Colonization happened to us and there is no undoing of the past. But colonization is also constantly still happening, through the reinforcement of patriarchal white supremacist capitalist culture. So naturally, our resistance needs to acknowledge both –a calling back to tradition and a creative response in the now. —Marina Osthoff Maghalaes
See Marina’s story here:
How deep are the roots of colonisation? As if they can be measured.
Not too deep for the body to remember. And where is the original language held? How many incantations does it take to set fire to the ground, to crack open the sky, blow open the libraries of calcified belief, re-open the conversations between purpose crossed in knots of grist, to awaken the secret sounds, or rise to hear the ancestral call?
In the holy seat, the sanctuary of the sacred sacrum, in the bravado of the pectoral expanse, a caged knowing, an offering, emerges from impossible contortions, foreign shapes, becoming visible through angled fingers, wrists cocked, looking askance at the audacity of scapular rebellion, the grimace, the tongue forming words never spoken,
the once-automatic, intrinsic dances known in sleep, graphed in dreams.
What story is told here, writhing, upside down, disgorging ghosts, knees twin maidens chattering to each other, bent low, locked up, jiggered at some off angle to
the ankle, the old story beaten out with the beat, on the floor, in the throat, letting go into the open mouth, the ears peaked, listening for a sleek contraction of contoured cacophony, falling into micro epiphanies, shaking off the chains,
rocking to rhythms unabashed, unpredictable, unafraid. Colonization clings deeper
than the bones, deeper than forgotten movement, to the original face, in the cradle of conversation, its signature in eruptions thwarted, no longer finding a launching pad. It resides beneath the words, hiding in the rules of sense, of grammar, in writing, in the sentence structure sentencing the body to incarceration of its own making, in the
deep pictures, the brain patterning, neurons that fire and wait for the ones that
have forgotten when to fire, the ones that don’t remember their friends. Asking, “Is this spiritual? Or is you not?” is like asking, “Are you the earth? Or is you not?” How can something you so completely is, naturally and totally, that you cannot even name, something you could not not be, be taken from you, displayed as “not us,” examined,
dissected, mounted and archived? The dance of decolonisation is elemental, a journey of finding and losing identity, a journey from object to subject, traversing pain and promise, the disease and the cure, dissolving separation, escaping the fixed orbit of the common language, clearing the clotted arteries of patriarchy, surgically excising self-denial, weeping the sweat of the oppressor, recovering lost lineage, the linkage between rock and heel,
between the soft palate and the soft pelvis, plumbing to its depth, giving it up for something new–and old–the shaman’s bones, the seat of myth, before time, before ideology, before language, dropping beneath the cloaks of race, culture, down to the raw truth where objectification no longer exists, to what is neither white, Latina, African or Chinese, neither “third world” nor secular: the new body, new words, new eyes;
pure reverence, lengthening through the heart.