Our ancestors are watching over us

On Saturday night, I dreamt that I was talking to an editor, someone whom I didn't recognize. Sitting on a table in between us was a book referring to the province of Sindh, which is my ancestral land. The book seemed to be old, perhaps even out of print, and the editor explained that he was considering it for U.S. publication. In my waking hours, I sensed why I had dreamt such an unlikely scenario.

Last week, I spent hours entranced by musicians practicing the ancient tradition of qawwali, devotional Sufi music believed to have been invented in the 12th century. This article describes qawwali exactly how I experienced it: "a gathering for the purpose of feeling connected to something larger-than-life and to arouse mystical love and even divine ecstasy." Something about the power of being in a room that could only exist in New York, transported by a tradition that is both ancient and modern, moved me so much that it entered my dreams in a cryptic way.

Qawwali performances often close with the song Dam a Dam Mast Qalander, which you can listen to here. This version is performed by Fareed Ayaz and Abu Muhammad, the musicians whom I saw perform, and the song is a kind of anthem in my family and in the Sindhi community. It is also believed to have been written by the 13th century poet Amir Khusrao.

Sindhi Hindus like my family were displaced in 1947 during the partition of India. When I hear this song, no matter where I am, I am moved to dance, to commune with the generations who came before me whose stories are intertwined with mine.

These musical gatherings (one in Manhattan to benefit SAKHI for South Asian Survivors and the other at a skating rink in Bushwick) reminded me of the power of ancestral tradition, of community building and of taking space. Perhaps my ancestors came to me through the book in my dream, to reassure me that I am connected to a place and a tradition that dates back hundreds of years. They are listening and watching over me, us. Maybe they felt my anxiety when I discovered that the Social Security Office thought I was not a U.S. citizen (I am and if you are naturalized, update your status ASAP.)

This moment we are in is no doubt horrific and terrifying but it is also one square in the large and growing quilt of our individual and community history. We are unified by shared traditions – from Bangladesh to Brooklyn, from Ghana to Georgia, from Puebla to Phoenix. Those traditions are passed down through people, across borders, in spite of oppressors.

Together we can and we will overcome this moment, through actions small and big.

Sayu