WE ARE HEREWriters of the Global Majority Edited by Jessica Olivia Neill Designed by Frammy Jenkins Cover image of an eye by Lombe Kapaya JULY 2026
Images by Cicely Kirby-Smith 1: Bristol Harbour 2: St Nicholas Market 3: A model looks into the camera
EDITOR’S NOTEI set up Writers of the Global Majority last summer for purely selfish reasons ― I wanted a space in which to be with other writers who share, to quote Sandeep Parmar, certain ‘coordinates of being.’ Ways of seeing and moving through the world that cannot be divorced from our histories of migration, whether they are lived or inherited. Or from a dominant gaze that does not see us in our wholeness, which is to say: a gaze that cannot/ will not turn the lens on itself. Our zine takes its title from the writer A. Sivanandan (quoted by our own Urmila Kerslake in her glorious poem, Hissing English), who sums up the immigrant condition in a line as clean as a bone*: ‘We are here because you were there.’ As the so-called West ramps up its brutal war on immigration, blaming displaced people for the problems it has caused, it’s clear this correlation’s neither part of mainstream discourse, nor present in the national psyche. We Are Here invites you to explore the vibrant writing of a diverse group of women, whose work asserts their right to take up space, on the page and in the world. Thanks to the Bristol City Arts Fund for the chance to make this zine, responding to the theme of ‘everyday culture’. And to the Arnolfini team for a lovely place to meet. Read on for words of beauty, longing, protest, grief and joy from these Writers of the Global Majority. Jessica Olivia Neill * ‘You want to write a sentence as clean as a bone. That is the goal.’ ― James Baldwin
Culture is… Bristol – look what ya done to me baby Here Bristol Is Second City of Grime Does It Know Strange Place Walking is political Essence Atoms to Ashes Hissing English A life full of verbs Tayo Aluko Is My King Terreka B. with love Melanie Cicely Kirby-Smith Doreen Baidoo Lakhraj Minhas Frammy Jenkins Urmila Kerslake Annie Sheekey Jessica Olivia Neill CONTENTSBoys in Bristol Photography Birdseye view of the M32
Image by William Zali A woman in a red Carnival costume
CULTURE IS… Culture is wrapping my hair up in my favourite piece of cloth Culture is hairstyles rerouting my ancestors’ every move for freedom and safety Culture is carnival, masquerade, soca, steel pan, rum and calypso Culture is to be black and free, whining up yuh body Culture is seasoned food with no recipe Culture is soul, hip hop, jazz & r&b Culture is goat water cooked on coal fire in a tinning pan Culture is fulling yuh belly under the mango tree in the warm sun, with juice running down yuh hand Culture is cook out at the beach, bring yuh plate and pan Culture is running barefoot into the sea, can't swim but stay where yuh foot can reach the bottom sand Culture is soursop, tamarind balls and coconut tart Culture is black cake, with sorrel and ginger to wash it dung Culture is sitting between yuh mother's legs, hearing every minute: Keep yuh head still, feeling the winding of bubbles and clips while Black Magic grease run down yuh forehead Culture is iron comb on the stove, after wash hair Sunday Culture is playing dominos, cussing to distract them from yuh hand Culture is watching cricket with my dad, as West Indies bowl- out India, Culture is skipping rope, double dutch & hopscotch Culture is plaited hair with beads Culture is Bwoy put dat dung! Culture is Yuh better learn yuh education, me nuh want nuh dunce inna mi house Culture is speaking in my motha tongue, knowing that it is professional even if you don't understand Terreka B. with love
Like a coma patient I awoke. It took years to finally ask, What if the village doesn’t want to help raise the child? Bristol, you welcomed me into your skirt folds lifted my childhood chin my honey features reflected in others You whispered: You’re not alone child My curls respected in salons though it took years to give us choices other than pale beige Now it’s raven black to honey glow We all want to look good, you know I embraced you like you embraced me Films meals drinks music art museums coffees parks rivers theatre picnics concerts dance lectures jobs delis library drumming braids kuumba carnival dancing photography street food clubs singing sports jewellery etam miss selfridge snob wallis locarno ice skating ebony romance perfume reggae ravel… You poured into me Bristol ― look whatBristol ― look what ya done to me babyya done to me baby Bristol ― look what ya done to me baby
So today, 60ish Some say age gracefully, wear the beige comfortable shoes, get a hobby, gardening or knitting (I spit on knitting), blend in then fade away... BUT I’m fixing my diamante lobster earrings Making my hair as big as possible and clipping flowers in Velvet red nails and lips Eyeliner with a whoosh at each corner, not as big as Amy’s, quite Ooh la la Pashmina, leopard bag and shoes, beads, bracelet, rings Not a hint of beige or vanilla, vivid colour and feeling free and fine Bristol, thank you for showing me I’m allowed to blossom and exhale I applaud you, and myself MelanieBackground image from Canva A lobster floating in water
Here(after Philip Larkin) Image by Cicely Kirby-Smith Fairbairn steam crane, Bristol Harbour
Swerving west, from the steel skylines of a churning city, And an unmoving blanket of smog; swerving through fields That form a mosaic of green hues In the periphery of the M32, the hum of unwinding concrete Cradling commuters at dusk; swerving to solitude Of skies and scarecrows, horses and haystacks Struck with the warm glow of a low-hanging sun A curved exit that alone feels like home Gathers to the surprise of a smiling city: Here, tower blocks and townhouses, gothic spirals and Georgian crescents Cluster beside tattooed walls and urban sprawl, Concrete brutalism and cobbled roads, Knit together to form a patchwork of timelines. Here, a colonial artefact cloaked in the form of a city Rewriting itself street by street— Here, the names of slave traders remain, Stamped on corners, engraved in granite Below stone cold statues That stare down from imposing heights Here, a scatter of buildings Bloomed from blood-soaked water. On summer days, tanned legs dangle off the harbour walls, Where ships once came in and made this city tall. Here, a cacophony of genres meld Into a single symphony, spilling from a sound system Rooted underground. Here, a tsunami of students And retired Londoners flood the streets, And crack the foundations of Half-mortgaged houses, sloped on unholy hills Here, the skyline multiplies in the blink of an eye Shielding sacred views, with thirty stories soaring upward, Obscuring saccharine memories of a mellow metropolis. Here is an unfettered existence: facing the tides. Cicely Kirby - Smith
Kids reppin’ their own street And dissin’ every other And what does it matter 30-year-old ‘youth’ with beef Carryin’ a knife or a gun And what does it matter Millions spent where they’re already rich But in the community life’s still a bitch And what does it matter Does it matter Does it matter The music that they listen to Is Grime The lyrics that they spit Is Grime The street they live Is Grime Their beauty Is Grime They aspire To Grime Their lives Are all About GRIME! second City of Grime Bristol is Bikkle Real Jamaican food Real Jamaican service Real friendly scowl Loud raucous voices Insults and laughter Between punters and staff Bristol is Stapleton Road Shops from around the world Food from across the globe Languages and accents Dialects and clothing It's watermelon season again Bristol is Everyman And every Woman Who lives here and Who has ever lived here Bristol Is Image by Maurice Pullin Stapleton Road, Bristol
Bristol is a strange place Where individuals welcome you And institutions reject you Where people are Insular and friendly At the same time Bristol is a multiplicity of cultures Whether it knows them or not Bristol is a city where Slaves married servants Whether it owns that or not Bristol is a city where Those slaves and those servants Procreated Whether it knows that or not Bristol is full of The descendants of slaves Whether it likes that or not Strange place Does it know DoreenDoreenDoreen BaidooBaidooBaidoo Doreen Baidoo Boys in Bristol Photography The Dower House, Stoke Park
Walking is political Twenty years after leaving home, I learnt there was a scenic reservoir only fifteen minutes from my parents’ house. Going for a stroll was something we did as a family in fine weather but on the leafy, quiet streets of the smart suburb of where we lived. The streets were wide and tree- lined, had little traffic with well maintained-pavements that few people walked on. Everyone must have driven everywhere. There were other well-to-do Indians in the area but you did not see them walking (on the streets, no less). I’d heard my father joke once that ‘to be Indian is to drive’ or at least to want to drive, given how, where he grew up, the only people to be found on the streets were those who had no choice. We never went to the reservoir. Perhaps my parents did not know it was there. Or they simply preferred to walk on the streets because they could.Images by Frammy Jenkins & from Canva A bike, carrier bags & price tags
Walking is slow. You may have a purpose (or not). But what is certain is that it creates a sense of connection and belonging. A child waves; a passerby smiles; you notice a new cafe opening up. You are a person who matters inside a shared community space. I often think of this when I step out of my house in Easton. To streets strewn with large household bins and recycling boxes, cars and vans mounted on pavements, outsized trees and hedges and unwanted or broken stuff people leave outside in the hope that someone else might make use of it or dispose of it for them. You step into the road at your own risk as the cars speed by. But at the top of my street, there is the green corridor of joy that is the Bristol to Bath Railway Path. Birds sing; flowers bloom; nature thrives and you can watch the seasons change and take a deep breath at last. Here, you can walk. Lakhraj MinhasBoys in Bristol PhotographyBristol to Bath Railway PathFootprints
ESSENCEImage by Urmila Kerslake A girl jumps into water under a bridge
we start with the loss of our mother tongue we forget our first language and the second becomes native I write this for the children who were relocated in the hopes of a ‘better life’ far from the choices and decisions that were not our own we didn’t choose to be first generation migrants praised and admired for our bravery for being pushed in the water by people who decided to push us all in the name of a ‘better life’ a ‘better education’ a ‘sacrifice’ they made, all in the name of ____? some have lost in the name of ____ I have lost in the name of ____
and in the name of ____, my essence dislocated from the choices and decisions that were not my own and in every room I enter I long to be known I miss my Yai with my whole heart being here is now a choice we have autonomy we adjusted in ways only we know Your English is SO good Where are you from? these words send tingles down my spine yet muscle memory dictates essence remains I sit cross-legged at dinner tables I gravitate towards the spoon Frammy JenkinsImages of Frammy with her family as as child, courtesy of Frammy Jenkins
ATOMS TO ASHES The yellow-haired geezer with pinpoint pupils, heroin eyes, burns bodies like flies alert to my Hindu ways. He lets me watch my mother burn. Strictly-speaking, it’s against the rules. Three days later, by prearranged appointment, armoured in paperwork, I go to collect. We are friendly, if not friends. Her ashes are grey with flecks of unburnt bone, those bits that escaped the cremulator. Like unruly laughter, the unchecked glint in her smile. All that dust in a sandstorm, sealed neat like her fate and mine in a clear plastic bag. I tell him my dream: to throw a small bit of her into the swirling Severn when the tide is high and to take what’s left, away on a plane lay her to rest at the meeting of three rivers in Srirangapatnam to join her dead. Her people, her ancestors in the waters, at home. He doesn’t miss a beat, this man with yellow hair and pinpoint eyes, Image from Urmila Kerslake Her mother at a window
half moon-shaped dirt under his fingernails. Hands that burn the dead day after day at 1800 Fahrenheit. He unseals the bag over a flame and tips out 10g of pure Indian mother. Her ash joins the dust on his fingertips. My mother’s burnt blood and bone on his skin. Ash and atoms, we are now kin. He reseals the bag with a flame. An unbreakable, illegitimate bond. (Licence to Kindle, Licence to Kiln, I think, then please stop: this grief is a form of madness.) Then, he makes me a cup of tea in the crematorium Chipped mugs, creosote builder’s tea, two teaspoons of sweetness. Doing it ‘cause you're Hindu. Basic respect innit. Her grey dust is still on his fingers in the sink and probably the tea. We drink up in silence—the birds are out. I walk through Arnos Vale, always stopping at the grand canopy of reformer Raja Rammohun Roy’s remains. A magnet laid to rest among strangers in grandeur and a little love. Image from Urmila Kerslake Her mother as a child
In Greenbank among the commonwealth war graves and the common graves always on the lookout for the so-called foreign names and no surnames among the Paynes and Pools the Bartletts and Hardings. Frances Fumnanya Coker, daughter of an Igbo Woman, or Scipio Africanus out in Henbury. Did they die alone? I wonder Meaning: Will I? in a strange city. Prayer on my lips: Sungold the crematorium. Pick up the ashes. Hold eyes on fire. Hold eyes on you. Consult the tide charts. Wait for the perfect moment, the final ride. Orange days don’t last forever. Dissolve, dissolve into tangerine mist. Please let me be held briefly, anchored or blessed, always, by illegal acts of kindness. Urmila KerslakeImage by Suzy Hazlewood Long shadows in a cemetery
HISSING ENGLISHHISSING ENGLISHHISSING ENGLISHIt was so hot that day I could feel a tropical storm brewing when you shoved the card machine into my face like we had no common language. I mean blood and death and breath and shared air, not the other stress-filled staccato-sounding hybrid by whose unfathomable template education, sophistry and citizenship are measured. If you hadn’t already knocked back those two Old Fashioneds, courtesy of the taxpayer, so swiftly, like the outer reaches of Empire was still sitting docile at your feet, I would have smiled and said: Crazy weather, crazy city. If you weren’t ferociously flying the red and white until there was blood in streets, all red, but certainly not all white, if the sea was a magic carpet for little Jasmine all the way to the wonders of the Mercure hotel, the wonders of this asylum, with seedy, greedy, needy eyes. If the baying internet wasn’t full of lies, I’d tell you that lunacy dogs the boundaries of every country. In our minds we do not agree on possession: ours, mine or yours― we never have. These myths we make and collect like evaporating poisons of rising and setting suns, of seaborne stealth and treachery and theft. The scramble for Africa of what’s ours and theirs. We learn a patterned quilt of maps we didn't make, shaped by the Mercator and other distortions. The mapmaker is you, the big three: whiskey, testosterone, cigar smoke. All treaties, burning paper recording the moment of who blinked first.Image by Urmila Kerslake Shiva painted on a wall
I’d swoop you down to follow the last cigarette that fell six balconies down that 3,000 gods in Shalimar colours couldn’t save, 300 years couldn’t change. He says, she says Ambalavaner Sivanandan (Ok then, Siva on your tongue) said: ‘We are here because you were there.’ There, where four billion windows gleam, half of them without power. There, where the radio is making soft English hissing noises in the lost-electricity darkness, meeting the candlelight lighting the torn foam mattress on the verandah on which children eat hot, spicy snacks in the dark evenings of the summer holidays under the Jamun tree which grew because someone, somewhere threw a seed. And it rained when it mattered. There, it is 1 am now, windows down. Two girls race in the scent of chlorine and stale perfume. The radio blares. Swirling cigarette smoke from the shared last rollie, no more to be bought for love or money at this darkest hour. The silence between us stretches, restless and golden. Urmila KerslakeImage by Urmila Kerslake Shiva painted on a wall
As the River Wye finally receives formal recognition as a living ecosystem, I imagine its scenic journey from the Cambrian mountains of mid-Wales, eventually merging into the Severn Estuary and onward into the Bristol Channel. This River now has intrinsic rights ― the right to flow, the right to biodiversity, the right to be free from pollution, to be supported by a healthy catchment, to regenerate. Protection and restoration, righting old wrongs. A sense of homecoming. A sense I often feel we are trying to move towards, living in Bristol. In animism, from the Latin word anima meaning 'breath, spirit, life', everything is believed to be alive. This recent Charter reminds me of a book I read, Braiding Sweetgrass by Robin Wall Kimmerer, where the author reflects on the indigenous language of her tribe, Potawatomi. Now nearly a lost language, the elders are trying to teach it to younger members, including Wall Kimmerer. But it is proving really challenging because, inherent in this ancient language, is a completely different way of perceiving the world, built on animist principles where everything is considered sentient. A L I F E F U L L O F V E R B S
Delving deeper, she finds English to be a noun-based language with only 30 per cent verbs. Whereas in her native language, that proportion is 70 per cent, because verbs communicate aliveness and allow for all things to be going about their business, in their own time and way. Wall Kimmerer uses the example of a bay, an English noun used to describe ‘a broad inlet of the sea where the land curves inwards’. In Potawatomi, the word wiikwegamaa is the verb: ‘to be a bay’. She reflects that a bay is only a noun if the water is considered dead, but once considered living, the water has decided to shelter itself between shores, choosing for the time being to be a bay rather than a stream or an ocean or a waterfall. As the River Wye gets its aliveness acknowledged, free to roam and flow and demand representation, I wonder how differently we would experience the world if we lived a life full of verbs. Annie Sheekey Image by Anita Leung A bay surrounded by green hills
Image by Tito Texidor III Protesters raise their fists
Last night I saw on Instagram a man sing to police who were arresting him for holding up a sign. ‘Stop the genocide in Palestine,’ his rich voice rang, ‘These are only cardboard signs. We are not the terrorists. Deep in your heart you know it’s true.’ Five agents of the state, when he refused to stand for them, picked him up & carried him away as if he were a table. Posture like a rockstar surfing on a sea of fans, he just kept singing. Jessica Olivia Neill Tayo Aluko Is My King
Meet the writersTerreka B. with loveMelanieCicely Kirby-Smith Terreka B. with love was born in the beautiful Caribbean island of Montserrat. Her creative muse has always been poetry, from writing imaginative stories on any pen and paper she could get her hands on as a child. She loves how poetry doesn't just happen, it's crafted, it's the emotion you feel but can't explain, shaped into something we can hold, fold and be told. @juelzofthe_caribbean Melanie’s formative years were spent by the rivers, mountains, forests and lakes of the north, learning the names of birds, flowers, plants and trees. The beauty of nature fills her with deep joy, yet… cities have long held a fascination and a place for her to exhale. She continues to dance between the two, seeing the best and the worst of both, appreciating what each has taught and continues to teach her. Cicely Kirby-Smith is a Bristol-born writer, photographer and model with a BA in English Literature & Art History. She writes poetry, essays and fiction. @cisskirbyysmith
Meet the writersDoreen BaidooLakhraj Minhas Conceived in Jamaica, born and raised in London, Doreen has lived in Ghana, Corsica and Bristol, and currently lives in the Cotswolds. She has always written poetry but didn't share her work until her mid-40s when she joined The Bristol Black Writers Group and was published in a number of anthologies. Now in her early 70s she’s a re-emerging poet, taking to stages once again to perform her extensive body of work. @oldladycreative Lakhraj Minhas is an avid reader taking a breather from corporate life to enjoy creating a life and community in Bristol. With a lifelong interest in power and equality she supports local community projects and is currently writing a memoir exploring these themes, particularly as they relate to patriarchy and prejudice. A fantasist when left to her own devices, she’s currently busy getting obsessed with DnD.Frammy Jenkins Born in Chiang Mai, raised British, Frammy is an archivist of her memories and sentiments, oscillating between journalling and creative expression. Her writing deals with themes of identity and its complexities, led by innate curiosity, an interest in connection to others, and her experiences as a member of the global majority. @frammyjenkins
Meet the writersUrmila KerslakeAnnie SheekeyJessica Olivia Neill Urmila Kerslake is a Bangalore-raised, Bristol- based journalist and photographer whose work seeks to confront reductive, mainstream stereotypes and narratives. She’s particularly interested in poetry, writing and imagery under the broad theme of how women see and imagine ourselves, and what they conceal and reveal when they are photographed or written about. @eyekerslake Annie is the co-founder of ATTIC Teas whose focus is the re-sacredising of a plant so interwoven into our history, it is part of who we are. Having journalled all her life, she now shares her musings about life and tea in her monthly newsletter. attictea.com | @atticteas Jess is a writer and producer who founded the Writers of the Global Majority group. Working across poetry, short fiction and nonfiction, her work has appeared in various publications. She’s also written, produced and directed two independent crowdfunded films, and produced DIASPORA! ‘24 and ‘26 - a festival celebrating cultural diversity through the arts. jessicaolivianeill.com | @jessolivianeill
Image by Dibikar Roy A blurred crowd in Kolkata
Writers of the Global Majority is a free monthly workshop for writers of all genders (though it tends to be women who come). We meet at Arnolfini Arts on the last Wednesday of each month, 3pm-5pm in the Reading Room on floor 2. If you’d like to join us, email Jess at: jess.olivia.neill@gmail.com Please note this a space for global majority writers only. ‘some have lost in the name of ____’ ‘...lunacy dogs the boundaries of every country.’ ‘Here, a colonial artefact cloaked in the form of a city...’