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Ahannakee dhivésséh (I am an Islander)
Ahannakee dhivésséh.
Kalhu meehhéh noon. Dhon meehhéh noon.
Mushi meehhéh noon.Dhivésséh.
Ahannakee dhivésséh.
Muslimméh noon. Kaafarréh noon.
Munafiqéh noon. Dhivésséh.
Aharengé naaru thakugé therey vindhu
jahanee maa singaa kandugé lonu.
Boa buri koffa génbiyas,
kandu gé andhiri gandu theré ah féhthiyas,
aharénn hithugé adeega vaanee amaankan.
Magey suvaru geygai neyvaalaakkah nujehé.
Magey rattéhinnakee bimu ga hingaa bodaa boa haru soofi éh noon.
Ahannakee dhivésséh.
Aharengé sikundi akee muraka bageechaa éh.
Dhanvaru hanguraama koh ley ohoruvaa kula gadha bimméh.
Miyaru maskaa hiyani therey boava filaa jungayyéh.
Hibaru kalhi alhaa kalhu thelu gé therey roa koffa inna faanooz éh.
Ahannakee dhivésséh.
Ahannakee farubadha éh noon.
Hanafas saharaa évvéss noon.
Ahannakee dhivésséh.
Mathanuvaa irugé avee gé dhashuga andhaa rashakkah ufan véfaivaa gadhafadha janavaarréh.
With English Translation:
Ahannakee dhivésséh.
[I am an islander]
Kalhu meehhéh noon. Dhon meehhéh noon.
Mushi meehhéh noon.Dhivésséh.
[Not a black person. Not a fair (white) person.
Not a brown person. An islander]
Ahannakee dhivésséh.
[I am an islander]
Muslimméh noon. Kaafarréh noon.
Munafiqéh noon. Dhivésséh.
[Not a Muslim. Not an infidel.
Not a hypocrite. An islander]
Aharengé naaru thakugé therey vindhu
jahanee maa singaa kandugé lonu.
[The salt of the vast ocean
pulses through my veins.]
Boa buri koffa génbiyas,
kandu gé andhiri gandu theré ah féhthiyas,
aharénn hithugé adeega vaanee amaankan.
[Even if you behead and drown me,
even if you sink me down into the darkness of the sea,
at the bottom of my heart is serenity.]
Magey suvaru geygai neyvaalaakkah nujehé.
Magey rattéhinnakee bimu ga hingaa bodaa boa haru soofi éh noon.
[My paradise does not require breath.
My friends are not the arrogant and stubborn insects
that walk this earth.]
Ahannakee dhivésséh.
[I am an islander]
Aharengé sikundi akee muraka bageechaa éh.
Dhanvaru hanguraama koh ley ohoruvaa kula gadha bimméh.
[My mind is a coral garden.
A colourful land where wars are fought
and blood is spilt in the dark of the night.]
Miyaru maskaa hiyani therey boava filaa jungayyéh.
Hibaru kalhi alhaa kalhu thelu gé therey roa koffa inna faanooz éh.
[Where octopus hide amongst the shadow of a feasting shark.
A lantern that burns within the black oil from where the swordfish stares.]
Ahannakee dhivésséh.
[I am an islander]
Ahannakee farubadha éh noon.
Hanafas saharaa évvéss noon.
[I am not a mountain.
Neither am I a barren desert.]
Ahannakee dhivésséh.
[I am an islander]
Mathanuvaa irugé avee gé dhashuga andhaa rashakkah ufan véfaivaa gadhafadha janavaarréh.
[A mighty animal, born to an island that burns under the unrelenting sun.]
Why Do I Write In English?
Is there an easy answer to this question? Primarily I think I speak and write in English because it has been necessary for my survival. Most people from the Maldives are bilingual because of this reason. Our language, Dhivehi, is only spoken by us. And of us there are not many.
Is there an easy answer to this question? Primarily I think I speak and write in English because it has been necessary for my survival. Most people from the Maldives are bilingual because of this reason. Our language, Dhivehi, is only spoken by us. And of us there are not many. You could even argue that Dhivehi as we used to know it is dead. Instead in it’s place we have something you could call Dhinglish. Most Maldivians speak this way; quickly switching between languages on the fly. You could start a sentence off with Dhivehi and end it with English and it would still make perfect sense to most people. Some see this as a bad thing, but I see it as a natural progression of the Dhivehi language. Before we were forced to adapt to the English speaking globalised world, we had to adapt to Arabic after we were forcefully converted to Islam. The amount of Arabic words Maldivians suddenly had to use in their vocabulary made it necessary; even the script was changed almost entirely to accommodate the Arabic language – with Dhives script looking almost nothing like modern Thaana; which is actually based on the characters used for the Arabic counting system.
But I digress. Why do I write in English? If I were to write in Dhivehi, it would certainly help keep the language alive; but who would read it if not for other Maldivians? Is there a point to maintaining such an echo chamber? Many conservative writers publish in Dhivehi exclusively for this very reason as it provides an easy way to conceal their more bizarre ideas from the rest of the world. If I had the time or the riches I would write in both languages. I have neither, so I might as well write in English so that what I write can be understood by most people around the world. Maybe if I spoke French or something like that I could have more vehemently stuck with my mother tongue; but alas I do not. There are simply not enough of us, and our power and influence on the global stage is so negligible that we might as well not exist. Maumoon, for all his faults, recognised this and made it a point to infuse English learning into the education system.
English serves as a kind of bridging language. When I speak with my Indian or Sri Lankan friends, we do not speak in the familiar sounds of a common South Asian language, but in English. Despite our languages sounding similar and having a similar root, if we were both to stick to the language of our ancestors, we wouldn’t understand what was being said at all. It’s the same situation with almost every bilingual person I’ve ever met. The common bridge between us, what lets us understand one another, is English.
But does that answer the whole story? In the future when another language has become the global bridging language perhaps these words will also be translated to a more accessible tongue. But for now, what gave English so much power? Why do I write in English?
I believe a part of the answer would lie in the current dominance of English language media. America rules the world, not through it’s army, but through Hollywood and their entertainment industry. Their hold on the global psyche is immense. Kids from my hometown call each other “nigger” just to sound cool. Many people comment on my accent and say that it sounds American. How strange is that? In 2015, Game of Thrones was the most pirated TV show in the entire world. There isn’t enough of a market to justify translating such popular shows into languages like Dhivehi, so what do we do? We watch the English versions.
This makes me wonder if the American dominance of such media is because of it’s quality or because of the fact that it’s in English makes it readily consumable by a global audience. I say this because even if I’m watching something in another language altogether like Japanese, it’s because of the English subtitles that I am able to comprehend it at all. These English subtitles exist because there is a significant market for English speakers; and for people such as myself, it is much easier to just rely on these subtitles rather than learn yet another language. Thus, rather ironically, the key to disrupting the dominance of English media might actually be to increase the accessibility of content in other languages by making sure English subtitles are always available.
There are no programs that automatically translate English captions to Dhivehi or vice versa; but Dhivehi media captioned in English can potentially be translated to a variety of languages with relative ease – instantly making Dhivehi language media accessible to a global audience. For example here is an excellent short documentary about a Maldivian icon called Nasira by Hulhevi media. If they had chosen not to subtitle their work the audience for it would have been severely restricted to just the half a million or so people in the world who speak Dhivehi.
Even the internet itself, and indeed many computer languages, is built upon an understanding of English and Latin characters. I am not sure if it would even be technically possible to have a URL in Dhivehi because of the marks we use around letters to signify vowels. My point being, if I didn’t know English, would I even be able to use computers? Or the internet? Or my phone? Once again, a lack of a market means that there have never been any operating systems etc that have a Dhivehi language interface.
The Maldives is at extreme risk of global factors such as climate change. If I don’t understand English, how would I even begin to understand and comprehend the research and dialogue around the issue? Like I said earlier, learning and being fluent in English for me is a matter of survival. One of the first things some people have said to me, especially within a university environment, has been “oh you speak SUCH good English!”. I know they mean no wrong, but for some reason the statement never fails to annoy me. Of course I speak good English! Why are you so surprised? Is it because you thought your language too challenging for someone in my skin? Maybe I find it so annoying because it makes me feel constantly judged; and makes me wonder what people who say such things think about people who don’t speak “such good English”.
When Mohamed Nasheed made his plea on the global stage for the world to be more mindful of how it’s excesses affect small island nations such as the Maldives; do you think they would have listened if he did not speak “such good English”? The plight of nations such as the Maldives makes me incredibly suspicious of people who want to do things like leave uncontacted tribes forever in the dark. Are we really that naive as to think they will truly be unaffected by our actions simply because we have not directly interacted with them? Will they not see the effects of the world in their immediate surroundings? Will they not notice the lack of food once, say the forestry industry, has encircled their entire ancestral homeland? Do they not deserve to be told what’s happening to the world that is as much theirs as it is ours? And once they speak on a global stage, how would we understand them, if not through translations or subtitles in English?
So ultimately, I think the reason I write in English is because I have no other choice.
Athireege' Thaana 0.1
It reads "hurihā insānun ves ufanvanī, daraja āi ḥaqqu takugai minivankamāi hamahamakan libigenvā ba-egge gotuga-eve" (All human beings are born free and equal in ranking and rights - Article 1 of the UDHR).
A font I have recently created which is an almost exact replica of "Athireege' Thaana" or "Vadaan Kashi" thaana.
You can download v. 0.1 from here.
At this point it's all manual and I haven't added in any "fili" yet. I am loving the look of this without fili so I might even just leave it like this. It follows the inputs of most standard thaana fonts. You are free to do whatever the hell you want with it.
For the Sake of Progress
A line of coral stone houses will eventually be demolished and replaced with constructions made of neat concrete bricks.
Thulhaadhoo, Baa Atoll, Maldives. (2009)
The Sustainable Fishing Practices of Dhivehi Reef Fishermen (and how the resort industry is screwing them over).
During my time at the Marine Research Centre of the Maldives as a research trainee, I was fortunate enough to go along on one of their reef-fish tagging expeditions to Baa Atoll in February of 2009.
We would go out with the fishermen on their fishing trips during which we would record the daily catch, tag specimens and retrieve tags from specimens which had been released earlier.
We would almost always leave in the early twilight hours and would often not return until it was nearly midnight; dropping off hundreds of kilos of fish to one of the many resorts in the atoll.
For me the most interesting part about all this was not how they catch tons of fish with their hands, instead of nets or rods, or even how they get paid next to nothing by greedy resort operators (more on that later in this article), it was how they would almost always start off the cycle with nothing.
The sun sets as the fishermen make their last attempts at a catch. On that particular day they were after a shoal of yellow-fin tuna, a delicious and high valued fish, that they had the luck of finding.
During my time at the Marine Research Centre of the Maldives as a research trainee, I was fortunate enough to go along on one of their reef-fish tagging expeditions to Baa Atoll in February of 2009.
Marine Research Centre researchers tag a Blue Fin Trevally or Fani Handhi as it is known in Dhivehi.
We would go out with the fishermen on their fishing trips during which we would record the daily catch, tag specimens and retrieve tags from specimens which had been released earlier.
We would almost always leave in the early twilight hours and would often not return until it was nearly midnight; dropping off hundreds of kilos of fish to one of the many resorts in the atoll.
For me the most interesting part about all this was not how they catch tons of fish with their hands, instead of nets or rods, or even how they get paid next to nothing by greedy resort operators (more on that later in this article), it was how they would almost always start off the cycle with nothing.
They did not leave bait for the next day and they did not buy it.
Every morning they would head out to find a good reef and on the way there they would use trolling lines to catch that all important first fish. It would usually be one of the many predatory fish which lurk along the edges of the reef like a latti.
They usually only needed to catch one as their plan was much more elegant than simply slicing the fish into bait chunks.
Instead, they would grind it into a fine chum, which would then be placed inside a jar or similar waterproof container.
A fisherman collects the chum he has createdinto a water-tight glass jar
The men make a team and spread out to search a wider area for bait fish
Once they were satisfied that they had enough, the search would begin for a reef which housed an adequate number of muguraan or fusiliers. They would usually do this by sight, slowly driving along the edges of different reefs, instead of relying on fish-finders or other devices.
One a shoal was spotted, the Dhoni would be left to drift near the top of it and a man would sneak into the water; making sure not to make too many splashes incase it scared the fish away.
One of the men spots a shoal
He makes sure to swim silently, disturbing the water as little as possible.
He would wear a mask, snorkel and fins and in his hands he would hold the jar full of chum.
He would slowly sink down until he hovered in the liquid space above the shoal. He would then open up the jar and release into the crystal water a few pinches of the ground up flesh
A slow and steady descent; almost to the bottom of reef.
At first the muguraan would act disinterested, but a few would suddenly break formation to swim up and nip at the fresh fish.
It would perk the interest of more and more of the palm sized fish and the man would slowly lead them upwards, away from the relative safety of the ocean floor.
After a while the whole shoal would be in frenzy, with even a few other species of fish joining in to try and get at the chum.
The net descends. The fishermen make sure to catch only the bait they are targeting.
While this is happening, the dhoni would pull alongside the shoal and a team of men would descend into the water, after dropping a weighted net that usually spanned the length of the entire vessel.
They would dive deep below the elevated shoal and surface on the opposite side; neatly encircling it.
The net would then be hauled back in and the fish would be placed into one of the many sea-water filled tanks in the hull of the dhoni where they would be kept alive for the rest of the day.
If they hadn’t caught enough by this point they would simply use one of the muguraan for chum and repeat the process.
Despite the few courageous stragglers, the catch would almost always be entirely made up of different species of muguraan; exactly the kind of live bait that reef-fish find irresistible.
Close-up of Muguraan shoal
Bait hull full, they would set out to find a channel or reef where they can finally begin to catch the large reef-fish species from which they make their daily bread. They do this with handlines, using the muguraan as both live bait and an attractant; with one of the men throwing fistfuls of the live fish out over the reef.
Because of the targeted nature, and also because the net never touches the bottom of the reef, I found this method of bait procurement and fishing to be incredibly efficient while having a marvellously low impact on the environment.
The catch is stored in the hull until they reach the resort. Here you can see a variety of fish from snappers and groupers to jobfish and trevally. Juveniles and unwanted fish are usually released back.
These men work long and hard beneath the scorching tropical sun in order to support their families.
Many have sun damage in their eyes because they do not own sunglasses to protect themselves from the harsh reflections of the sun against the ocean.
Their lifestyle is worlds apart from the techno-centric denizens of the capital and the comfortable air-conditioned rooms of the resort owners that treat them so poorly. They work tirelessly to catch enough fish to earn a living while the overwhelming majority of the resorts treat them like slaves. They bought the fish at a per kilo rate that was abysmally low for the effort and work they put into catching it.
As I recall back then (in 2009) they were being paid less than a dollar per kilo of fish that would later be sold to tourists at exorbitantly inflated rates per fillet. Indeed most of the justification for the prices they sell these premium dishes tourists for comes from the freshness of the fish. No doubt they are subconsciously misled to believe that the fishermen are being paid well.
The irony of it is that it’s not hard to imagine more forward thinking people paying them extra because of the sustainability of their methods. Just imagine how difficult it has been to convince some fishermen in other countries to give up practices such as dynamite fishing and trawling for example.
We asked some of the men if they had ever requested a raise and they replied saying that many of the resorts responded by threatening to import the fish instead. The livelihood of the fishermen, to the resort owners, was expendable and inconsequential; in other words, the fishermen weren’t selling the fish to the resorts, the resorts were allowing them to sell it to them as if they were doing them some favour.
“They said that if we protest and ask for more money, they can easily import the fish we provide at even cheaper rates, what are we supposed to even do? We wouldn’t even have this money then!” said one man.
The resort owners and managers were thus insidiously aware of the power they wielded over the fishermen as they were the ones who controlled their income.
In some ways the hardest work only begins for these men at the end of the day.
A few resorts would even make the men de-gut and prepare the fish for free, which would leave them at the resort for many hours into the night of what had already been a long and exhausting day. All of the resorts made them thoroughly clean up after they were done but from memory there was only one resort which provided adequate space and hygiene facilities for this task. The happiness the men felt whenever they sold to that particular resort was obvious on their faces and the manner with which they handled themselves during the task. By comparison, when gutting fish at other resorts, where the “facilities” would consist of a tiled floor with a few taps, there would always be an unease hanging in the air; a sickly feeling of unacknowledged oppression, broken only by the cheerful wisecracks that the men would pull on each other to lift spirits and break out of their tired daze.
The rays gathered near the Dhoni in anticipation before the men had even stepped off from it.
To add insult to injury, one of the resorts even forbade them to bring in the fish via the service docks. Instead they were forced to dock their dhoni at the edge and then wade through the lagoon until they reached the beach. To get there, they had to pass through a shoal of enormous stingrays (it is common practice for resorts to regularly feed and “tame” them), which attacked the sacks full of fish with much vigour.
Disgusted, several other Research Centre employees and I went to try and speak with the manager to see if he was aware of the situation. It turned out that he, even though he was a Maldivian himself, was more than aware and was instead rather pleased with himself for coming up with the arrangement. His justification was that it kept the service docks clean of blood and insisted that it would be terrible for a tourist to have to see such mess. The sting rays, he insisted, “were not that big a deal”.
He said this with a straight face and an expression which seemed as if we should be thanking him for this great service. It didn’t help his case that the service docks, being what they were, were barely even seen by guests at all during the daytime; let alone at the late hours (often after 10PM, sometimes as late as midnight) that the fishermen came through.
With their methods they show a natural love for the environment that was not born of books and research but from the sheer experience of having to rely on nature for their sustenance. They never admitted it or acknowledged it, but I could tell that they knew that their methods were just. They could easily use much more damaging methods of fisheries and increase their haul, exploiting the reef in the manner that the resort owners are exploiting them, but for some inexplicable reason they don’t.
They care too much for these waters. They know every fish by name, they know every reef, they know every little uninhabited island that would eventually be turned into a resort and they knew what would come with that resort; the chains of oppression, disguised in the promise of opportunity and riches. More than anything else, most of the men seemed to know who they were. They were men of the sea and they did not struggle with themselves to accept that identity. Their ancestors had sailed these oceans since time immemorial. Long before the Mayflower, long before Mohammed, Jesus, or even Buddha had been born, Dhivehin had already started their love affair with the ocean. With handlines, determination and skill they would catch amounts that would make a trawler captain blush in shame. They knew how to fish and they were superb at it. They loved the ocean and the ocean loved them back.
They were also among the nicest and most humble people I have ever met.
This blatant exploitation and disrespect towards the artisans of our nation’s oldest profession by greedy businessmen is unacceptable and is one of the greatest unspoken tragedies of our island nation.
All photographs © Hani Amir.
CONTENT WARNING: Self harm, suicide, abuse, homophobia
How You Make Me Feel | Digital | (2022)
There is a lot I want to say about this piece. I draw in an unplanned, organic way. When things appear in my imagination, I add them in.
I imagined hands coming down as spiders, throwing out hooks, manipulating my face, my emotions, how I appear to the outside world.
The hooks would pull and tear at my skin, as the lines pulled through bone and sinew.
Why illustrate such violence towards oneself? Well for one thing it is better than hurting my physical body.
Through the process of this illustration I realised I was expressing some deep traumas that I have not really addressed directly. When I look back at the body of my work, it is obvious where I have subconsciously explored these feelings. In deciding to make this piece with more focus, I found that it drained and took a lot out of me. I worked on it tirelessly until it all came into focus, and when it did, I felt a tidal wave of exhaustion but also relief.
I feel like the time is right to share these stories. They will provide context for this work.