Photographed by Vicky Grout

Words by Amna Qureshi

Four women share their stories of dealing with different hormonal issues. While for decades women have been hesitant to talk about these issues openly, (understandably, trying to break the negative stereotypes that ‘women are too hormonal’ or ‘women are too emotional’), we are now finally starting to hear about hormonal experiences and the massive impact that they can have on daily life – in a way that doesn’t stereotype or limit women.

Full article at: https://sumweekly.com/hormonal-conditioning/

Against the backdrop of one of the most surreal years to date, this film aims to explore the impact and consequences of 2020 on young Londoners.

It has been a year where change has been a constant, fear has overwhelmed and anxiety has become one of the main leading mental health issues around the globe. Yet in all the chaos and uncertainty, we are witness to the strength of our future generations through their powerful life-changing realisations, positive thinking and ability to connect with one another. The film offers a window into their unique and complex experiences and the hope for change they have for the future.

“Anxiety is you thinking you’re making logical connections with stories you constructed in your head, and you getting down because of it.” For World Mental Health day, on October 10th we got commissioned by Converse London to create a three-part series exploring the interplay between anxiety and appearance. GOOD ENOUGH is a series of short films exploring how pre-conceptions in society and pressure around appearance can cause anxiety and the different ways in which it can manifest itself in young Londoners.

Four Australian women open up about their battles with endometriosis, PCOS, fertility and menopause.

After reclaiming Sunday mornings, Desmond & Dempsey’s growth surged 250%

Reclaiming Sunday mornings. Sounds ideal, doesn’t it? Luxury pyjama brand Desmond & Dempsey set out in 2014 to do exactly that. The founders, Molly Goddard and Joel Jeffery, were in a long-distance relationship between Brisbane and London when they discovered the joy of spending Sundays on Skype together. Two years later, when Goddard moved to London, it became about spending Sundays in bed reading the paper, eating croissants, and being in the cosiest and comfiest clothing possible. Identifying a gap in the market—comfortable cotton pyjamas that felt luxurious—the pair ventured to reclaim and relish Sundays.

Five years later, you can find Desmond & Dempsey stocked in Net-a-Porter, Matches, Selfridges, Liberty, Bergdorf Goodman, and Le Bon Marché in Paris. Described by its founders as an “experience more than a store,” Desmond & Dempsey is proving itself as more than a retail darling. With Shopify Plus, Desmond & Dempsey has enjoyed:

• 250% year-over-year revenue growth its first year after migration

• A 2x increase in product launches by using Launchpad

• An 11% increase in average order value

• A returning customer rate up 49%

  Desmond & Dempsey had experienced quick growth in the U.K., but were looking to take its business to the next level. That meant new markets, new channels, and a better customer experience—all by a small team with limited tech resources.

The team needed a way to automate product launches, activate a unique brand in real life, and continue to create exceptional brand experiences for a devoted customer base. The focus had to be on curating a unique Sunday morning experience for both new and returning customers, which meant rapidly developing new collections, creating content for the brand’s iconic Sunday Paper, and updating the platform design regularly to ensure a seamless user experience.

Desmond & Dempsey migrated to Shopify Plus in 2018.

Ecommerce automation has been key to streamlining operations and saving time for what matters most: designing beautiful pyjamas. Staying true to the company’s love of Sundays, this is the day Desmond & Dempsey launches most of its new products and collections. For the team, that meant homepage changes, publishing new product and collection pages, and a host of other launch activities. On a Sunday, no less.

“Thanks to Launchpad, we can avoid the crack-of-dawn weekend wakeup,” says Jeffery. “With the scheduling functionality, it's so easy to bring products to market, and that speed is very important when we’re launching lots of new collections.”

Desmond & Dempsey’s migration was a springboard for the brand, its revenue growing 250% in its first year on Shopify Plus. Jeffery attributes Desmond & Dempsey’s success primarily to the newfound ease of bringing products to market.

It’s a crucial aspect for a brand that needs to rapidly launch new collections and products. Since implementing Launchpad, Desmond & Dempsey has debuted twice the products it had before migration.

Smarter tagging and customer targeting has proved its worth, too, especially so for bringing shoppers back into the fold and increasing their cart sizes. In 2019, Desmond & Dempsey’s average order value jumped 11%, while its returning customer rate increased 49%.

A streamlined backend means the team can now dedicate its energy to building this brand. Five years ago, Desmond & Dempsey was just an idea for a simple cotton bed shirt. Today, the company sells to over 100 countries online, not to mention wholesale deals with some of the world’s most prestigious retailers. It has a full women’s and men’s collection, recently launched a kids’ collection, and collaborations like those with Gail’s artisan bakery in London has only boosted its relevance.

Desmond & Dempsey is only just getting started. Sundays may never be the same again.

Azra Khamissa's contemporary designs are reviving the traditional art form for younger generations.

Text: Amna Qureshi

Images: Azra Khamissa & Mous Lamrabat

Henna art has been practiced in many parts of the world for centuries as a form of expression and celebration. For artist and designer, Azra Khamissa it is a meditative practice for connecting with other women and experimenting with her own contemporary designs. As a Canadian with South-African Indian heritage and growing up between Toronto, Dubai and Melbourne, Azra has been inspired by these eclectic blends of cultures and experiences which strongly influence her work.

Her designs have become insanely popular on instagram, as she revives this traditional form of art for younger generations with her cool minimalist designs. Azra uses henna to depict subjects that genuinely really fascinate her — the different phases of the moon, palm trees, bones and yep even baby hair. Her work has recently been re-posted across the globe and she’s built up a large following in the two years since she decided to pick up a henna cone.

I’ve always seen henna with really intricate, classical designs — very different to your designs. How did you get into it?

Growing up we always applied it at weddings and for celebrations, like Eid and it was always intricate Indian designs. About two years ago I started exploring henna with my own designs. The first design was basically just a simple solid colour circle in the centre of the hand. We ended up photographing it and seeing how beautiful it looked in the images kind of manipulated my views on it. I was used to seeing it on my own hands only and maybe took it for granted.

I started posting photos and was surprised by the reactions I got. From there I started exploring, loving it more and connecting with it more. I mainly would do circles, moons and geometric shapes at first because it is actually not easy to use a henna cone!

What inspires your unique contemporary designs?

Henna is part of my culture — we have always done it in my family. I am especially close with my grandma and she has always loved it. When I lived in Melbourne, I became really inspired by tattoo culture. I did a lot of travelling around Asia and in those years met a lot of heavily tattooed people for the first time and have always loved how it looks — particularly solid coloured tattoos and that inspires a lot of my designs.

There’s also a big overlap between my designs and what I call ‘the grandma bedouin style’ because in many parts of the world, older matriarchs would wear these simple block prints. I then like to add in something that makes it a little more contemporary. I live on the outskirts of Dubai and the desert is very close. I go there as much as I can, I find it extremely calming — I think those old Dubai feels also inspire my work and I love to shoot my work in the desert. Having lived in many different places, it has been a real culture contrast being exposed to so many different norms and I’ve definitely taken inspiration from each.

What is it about henna that you connect with?

When I do it for myself, it’s usually quite late at night. I’ll put Netflix on and that’s when I’ll do my designs and experiment. I keep it on for an hour or so while it dries. It’s me time — it’s therapeutic, relaxing and also cooling. I’ll usually have an idea that I want to execute —the last one I did was topographic lines.

When I do workshops and pop-ups, I love the feeling of strong female connection because it’s this space where women feel comfortable exploring their expressive side and I really like that element. There aren’t that many spaces for women to do that but the idea of henna as a women's circle or space has been around forever.

How do you find people react to your designs?

I get DM’s from people everyday who get together and try out my designs and send me pics, which is really cool. Sometimes people will be like, “l tried but look at how bad this is” or they’ll be proud at what they’ve achieved or how they’ve improved.

My grandma sometimes will tell me off and say my designs are too simple or minimal — she prefers henna to be more traditional and prefers floral designs, which I understand. It’s not the style she is used to — but occasionally she will really like my work and it makes me so happy because it is definitely rare!

What are you looking forward to?

Definitely exploring henna nail art more - that’s something I want to get into. There’s also an exciting campaign for Asia that I’m also looking forward to working on its release.

With everything going on in the world right now, how are you feeling?

I work with a lot of brands and events and of course everything is postponed right now. Henna is obviously a gathering space and a form of social bonding so that is a little bit sad but it definitely needs to be on hold for now and it’ll be even more special when we can safely re-start.

Where are you from? It's a simple question. Where are you really from? That one is far more loaded. For many of us, the way we look means it's a familiar query. You may identify with the place you were born, raised or live, but that awkward question can be a relentless reminder that you don't fit in or belong there. We spoke to six young people about what they hear when asked where they're really from, and invited them to answer it on their own terms.

Kazim Rashid

My connection to my roots is not just to one place. I feel a connection to the Middle East and also to Africa and India. It's a connection to a whole area of the world because it's about the culture, and the ideology around the culture. For me, what's really important is to feel a part of something — to belong to a group of people or an idea. I think geography plays a huge role in that for a lot of people because you feel like you belong somewhere, but I don't think it's necessary to belong to a place. There are people from all over the world that I feel connected to because we are children of the internet. It's almost like a new third culture has developed for me — it's not my parents's culture, it's not popular culture — it's a combination of both because my experience has been heavily influenced by both.

I travel and move around a lot. It's liberating to move and wander. In two generations my family have migrated from India to Africa to the UK. I think there is a certain something in the genetics of migrant communities where if you are from the type of people that I'm from — people who move and have moved — continuing to move is just a part of what we do.

Coral Kwayie

My dad is Ghanaian and my mum is British — I think she has a bit of Welsh in her. I'm from Tunbridge Wells in Kent, a very white, upper/middle class area in the UK. If people ask me where I'm from, I always trip them up and say, "England and if you word the question correctly, then I'll answer." People get confused and say, "but where are your parents from?" I'll say, "they're from Tunbridge Wells in Kent," It's like, word it correctly and I'll answer it!

Growing up, I wasn't surrounded by people of different cultures, everyone was white. But to be honest, it doesn't really matter because even in London I don't fit in. Not only am I mixed race, but I have ginger hair and freckles so I don't really fit in anywhere and I have known that from a young age. No matter where I am, people look at me as if I'm a clown or something. The other day a kid asked me if I was half leopard! I just go along with it now and I was like, "yeah, I am."

Anna Lachowska

There's a lot of hatred in Poland towards Muslims but I am still really proud of being Polish. I feel a lot more comfortable to be Muslim in London but in Poland I feel more comfortable to be, in general. It's home. I think on some level all people long to return to their home. No one can tell you that you don't belong there. They can try to (and trust me they do) but you have your passport to prove them wrong.

After Brexit, I felt uncomfortable to be Polish in London for the first time. I don't know what to do. I think about going back to Poland and maybe taking off my scarf — to make it easier for me. I know I wouldn't be able to get along with Polish society with my scarf on. Because of the scarf people affiliate me so much with religion that they leave such little space for me as a person. I know how it used to be when I wasn't Muslim — I remember the interactions I used to have and how people would treat me, and now it's different. There's always this first period of time when I meet someone new, where I have to dismantle the image that person has of me. I miss people looking at me like I'm just me and not representative of the entire Muslim population.

Daryl Okene

I was raised and have lived in North London all my life so when people ask me where I'm from, I say "I am British". A lot of people think that because you have other roots, you should ignore the fact of where you have been born. I was born here in the UK, so I'm a British boy — all my mannerisms come from being British. I would also say that my roots are from Africa, Malaysia and Israel. You could consider them as juxtapositions because they're totally different types of cultures but for me, they all curate the same feeling of home.

I wouldn't say "I'm half this or half that". For me, it's unnecessary. If you mix the colours red and blue, they make purple — a whole different colour. It's it's own thing. That's why it doesn't matter how many different cultural origins you have in you, it creates a new thing altogether, so for me, it's not important to stipulate what percentage of me or part of me is what. I don't want to give any strength or standing to one culture over another. I have been shaped by all of them.

Monique Cormack

Growing up, it was just this understanding that I was different. If someone thought I was pretty, it was because I was "exotic" not because I was pretty compared to everyone else. It was always "you're so unusual - where are you from?" I never knew what to say because I had always lived in Newcastle. I would say "I'm from Australia — from Newcastle" and then people would say "but where are you really from?" and I would say that my mum is from Indonesia. Sometimes people would just directly say "are you Japanese?" or "were you even born here?"

In Newcastle, the "cool" people were surfy and blonde and I was never that obviously. In high school, when I needed contact lenses, I actually got blue and green contacts and I also got blonde highlights which looking at me now, you can tell would look ridiculous. If I saw my daughter doing that, I'd say "why would you do that? Why do you want blue eyes?" For me it was like, "ok well now I'm more like everyone else". My first crush in high school, his friend told me that he "has a thing for ethnic chicks." It makes you feel really interchangeable, you think, "does that person like me for me or could I just be interchanged with any other person of Asian origin?"

Riffy Ahmed

I'm half Bangladeshi and half Bahraini Arab. I was born in Manchester. Growing up, it's always been known that I have an identity crisis. I have two cultures within me that are close but also really separate. It created this discourse of not knowing where you're really from because you're kind of seen as neither here nor there, not from your places of origin nor the place you're born and raised, so there's always this complex where you're the "other."

Being mixed for me, has been both a blessing, but also a lessening. When I go to Bangladesh, people say "oh no you're just too westernised", when I go to the Middle East, they're like "oh there are parts of you that are Arab in your aesthetic, but your mentality is not" and then in London it's "oh where are you from?" It's a bit schizophrenic really.

In recent decades, international perspectives of the Middle East have become increasingly polarised. We're either fed images of war and violence, or served a strangely sci-fi world marked by unimaginable wealth, power and social disparity. But Gulf based creatives Chndy, Chebmoha and Prod are trying to disrupt those stereotypes; instead documenting the nuances that define their lives. Their images capture quiet, often intimate, moments that are regularly neglected in coverage of the region.

The three met on the internet, drawn together by a desire to shift the way people in, and outside, of the area experienced their surroundings. "We look at it as if we are creating a mood board for people to say 'Okay, so this is the kind of thing happening here' — and really, it's the opposite of what people usually hear or see," explained Chebmoha.

Even though they all grew up in different places, with Chebmoha between Libya and Canada, Prod in Dubai and Chndy in Oman, the collective still shares a sense of nostalgia for a place they never feel like they truly know. We spoke to them about changing minds with images.

The way you document the Middle East is so different to what we are usually exposed to, can you tell us a little about your motivations?
Chebmoha: There's a lot of nostalgia in everything we do. I grew up in Libya but then we moved to Canada so I feel like I missed a chunk of time in the Middle East — about 10 years. So when I came back here I was looking for things — I would photograph either to reference my childhood or something that reminded me of something. It's not a nostalgia for a specific time or place — it's just nostalgia.

Prod: Nostalgia for me comes from re-creating the contrast in my childhood of growing up in such a fast-developing city and then going to Cyprus, which is where my family is from, every few months — it's a very slow paced island life there. It's about finding the balance between the two.

How did people in these areas react to you and your work?
Chndy: Three or four years ago explaining to anyone that I'm a graphic designer and I don't have a 9 to 5 job was weird for Oman. Actually, up until now essentially, people looked at us like we were weird. The Middle East has a lot of privacy and so it's often about showcasing what's perfect. I like film photography because it's not perfect, it's all about mistakes — the overexposed, the not knowing what the photo is going to come out as.

Chebmoha: When I started shooting in film, established photographers from the region would be very critical and say "oh this is underexposed" or "why is it so grainy?" People didn't really get our stuff. But now after three years of running around doing what we do, finally people are opening up to it.

Chndy: I just want to keep shooting in the Middle East. I don't think there's enough archives of what we are; what we do. I hate questions like "oh do you ride a camel?" or "where is Oman?" I want to showcase Oman more. Not many people know about it. 

Kazim Rashid is a London based creative director and artist. For the last 10 years he’s worked with brands and artists, designing their creative strategies and concepts. Now the 30-year-old has just finished his debut solo artwork, a tri-narrative video titled 2001: Pressure Makes Diamonds. “It’s quite autobiographical” he says. “The story of a boy, in a very particular time, in a very particular place, which just so happened to have this relationship to a global narrative.”

The video focuses on the year 2001 and the impact it had on brown visibility, told through the lens of iconic boxer Prince Naseem Hamed. “2001 is a specific reference because before and after 2001 are two very distinct parts of the story I wanted to tell,” he explains. 

2001 was, of course, the year of 9/11, probably the most defining sociopolitical moment of our lives and the start of the US-led War on Terror. For brown people, especially those living in the west, it was also the year that introduced a new experience, a particular breed of racism and discrimination called Islamophobia.

The video depicts British boxer Prince Naseem Hamed as he fights his penultimate fight in April of that year, the first and only he ever lost. Naseem is adopted as a figurative metaphor in the video for the decline and disappearance of brownness in the west. “It was the only fight he ever lost and it happened at the same time as a generation, as well as an entire race of people, were about to lose.”

Born in Manchester, not a million miles from where the Sheffield born boxer grew up, Kazim felt in awe of Naseem and his eccentric persona. Known for his extravagant and controversial ring entrances -- which featured music, dancing and costumes -- Naseem was an icon and inspiration for Kazim and the kids he grew up with. Even now, Kazim’s voice changes as he discusses the boxer. “I was 12 or 13 when he was at his peak,” he says. “He was so mysterious. This sort of feline figure who looked very masculine but very feminine at the same time. He was skinny, flamboyant and was always moving. As a young teenage boy who is just getting into puberty, Naseem created a wonderful feeling -- like you could be anything and still be cool.” 

Kazim recalls being a young boy in the UK in the 1990s, a period he describes as being inundated by positive brown representation. “There was Sanjay and Gita on Eastenders, East is East, Goodness Gracious Me,” he says. “There was so much brilliant music. Talvin Singh, Punjabi MC, Apache Indian. And it wasn’t an underground thing -- they were charting, you know?” Around the same time there was an explosion in the popularity of Indian and Pakistani food, with the UK’s Foreign Secretary even declaring chicken tikka masala as a UK national dish. Kazim vividly recalls thinking, “Yeah, it’s cool to be brown.' However, the feeling didn’t last. “Part of the research for the video was just trying to work out what actually happened and where did all the brown people go?”

Growing up in Oldham, the town where the north of England’s 2001 race riots started [the worst ethnically-motivated riots in the UK since 1985], undeniably impacted on Kazim’s adolescence, identity and sense of belonging. It suddenly became dangerous to be brown, basically overnight. “The summer of that year, and this was actually before 9/11, my dad was attacked outside our house. I remember thinking, god, it’s so unsafe," he says. “We aren’t safe at school, we aren’t safe at home, we aren’t safe on TV. Everything is fucked”. 

The Oldham riots were reported to be as a result of tension between South Asian and white communities in Oldham. Over the course of three months, tensions broke out in Oldham, Bradford and Burnley and Kazim’s work includes confronting visuals from each. “After 9/11 it was even more severe because everyone was scared,” he says. “Everyone was scared of terror, but if you were brown it’s like you didn’t have the right to be scared.” He recalls visiting London as a young teenager. “I went and sat down and I had a bag with me, and the lady that was sitting next to me just got up and left. And I remember thinking ‘I’m scared too, you know?’ I was just a kid.” Even two decades later, these kinds of things have become increasingly normalised, as Kazim reflects on daily micro-aggressions that can come in the form of “going through airports, being searched all the time, sitting down and knowing that the person next to you doesn’t feel comfortable”.

With 2001: Pressure Makes Diamonds set to be exhibited for the first time, it makes for an interesting time to consider brown representations and their potential for a comeback. “There is definitely a movement starting to happen,” Kazim says. “It’s like there’s a generation of young people who feel ready to address what happened. Maybe the trauma wasn’t so heavy for them because they were too young and so there’s an audacity to what they bring to the conversation.” 

Kazim believes social media has played a key part, opening accessibility and allowing individuals to visually present themselves, their views and their identity. “What I find really powerful is people like [British Asian journalist] Simran Randhawa, who have huge amounts of followers and consistently embrace their culture and roots. She’s having a laugh and, to me, that’s radical and really inspiring. That’s where the real change will come from.”

Free speech. We need it. We rely on it. Sometimes it suits us, sometimes it offends us and sometimes it just entertains us but we agree that it should never be compromised. Is there a point though, at which free speech becomes outright hate speech?

The other day, I met up with a friend. A writer. She has always been bold and brave in expressing her opinions, confronting topics such as countering violent extremism and social injustice in her work. That day though, she wasn't her usual self -- she was wounded.

She told me that her latest piece had seen her cop a lot of online abuse. Not just your run-of-the-mill "I think your article is crap" or "I disagree with your opinion" type stuff, but full-on, sexually violent hate speech focused around the fact that she's a woman and of South Asian heritage.

Guarded at first, she eventually told me how her family had read the comments and how painful that had been for her. I could see she was hurting but figured she just needed a break from writing. She said she was done and couldn't continue to write. This wasn't the first time she has had to read heinous comments about herself, but I could tell this time was different.

In Australia, we do not actually have an explicit constitutional right to free speech, as is provided for in the United States by the First Amendment. Despite this, we do enjoy a great level of freedom of speech. It's a wonderful thing. I appreciate that comment is free. I understand that encouraging discussion is a crucial part (if not, the most crucial aspect) of democracy. Historically, during heated dinner table debates, I have always opted on the side of uncensored, unabated free speech.

Yet the issue that now emerges is how to draw the line between free speech and hate speech on the internet. The question we must start talking about, is "at what point does free speech become a barrier to free speech itself?"

Will we lose brilliant opinions, great thinkers and voices because of the fear of abuse and online vitriol? A brain drain 2.0? Again, I'm not talking about your average dissenting opinion, I'm talking about violent and threatening comments that make people fear for their safety.

The issue of online hate speech and threats impacts every individual. No one is immune, but it is becoming apparent that women and minorities are victims to online hate speech at higher rates than men. Solveig Horne, The Minister of Children and Equality in Norway, recently wrote a powerful piece in the World Post titled 'Hate Speech -- A Threat to Freedom of Speech', in which she wrote:

"Attempts to silence women in the public debate through hate speech, are an attack on women's human rights. Women are under-represented in the media. In order to get a balanced public debate it is important that many voices are heard... Hate speech may cause fear and can be the reason why people withdraw from the public debate."

I really worry about a society where people are scared to express their opinion, because I also have been scared. I have freaked out, stopped or self-censored when wanting to write or talk openly about being Muslim. I have moments of panic about what people will say, the comments I'll have to read, the hatred.

As a Muslim woman and writer, I think I'm probably a troll's dream (disclaimer: not an invitation). I am all for clean anti-Muslim or anti-female debate if that's what you're about -- that's the beauty of free speech. I don't have an issue with being challenged, I just have an issue with being threatened.

I spent a large part of my twenties silenced by fear and I expect many other people right now are also afraid and silent. What happens to a society when minorities are silenced? In a situation where we already have the issue of a lack of representation, this silencing is even more dangerous. The idea of even one person not coming forward and expressing their opinion, even if I totally and utterly disagree with that opinion, frankly scares me. That feels like a failure for free speech.

Unfortunately I don't have the answer. I don't think there is one answer but there are things that can be done to help. Increasing education around online commenting and internet literacy may help reduce the effect of this issue for future generations who have some big e-challenges ahead with increased social media pressure, online bullying and revenge porn emerging as notions other generations before have not had to deal with.

Creating accountability for individuals through requiring a form of online registration to a platform before being able to comment or a platform increasing the moderating of comments which cross over into violent or threatening language may also be methods of reducing threatening hate speech. What about turning off comments altogether? After all, print, television and radio are all forms of media which have successfully operated without the ability for viewers to give immediate feedback.

I don't have an issue with being challenged, I just have an issue with being threatened.

Well, that seems a bit archaic for the online word -- like refusing to keep up with the times, and isn't keeping up with the times kind of the whole point of the internet? Comments are a way to keep people engaged, to generate discussion, to increase participation, to give voices we would not normally hear a platform and an audience. Comments can also help shift people's perceptions or increase tolerance for viewpoints other than your own.

For a lot of people (including myself), you read something that moves you online and then you get distracted and go about the rest of your day. Maybe one way that we can all help make a difference is to counter some of the hate with some positivity. If you appreciate something you read, say something. Don't stay silent. Maybe then the vile comments won't feel so overpowering?

We have seen how the internet can be a source of empowering minority voices, providing a platform for those who aren't heard, to be heard. Now more than ever we need an inclusive dialogue and active participation. We need 'alternative' voices. In fact, we need so many that they eventually won't even be considered as 'alternative' anymore.

Swet Shop Boys are a cross-border collaboration between actor and rapper Riz Ahmed (Riz MC), rapper Himanshu Suri formerly of Das Racist (Heems) and UK producer Redinho. Riz is of Pakistani heritage, born and raised in London; Heems is of Indian origin, hailing from New York. They met on the internet — where else? Their new album Cashmere explores South Asian identity and sounds, along with hip hop, trap, dance and grime. It's been widely lauded and sparked a lot of buzz, which makes sense. During a time where the world appears to be so intensely culturally divided, we need a record like Cashmere.

I didn't grow up around many other people of South Asian background. Where I lived in Sydney, it felt like people who looked like me didn't think like me. They didn't dress like me and they definitely didn't act like me. It wasn't cool to be South Asian. I always felt I didn't totally fit in with my white friends but definitely didn't fit in with my Pakistani family friends. I'd listen to hip hop, grime and electronic music, but also would spend large chunks of my weekend revisiting Bollywood classics with my mum.

When I was a kid, my older cousin idolised hip hop and RnB. When I asked her what she was so drawn to she said, "well there are no brown people to look up to — this is as close a thing as I can relate to". The comment stayed in my head for years.

In Australia, people ask me where I'm from basically on a daily basis, and are often unwilling to accept "Australia" as the answer. When I went to Pakistan I was expecting to avoid that question altogether, but was shocked to hear people say "oh woh bahar say aii hay", which translates to "oh, she's from outside of here". The notion you don't fit in anywhere can be pretty depressing.

Perhaps that's what drew me to Swet Shop Boys, their sense of unity within the experience of not belonging. Cashmere is a shout out to all the "mongrels" out there — the culturally confused, the people who feel like they don't fully fit in here nor there and the ones who have grown up between two worlds. As it says on Half Moghul, Half Mowgli, "Raised like a concrete jungli/ And a junglist and a Londonist/ But my DNA wonder where my home should be".

On this track Riz raps a verse from the perspectives of a doting fan, an islamaphobic troll, a Muslim fan and then a disapproving Muslim. The schizophrenic familiarity of it is somehow draining and comforting after a lifetime of comments like: "Oh you're Muslim? But you're not like a regular Muslim. You're a cool Muslim," and "oh you're not really a Muslim because you dress so liberally." It's a song for those of us who are always too Muslim for some, not Muslim enough for others. Too Pakistani for some and not Pakistani enough for others.

The themes Riz and Heems confront on Cashmere are everyday life concerns for those of us who grew up in the post 9/11 era — for people whose skin became a symbol of hostility overnight. Riz and Heems don't shy away from expressing contempt for South Asian cultural appropriation, anti-immigration rhetoric or islamophobia.

The contrast between lyrics about airport security like "I'm so fly, bitch/But I'm on a no fly list" and energetic Bollywood beats feels like a hail Mary to being from two worlds. Here, finally those worlds meet in a way that feels okay. Actually, more than okay — it's kind of awesome.

Swet Shop Boys are giving a voice to people who haven't really had one before. For so long, people of South Asian origin weren't granted their own space in pop culture. No people to look up to that look like them. No sounds that evoke their sense of home. Cashmere is just one piece of art, but it's also a metaphorical nod of solidarity with all people who have had to justify their race, their culture, their religion or any part of their identity. For me, it feels like a comforting figure wrapping their arms around me and saying "hey, it's okay to be from both places. You don't have to choose anymore."

Since it emerged from the desert only a few decades ago, Dubai has founded a reputation for sleek skyscrapers and unimaginable luxury. But for Kenyan born filmmaker and photographer Amirah Tajdin, her adopted home offers something a little more nuanced. In her short film Baqala she explores the bodegas and their regulars, and reveals a very different city. Awash in a neon glow, her subjects feel like they're from another, much quieter, planet. We caught up with her to talk about the contrasting realities of old and new Dubai and how growing up in the Gulf shaped the way she experiences and films the city.

Dubai is often presented as a very fantastical place, it almost doesn't feel real. But what was it like growing up there?
I was 14 when we moved to Dubai from Nairobi so it was a very different time before the glitz and the shine and the big buildings. Because of my own Omani heritage and having lived in Muscat in the 90s it was a familiar place to me. At that time, Dubai was changing — it was just at the tipping point. That's when I came in and formed an identity for myself that was obviously still in transition as a teenager but it's a city that I owe a lot to in that sense.

It's such a transient place and there are people from everywhere, living between worlds, so Dubai allows you that space to have those conversations that you might not have in different cities.

You mentioned the glitz, but Baqala stays very far away from that. Why did you want to present it in this way?
Baqala came out of a high school friendship: one of my oldest friends is one of the founders of Sole DXB, a regional lifestyle platform for fashion, culture and art. We've been long time collaborators and for their 2015 edition the guys came to me with a brief that focused on the city's corner stores, the baqalas—- there are Dubai's versions of a bodega — they're these old cute corner stores scattered around the city.

I came up with this sort of dreamy take on the baqala and what this cultural piece of the gulf region stands for to most of us who grew up in and around this region. In a way it's increasingly becoming my style to blur the real world with a cinematic dreamy play. We shot the film in one night. Dubai is a city I love to show at night because of all the neon — I love filming neon.

Is your work still inspired by the Dubai of 15 years ago when you first moved here?
Oh definitely. Baqala was about capturing that nostalgia. Between Muscat in the early 90s and Dubai in the early 2000s, it was a different feel. You'd go to the baqala with your friends and pick up your juice box, chips and bubble gum. It's actually why I put bubble gum in the film. For me, bubble gum holds that memory of this region, of the desert, of the Gulf. Baqala was my ode to my old world and my personal love affair with this city.

Do you think people misinterpret or misunderstand Dubai?
We are a generation who get to live in a world where a new city is being built from scratch. People forget that Dubai is only 40 years old. No mega metropolis knew its identity at 40 years old. We previously all came from places that are old cities — that have already-grown identities and have a social and cultural fabric. Dubai's fabric is just starting to be formed.

It's fascinating that we get to be a part of this conversation. As transient as it is for some of us — everyone's "just here for a bit" but even in those bits you make your mark, you take something from it.

What inspires you about Dubai?
I choose to live in the old part of the city because it gives me a sense of home, identity and the past but it's still in this shiny building. I try to strike a balance when I show Dubai. A theme in my work is juxtaposition and I think right now Dubai lends itself perfectly to that — there's the contrast of old world and new world.

Another thing I like doing here is riding the metro — you feel like you are on the set of a sci-fi film. You're sitting there with people from all over the world, from all economic backgrounds and it's a great way to see the city. I get a lot of inspiration when I'm on the metro.

Dubai is a city that is re-writing how people of colour are portrayed and I'm happy to be a part of that — it's about breaking down cliches that have been out there for centuries. That's inspiring.

I was born in Canberra and raised in Sydney. My mum’s family is from Pakistan. Every couple of years I have taken trips to Islamabad, the (other) nation’s capital. Each time I visit, I struggle to reconcile the perception I hold of Pakistan when I’m in Australia with my perception of Pakistan when I am in Pakistan - specifically in relation to the treatment and role of women in society. So, on my recent trip there, I decided to visit a few local women’s initiatives and to try and further understand what is a hugely complex, and often contradictory, issue.

Since I was a ten-year-old, I have always been astounded by the polarisation of Pakistan — the disparity between the rich and poor is profound — especially coming from Australia. While the upper middle classes are sending their kids abroad to study and seem to be becoming increasingly liberal and ‘western’, the large majority seem to be becoming more conservative.

I visited a girls school in a rural part of Islamabad as part of an initiative called the Bright Star Mobile Library started by Saeed Malik, a former World Food Programme director, which provides books to young children in lower socio-economic government schools. After spending the afternoon reading books in both English and Urdu with a class of grade five students who were all so excited at just having access to books, I felt hopeful and inspired. When I asked what the students wanted to be when they grew up, an overwhelmingly large amount answered “a doctor!”

After class, though, I was disheartened to speak to the teacher who told me that for a lot of these girls, this would be their last year of school as their families would likely pull them out of school and get them to start working from grade six onwards. I realised that while there are signs of hope and progress, there are also serious barriers for affecting any real change. The World Bank estimates that in 2015, female school enrolment dropped from 66.9% for primary school to 36.2% in high school and only 10.7% for tertiary education.

My next stop was visiting a grassroots initiative, The Indus Heritage Trust in Bani Galla. The Trust’s current project, in partnership with the World Bank was formed to empower female hand embroidery artisans and revive traditional embroidery styles in rural villages in the Sindh and Punjab provinces of Pakistan. 

Mehreen Aslam, an employee of the Indus Heritage Trust, explained that the embroidery from these regions is renowned across the globe, but the craft is dying because it is difficult for the next generation to earn a living from it.

 “Previously the middle man was taking the profit and the artisans were being underpaid. We are trying to change that” said Aslam. Indus Heritage Trust currently has 2600 artisans who work from their homes to embroider fabric, with the final product being beautiful office products such as laptop covers, diaries, card holders, as well as linens and apparels.

As I took a tour of the HQ office, Aslam told me that in these provinces, life is difficult for females because they have low income and a lot of social pressure — often, they are not allowed to leave the house. “Because we are able to go into their own environment, teach them how to work from their home and they can bring their kids to work and have that flexibility, it works.” 

The question I often get from my Australian friends and that I often think about too is, what about the ‘honour killings’? The acid burn victims? Unfortunately, that’s still very prevalent. According to the Human Rights Commission of Pakistan, in 2014, 597 women and girls were gang-raped, 828 raped, and 923 women and 82 minor girls were victims of ‘honour killings’ in the country. The perpetrators of these killings often remain unpunished because legally they can seek forgiveness for the crime from another family member.

The recent Oscar winning documentary ‘A Girl in the River: The Price of Forgiveness’ by director, Sharmeen Obaid-Chinoy, a Karachi local, tells the story of Saba, an 18-year-old girl who married without her parents’ consent. Her father and uncle then came and got her under the pretense of forgiveness and instead beat her up, shot her in the face and dumped her in a river, claiming that Saba had brought dishonour upon the family. Saba survived. The film shows how she ‘forgave’ her father and uncle due to the social pressure, and consequently they were released from prison. Saba’s story has helped build awareness both in Pakistan and internationally.

The death of the singer and blogger Qandeel Baloch earlier this year, who became famous for her provocative selfies and videos within the context of a conservative Muslim country, made international headlines. She was strongly criticised by some, and seen by others as a figure of female empowerment. Her murder by her brother has shone a spotlight on such killings and re-ignited calls for legislative action to curb the crime.

Earlier this year, the Prime Minister of Pakistan, Nawaz Sharif announced his commitment to ending ‘honour killings’ in Pakistan. Last month, Pakistan’s National Assembly unanimously passed two bills to curb the crimes of rape and ‘honour killings’. Despite this, there is clear concern regarding the effect and enforcement of such laws for reasons such as accessibility, social pressure and corruption.

There has been active lobbying by women’s rights and human rights groups, and along with positive media coverage.  A shift in societal perception seems to be starting.

Tahira Abdullah, a Pakistani rights activist, has been tirelessly working to raise awareness about human rights abuses for almost 40 years. Abdullah said, “the laws and amendments are the result of four decades of unrelenting pressure, advocacy and hard work by women's rights activists and legal experts, working with a few progressive legislators in Parliament”.

Abdullah refers to the crime as “dishonour killings”, and insists there is no honour in killing. She is determined to continue with advocacy and asserting legal pressure, “until we are satisfied that the law is strong enough to bring the killers to justice”.

There are many strong women and men speaking out against the injustices. There are also many areas in which Pakistan has historically been at the forefront of women’s progress. In 2013, Samina Baig became the first Pakistani woman and the third Pakistani ever to climb Mount Everest.  As Baig celebrated, Pakistan celebrated too. Baig stated that she started climbing to “show a different side of Pakistan, the brave side of Pakistani women and wanted to portray that Pakistani women have the same qualities that other women in other parts of the world have”.

In 1988, Benazir Bhutto became the Prime Minister of Pakistan, more than two decades before Julia Gillard became the Prime Minister of Australia and ahead of many ‘leading’ nations, which to this day have still not had a female leader. She was the first woman to ever lead a Muslim nation and is still considered one of the strongest and most influential figures in Pakistani history.

It is undeniable that Pakistan has a long way to go in the treatment of women. Issues such as the enforcement of laws, access to electricity and infrastructure for all, the class gap, social stigmas as well as the large levels of illiteracy must be addressed before any real change can be affected. It does, however feel like there is a possibility for change. With a population estimated to now exceed 200 million people, it won’t be a quick process but it is a start and a much needed one at that.

1. You get asked where you're from on a daily basis.

2. Or how long you've been in Australia.

3. Even when you get into a taxi, the first thing the driver wants to know is not where you're going, but where you came from.

4. And you try to tell people you're from Canberra but they don't believe you.

5. Then you get, "but where are you REALLY from?"

6. Some people speak to you really slowly because they think you can't speak English.

7. While others come up and speak to you in a language you definitely don't understand.

8. People stare at you like they're trying to figure out something really technical (and the something "technical" is just your ethnicity).

9. And they tell you that you look like that one racially ambiguous celebrity, but it doesn't feel like a compliment.

10. You're often referred to as "exotic".

11. And if someone tries to describe you, it goes something like: "Tall but not that tall, dark skin but not that dark - but not light either, but like tan but not that tan..."

12. People try to make your name more complicated than it actually is.

13. And this kind of thing happens a lot when you order a coffee.

14. If you do salsa dance classes, ethnic food cooking classes, or language classes, your teacher expects you to be way better than you are.

15. You can't talk about another country without people assuming that it's your motherland.

16. And when you travel the world, everyone thinks you're a local.

17. Sometimes, people you've known for a really long time think you're a different ethnicity than you actually are.

18. But worst of all is when people think asking your country of origin is a pickup line.