Cynicism? Not in An.Other Collective’s household!

 

Afrina Fitri visits An.Other Collective’s exhibition “Rituals of Return” and muses on the secret privilege of cynicism.

 

These days, I have become quite cynical. 

I wasn't always this way. Actually, throughout my childhood, I was very accepting of the reality around me. I felt tirelessly optimistic of the prospects the world had to offer, and keen for the wisdom I thought I would develop as I aged. 

Now, cynicism has become an easy coping mechanism. A way to psychologically combat the growing fascism and division I am witnessing. It is easier to be cynical about the world when it feels as though it has morphed in a way I don’t recognise. I cannot trust something if I find it unfamiliar. 

And yet, these are the same grounds I walked on when I was five, and hopefully the same grounds I will walk on when I am old and frail, whether independently or with a cane.  It is easier to be cynical about love and refuse the potential fruits of its nourishment than to accept the possibility of its whole, definite absence. So, I have become quite cynical.

What is easy, however, is not always what is good. 

On the 4th and 5th of July, An.Other Collective curated and hosted an exhibition at the Immigration Museum called, “Rituals of Return”. An.Other Collective is a group of Muslim women across Gadigal Country and Naarm, who have their own respective skills within a creative discipline. 

 

Rituals Of Return spanned over the weekend to display the ongoing tradition of many south-east Asian (and beyond!) Muslim cultures - the art of an open house. The concept of an open house revolves around welcoming all people into a shared space within a certain time frame. Individuals can move in and out of the space for as long or as short as they would like. An open house consists of quick greetings, numerous meals, and long goodbyes. For as long as the host decides to keep their home open, guests - family and strangers alike - are welcome to join.

While these open houses and shared spaces are meant for everyone, Rituals of Return explores how these pre-existing traditions adapt after migration and diaspora. The exhibition ponders how these traditions foster new meaning for a unique kind of community. 

Draped down the white pillars that made up the room of the exhibition were long lace curtains with palm-sized images of the fragments that make up an open house, printed on paper towels. Each pillar represented a different aspect of an open house; one pillar housed images of people preparing for the occasion, while another one showed what an open house may look like at its peak, with cars filling up the driveway and children sprawled across backyards. On one end of the room, “tikars” were laid down in front of a large backdrop of batik cloths, with makeshift stools and games on the floor for one’s entertainment. From the other side of the room, a large roll of cloth hung from the ceiling, down onto several tables and onto the floor. The cloth had repeating circles down the perimeter. This is what the Collective called the “Long Table”, used for the workshop that was held on both days.

 

 

The workshop asked all participants to sit in a room, in a circular formation, to discuss the beauty of open houses and what they mean to us, especially to those in diasporic relations, where home feels distant. After discussing and giggling at all the different and similar ways we treat an open house, we were welcomed to a meticulously designed spread of bite-sized delicacies, consisting of special Indonesian flavours like pandan or rendang, remade into modern and unique styles. 

We were then led and welcomed to the “Long Table”, where these circles made up empty dinner plates, with shapes of utensils and glasses running alongside them. We were given pens and crayons to share and draw out our favourite meals on these plates. Eventually, the blank river of cloth that ran down one side of the room was filled with a parade of meals, each one unique to the other and yet sharing the same premise that this was someone’s special meal. 

This workshop reminded me of many things. It reminded me of how universal the language of food is; we can all resonate and understand what it means to have a dish that feels like more than something that sustains a body, but rather one’s soul. 

 

It reminded me of the giddy child in me that loves to see unfamiliar faces glee and marvel at the ornaments that make up my culture. 

The biggest takeaway from this event though, was the reminder of how intentional cultural traditions are. Growing up with open houses, it felt like second nature to travel here and there, to eat a variety of meals a day and to take a nap in the car when we went from East to West. Where my parents come from, these events are interlocked with the way they function. It is normal for one to drop by another’s house with little notice; one doesn’t bat an eye at a random Aunty in the living room after coming home from school. 

Yet here, in this country, this tradition was earned. My parents worked hard to find a community of people where we shared the same traditions, the same kind of mindsets. It is easy to drive to a house when you know the address, but to find it before you know it even exists is hard. My parents did the hard part. Now, I get to reap the benefits of surprised joy in bumping into a family friend at someone else’s open house, and secretly hoping I’ll see them again at the next one too. 

 

 

It feels like a secret privilege to be cynical of love and what it can provide for us all. My parents, moving from Malaysia to New Zealand before they even turned 20, and then uprooting their family again to Australia were not cynical of the life they could bloom, of the communities they could be a part of. They believed they would nurture the love from the love they had inside of themselves; they understood that what would be given to them from a community can only be equally met by what they can provide for others within themselves. My blissful memories of Eid growing up were only a product of their hard work, of their ability to find and give love in what sometimes feels like the cracks of society. 

Cynicism, when it comes to love, is a cowardly move. It detracts from our mission of explicitly showing people that they belong, it detracts from the mission of revolting against the evils of hatred and complicity. 

An.Other Collective allowed me to recognise the faults in questioning the sincerity of what is always in front of me. Open houses exist to let go of the very challenge we immigrants feel we must endure at every given moment - the idea that we must prove ourselves, that we must give in to the concept of working only for self-benefit.  Whatever cynicism immigrants have about whether the love in an open house is truly ours for the keeping need only look to the empty pots and pans in the kitchen to know that the hard task of washing up once everyone leaves, will lead to the easy part: long-lasting nourishment.