Marginalized communities, such as those formed in the wake of diaspora, are often internally fractured and artificially removed from one another. While it can be hard to point to one all-encompassing reason for division, a fair amount of fracture can be attributed to the violence of the colonial project. Colonial powers created hierarchies among and between people, often relying on pre-existing ethnic tensions to strengthen rule. These hierarchies ranked things like skin colour, sexuality, and class. The ultimate objective was to utilize 'divide and conquer' rhetoric: allowing some subjects to experience benefits because of their perceived likeness to the colonizers, while harshly denying basic rights to other subjects because of their essentialized difference. The phenomenon of fracturing is not subconscious. Rather, it is an intentionally-implemented used tool to uphold colonial rule.

This history is simplistic, and obviously does not account for the entirety of the story. While divisions may or may not have existed before, the intense violence and aftermath of the colonial project exacerbated differences and constructed more points of tension.

White supremacy, the system colonialism continues to use to justify violence, benefits from fractures among and within communities. White supremacist fracturing is perpetuated by everything from the 'model minority' myth, which is used to erase the racism and whitewashing experienced within communities, such as the Asian American and Asian Canadian communities; to capitalist framing of rights and empowerment as finite resources in a zero-sum game. These myths are used to put marginalized communities into competition with one another and disregard any potential for intersectional marginalization or oppression on the basis of multiple identity features such as race, gender identity, class, ability, or sexual orientation. When combined, these myths squash resistance movements by negating the possibility of communities of solidarity.

What is solidarity?

Solidarity is tricky, because it is seems intuitive yet remains curiously elusive. Current discourse frames solidarity more as a buzzword than as a fully fledged concept, which makes it harder to understand what it means and how it manifests in our communities.

To explain it in the simplest terms possible, solidarity is similar to support and allyship. All of these things - solidarity, support, and allyship - involve an intention to unite bodies, and are motivated by a strong sense of compassion. Additionally, all of these forces speak to the power of community and the strength of community-based organizing.

However, solidarity differs from support and allyship in fundamental and essential ways. Bell hooks conceptualizes the distinction between solidarity and support as something that is ongoing versus something that can be given or withdrawn at any time. In addition, having been in a number of support circles, I've noticed that there tends to be a power differential, in that the person giving 'support' is seen as having power over the person requiring support.

Solidarity also differs from allyship. While allyship can be incredibly impactful, it still tends to be based on power differentials. An 'ally' is someone in a position of relative privilege who may not personally relate to the struggle at hand, but wishes to show compassion and support. Even the most well-informed and best-intentioned ally can unwittingly cause harm by not acknowledging the power that they hold over the people they wish to help.

If support and allyship can be defined as forms of sympathy, solidarity can then be defined as empathy. It usually involves marginalized bodies and groups. While there is recognition that bodies and groups don't necessarily experience harm or violence in the same way, there is also a sense of affinity based on shared experiences of institutional harm.

Solidarity matters because it offers us an alternative to 'colour-blind' narratives. Solidarity matters because it undermines constructions of division. Solidarity matters because it allows us to build communities based on similarity as opposed to difference (i.e., 'we can both relate to being Othered,' as opposed to 'you are the Other and I am the Self').

What would a community of solidarity look like?

The nice thing about solidarity is that it is already a tangible phenomenon in place. We've seen it in reactions to the Ferguson protests, as spaces were created to forge relationships and discuss impactful global change. Recently, representatives from the Black Lives Matter movement joined a ten-day trip with the Dream Defenders to foster linkages with Palestinians in the Occupied Territories and Israel. There has been similar organizing within parts of the Asian American community, including a photo campaign to stand in solidarity with the Black Lives Matter movement.

While the potential for cross-community organizing is incredible, a lot of the labour of building a community of solidarity can be done on an individual basis. As a marginalized body, my process of solidarity begins with listening. We need to work to fully listen to and validate the concerns of other marginalized bodies, because it provides space for people to articulate their experiences of structurally-enacted violence. When people have the language to recall their experience, they have an arsenal that they can use to call out harmful behavior when it happens. Additionally, fostering an environment where people feel safe and heard restores legitimacy to their lived experience. When people feel like their perspectives are legitimate, it allows them to heal from the harm done by forces that actively try to convince them that they fabricated their experiences.

Another way that we can work to ensure solidarity is through the power of relationships. I firmly believe that relationships are the capital that motivate social change. Being in spaces where marginalized bodies can understand, respect, and celebrate one another is important because it empowers individuals and empowers communities. Additionally, these spaces serve as places of self-care and collective care, which are essential when taking on the labour of reducing harm and resisting harmful systems.

These suggestions may be simplistic, but I do not feel that they are fixed. One of the most exciting things about working to build a community of solidarity is that there's always room for improvement, always space for new information. While I do not have a starry-eyed, idyllic conception of a world free from structural harm (there's always work to be done), I find a lot of hope in models of care and solidarity.