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// Intro
// Manifesto
To world-build, as an artist, in times of genocide
Reflections on art as resistance, as a tool of world-buidling.
January 15, 2026
[part of a larger body of work "Utopia, my love]
We watch, in horror, a people be erased from the surface of the earth. As the machinery of capital funds the erasure. As we contort ourselves to make room for new languages to mask the atrocities. What does material resistance look like? Where does art fit into this world in decay? Is there room for world-building, the way Malcolm and Biko, Audre, Darwish, Ngugi, Nina, and Fanon taught us to? The kind of world-building that doesn’t flinch?
Here, when I say World-building, I do not mean some aesthetic indulgence. Not when the ground is being stolen from under us. Not when maps are redrawn in blood. I mean the practical blueprint towards the Utopia. Don’t we first need to be able to imagine the Utopia? Malcolm taught me that the mind must be free before the body can follow. So we imagine, because imagination is the first battleground. The system wants our dreams anesthetized and wired to obey. But dreaming is dangerous when it refuses their logic. To learn, as Fanon’s Wretched, not to sleep to dream “but dream to change the world”.
Find the horizon. Now look beyond it.
Ngugi taught me that the “cultural bomb” the imperialist world continuously attacks us with, aims to
“annihilate a people’s belief in their names, in their languages, in their environment, in their heritage of struggle, in their unity, in their capacities and ultimately in themselves.”
And today we know enough and see clearly enough to resist the attacks. This resistance is how we learn to breathe when the air is laced with tear gas. It’s how we learn to speak when our mother tongues are continuously being buried.
I refuse to see art as a distraction, a soft comforting beauty. I, through my art, must become a weapon. Make myself and make my art indegistible if need be. Audre Lorde said “poetry is not a luxury”: poetry is how we name what tries to kill us. A figment of the not-yet, pulling us collectively towards where freedom lies. (Collectively: make note of it).
A figment of the not-yet and also a key to resurrect what was buried. What came before… Before the colonization, before the occupation, before the rubble, before the whitewashing, before we forgot who we were. Biko taught me that the colonizer’s greatest weapon is the mind of the colonized. I vow to rip that weapon from their hands.
In the making of works and worlds, we must learn to cry and laugh, simultaneously. That’s what Darwish taught me. A far-removed witness to the burrial of his people, in grief and sorrow and yet in constant celebration of life, love and beauty. Words, from exile, from absence, that have allowed Palestine to live on in all our minds and hearts. He wrote people back into memory, through sorrow and hope. He called it “an incurable malady”. Not naïve hope, but ancestral hope. The kind forged in dispossession. The kind you can’t bomb out of a people. He taught me the kind of hope that plants seeds in scorched earth and says: I dare you.
I do not have weapons so let my art turn me into a weapon.
Nina Simone taught me that
“An artist’s duty is to reflect the times.”
Reflection as transmutation and alchemy. Transmute yourself into something larger than your own person, than your art, than your existence.
We do not create from innocence nor from a neutral place because the weight of inheritance walks alongside us. That inheritance consists of displacement felt in our bones and tongues that were ambutated. But we build anyway, don't we? With fragments and scraps and memory.
We build remembering one thing: No empire on Earth is eternal. So let us build the Utopia, that will seep into the cracks. That is how we break open the future.
Saidiya Hartman taught me that we can be critical fabulators: use imagination as methodology. This means we must invent and tell stories inside ourpast struggles, not seperate from them.
To build a world inside the wreckage is devotion. It is remembering that rebellion can be painted, danced, or sung. Some come in the form of a soul-awakening jazz solo at the piano. Some as a camera filming faces and bodies and trees.
They want us to forget. Isn't that the essence of how domination works. It erases bodies from the earth but also visions. To create now, when the world is being leveled in front of us, is a political stance. To create now is a declaration that we still have skin in the game. We still believe in a world that doesn’t yet exist. And we will keep making it, image by image, word by word, until it does.
Let Me Weep Beneath Your Beauty
An attempt at deconstructing the complexities of Cape Town
October 15, 2025
There exist places where your heart is unsure if it should revel in joy or choke in a sea of tears. Tears of sadness.
Cape Town is one such place.
Let me write the Lonely Planet pitch so you and I are aligned: As the plane begins its descent, you are already overcome by the natural beauty you see. Mountains, valleys, an endless ocean. A cascade of greens and blues. A tango of never-ending clouds dances above it all, fragmenting the shy rays of sun into diamonds that sprinkle over the city. You land and the air is moist. A true Southern Hemisphere autumn in the peak age of climate collapse. Humidity in your nostrils, droplets on your skin. It does not take long for any traveler-tourist to find Cape Town seductive. Like a mantra, this was sung to me by every individual I knew who had come to Cape Town.
As soon as you hop in the car that will take you to the city centre, you see Table Mountain standing like an old stoic, as if guarding centuries of memory.
Because you know the bare minimum about south African history, you get a haunting sense that this beauty is either a reflection of the monumental reconciliation work undertaken since '94, or a God-given wondrous disguise.
Beyond its natural beauty, the city throws in your face an iconic understated luxury, so perfectly fitting with the kind of coastal living it offers. Add to that luxurious wine estates, rich hippie beach-living, art galleries and concept stores that would make Europe blush, and a food offering on par with New York, Sydney or London - but honestly, even more interesting and flavourful. I was not sure if I were stuck in the past and therefore unable to see things for what they were or if this was all a facade. It took a few hours in the city to get some clarity: it was all a facade, and the ghosts of apartheid and colonialism were everywhere, not even pretending to hide.
This will make those in denial angry.
To walk the streets of CT is akin to navigating a landscape shaped by centuries of conquest and racial capitalism. If it were a tagline: CT, the cityscape that performs modernity while rehearsing segregation. One quickly understands that here, power is in fact being exercised through control over the spatial, economic, and psychic horizons of the have-nots (learned from the great Achille Mbembe). I’ve experienced my fair share of cities where power is mapped into geography (isn’t that the essence of the urban construct? you may ask). Cape Town took it all to a new level: it is as segregrated as its beauty is tentalizing. There is a precision to the exclusion, a choreography of inequality, in between the mountains and oceans juxtaposed with fences and highways that cordon off entire communities.
Tourism, in this context, is a spectacle for the privileged eye. The curated charm is meant to put any sense of (social) conscience to sleep. A masterclass in curating for global (white) consumption, resulting in an astonishingly beautiful sterilized narrative. It says: here, suffering is non-existant, because beauty protects you from suffering.
The mechanisms of global capital, at play in so many cities of the Global South, sanitize the wounds of the past into Airbnb lofts and Instagrammable murals. The violence of gentrification is recoded as neighborhood revival. There is no mention of who was removed or who still walks miles to clean homes they are never allowed to inhabit. Healing you said?
As my stay goes on, I keep wondering if I’m just too "in my head". No.
We are still talking about a city in what is considered to be the most unequal country on earth. Cape Town has twice the country average of Whites. More wealth is concentrated here than anywhere else in the country. The short drive between the CBD and Clifton’s pristine beaches materialize the statistics I have read countless times. They become imprinted on your pupils. Or should we speak of Khayelitsha? In my life, in my work, I have learned that inequality is seldom accidental; it is a design and an afterimage of colonial extraction retooled for neoliberal accumulation - throughout the Global South.
In this postcolony, the past is not a ghost but still very much a landlord we all pay rent to.
If you ask me: it still reeks of apartheid.
It is in the architecture of daily life, in the streets that feel like a palimpsest where past and present bleed into each other. It is in its spacial construction as much as in its soil: the wine farms, a short 60 minute drive from the CBD,aremonuments to coerced labor and Black servitude. And yet, they still stand untouched, proudly exhibiting their year of creation, by Dutch or English settlers. Today the labor is not coerced by the white land owners, but by the crushing economic system inherited from the past. It does not make it any less coerced.
Land does indeed bear memory.
What, then, does it mean to arrive as a visitor? To inhabit such a place, even momentarily? We need to be able to dissect this question both in ethical and structural terms. In being a tourist in such a place, I become an agent in an economy built on asymetry: of wealth, of movement, and of voice. The pleasures I get to experience are subsidized by the exclusions of the many. I am not from the Global North and yet, it all feels built to recreate the "imperialist nostalgia" bell hooks wrote about: allowing the dominant (classes, nationalities) to consume the very cultures and peoples they have oppressed. A visit to Stellenbosh and you understand the brutality of this nostalgia. For a moment, you are unsure if you are in the streets of Maastricht or Liverpool on a hot summer evening. I’ve seen it in my own home country and I see it here: the formerly colonized world is rendered a theme park for liberal indulgence.
And here, I find myself unwillingly on the wrong side of the fence, on the side of the White Man.
I feel myself often dragged forcibly by my inner voice to speak of Whiteness when I am in Africa. It’s odd as they are the minority. Yet, the White Man is everywhere. Whiteness, in the African context is not just a phenotype, or ancestry, but above all a mode of entitlement. There are also black/colored people that have integrated Whiteness, through a colonized mind - a whole different topic, and something I am accutely familiar with. In a city where Whites represent only 20% of the population, it feels as though they are the majority. I have drowned myself in research papers to try and understand this phenomenon. White comfort, security, and aesthetics take center stage, while Black pain is rendered invisible. Whiteness is embedded in the infrastructure, in the beachside cafés and boutique wine farms, in the presumption that land, beauty, and leisure belong to some and not others. In Cape Town, whiteness maintains these colonial lines by reasserting control over narratives, space, and memory - like in the rezoning of Woodstock, or the sanitized storytelling in curated heritage tours. It resists redistribution through the bureaucracies of zoning laws and property markets. The colonial project is well and operational.
Did I offend the reader?
A couple weeks before traveling to CPT, I read a book that has transformed the prism through which I approach the space between inherited identities and the colonial past: Neither Settler nor Native, by Mahmood Mamdani. I was not expecting to also learn in great detail about South Africa’s Truth and Reconciliation Commission (TRC). With an entire section dedicated to it, Mamdani uses it to illustrate the possibilities of a re-imagined national, inclusive identity, that has truly moved away from the inherited rigid boxes of colonial identities.
The TRC, explains Mamdani, created a path to symbolic healing without altering the material conditions that sustained white supremacy. He argues that true reconciliation demands political re-imagination, a move beyond the politics of guilt toward dismantling the very institutions that naturalized exclusion. In his words, reconciliation without justice is not peace, but pacification. And that is what I have been feeling since getting here: Pacified ethnic groups living side by side, tolerating one another because there are no alternatives.
To walk through Cape Town with integrity is to understand that discomfort is a compass to the city. It demands a radical form of attention, in order to not be an accomplice.
Cape Town is becoming, to me, the ache of its unresolved history. All those who travelled here clamore at the mention of its name, but no one spoke to me of the brutality on display.
So if the clouds above do shimmer like diamonds, I do not think they exist to merely refract beauty. They're heavy with memory. Beneath the beauty, the city is asking for your reckoning.
On photography & Decoloniality
An exploration of ongoing questionnings on the role of photography in the field
February 25, 2025
A poverty-stricken community. Unsanitary living conditions. Tin roofs and mud-covered streets. Nowhere for the water to drain. And in the midst of all this sadness: children smiling, staring straight into the camera.
As you read this, an image likely forms in your mind. Why? Because it’s one we have seen too often: on the covers of magazines, in the fundraising appeals of international organizations, or even displayed on the walls of galleries (which you'd have to pay a lot of money for to aquire).
These images have become a visual shorthand for suffering, a currency in the global economy of empathy.
There has never been any shame associated with “capturing” destitution. As long as there is a beautiful face, an innocent smile, or a longing gaze anchoring the frame, the world seems content to consume these images without question. Is this a critique or a reckoning on my part? I hope the former, but I know it is the latter.
I was 18 when I first drove around my hometown, in the passenger seat, with my father, headed to one of the many slums the city housed, to try and capture that awful feeling I grew up with. This time, wth my camera. To try and tell a story of unfathomable inequality. I remember photographing this young girl, who was not older than 8 or 9 years, filling up a massive bucket of water. She was filling it from a public drinkable water faucet. Because their slum probably did not have any proper sanitation nor access to drinkable water. I have this shot of her that still haunts me to this day. She has suffering painted all over her face and she is staring at my lens - while the water is running.
Yes, I got a beautiful, chilling series of shots that day. They captured an incredible story of dignity in suffering and a reality no one should experience.
I also learned a lesson. One I would take with me to this day - as I am still just as enthralled by photography as I was back then.
The lesson is: Slums and any sort of disadvantaged area where humans are forcefully stripped of dignity are not theaters of curiosity for the privileged to gawk at and document. And yet, they have for a long time now become our favorite paradoxical places to shoot: read the sentence I wrote above and you will understand that we are all part of the problem. I wrote: a story of dignity in suffering. That is what we go looking for: a story of suffering and resilience, of despair and unyielding joy.
WHat we forget: There is a sacredness in being allowed to witness these lives. Getting to experience these spaces should come with immense gravity. This humbling experience cannot be a passive one - it demands something of you.
These thoughts flood my mind as I spend the morning in Kibera, supposedly “Africa’s largest slum.” I am here, physically present, yet my mind is elsewhere. My senses are overwhelmed. Too many emotions to even name them. The air is thick with the scent of burning charcoal, the rhythm of life like a trance-inducing sound, all around me. I am trying to take it all in. My eyes take everything in, and my brain is ordering me to “capture it” - not with my eyes but with my camera.
I am a photographer, am I not? I am supposed to capture what I see, to bear witness, to document. The kindness, the vulnerability, the unimaginable strength before me creates a time warp, an almost out-of-body experience. But I am too aware of the weight of my lens. I
Brian, the talented photographer behind the “Kibberastories” instragram page and wonderful human, told me “a camera is a weapon”. It is! Or at least that is how it is perceived by so many on our side of the planet: where cameras were the tools of the white settler/traveller who stripped our people of everything, including their dignity. It suffices to look up “colonial photographs of indigenous women” to fully grasp how cameras empowered the colonial gaze for as long as cameras existed.
“The camera makes everyone a tourist in other people’s reality, and eventually in one’s own”, Susan Sontag wrote. I do not want to be a tourist here. I do not want to turn this reality into a spectacle, nor do I want to retreat into the convenient distance that photography can create. How do you tell the stories your eyes have witnessed without falling into the trap of the white colonizer?
James Baldwin once warned, “People are trapped in history and history is trapped in them.” The history of photography in Africa is one of colonial documentation, of images taken to “other” people who were not white, to showcase the “exotic”, “the poor”, “the look of the babrbar” - and ultimately to justify oppression. Even today, many of the images that flood Western media perpetuate a singular narrative when speaking of certain places in Africa for instance: one of poverty, helplessness, and dependency. The full story is rarely told.
But what does it mean to tell the full story? Does it mean turning the camera away altogether? (Which is what I did in Kibera - frozen by too many questions and a fear of doing things the wrong way). Does it mean to do it the “white way”, the wrong way? Does it mean resisting the instinct to document and instead simply existing in the moment? Or does it mean finding a way to photograph without extracting, without reducing?
As I stand in Kibera, I realize that taking a photograph is not the same as telling a truth. My camera, my gaze through this camera, has the power to distort, to humanize or to exploit. I want my photographs to serve as testimony, not as trophies. I want them to honor. I want them to speak with the people in my frame. I don’t want the “look how joyful they are despite living conditions that no human should ever have to experience”, but I want the joy, because the people in front of me have joy in their eyes.
To resist the easy image, the one that the world already expects, and instead, to seek the ones that honor the dignity of those whose lives are being documented.
And maybe, in the end, to put the camera down altogether, and simply listen. My only photo of Kibera is one taken from the side of the road, before I walked in.
On the impossibility of seeing ourselves
What does it mean, in this violent century of spectacle and forgetting, to be known by oneself?
February 1, 2025
[Part of a self-portaiture project/series]
How does one write the self in a culture so in love with itself? A culture drowning in reflection yet starved of recognition? I don’t think I want to keep learning the language of exposure, of curated selves, filtered bodies, optimized timelines. I - we? - have mistaken mirrors for intimacy. And in this carnival of projection, the question remains: how do we write about the self without becoming yet another narcissistic node in the network?
What does it mean to narrate the feminine self without reproducing the exhausting liturgies of white-washed feminism?
How do we see ourselves in an era where we are constantly submerged in images of what we are supposed to be?
How do you build an identity that is rooted and loving, with pieces of broken wood, made of cracks, in a skin that does not love you back, all in a world at war with itself and all of God’s children?
To see myself means to risk confrontation, with a fragmented self, composed of broken reflections, warped by colonial inheritances and capitalist desires. The work of identity becomes excavation.
I ask: can we actually see ourselves?
And what does it mean, in the century of spectacle and forgetting, to be known by oneself?
Writing about the self is exhausting. Thinking about the self is exhasuting. It requires entering a terrain without maps, where the terrain shifts as soon as you name it. The I that begins the sentence is never the same I that ends it. I want to stop thinking. I want to escape the recursive loops of performance and distortion.
Who is this “I”? She is not beautiful. Not thin enough. Not brilliant. Not rigorous. Not “doing enough.” Lacking. Always lacking. A litany of insufficiencies echoing like a punitive hymn in my mind. An accretion of no’s. Each one sutured into my skin.
Overweight. Unfocused. Too much. Not enough. The negations keep accumulating, filling the cracks. What remains is a wounded architecture. And yet, I am asked to build a forever home in this body. A home made of broken wood. What chance do any of us have to build something whole, when we are always under siege? When the siege begins not with the outside world but within the soul? I am a subject in exile from herself. I play catch-me-if-you-can with my own embodiment - like so many. I have never seen myself. The idea of myself has always been easier to live with than its actual reality. I have been trained to perform instead.
I offer this: self-knowledge is impossible without self-perception. And self-perception is impossible without love.
We live in a world at war with itself, and with every self within it. This war began before memory, before any one of us can remember. Perhaps, as Fanon wrote the alienation of the colonized begins not with the loss of land, but the loss of a coherent “I” (1). A dissociation so profound that even the reflection I see in my mirror cannot be trusted.
I see myself, and yet, I do not. I have fantasized endlessly about the self I could be: the one who was lighter, sharper, quicker, easier to love. The self that could survive the gaze of others (2). Or is it the white gaze? The unbearable weight of the Other’s eyes, of the colonizer's eyes. They live in my brain. To be female, to be different, to be Othered, is to live with this gaze embedded in your bloodstream. To perform the acceptable self for safety. But there is no safety in fragmentation. I learned that the hard way.
I don’t want to become someone else. I only want to become myself. But how does one do that when the world only rewards performance? Performance so as to blend it that crowd you've never wanted to be apart of. Someone I love calls it “la dictature Gaussienne”: the tyranny of the Gaussian curve. The tyranny of the mean. The bell curve demands that we conform. And most of us -non-white, excentric, queer, fat, racialized, neurodivergent - live in the tails of that curve, trying to slide our way into the “normal.” Just to breathe. Just to be left alone.
Have you ever buried yourself under 500 layers of rock, just to survive? I have. Invisibility was my shield for years, maybe decades.
This inadequacy I carry, this fracture, comes from a life lived in contradiction. Torn between who I am and who I’m supposed to be. Between my body and the images projected onto it. My mind is colonized and its inner voice speaks in the accents of those who colonized my elders. Do you understand me?
Pecola Breedlove, in The Bluest Eye (3) , prays for blue eyes, not because she thinks they’re beautiful, but because she believes they will make her visible. Worthy. Beloved. That’s the level of distortion we’re dealing with. The (Global) South’s children raised under the shadow of the (Global) North standards. After all this time, I am still building the right vocabulary in my own language to name myself.
But I am scattered. Scattered across time zones and continents. I see different iterations of my identity dispersed all around me and I crave unity and wholeness more than ever. Today, I know that to take up space in this aching world is an act of defiance. In all the tools I have accumluated over my life, to live fully as myself is my most radical one yet.
The work, then, is clear: to claim the fullness of the self. To continuously refuse to disappear. To build peace and wholeness from the cracks: for myself and anyone who wants to tag along.
(1) Fanon, Fanon (1952) Black Skin, White Masks
(2) Plath, Sylvia (1963)The Bell Jar
(3) Morrison, Toni (1970) The Bluest Eyes
Ramblings on privilege
An attempt to deconstruct who is the "uncivilized"
June 3, 2025
Who exactly is the uncivilized? What is underdeveloped? When we speak of a country, we are really speaking of its people. Who are the underdeveloped? What will develop them?
Who is best suited to help them "develop"?
Every time I used the words "developing countries" - and God knows I used them thousands of times in my work - I could feel an unease in my throat.
A guilt chased by confusion. Developing based on whose criteria? Whose assessment? How long do we remain "developing" before reaching this elusive final tier? What else can I call them? It became "Low and Middle-Income Countries," as the IMF or World Bank would say. Sure, it’s more concrete, more sterile. But what does that really tell a layperson about a country? Absolutely nothing. So I form an idea instead, one reinforced ad nauseam by the media: They’re poor. Always experiencing some kind of catastrophe, be it man-made or natural. And, of course, they need our charity.
We are always someone else’s white person.
It may sound exaggerated, but this is the gist of what is taught in economics programs worldwide. Barring a few exceptions, we pity those who are poor while holding tightly to the belief that their plight is of their own making. They elect corrupt leaders. They don’t rebel. They don’t play by the rules the West has so tirelessly laid out for them. And when you give them aid, they mismanage or steal it.
Sure, I’ll concede that this happens.
But are we ever really going to address the root of this evil? Or is the world content to keep moving forward with this madness, this inane cycle of half-measures, distractions, and performative concern?
I know inequality. I know what it looks like. I started crying in the back of my parents’ car quite early on, unable to make sense of why the children my age, I'd see out on the street, were handed such a radically different and unfair deck of cards in this life. So I knew inequality. Or so I thought.
I came face to face with a type of inequality any rational person would assume long gone. The kind you’d think had been eradicated after billions of dollars spent on "development" on this continent, after countless lofty goals and summits. Abject living conditions were a thing of the past. Surely, progress had somewhat reached everyone.
But it hasn’t. Not even close.
I worked on these topics, spent years studying them, thinking about them, writing about them, analyzing them. And yet, somehow, I was not fully aware of just how dire things remain for so many. It’s one thing to discuss inequality as an abstract idea, as numbers on a page or a set of statistics. It’s another to see it, to feel its weight, to stand in its shadow and realize how deeply entrenched it is.
And yet, in parallel, I have been hearing a different story. The story of how Africa, under the reductive and laughable "Africa is a country" paradigm, is the future. The economies are growing at rates Europe and other "advanced" nations can only dream of. Africa is the future, and yet, I can't see it.
Opportunities, opportunities, opportunities. That’s the refrain.
Sure, progress has been made. But at what price? And are we really okay with the pace at which this progress is being made? I’m not talking about progress as Microsoft opening an office or a new public-private partnership to build a bridge. I’m talking about progress that secures a decent livelihood for fellow human beings. Progress that ensures people don’t just survive but thrive.
Colonialism is everywhere. The colons know it. The local populations know it, feel it. And yet, no one talks about it.
Why are there so many white people? We cannot ask, right?
But asking why there are so many Arabs, Africans, or Indians in Amsterdam, Brussels, or Stockholm is perfectly acceptable. Entire political parties and policies are built around reducing the number of racialized individuals in any given country. Because, by default, these people are framed as plunderers of the national economy.
And yet, the white man or woman in Africa is perceived as something entirely different. They are here to help you develop. Or they are here to invest. Either way, they are here to help. They aren’t taking anything, we’re told: they’re simply giving.
Arabs and Asians, from the subcontinent and East Asia, are also here. They’ve come to take their share of the "developing" pie. The opportunities are too good to pass up.
I find myself consumed by waves of anger. It comes and goes, usually in moments of reflection. One moment, I’m filled with immense joy, sharing genuine belly laughs with strangers. The next, an angry, bitter fire burns inside me.
It took me days to fully understand this. I wasn’t just under the weight of constant new realizations, each one hitting me in the face. I was also shedding layers of ignorance I didn’t even know I carried.
This isn’t a sob story about seeing barefoot children living on the street. No. This is about something deeper. It’s about being reminded, everywhere I look, of my privilege. Of my whiteness.
Here, I am one of the colons. I belong to their team because of how I’m perceived—white-passing, moneyed, and educated.
It’s a strange and painful thing to realize: I cannot truly experience a place because I am seen as part of the colonizer’s team. Even those who know who I am try to shield me, recommending only places where they think a white person would go.
I thought I understood privilege. I thought years of grappling with guilt and discomfort were enough. But nothing prepared me for the confrontation I’ve experienced here.
I am angry because I do not belong to the place I so desperately wish to melt into.
Wherever we go, we inevitably reproduce the patterns of our social class. I behave like a white person because I am perceived as one.
Ta-Nehisi Coates wrote of Black Americans wanting to "go back" to their homeland. But they weren’t going back; they were planning a colonization. Big difference.
Hordes of white people occupy the nicest corners of this city, corners they’ve built for themselves, replicating systems and spaces from elsewhere. They live in compounds and cafes that scream "Western comfort." They are the colons of today, and the rest of us are implicated, whether we like it or not.