So many parts of me had to die to come here: In Conversation with Fariha Róisín
I don’t remember the first time I heard of Fariha Róisín. All I remember is that I was 19, months before I founded Sumou, and on a mission to catch up on the essays I’d missed. Her work was rich with quiet meditations, and more often than not, I felt deeply understood. Perhaps it was my way of navigating all the new anxieties accompanying change, the thought of my approaching adulthood and all things transformative was at the forefront of my mind. I wasn’t accustomed to drastic shifts; I still don’t know if I am.
No one writes about vulnerability and wellness like Róisín. To be able to pinpoint the coordinates of vulnerability and deliver them with honesty and care, to vocalize them on the internet where they would be read and nitpicked by thousands, and still be intentional about staying true—that takes a lot of courage.
When we first shared this issue’s theme, I knew it would be a dream to feature Fariha—to talk to the person who is familiar with traveling through transformations and all the possibilities of what we can grow into; there’s no one more fitting. I sat with Fariha during the summer amid the spatial and temporal metamorphoses going on in both my life and the world. The author of How to Cure a Ghost and Like a Bird stood on-screen with a smile on her face, the shifting September air clinging between us as she shares many of the raw and honest revelations she has learned throughout the years.
We talked about enforcing self-reflection in our craft, among other things, paying special attention to what that means when it comes to the Muslim body. Her upcoming book, Who Is Wellness For?: An Examination of Wellness Culture and Who It Leaves Behind, comes out in June 2022, which you can now preorder. Use this conversation as a manifesto of sorts, to stand on the shoulders of Fariha as a way of moving forward.
JOOD ALTHUKAIR: I know we’ve been Twitter mutuals since I was in my sophomore year, I think. I can’t really remember how I stumbled upon your writing. I think I woke up one day and read an article and immediately fell in love with your voice. I love the honesty and vulnerability in your work; I say this and especially think of “Let Me Love You”, a really old article you’ve written for The Hairpin. How do you pinpoint the conflict in your essays and organize and articulate it so smoothly? I know it stems from a place of vulnerability, so how can you tell between what you want to write and share with the world, while taking agency over the remaining parts of yourself?
FARIHA RÓISÍN: Whoa, that’s a very astute observation. Thank you, Jood. I think my life has made me extremely observant, as a product of immense trauma and having to catalog so much for my own sanity, I had to pay attention, because I had to know that I was real. There was a façade in my family that made it seem like everything was fine internally, even though everything was always chaotic. And then externally, even more so, because growing up and being Muslim, Bangladeshi, and all those things—I’m sure you understand—the presentation that goes into that, the upkeep that we have to do to present ourselves in a certain way.
For me, there were a lot of things that were going on, like class presentation. There were all of those ways in which we hid ourselves. I was very aware of that, and I’m very lucky to have had a father who encouraged literature and expansive thinking. I was so alone, surveilled, and sequestered, and I know a lot of Muslim girls experience that. I wasn’t a “rebellious” Muslim girl, I wasn’t out here trying to party (and I don’t have any judgement for those who did), but this wasn’t my life. My life was very standard. I listened to my parents and I cared about them and their sanity. I was very invested in trying to be a good girl; a good Muslim girl. I knew that I wasn’t, I knew there were parts of me that weren’t, but I didn’t want to face those things, yet. I was very happy to pretend for a while, pretend I was acceptable. I think that’s the feeling I try and translate into my work. Understanding that my observation is important and adding that to the literary (or writing) canon has made me realize that if nobody’s going to let me in, I’m going to have to put myself in and find a way, because I have so many [things] to say.
Was it painful at the beginning? Since you’re observant and always had to handle topics that hit close to home. You’re still healing from them. So was writing ever painful for you before getting published?
Writing is always painful. I don’t think it’s ever less painful, actually. You just get used to it. I cry a lot when I write. Honestly, and this sounds so extreme, but Allah blessed me in so many ways, and one of those is that I have an extremely vibrant and dynamic astrology chart. I’m really held by the planets, and I think I have this weird thing that I can go very deep, very fast. But I also have this elasticity to my emotions, because I can also simultaneously come out [of the situation] very quickly. This has given me some wisdom to look at my life and accept what happened, and you gain so much compassion for the things that happened to you, because you’re like, “I turned out like this and I’m happy with the person that I am.” And that means everything. It’s such a blessing, I feel that immensely. My connection to God has strengthened so much in these last couple of years, when I finally realized that I had never been abandoned.
In one of your latest newsletters, you [said], “Vulnerability is so closely tied to accountability.” And I know you were talking about one of your classes, but that was really raw. Has this probed a sort of hyperconsciousness? As if you wanted to hold the people/things that led to your trauma accountable? Do they feel any catharsis when you talk about them in your writing?
It’s such a process. I don’t think you begin and arrive somewhere, you know? The journey of life is so tumultuous and nonlinear that the more you understand that time, trauma, and healing aren’t linear, you can go one step forward and one step back. It really is a dance.
Firstly, yeah, I think there has been a hyperconsciousness that I’ve developed that might be detrimental to me. [Laughs] I don’t know, I’m still undecided. I think it makes me a very intense person to be around. I really want to be a person of God, so I’m very invested in what that looks like for me. To me, that looks like being a person of immense integrity. That’s a really hard thing to achieve all the time and not impact or critique the people around you. It’s this weird thing that even if I’m not critiquing or judging people, they might feel that impact of how much I hold myself [accountable]. Does that make sense?
Hyperconsciousness can be a burden to carry. I think that my path is to carry these things. That’s my work.
Yeah, that makes a lot of sense. I think there’s a lot of bravery in being able to share your vulnerability. I know that when you publish your work, part of it is no longer yours. I tend to struggle with self-flagellation when it comes to reading my work later on, especially when it’s vulnerable. But I also know it’s a pretty common feeling. I want to know if you ever feel the same, and if so, how do you stay grounded?
I think I don’t feel that way because I stay grounded. Do I ever feel shame? Yes, absolutely. I feel embarrassment, a lot. However, this feels like a thing of the past—I used to feel embarrassed. When How to Cure a Ghost came out, I was like, “This is embarrassing.” And when Like a Bird came out, I felt embarrassed. Then I was like, “No, I can’t do this anymore.” I can’t self-flagellate anymore; I’ve done it for too long. [Laughs] I have a readership and that’s all that matters to me. If I can do the honor of maintaining and sustaining my love and connection for/to the work, that’s what I’m fighting for. That’s what I’m working towards. Now, I have such gratitude for the fact that people want to read me. I owe my readership something; that’s how I feel.
As a thinker, I understand that not everybody has the capacity to do that, and not everybody wants to. I’ve come to Earth for some mission, as we all have—and we all need to figure it out—but for me, because I got away, there was room for me to leap. I’m leaping for my freedom, but I understand that not many people have that. People have families, parents that love them, and so it’s a different dynamic. For me, I want to work for God and fight for liberation for myself and the people around me.
That’s beautiful. You’ve mentioned your publications, How to Cure a Ghost and Like a Bird. Was there any point of comparison between them? What parts of Fariha did either of these projects speak to, and was there a part of yourself you’ve let go after you finished writing them—a sort of closure?
Yeah, for sure. Half of How to Cure a Ghost is dedicated to my ex-partner, whose movie came out this year. It was really interesting to re-experience those emotions. Writing a book about a love that is no longer, and then watching that person’s art go into the world, it was a difficult experience. I’ve been mourning a lot in those last couple of years, and I’m still mourning that relationship and those feelings in How to Cure a Ghost. So many parts of me had to die to come here. To be here and talk to you, these things are difficult. It’s difficult to talk about your work to somebody. It’s difficult to do interviews and be a public person. I think as much as I struggle with it, I also understand that I’m equipped for this role and journey. I have always been obsessed with being Muslim and I fight for Muslims. This is really a spiritual fight for me. I know there’s so many people like me. There’s so many people that didn’t get a chance to do this. I have to be strong.
I also think lockdown’s been a pretty awakening experience for most of us. What did you figure out during lockdown? Was there any improvement to your craft, self, or spirit?
All of it. I have a relative amount of awareness of spiritual and natural worlds. To me, the pandemic was such a calling—even astrologically; astrologers were talking about this two years ahead of time. I got chills! There’s such a direct correlation between the stars, the spirit, and Earth. They’re all communicating with us all the time, and whether or not you want to listen and attune yourself to hear. I feel invested and deeply connected to all of those things. My connection, Alhamdulilah, has been strengthened. I didn’t have a prayer practice growing up, and there was a shame, especially with being Muslim, that I didn’t pray daily. Now, I finally have a daily prayer, and it’s my connection to God. So much of my work is clearing the path, so nothing is between me and God. All that matters is what we have with the divine.
Weirdly enough, I was in an abusive romantic relationship with somebody during the pandemic, and I think a lot of her doubt of me made me feel like I need to be proud of my work. People out here are going to tell you that you’re not good enough all the time. You have to believe that you are.
For sure. I wanted to ask, knowing most writers, including myself, struggle with—like how this interview is unpaid [laughs]. How do you source your income and make sure you’re not being exploited? To be able to honor your labor, especially knowing the lines can be blurred when you’re a writer. I know you’re past this now that you have a stable readership, but how did Baby Fariha figure this out?
It’s still really difficult. Being an artist and not having this institutional support that others do. It’s been a struggle. But at some point, I understood that if I wanted to make art, I’d have to make it regardless of whether or not I can make money [out of it]. That’s a tricky thing. Not everybody has the privilege to do that, I get it. It’s not sustainable for most people, so it has to be something you can commit to; commit years of your life to not having enough money and making due. I did that for a decade. At the same time, I think it’s really important for us to advocate for ourselves. Any writer that’s trying to be a writer should advocate for themselves and understand it’s important to work for money. There’s this thing where it’s either money, joy, or prestige. Each thing has to bring at least two of those things. I think there’s truth to that, because how else can you get by?
What’s one thing you wish people had told you when you first started?
That it’s really hard. James Baldwin talks about writing and how it is all about endurance, I think I found a quote of his in my 20s and it stuck with me. Whenever it becomes hard, I think of how Baldwin talked about this. It’s not a sprinting sport, you can’t come out with a book and be, “Word, I’m done!” That’s not how it happens. It’s art, it’s commitment.
I fall into the trappings of social media, like we all do. But none of that shit’s real. If you are not saying anything of value or worthiness, it’s not going to matter. Even if you get 1000 likes, you know? It’s important for us to write truthfully before writing for fame.
I agree. So, how’s life without Twitter? How did it control your media consumption? [Laughs] Also, what do you think of photo dumps?
Fuck Twitter. I’m so happy I’m off of it. Honestly, it’s a cesspool of hate. But it’s also so funny, so that’s what kept me on it for so long. I’m a huge comedy lover and a comedian, so I think Twitter’s hilarious. But as a public person, as somebody who, literally anybody could go, “Fuck you!” at, that is not a place or space I want to be on. [Laughs] I care too much about morality and I would never do that to somebody, so I don’t want that done to me.
I think the older I get, the more I respect writers who commit to the craft. Someone like Zadie Smith, who doesn’t use social media and has a presence in pop culture, but is still guarded. It’s sad, because I get so much from social media and connections—like ours, we know each other from Instagram and Twitter, so these things are invaluable. However, it comes at a cost to your privacy and mental health.
Yeah, it can be really scary out there! But what do you think of photo dumps now that it’s a trend? I’ve seen this Tweet where they were like, “You know, photo dumps are a trend but they’re all carefully curated which defeats their whole purpose, and then the doctor’s like, ‘No, but what’s physically hurting you?’”
[Laughs] I love them! I would say I coined photo dumps back in the day. I’m definitely an OG photo-dumper.
What about them being carefully curated?
Yeah, that’s not it, I’m not into that. The internet needs to be fun! That’s my hot-take.
I’m not sure I’m following up with your personal essays. Did you leave that route and are you more reliant on your newsletter now?
I want to write more personal essays, I love writing them. I know people look down on them, but I think the best pieces that I’ve ever written were personal essays. I think all good essays are personal, honestly. I’m reading Everybody by Olivia Laing right now, and it’s evident that these powerful essays are always rooted in a personal truth. My career is really interesting, because everything that I got is because of my own self. Even when it’s something like the newsletter. Substack is now “trending” and “cool” and everybody’s making a Substack, but when I started it, it was weird and crunchy. It felt embarrassing to ask for money and I think I still have a lot of that shame. Not being allowed in intellectual spaces but occupying them nonetheless, there is always a tension where everybody’s looking at you making you feel you’re not allowed to be here, and you’re like, “Well, I have a readership, so…”
If I’m being sincere, I’m tired of pitching and doing that whole thing. I did it for 10 years. It’s intense, I’m sure you know. When you think about something and only get $500 (or the best amount of money you can make for an essay), the cost is not ultimately enough for writing for a publication where you have to edit that piece 4-5 times. Maybe you have to work with white editors who have no clue about what you’re saying... There are so many things where I’m like, “Okay, if you want to invisibilize me, that’s cool for you. I’m not going to invisibilize myself. I’ve got a whole ass newsletter here that people read, and I’m publishing books!” They won’t make space for me, but I’m going to be here.
That’s amazing. So, how do you usually get out of a funk? Imposter syndrome can be debilitating, so what are your ways to bounce back?
It’s funny, because it happens a lot. Hisham [Fageeh] and I talk about this all the time—we’re writing a movie together, so that’s very exciting. We’re both very similar, and I think a lot of my close friends are kind of emo. Maybe I can only speak for myself, but I think we all have this kind of very specific, very violent trauma. When I get into a dark place, even though I have that elasticity I was telling you about earlier, I’m still, to a certain degree, bound by sadness in a really intense way.
I want to name that for anybody else who feels like that, because I feel a lot of us are out here suffering from depression and not talking about it. I hate to be the person who’s always writing about my trauma, because I don’t want to be that person. I’m so much bigger than that person. I’m joyous, I’m funny, I’m caring, I’m loving, I’m all of those things. But the reality is, and I’m sure a lot of Muslims can experience, that we have fucked up family dynamics that we do not talk about. There’s so much sexual abuse—all kinds of abuse, and nobody talks about it. I just can’t live like that. I have to voice things. Being that person in a family, in a community, in a society is extremely isolating.
In moments of depression, the way that I can pull myself out is the remembrance that I left all of this darkness to come towards the light. To gather myself back up again and ultimately, I have to carry that in my heart. The person that taught me that is John O’Donohue, who was a Celtic poet, priest, and writer, and he did this interview with Krista Tippett on On Being almost a decade ago. He was saying how it’s so important to carry beauty in our hearts and minds. I feel this way about Islam. I think of Allah and all the things the Muslim world has created, there’s this one focus on beauty, because we understand God is a reflection of beauty. That’s why our societies invested in design, in art, as a way to reach Allah.
If you carry that beauty in your mind at all times, which is what John O’Donohue is saying, then no matter what darkness you go through, you have this thing you can hold on to. For me, that has been the most motivating factor. All the things that I wanted to do, I’m doing, so it’s possible. It’s possible for anybody.
That’s so beautiful. I mean, this kind of shifted something in me. To me, imposter syndrome is very numbing and it makes me stop creating for the longest [time]. My friends blame it on astrology, but I blame it on myself [laughs].
What’s your sign, by the way?
I’m a Gemini Sun, Libra Moon, Scorpio Rising.
[Hoots] Okay, do you know your Venus and your Mars? That’s intense!
My Venus is in Cancer and… my Mercury’s in Gemini so that means my Mars is in Libra.
Nice! So, airy, but then you’ve got that water. I can definitely see the Venus in Cancer. That must be tough with the Gemini Sun and Mercury, because it’s so rapid.
It’s so crazy in my head! Everything’s fast-paced but I’m also very emotional and empathetic.
And Libra Moon’s a tough one! It gives a lot. But you’re making it work, babe. I’m proud of you.
[Laughs] Thank you.
But you were saying, your friends blame it on astrology and you blame it on yourself.
Yeah. I don’t know, I feel astrology does play a role. I’m most productive from January through March. Any other time I’m like, “Bleh, I can’t do anything.”
Then just work January to March! Even if it’s writing. You can make that work. I think it’s always such a blessing when you can look at your chart and be like, “Word.” Use what it’s showing you and accept those things about yourself. Don’t change them, just accept and understand them. Like, you can only work from January to March, then only do that! That’s amazing! [Laughs]
The rest of the year I’m like, unemployed. I don’t create anything. No one email me, nothing.
I’m out! That’s amazing. From a Capricorn, I’m proud of you. I wish I could do that.
[Laughs] What’s your chart?
I’m a Capricorn Sun, Cancer Moon, Cancer Rising, Venus Aquarius, Mars Sagittarius.
The Cancer is very out there. But all my best friends are Cancers, so I love that.
Yeah! But do you know what I mean when I say my chart is so weird but it allows me to carry so many multiple parts of myself? It gives me a sense of strangeness, which is the Venus in Aquarius. Astrology changed my life.
I do! We can talk about astrology all day, but moving on: what are your favorite or current reads?
I’m reading The Overstory by Richard Powers and Everybody by Olivia Laing. I just started Being Mortal by Atul Gawande as well as The Mushroom at the End of the World by Anna Tsing. I read a lot at the same time.
I’m reading Everything I Know About Love by Dolly Alderton. I saw it on TikTok and they were like, anyone in their 20s should read this book—I’m 22, by the way. Reading many books at the same time has always been my forté, but I’ve also been reading a lot of trashy ones—all those words that make my brain cells sizzle [laughs]. It makes me feel good about myself; I love being a passive consumer and not having to think too much. But yeah, what are your favorite reads?
That’s your Gemini Sun talking! My favorite reads… I really loved When Death Takes Something from You Give It Back by Naja Marie Aidt. It was about her son that accidentally dies, and it’s very tragic. It was the emotion that I really felt. It was amazing. Trauma and Recovery by Judith Herman—it’s an incredible book. Close to the Knives: A Memoir of Disintegration by David Wonjnarowicz, that was one of the best books I’ve read in a really long time. of colour by Katherine Agyemaa Agard and The New York Stories by Elizabeth Hardwick were really good ones, too.
For my last question: this issue’s themed “Rebirth: Shedding Skins”. What parts of yourself have you shed and what parts are you looking forward to rebirthing?
I want to shed from a lot of insecurity that still holds me back, as well as the untruths that I was forced to believe about myself. I’ve been meditating a lot on the Empress tarot card. If I’m trying to rebirth into anybody, it’s the Empress card.
Thank you for this, this was amazing!
Thank you for taking the time to do this! I can’t wait for people to read this. Everyone I know who reads you, loves you. They’re going to be excited to read this; you’re an amazing person inside out. It was such a pleasure talking to you.
It was such a pleasure talking to you, too! I’m really glad that we got to do this. Keep in touch! ◆