By: Sude Guvendik, Peak Associate

My stomach churns with a peculiar sensation, a rebellion within me that threatens to strangle itself against the walls of my guts. I navigate through a sea of judgment and misplaced glances, feeling like an alien in my own skin. This incident at the Middle Eastern & North African Film Festival is a vivid memory — a stark reminder of the power dynamics at play.

Amidst a celebration of Middle Eastern culture, a white man chose to unleash a passive-aggressive tirade against my brother and I as we giggled at a joke in an award-winning film. “Come on, guys, you’re loud; this isn’t comedy,” he bellowed, his hands in the air, oblivious to the shared laughter in the room at a joke in a language foreign to him. The irony struck hard — the festival designed to honour our heritage became a stage for his repressed frustrations.

Why did he feel the need to turn around and create a scene when our laughter was no louder than others? It was a mere giggle; not disruptive in any way. He had arrived with two Middle Eastern friends before the film commenced, enthusiastically professing his love for Middle Eastern cinema, especially singling out A Separation as the only film he seemed to know. 

What compelled him to attend, and why did his Middle Eastern friends go to great lengths to assure him of their Canadian upbringing? They emphasized their lack of fluency in Arabic, their strong connection to Canada, and their sense of being more “Canadian” than anything else. It seemed as though they were trying to comfort him, reassuring him that they had seamlessly integrated into Canadian culture and were not to be perceived as outsiders. The shame radiated from those who should’ve been allies — the internalized embarrassment of association with the “other.” I felt their gaze, an unspoken plea for us to conform, to be civil in a theatre, to stop any rudeness that might be perceived as remnants from our so-called “savage” ancestors. But at that moment, I refused to be silenced. I wanted to laugh for the ones who could not, those who had not even heard their own laughter, whether due to cultural norms or for fear of challenging the status quo.

The system is tailor-made for those who fit the mould, and don’t pose a threat to the established order. I yearned to defy him and laugh in Farsi, Turkish, Arabic, Azeri, Kurdish, and Armenian. Instead, I found myself sinking into my seat, pondering the thoughts of those around me. It wasn’t just an isolated incident; it was an assault on my identity, and an exclusion from a space meant to celebrate me. So, I made a vow to claim my space and reclaim my laughter — laughter that echoed through languages and generations, that transcended the barriers imposed upon me.

The festival became a battleground between the mind and the heart — a place I tiptoed around to avoid the shards of my shattered identity.

In the silence that the aggressor sought, I found my voice. I crackled with laughter, perhaps uncontrollably, at the serene waves of the Levantine Basin on the screen. I broke the silence that had bound me for too long, questioning why I had kept quiet. As tears threatened to spill, I wiped away the frustration and embraced the discomfort.

My laughter evolved into a symbol of rebellion — a vibrant red war flag, a resolute declaration of my existence and agency as the “other.” I take delight in embracing this identity, welcoming gazes that question my choices, religion, ethnicity, ingredients of my accent, and the distinctive features of my appearance, such as my exotic eyebrows and the curvature of my nose. In this defiance, I find pride. Palestinian American theorist Edward Said would commend this act of self-affirmation. I catch the echoes of remarks like “You’re not in Iran; you can take it off, free yourself!” and “Where are you from, from, like your parents?” or “You look traditional, more cultured.”

I occupied that seat, that room, more than anyone who sought to silence me. The unfamiliar sensation of being the centre of attention didn’t deter me; it fueled my resolve. My brother nudged me to stop, embarrassed by my defiance. But it was more than just a moment of laughter; it was a statement. I had attached profound meaning to my impulsive act — it was me being resilient, reclaiming my space, and confronting the power imbalances that lingered in the room. When questioned about my seemingly dramatic response, I unraveled the layers. It wasn’t just about that man; it was a retaliation against all those who had sought to colonize my space, mind, body, spirit, and laughter.

From the lady who judged my choice of clothing to the man who cast disgusted glances my way, I laughed for every moment of oppression, reclaiming control even if only illusory. In that laughter, I found joy, an antidote to anger and frustration. It was a proclamation that I existed, unapologetically, in a place I can’t call home.