Ruth Chawngthu
Infighting is often framed as a failure of solidarity, but it is only a symptom. It does not mean that we do not want to understand each other.
Various studies have shown that Dalits, Adivasis/Indigenous people, LGBT+ persons, women, and religious minorities face systemic discrimination in psychiatric care, including misdiagnoses, undertreatment, and dismissal of discrimination-related trauma. It becomes even more complex for those with intersecting marginalisations. This extends beyond healthcare and penetrates prison systems, where many people belonging to these communities are disproportionately incarcerated without due process.
Beyond statistics and numbers, we have experienced this reality. We’ve seen its effects in our communities through substance abuse, self-harm, and suicide. Therefore, these issues are not merely individual concerns but deeply political ones. In times of turbulence, it is understandable that we would express our pain more intensely than at other times. While the depth of the pain is undeniable, it also calls for the creation of better forms of care.
So, why do we keep yelling at each other? Is there no other way?
The Angst: Fire Around Us, Fire Within Us, Fire We Spit
The trauma of exclusion we have experienced in our lives is not something that can be overcome easily. Perhaps we may never completely overcome it. As humans, and even more so as marginalised groups, our experiences of exclusion have shaped our understanding of the world. We learned early on that society, as it exists, was not designed with us in mind. This leads us to internalise systems of thinking that the oppressors have used because it has been essential for our survival and understanding of this world.
Because we have been conditioned to think this way, we carry this mindset into our interactions with those who share similar, though not identical, marginalisations. Where does the anger go when we are angry at a bogeyman? It turns inward or toward each other.
I remember being a 21-year-old student activist from Mizoram in Delhi. I could never figure out why older mainland activists who were almost a decade or decades older than me kept yelling at me, bruising my self-esteem when I expressed my frustration. The only solidarity I could find among those older than me was from other Dalit, Bahujan, and Northeast folks: people like Pavel Sagolsem and Kumam Davidson, who, at the time, started The Chinky Homo Project. Now that I am in my late 20s, I realise that the reaction of those with institutional power was possibly rooted in a failure to understand as well as a territorial response.
I’m not denying that some of their behaviour stemmed from prejudice, and I was also a very angry young woman (still am). My point is, when dominant structures continue to ignore our struggles and erase our histories, we may see the recognition of others as a threat to our own visibility. This leads to resentment between marginalised individuals. Therefore, our pain can manifest in the ways we police each other. It is also easier to resent a person’s learning curves, which leads to the expectation that everyone must have the perfect take on everything at the perfect time, disregarding the fact that learning is not linear.
We also get frustrated when we feel misunderstood by those who share our marginalisations because we think, “Why can’t you see my pain when you’ve probably felt it too?” So, we yell because we care. We yell because we’re in pain. We yell because we are misrepresented. We also yell to assert our identities. Yelling is inevitable (but not the end).
Manufactured Scarcity: Am I Your Enemy? Are You My Enemy?
The scarcity of resources, representation, and recognition is artificially manufactured. It is a product of extraction that imposes exclusion, turning oppressed groups against each other.
In the context of people living in the Northeast of India, this extraction can be very literal. For example, Living with Oil and Coal: Resource Politics and Militarization in Northeast India by Dolly Kikon examines how state militarisation plays a vital role in the extraction process of natural resources. This, in turn, reshapes social relations and creates a cycle of dependency in indigenous communities.
Let me be even more specific. In the case of Mizoram, land that used to be communally managed has become commodified, changing the ways our communities relate to our environment, with each other, and with those now considered ‘others’. Our historical kinship ties have been severed across boundary lines, torn apart further by state violence, through the violations of bodies and the explosion of bombs. These processes have reshaped the idea of the “Mizo” identity, determining who is included and who is excluded. The idea of a “Mizo” is an umbrella term and has historically been a rather fluid identity. However, the colonial formalisation of boundary lines along with modern policies such as the push for the end of the Free Movement Regime have rigidified its contours.
Therefore, this extraction model imposed on us doesn’t simply extract material things but also extracts identities, knowledge systems, languages, shared memories, and cultures. This is because the extractive worldview of the Indian state follows a Brahmanical logic that sees the (actual) subaltern as exotic vessels waiting to be civilised and monetised. But this does not mean we have no autonomy.
Let’s also take a moment to explore why “we”…and by “we,” I mean people like me who initially found solidarity in certain leftist spaces now find it difficult to fully align with the movement. This sense of alienation stems from the unspoken dynamics within these movements, i.e., the vibes. While it can be said that leftist politics in India has historically advocated for working class struggles, it frequently overlooks the gendered, caste, linguistic, and ethnic dimensions of violence that persist within the movement itself. Whether done consciously or subconsciously, optics about how issues are handled or ignored does affect perceptions. Willful ignorance of one’s own position and neglecting others’ lived experiences have led to feelings of alienation between movements that could be working in solidarity.
Am I just speaking idealistically here? Is it possible to design solidarities that do not demand assimilation?
Rethinking Scarcity, Designing More Humane Solidarities
Working in the social sector has opened my eyes to how entrenched the human thirst for power can be through my own approach and, of course, the experiences I’ve been subjected to (please note that I’m not saying that craving power is inherently wrong). Let’s look at the organisational structures of established NGOs. There are still blatant social divisions because those who are well-off enough to start and market their organisations want to control the narrative of themselves as ‘thought leaders’ and ‘saviours’. Therefore, this model tends to impose a hierarchical, top-down approach, where decision-makers, usually from privileged backgrounds in air-conditioned offices, impose interventions on the marginalised communities they work with. Perhaps this way of thinking can never be completely avoided, but we can always try.
Arturo Escobar’s Designs for the Pluriverse: Radical Interdependence, Autonomy, and the Making of Worlds offers a lens to reimagine how we work in solidarity. The perspective moves away from viewing the oppressed as passive recipients and emphasizes the need to recognise the inherent agency and knowledge systems existing within the communities. Therefore, to design more humane solidarities, maybe we need to encourage forms of solidarity that are horizontal and non-transactional. In recent times, the “Queers for Palestine” movement has faced ridicule within the LGBT+ community itself, with folks saying, “Did you know they would stone you in Palestine?”. This nonsensical question arises because queer advocacy for Palestinian liberation fundamentally challenges the idea that solidarity should be transactional. The question also exposes our community’s fetish with turning wrath into a spectacle.
Don’t get me wrong, this is not to say we should be like the students who gave flowers to the police during the CAA protests. That’s a sweet gesture and all, but it’s incredibly convenient and palatable. It’s like offering kaju katli to people who set your neighbour’s house on fire…or organising a queer holi. I’m just saying, let’s not be like those who remove “unlearning caste” from their social media bio after a conflict.
Movements that internalise scarcity tend to see ideological divergence as a threat rather than a necessary part of progress. The Mizo National Front uprising provides a historical example. The struggle for independence, born out of neglect during a literal famine, eventually saw its leadership awkwardly moving to London, from where directions were made for the removal of dissenters and intellectuals. So, when we look beyond the extractive frontiers that have shaped our identities and relationships, perhaps we can understand that scarcity is a real generational, social, and material concern and a tool for oppressive control. How do we design more sustainable yet radical forms of assertion and solidarities? Maybe we can move towards incorporating repair, nuance, and care in our movements.
If scarcity is a tool for control, then our focus cannot be mere ideological purity. If dominant systems feed on fragmentation, our agitation must resist this “logic”. If the past has taught us that progressive movements crumble under the weight of policing, can the future be different? Can it be a site of radical solidarities?
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Ruth Chawngthu is a Social Design practitioner with over seven years of experience within the social sector, encompassing the fields of gender and sexuality, education, migrant welfare, and constitutional awareness. After years of analysing why life sucks, she has decided to be simply whimsical.
