standard applied when those in power use and abuse a culture.

White women at a music festival donning bindis and Native American headdresses as fashion statements show disrespect to the communities that these cultural items belong to by failing to consider the cultural significance of what they’re doing. They are not being used within the culture, as part of a ceremony or at the invitation of a person from that culture. The women almost definitely do not contribute to empowering these communities back home: if they did, they would know not to wear such items at a music festival. As white women, they hold the power and privilege to be seen as “edgy” and “fashionable” while wearing these cultural items, while millions of South Asians and Native Americans face discrimination when wearing traditional dress.

It is worth noting that People of Colour or those also affected by racism can still be guilty of cultural appropriation by wearing or using cultural items that do not belong to their culture. For example, an East Asian woman would be appropriating an Indigenous culture if she dressed up in their traditional clothes for a party. This person is higher up on the racial hierarchy, and they are still perpetuating racism and enacting violence on a racially oppressed group.

The autonomy of the South Asian identity that underpins #ReclaimTheBindi is vital to the movement. It aims to take back online spaces and ownership of South Asian culture by South Asian women, to fight back against “fashion trends” that have co-opted their traditional and sacred cultural items, and last of all prove that South Asian girls absolutely wear it better. Brown bodies are beautiful, the South Asian community is strong, and #ReclaimTheBindi has shown just how fantastic social media movements can be.

Both of these hashtags show an exciting domination of social media with self-love, the creation of more online communities and empowerment for oppressed racial groups. Let’s hope that these movements continue, and that Indigenous, Black, People of Colour, Women of Colour and other racial minority communities can show the world that they are amazing!

Within cross-racial and cross-cultural interactions, the boundaries between 'appropriation' and 'exchange' can get muddied. When flows of profit come into the picture, with M.I.A the primary economic beneficiary, this becomes a more complex issue. The platform she has as an international rapper and artist comes with power, influence and responsibility. M.I.A has previously shown us that she does not treat her position without consideration with videos such as ‘Bad Girls’ & ‘Bring the Noize’. Lyrics such as “I can say lots with the little words, a few” never rang truer, as her cryptic internet presence catalyses this long-awaited discussion.

This isn’t the first time that M.I.A has been met with questions of cultural appropriation. Her 2012 video ‘Bad Girls’ was criticised for perpetuating a misrepresentation of Arab life: horses, big Jeeps and Arab men watching women misbehaving, as well as presenting exotic, harem-veiled women. However, it is difficult to gauge this for several reasons. First, the project was a researched, collaborative effort with members of the drifting culture that has long-existed in Saudi Arabia. Additionally, the video was a protest and commentary on Saudi Arabia’s driving ban. The girls in the video enter masculine spaces and counteract fetishistic oriental stereotypes, their representation is subversive and necessarily political. ‘Live fast, die young’ is a very macho ideal, with masculine culture of souped-up cars, sports and technology. M.I.A reclaims that without inserting a binaristic man vs. woman in an Arab context. She displaces dominant social misconceptions that the experiences of Arab/Muslim women are defined by oppression from their male counterparts. Here she compiles Arabic references that are both fantasised and real to construct a festive and badass challenge to the racial profiling and stereotype of the subjugated Arab woman.

Importantly, M.I.A has long made a point of centring the experiences of marginalised identities as a mode of anti-establishment politics, exploring divergent experiences and locations, both sonically and visually. Her hip-hop aesthetic is not just an appropriation of African American hip-hop -- which in itself is so diverse and multivalent --  and is a deliberately incohesive collage of the rhythms, lingo, and sounds of the Global South. This is her Worldtown. M.I.A’s disparate use of Third World iconography also destabilises and discomforts the centrality of the White gaze, that continually homogenises and simultaneously co-opts these cultures. As Ayesha Siddiqi explains,

“By lifting imagery associated with the global south and restyling it with an unapologetically gaudy insistence on its “otherness,” M.I.A empowers both herself and brown kids worldwide who had previously only been the subjects of Otherization, not the agents. Her reappropriation of the exotic kitsch brands subaltern struggle with dance-pop cool, while triumphantly avoiding privileging white consumption.”

This difficulty furthers in the saga of this week’s tweets.

Although it probably isn’t beneficial to deconstruct components of her messages, her crypticism leaves much to the imagination. What is significant however, is that she is confronting this before that piece ever sees the light of day, not after the damage has been done so to speak.

Her subsequent tweets and retweets were less clear.

She does come across as defensive, perhaps she is, which is valid. She also doesn't give us much information on what exactly she is being accused of. If the issue is indeed as straight forward as "you can't shoot a video in Africa," this is very tenuous and holds very little grounds for being offensive. However, if the work became exploitative or contributes to the fetishisation/exotification of 'Africa' and its' indigenous people (also this in itself is assuming Africa to be a monolithic cultural singular when in reality it is filled with a wide multitude of cultural, linguistic and historic diversity) that is when it could be classed as cultural appropriation.

She continued.

M.I.A purports to using her video to provide this unnamed performer a platform, a stage to perform their craft for the whole world to see. Given that the video remains unreleased, it’s hard to judge whether it would be exploitative, but for the most part it sounds collaborative, and a prioritising of a local artist not likely to be afforded such an opportunity (but importantly does not need to be ‘validated’ by an artist like M.I.A). Again, her platform is not the result of privilege and to say it is would be a disservice to the labour of being an artist of colour and a female rapper; and the limitations and misconceptions that come with these identities.

M.I.A does not wield the structural power to exploit in that way. As a self-identified Tamil refugee, she is not the proto-typical Asian immigrant trying to fit in. As far as she is concerned, she is an unwanted refugee from an impoverished, war-torn, Third World nation. Her affinity towards other Third World nations is therefore both organic and intimate. It’s why she chooses to film in places like Morocco and Ivory Coast. Sure, M.I.A can represent globalisation and cosmopolitanism but not the privileged and entitled variety displayed by white westerners who can go and do whatever they want. Her hybridity is a product of displacement and the fracture of not having a localised identity.

However, one of her tweets was absurd and indefensible.

No doubt, hip-hop and its subcultures have transgressed social, political and geographic boundaries -- but any appreciation or consumption of hip-hop should not erase the historic roots and the lived experiences that stem from Black communities. M.I.A’s dismissive tweet, here, is a form of anti-blackness that negates this history and perpetuates the continued obscuring of Black artistic and political contributions, and the relentless appropriation and co-optation of these. It also evokes the anti-blackness that resides in South Asian communities and the diaspora.

If respect and agency are given to the communities or individuals which you are artistically representing for whatever reason, then maybe there is a way to navigate the rightfully complex discourse around appropriation. In the case of M.I.A, there is no definitive 'yes' this is good/ 'no' this is bad binary. It should be difficult and nuanced as we should aim to deconstruct the hegemonic social foundations that shape our understanding of 'culture' and not deny the multiplicity and nuance of lived oppression. Artistic freedom and expression does have responsibilities to not erase marginalised groups of people, and M.I.A should be commended, but not put on a pedestal, for considering this in her own way.

The reason why this memory troubles me is not because of the moment itself. Trust me, I’ve had many more like these over the years. It’s the silence that gets to me. Not once in my life has this side of my interracial experience been brought out into the open. Not in any books, interviews, online rants on ‘yellow fever,’ and never in the home. A couple years ago, when I attended a group counseling session for half-Asian students, a girl suggested “does my dad have yellow fever?” and we all laughed. We laughed, not because the question was preposterous, but because we knew we would never, ever ask.

Thinking back to that moment in Kings Cross, five years later, I’m left to wonder about the baby and its mother, and the way our interracial stories momentarily intertwined that night. By now, the details of the mother’s face are blurry, but the outline of her body is there. The baby’s smiling face could be something I added in hindsight, I can’t tell anymore. More than anything, I wonder about that baby. It must be 8 or 9 now. I think about whether it's parents are still together. What language it speaks. Whether it spends Christmas with dad’s family or mum’s.

When I see chubby-faced Eurasian children running around my neighbourhood - the rapidly gentrifying suburb of Marrickville - I can’t help but wonder about them too. Eurasian children seem to be popping up in Marrickville as frequently as its houses are being auctioned off for seven figure prices. I wonder which parent has the better paying job? Which parent gets treated better in public? Which parent does the cooking, and what food do they cook? Who is in charge of the radio in the car? All these little power-plays that influenced how I felt about my own Asian-ness and my own White-ness growing up. I wonder about the girls, how will they cope with being fetishised in clubs? Who will they talk to?

Growing up half-Okinawan and half-white Australian has left me with a lot of these unanswered questions. It’s led me to the belief that our society just isn’t equipped to discuss mixed-race, despite the fact that I’m seeing mixed-race faces everywhere I look today. Despite the fact that mixed-race people existed on this land well before white people were even a blip on the radar. Watching Japanese-Canadian Jeff Chiba Stearns’ documentary “One Big Hapa Family,” I was struck by how much his own reflections mirrored my own:

“After thinking back on some bizarre identity related experiences that I had growing up mixed, I started to wonder if interracial couples ever considered how their marriages might affect their children? I got the sense that my relatives never discussed multiracial identity with their kids. I mean, not once growing up did I tell my parents that I experienced cultural confusion.”

Often when mixed-race identities are discussed today, they are conflated with this idea of our “post-racial future.” A future where race is no longer an issue and everyone looks like Halle Berry. The kinds of people who seem to be the most vocal about mixed-race are the people who claim that, “Everyone is a bit mixed-race” or “I don’t see race, we are beyond it” etc. There is this belief that Love and its mixed-race children will help break down the barriers that have been so doggedly safe-guarded for the past several hundred years. Parents of mixed-race children often believe this too, I’ve heard it coming from their mouths many times.

The problem is, it’s much easier to say “I don’t see race” when you actually belong to a race. Whether you want to believe it or not, your race connects you to your parents, your grandparents, to random people who have nothing to do with you but still share thousands of years of collective history with you purely because you look a bit like them. When a stranger approaches you on the street, they categorise you and you know intuitively what category that is. Maybe you can celebrate your right to your culture without having to question it, or legitimise it, or think about what’s being left out. This is just not the case for a lot of mixed-race people.

For me, mixed-race is a rupture. It’s isolating, it’s confusing. On a good day, you feel great about being unique. You are proud of who you are and you think, “Yes! Today I’m ready to shatter stereotypes! I am complicated and I am proud! Come at me monoracial world, see if I care!” But on a bad day, those very same reasons that make you love yourself can make you feel very, very alone. Sometimes, you do just want to belong. So you start to emphasise one part of you more, you act more x, you speak x language, you invest in x culture. But, inevitably someone casually says something or acts in a certain way that reminds you that no, you’re not really an x, so you’re left back at square one. You’re left with the other parts of you that you left behind. Parts of you that will never be the same again, no matter how hard you try.  

I used to have a lot of bad days, but now, after a few years of reading and talking about mixed-race, I have a lot more good than bad. Still, I often wonder about how I can productively use all the time and energy I’ve spent thinking about mixed-race to help others who are having a bad day. More than anything, I want interracial couples to know what they are doing when they decide to have a cute little mixed baby together; to have the tools to sit down and have a meaningful conversation when their child starts to question who they are and why they are being treated differently to them. We need to be resolving imbalances in racial power or tendencies for sexual racism between interracial couples before they are transferred onto their children. Or at the very least, not silencing them with claims that “love conquers all” or “race doesn’t matter anymore.” We need to make parents, teachers, friends, counselors - everyone - aware that mixed-race children aren’t just fractions of other races, but are an entirely different equation.

Anti-racism needs to start in the home, in our most intimate spaces. If we can’t start these conversations with the people we love, then we have a long way to go.

Rihanna in Guo Pei

On the contrary, the red carpet fell far short of a dialogue; we have been presented an image of ‘Chinese aesthetic’ designed in American and European studios. As Edward Said defines, Orientalism is the Western construction of foreign cultures as the exotic other. Orientalism dominated the red carpet of the Gala, with over 70 celebrities gracing the red carpet and only two wearing designs by Mainland Chinese designers. Fan Bingbing wore Christophe Bu and Rihanna wore Haute Couture Guo Pei (Selena Gomez wore Vera Wang, an American born Chinese designer, and designs of Taiwanese born and American based Jason Wu and Alexander Wang were also worn). 

American-born Chinese designer Vera Wang

Guo Pei in a 2011 interview talks about the prejudices she faces as a Chinese educated designer, as fashion is viewed as an Art that can only be learnt and executed in the West, “One French fashion expert came to visit my studio and was completely surprised to see haute couture in China. He didn’t think it could exist outside Europe.” The Met Gala could have been an opportunity to challenge the racist perception of China as the factory for the West’s mass-produced goods and designer knock-offs. However, at an event that proclaims to celebrate China’s influence in fashion, it merely reinforced China as the passive Orient, valuable only in so far as it provides inspiration and fantasy for the West.

The most telling quote of the exhibition would have to be that from Costume Institute curator Andrew Bolton, “The show is not about China per se, but a collective fantasy of China.” When agency is only given to the West, and China is treated as a passive object while the West is seen as the sole possessors of artistic talent, there is no cultural dialogue but rather a colonialist power play. There is no exchange amongst unequal participants, only plundering. The event is not premised on understanding and appreciating other cultures’ artistic works and heritage. This event is indicative of racism within the Western fashion industry and the Art world more broadly, both of which have histories of appropriating other cultures to create “original” work. While Western artists reap success, the cultures they borrow from continue to be dismissed as lowbrow, or ‘primitive’.

Chinese Model Liu Wen in Michael Kors

In more recent times, when Victoria’s Secret put model Karlie Kloss in a Native American Headdress, the public followed suit with native headdresses and bindis becoming popular festival accessories. Any cultural dialogue involves understanding and respect, but model Georgia May Jagger who wore a dress inspired by the Japanese Kimono, failed to do enough research to distinguish two completely different countries. 

The most concerning aspect of McIntyre’s sacking is how media organisations will cower beneath a mob of angry Aussie patriots disputing facts they may not like. The extreme nationalism, bordering on neo-Nazism, saw McIntyre receive death threats and even abuse from Federal Minister for Communications Malcolm Turnbull for espousing an opinion not publicised in mainstream media. As one Fairfax media journalist pointed out on Twitter, how would the Australian media report a story where a journalist from another country was targeted by its Communications Minister for putting forth a different perspective.

It harks back to the Reclaim Australia rallies and their fierce opposition to the Other. A fear of a different perspective on Australian identity, shielding Australia from diversity that might change entrenched ‘Australian values’.

The defensive nature in response to shifting a social norm is what University North Carolina’s Robert DiAngelo calls “White Fragility”.

“White Fragility is a state in which even a minimum amount of racial stress becomes intolerable, triggering a range of defensive moves. These moves include the outward display of emotions such as anger, fear, and guilt, and behaviours such as argumentation, silence, and leaving the stress-inducing situation.”

For example, this jarring video of a White Australian Federal police officer yelling at an Aboriginal man, “This day isn’t meant for you” during ANZAC Day celebrations. The Aboriginal man was protesting to raise awareness of the role Black Indigenous diggers played in World War One, but this “minimal amount of racial stress” caused the Officer to lash out. This is endemic of what ANZAC Day has come to signify – a day of larrikinism and White Australian nationalism with no room for criticism or nuance.

White fragility in its truest form is how Ellie Laing reacted to the criticism of her employment at SBS. Her article is titled “Just because I am a white woman doesn’t mean I don’t deserve my job at SBS.” Laing chose to personalise an issue that goes beyond the individual. Instead of thinking critically and creating a discussion about the systemic lack of diversity and representation in the media, we are debating whether she deserves her job at SBS.

In McIntyre’s case, SBS Managing Director Michael Ebeid categorised his actions as a breach of “SBS code of conduct and social media policy”.

Ebeid said the comments “compromised” the integrity of maintaining the audience’s trust. However none of McIntyre’s tweets personally attacked or vilified anyone, rather they shed light on an ugly underbelly of Australian society. SBS have appeased the angry mob outraged by an alternative image of the ANZACs. This is a dangerous precedent to set, as journalists may think twice before highlighting something that may anger a groundswell of white audiences, despite their remit as the Special Broadcasting Service.

However, unlike McIntyre other journalist or TV personalities have gotten away with controversial moments. They were only racist after all, not something to lose your job over. AFL radio commentator Rex Hunt called Leon Davis “black as a dog” in live commentary, Eddie McGuire compared Adam Goodes to King Kong, Briony Ingerson wore blackface, Samantha Armytage can be casually racist on air, but the questioning of White nationalism is where we draw the line in Australian media.

SBS is sending a clear message: the ANZACs must be celebrated in their entire cult-like glory. These men lived in era of Australian history where the White Australia policy still reigned supreme and many of Australia’s multi-ethnic citizens had their countries of origin occupied by Allied nations. But ANZACs were ‘the every man’, they could throw down a beer like anyone’s business.

White fragility can be readily seen through the reaction of ‘freedom of speech’ advocates who praise SBS’ decision to sake McIntyre. Clearly, freedom of speech only applies when the most vulnerable and marginalised groups are being attacked. As proven by the backlash of McIntyre’s tweets, the discussion of what free speech is in an Australia context is highly skewed towards those with power. Federal Government Minister George Brandis openly said in Parliament “People do have a right to be bigots”.