I write a letter, not to a person, place, thing. 

But a letter to a time. To a time with co-workers who were friends and allies. To several colleagues and team leaders, where we imagined a world of feminist solidarities together. Taking on the fight of recognizing, naming, visibilizing our labor, women’s labor and marginalized, invisible, emotional labor- in research, writing, projects, meetings, conversations, team work, and friendly banter. 

There was labor in all of this, mine and your body laboring, invested in the politics of creating, building these relationships of care, of moving towards hope, justice and rights. Or at least the imagination of such a hope was kept alive (even though, there were always ‘conditions apply’). 

Then I wrote a letter (among many others written) of complaint and resistance and the perfect image of hope collapsed, because one of you said that “I was asking for too much”. 

Because years of emotional labor and dedicated belief in our work of changing things, never had much value. Because there were always ‘conditions apply’, in the business of change. 

Because I wanted to ask the anti-establishment and work ethic questions louder than you did, and you wanted them to be asked quietly, and safely, and sometimes not at all. 

And then I just became one of the ‘collateral’ damage(s).   

However, now you must wonder, what does this letter have to do anything with women, labor or resistance. 

Maybe it does.

To remember and remind that there will always be power, even in institutions working towards feminist, social justice.

Because capitalism and fascism secretively penetrate ideas of change to convert them into trades of transformation. Alongside, embroiled with the morality of ‘doing good’, inclusivity and rights laden hypocrisy; the liberal-feminist-justice institutions are at an interesting intersection of being do-gooders for  society, while simultaneously climbing power hierarchies in the usual masculine, capitalist trajectory. The balancing act is between not becoming too much like the corporate player or slave, or the liberal vanguard savior man. 

Because sometimes and oftentimes, systems of power and institutional hierarchies are larger than the political affect or the ideas of making a better world for everyone. And changing the status quo is expected to occur in the world out there, outside us and not within ourselves. No?. 

Because when these ideas of change and social justice get institutionalized in a space, in a structure with hierarchies and competition, there is little acknowledgment of varied bodies or affective differences and experiences. Policy on harassment at the workplace or an “inclusive” leave policy are performative strands that look really good for the diversity agendas in a feminist workplace. We all have to play the role of the best sales person in the marketplace of social change. 

So then this is a letter to record the complaint. The complaint which was dismissed; of unaccounted labor, of difference called out as negative, of exhaustion felt and left with, in the emotional labor of making oneself heard and visible. It is a letter to you, in my impolite-ness, rage and anger, perhaps to say that you won in defeating my strength and creating a well of fatigue that won’t leave my body, because I pushed you to change us and our systems. 

I borrow ‘complaint’ from Sara Ahmed. Ahmed says that what often counts as a complaint, is when you point, show or name the problems, often the problem of exclusion. This would get ‘heard’ as a complaint, followed by a negative speech, often like ‘oh there she goes again’. Because it would require modifying the status quo. And at the same time, she contends that actually filing a ‘complaint’ through a formal, institutional process would often not be heard as complaint, because of the existence of the institutional policy only on paper.  

Do you remember, you’d often say “she always cribs, complains… ye nahi hua, woh nahi hua (this is not done, that is not there)…”. A laughter would follow. I would think, feel, very small of myself, my being, my existence. I would feel un-heard, un-understood. The message was clear, ‘don’t ask questions for which we don’t have answers, and remain invisible’. Your power held a paternalistic face to my queer, single presence in your institution. This body was mostly seen as an aberration and intimidation. 

Ahmed says that people naming the problem become the receivers of violence, harassment, bullying. And I became the container of all of this, because ‘oh I had named the  problems in how you were defining change, solidarity and politics’. I became the ‘killjoy’ as Ahmed would help me in articulating.  

I wasn’t even a checkbox on your inclusion list, but yet you were intimidated by my mysterious, complaining self and would just casually say “these young people and their impossible aspirations”. Had I been married, or had children, maybe there would be space for me in your clique. But No, it was the color of my lipstick that felt a threat to you, and then my voice was silenced by telling me, “I really do not understand your questions, because it seems that you are incapable of getting the whole point. You are just delaying the whole institution building process with the questions you raise…” 

In that moment, I had hoped that you would stand by me, for me, with me. I thought we were in this together, against authority and in the battle of visibilizing each other. But of course you did not, like always. Because why would you compromise your position that was secured within the same hierarchy, when not speaking up would only keep it safe. And it was then that I realized  we were no longer friends. Or were we really friends ever, “just because I had a drink with them, it doesn’t mean I will be friends with them”.  

It has been almost two years and the memories of our field work accompanied fun days often visit me. At the same time, I also try to move on from experiences of invisibility and find purpose in a world that is run by fascists, neuro-typical and objective, productive workers. Each day goes into making sense of survival and time. Time as Nisha Abdullah tells us, both lying in between the very present in our bodies (in an embodied sense) as well as  embedded in the learning from our past, and hope for the future. “Footloose time”, she names it. 

I learn that even as I attempt to survive through exhaustion, sadness and betrayal each day, a learning has happened through this story of the ‘complaint’. From thoughts that I could no longer keep inside, and be bolted by the superficiality of being part of this system. The irony of being do-gooders, and of doing the extensive emotional labor of being the ‘efficient’ worker to my team, to my feminist boss, to my feminist colleagues. 

I learnt that the work of building feminist friendships and solidarities, with care, critique, disruptions, complaint and killjoy, was the labor that we needed to continually do as feminists. And maybe then we wouldn’t be behind each other’s backs and say “I was just giving you feedback and you took it all wrong”. Maybe then we would attempt the labor to actually listen, repair, and create real meanings of solidarities. 

This letter is therefore as much about the labor of learning and building better, as much as it is about complaint. 

Meanwhile I only have this letter to share with you, that holds my disillusionment, as I continue to listen to similar horror stories across feminist institutional spaces, with people enduring, leaving, collapsing, burning out or getting thick skinned. And then I wonder if it is time to read the feminist abolitionist literature to find courage and hope. 

Till then, I hope you find your courage to listen to stories of ‘complaint’ and resistance and the labor behind all of it.  

Always with love

Gurpreet

p.s. I will always be indebted to Sara Ahmed for articulating and bringing to life complaint, killjoy, living a feminist life and politics of emotions and to Nisha Abdullah for showing not telling, as a pedagogical, living, writing practice. 

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Bibliography 

Ahmed, S. (2017). Living a Feminist life. 
Ahmed, S. (2021). Complaint. 
Ahmed, S. (2023). The Feminist Killjoy handbook. 
Nisha Abdullah’s Instagram posts, plays and writing workshops.