Omar Davis has already done a whole lot. Even the most cursory google of their best-known alias Moore Kismet reveals a host of times that they were the first, times they were the youngest — times when they were like, wait, what is happening here? “When did I get a Wikipedia page? What the hell did I do to get in this position?” At seventeen, Omar Davis is still finding that out.

 

In Hindi, the word kismet means fate, or perhaps it’s luck, or maybe, it might even be destiny. It’s hard to be sure precisely in English, but whatever the case, they are big boots to fill, and yet Davis, at least, is clear on what it means to them. “I’ve never felt more secure being Moore Kismet. Moreso than I’ve ever felt with any other alias,” they say sincerely. “It’s essentially a manifestation of exactly what I want to do and what I want to accomplish in my life.” They’ve created under that alias for six years already, and it’s telling of their personal and artistic energy that they can grapple with topics writ large in the mind of every adolescent without ever making it about themself.

 

“I want everything to resonate with somebody. I want everything that I create to not only resonate with me, but to make people feel something other than the idea that this song is a banger. I want to write storytelling compositions that don’t compromise on listenability and still tell a good story. Music is telling stories that captivate people, that give them a deeper understanding.”

 

Where many songwriters prefer not to reveal their intentions, Moore Kismet wants to share. Like every other teenager on the planet, Omar Davis wants to be understood, but unlike so many other teenagers out there, people are actually listening. And why? Well, people are not just listening to Moore Kismet because they make bangers (and they definitely do), but because when they listen to Moore Kismet, it feels like being heard.

 

There’s an honesty to youth that is both refreshing and intimidating—refreshing in its ability to transcend those hard-learned, sharp-edged, and decidedly rigid norms of everyday life, and intimidating in its frank admission of vulnerability. Whether bruised and swollen or vibrant and joyous, Moore Kismet always offers something for others to lean into. Their ability to articulate so much experience so soon is admirable and, by the same measure, enviable. But, unfortunately, in the music industry, that honesty can be hard to come by. Omar has already been in the industry for five years, and that experience has come with its tough learnings. “A lot of people in the music industry are in the music industry for the wrong reason,” they mention knowingly. “No matter how much we touch on that, no matter how much you continue to speak about that, people acknowledge that it’s an issue in the moment, but they don’t do shit about it later. I know, for a lot of people, it’s difficult because people still view me as this little kid, and they still view me as this person who doesn’t know about adult things and therefore cannot help with navigating adult things.”

 

Admittedly, the feeling of being unseen is a familiar reprise from any young person, but for Omar Davis, and thus for Moore Kismet, the problem is doubled in scope. Young people are exposed to the issues of adulthood at an early age, and it would be hard to argue against the idea that anyone involved in the music industry from their pre-teens must have learned many a lesson, both hard and fast. Beyond that, though, what legitimate reason is there to think that a successful seventeen-year-old musician in an industry that has often ignored the music and experiences of people like Omar – that very thing that has made them so relatable – wouldn’t know what they’re doing? It’s worth remembering that Omar Davis is a young, Black non-binary artist that is thriving in an industry trademarked by a frankly kafkaesque opacity and barrier of entry.

 

Still, that number seventeen surrounds Moore Kismet. Until, at some unforeseen point, it is universally agreed that they are old enough to own those experiences without having to mention the number as if it were a qualifier for their artistic integrity. Moore Kismet is already wielding and molding those experiences into popular art with nimble precision. “I feel like I’m in a position with the things that I create and put out into the world where I can make a genuine shift in inspiring people.” Yet, their age is also legally bound to some of the more banal facts of life.

 

Davis is from Adelanto, California. A satellite city two hours outside of Los Angeles, give or take. Where there is neither much traffic nor density of experience at all. Definitely an issue for any young person, let alone an aspiring artist. “I never got a chance to perform at any local shows, in part because there was nothing up here and in part because I’m 17. At the time I was starting to blow up and get more notoriety and respect as a musician, especially as a trans musician, I didn’t have my driver’s license. So I couldn’t do shows, and I could not perform because I couldn’t drive myself anywhere, and I was too young to get into venues. The only way I would be able to get in any venue is if my mom or manager and a gigantic entourage of friends or close acquaintances were with me the entire night. And I’m pretty sure they were fucking sick and tired of babysitting me the whole night.”

 

In LA, proximity to stardom has a double effect. On the one hand, there’s the world of possibility on the edge of one’s stoop. On the other, there’s comfort in anonymity and the knowledge that whatever you do and whoever you are, you are not the only one. Davis walks this line with grace, humor and humility, while always maintaining a healthy appetite to have more. “My last show directly coincided with the day after my finals. So, I passed my finals, finished the first semester, and celebrated by performing in a stadium in front of a thousand people on the other side of the country. I’m like, fuck, who fucking does that? The way I used to celebrate getting good grades was I would go out with my family to fucking Baskin Robbins, get a quart of chocolate ice cream and then like, eat half of it and watch movies with my mom.”

 

They’re clear to add that family has been a significant influence on their confidence, stability, and success – Davis’ Grandma picked them up from school right on the bell to get them to this interview on time. “I’ve been in Adelanto for the past 15 years. My mom moved away and separated from my dad when I was two years old. I think it was just for us to be in a more stable and comfortable environment where we both could grow to be a lot happier and a lot safer in the position we’re in now. I’ve been making music in this very room ever since I was six years old.”

 

Like any teenager, Moore Kismet’s music is imbued with all the experiential doubt of youth but also with the dyed-in-the-wool support of those around them. Vulnerability is a double-edged sword, and Omar Davis has felt the nick of each side. “The first time I came out to my mom as non-binary and at the time, bisexual – I now identify as pansexual – being transgender, but not outwardly changing my appearance but just identifying this way and understanding that I feel this way and that I lean this way. She sat down and listened.” Yet as with anyone else, parts of Davis’ family life are strained, especially towards their father. “I commented on something that E.J. Johnson was wearing on a photo that came up on his Facebook feed. It was these thigh-high boots and this fluffy cheetah print outfit and a Birkin bag. And I’m like, ‘Oh, they could have picked a better jacket, but the rest of the outfit is cute.’” And in return? “I got a fucking two-hour lecture about the perks of being straight.”

 

“It’s a very difficult experience that my mom and I have had to navigate the past few years. When he calls, I never get an opportunity to get a word in, but then literally, he texted me the other day to let me know that he watched my gay-ass music video with my ex-boyfriend and said that he liked it. In a more restrained and general sense, I know that relationship with him influences my music and what I create. I know that at some point, he’s going to end up seeing this and reading it and getting a deeper understanding of how exactly it is.”

 

Just as with age, there is no talking about Moore Kismet without talking about identity. To grapple with essential questions of oneself and come out on top without the tacit knowledge of respect and safety extended to many other people, inspires empathy. It’s a topic that Davis understands and engages with rare intuition, having seen both sides extended to them so distinctly. “Showing empathy to somebody to me means making a genuine effort to show somebody that you care and that you’re listening and that you’re understanding their situation.” That outlook is something that has extended into their own life. “I want to be as understanding as I can because I didn’t have the same experience as everybody else did. I had a wonderful mother and her incredible best friend. They understand me, how I am, what I create and do as a human being, and how that connects to my art.”

 

Of course, it’s important to note that while Moore Kismet can confidently inhabit this identity, it’s not Omar Davis’ job or responsibility to teach it to anyone. Naturally, they say they don’t mind explaining to anyone who is “genuinely interested and wants to make a better effort to be respectful and accommodating.” But more often than not, they simply don’t mention it. “I just tell people to use the proper pronouns and then go about my day. It’s a lot easier than trying to give them a fucking Encyclopedia Britannica definition of what non-binary is because that’s not even going to work because not everyone has the capacity to understand that. So I’m just like, yo, my pronouns are they/them. Hopefully, you can get down with that. If not, so be it. That’s your own issue.”

 

It’s tricky because there remains a sect of EDM that is heavily associated with a certain white cis male identity. Doubly problematic because most people are taught the value of role models from a young age. On that topic, Davis maintains a healthy distance. “I really don’t think that I am a role model in any way. I’m just doing what I’m doing to help myself and protect and express my emotions — the things that go on in my mind and the things that go on in my life.” Like a lot of what Davis says, it comes across as remarkably level-headed despite their often giddy tone and ever-smiling manner. The case against role models is that no one needs to be the voice for anyone but themselves. To heap the pressure of expectation on a young person is essentially to wait for them to buckle beneath that weight.

 

On the topic of EDM culture, Davis is careful not to get drawn too closely into any overly simplistic notions of what that might be. “I’ve tried my level best to distance myself from that. I’ve always had a deeper understanding of the fact that I could make something that reaches beyond this one singular label. I’ve gotten the opportunity to think about what that is and to start staying away from that part of my life that, yeah, I did grow up in, and think how much better it is for me that I’m not entirely involved in it anymore and that I’m slowly working my way out of being pigeonholed in this phase.”

 

Getting typecast as one thing or another is at the forefront of the minds of artists of every kind, and it’s difficult not to feel that for Moore Kismet, the issue is even more immediate. Everyone has an opinion on who they are, school kid, prodigy, disruptor, or unintentional icon. They are just focusing on themselves, their music, and the people around them. But remember that just as they are lauded, fetishized even, for being a young person in an exceptional situation. Remember that young person is ultimately just a regular teenager. Asking themselves the same questions of agency, identity, family and future. And Omar Davis is no different.

And the days after that, when you came to Germany in 1965. I have often asked myself how your time here in Germany began and what you experienced. Particularly the time before you came to Mannheim. Those two years you spent alone in Hamburg. I haven’t had the chance to ask you how it was when you were traveling alone for the first time, far away from your family. Not even my parents could help me illuminate the memories that remain in the dark.
I want to see what you saw and walk in the same shoes you walked in. From the first meters in Hamburg’s central station to the ones that brought you to the workers’ shelters in Wilhelmsburg. I want to understand what this arrival in Hamburg triggered in you. What were the first things you did there? Did you get a fish roll you knew so well from your home in Balikesir? Only to find out that the fish was pickled and not grilled, as you had expected it to be. What was your first impression? A first impression that can often be the most important and the most directional. I want to immerse myself into your emotional state on the day you arrived, and even beyond that, I want to understand the consequences not just for you, but later, for me too.

You lived with five other contract workers in a two-room apartment with a small eat-in kitchen; you worked as a peat cutter in Altona; and it took you three days to travel the Balkan Route from Istanbul to Hamburg. You traveled alone – what souvenirs from your home did you bring in your suitcase? You most certainly packed your extravagant shirts with the extra-wide collars (which often caused you to be picked on back in your village) as well as your flasks with their strong, oily scents. But what else? I doubt that you brought presents or pictures of your family. 

You were never a guy of great gestures. I would still like to know how your farewell was when you started your endless Balkan journey across many of Europe’s historical cities in the early spring of 1965. It must have felt like a departure into an unknown world filled with hope. A new chance and escape out of the crisis-ridden Turkey. Leaving the farm work behind and entering newfound prosperity. The slow screeching halt, the sluggish acceleration of the train and even the shrill whistles of the conductors – it must have sounded like hope in your ears. However, the fact that you left your family behind surely caused some turmoil.

Chasing the promises of others, many young men moved to Germany without their families, even before you. After the overwhelmingly positive response of the first wave, showcasing pictures in front of German cars and envelopes with money, you followed suit in the second wave. In retrospect, we know better. Most of the stories turned out to be beautifications of the real world.
Nowadays, when arriving in new countries I can use my English skills in airports and train stations to find my footing. But without it I would be completely lost. In your time, there was little to nothing in the way of preparation for a contract worker embarking on a new life in Germany. Germany was not interested in your culture or family; they wanted you for your strong arms. Your stay was supposed to be temporary, not eternal. And just like that, alone, you arrived in Germany without any knowledge about their culture and their language. 

 Presumably you didn’t let the stress and cluelessness show at all and jumped off the train with the many other young workers and silently made your way through the station. Asking for help was not your style.
Did the ‘promised land’ meet your expectations on arrival? Or had you hoped for something else? You had probably expected a more joyful reception. But then again, maybe you were happy about the lack of a reception committee. You never liked festivals, even the big traditional family farewells with their drums and fanfares were kept as infrequent as possible or, ideally, avoided all together. 

I remember very clearly a certain scene when we said goodbye to you, my grandmother and my brother at the end of my first school year. My father had to work for a few more days and you had decided that the three of you would leave for the summer vacations in Turkey and that we would follow later. It was a big deal for my parents to let my eleven-year-old brother travel with you. While the entire neighborhood gathered around the old Mercedes in the parking lot of our apartment complex for a barbecue and goodbyes, you stayed in your room until it was time to leave. Even the suitcases were loaded into the boot of the old pastel green limousine single handedly by my dad. When everyone was ready, you swung behind the wheel with a quick goodbye and were already around the corner before we could even pour the water behind the car. Even our custom of pouring water behind travelers didn’t sit well with you, although all we wanted to wish for was your journey to flow like water. I remember this situation so clearly as your peculiar behaviour left everybody behind feeling perplexed. Years later the story allowed a lot of laughter. Was your farewell in 1965 as short lived? You kept everybody around you at arm’s length. Were you afraid of hurting or disappointing others?

The fact that no one greeted you at the station must have been convenient for you, since you liked to keep your distance. But still, you must have been a little disappointed. You were not gifted a moped, which the one millionth contract worker had received from the Federal Republic of Germany as an arrival gift at the end of the 50s. Nor were you greeted with a jubilant reception from the masses or a bouquet of flowers. You were merely labeled as one of the many millions of other workers who poured into the economic miracle country every day to rebuild the country. No rapprochement, no welcome, no handshake. In Turkey you had your family, but no work. Here you had work, but the price was loneliness. A simple temporary exchange. Only you can know the answer to the question of what was better for you.
The way I got to know you, you probably followed your own nose anyway and made your way to the best of your knowledge and conscience towards Wilhelmsburg and your designated rental barracks. Years later, in a conversation with my brother, to whom you were most devoted in the family, I learned of your living situation. You only ever mentioned the barracks to my brother fleetingly, ensuring not too much information is revealed. Who were your roommates? Did you drink after-work beers, you and the nameless, once you finished pricking the peat? Did you mix up your socks, the six of you living in 30sqm? I hope you managed to laugh from time to time.

As a child, I once had a vague experience with peat myself. We visited a swamp area with school at a former old Rhine tributary . In the early 20th century this area was used to grow peat. Our guide showed us the workers gear and outfits, explaining how the peat was pricked. Usually there were three groups with three different tasks. Firstly, the first 30 cm of soil layers had to be removed. This exposed a one to two meter thick peat layer. During the night time, workers filled the deduction graves with pressurised water. Therefore, the so called water man had to get up 2 hours early, often around 3 am. 

The detourer cut the peat into even blocks in the size of a brick. Thereon, the engraver cut the pieces below and to the side. They used a peat knife and the peek of the blade was the precise width the pleat had to be. The wages and selling price were based on every 1000 peat pieces. You and your fellow flat mates probably worked as the water man, tormentingly dragging yourself out of bed at 3 am, wearing rubber dungarees in the ditch. Thinking about it I realise how privileged I am in life. Together you cut and lifted the heavy peat briquettes. The more the better. I can hardly imagine how you were standing there in the velvety sediment, lifting one after the other during the Hamburg rain drizzle.  I see you in my mind’s eye, standing knee-deep in this bog, a light steam rising from you, your forehead shining damply, whether it’s your sweat or the drizzle, one can’t know, but you plod on, everyone plods on, because every stitch brings money. Every stitch is a reason why you left Turkey for Germany.

Yet you remained silent about it. I wonder, did you gladly come to Germany? Or do you regret your decision?

It was not only you that kept your story to yourself, but countless other contract workers did so, too. This narrative is strikingly common in my circle of friends. There remains a collective silence among the first generation, as if the time between arrival and family reunification had been left out. Maybe you would all like to erase this time period from your memory? What happened during this time that you are keeping silent about it? I assume you remain silent as your expectations turned into disappointments. And in retrospect, that you are ashamed to have harbored such stock naïve expectations at all, back then, in your early 20’s. Many contract workers realized at the moment of arrival that Germany was not the financial paradise, the golden ticket to wealth, but hard, physical work in a social isolation. You found yourselves in a “gated community” in which the fences were not put up by the people residing there, but by the people outside. You were crammed into the smallest of spaces by society with your peers. You were among yourselves and that’s how it was supposed to be. No exchange and or touchpoint with the German community. You were supposed to work and ideally leave upon completion rather than putting down your roots.

I can see what the isolation has done to you. Even though you have always been a loner, these two years in Hamburg without family must have left their marks. I do not know if you would have taken this leap of faith to leave for Germany had you known the circumstances and consequences.

Unsurprisingly, the internet went wild after her glorious ugly cry. Besides various memes comparing Kim’s crying performances over the seasons, many people speculated about why her crying face looked so damn weird. The answer, in short: Botox and filler, combined with a few subtle surgeries.

 

And, indeed, Kim Kardashian’s face is the definition of what author Jia Tolentino called the “Instagram Face” in a 2019 essay for The New Yorker: a cyborgian beauty grimace with a slim, chiseled straight nose, sculpted cheekbones, oversized lips, perfectly arched eyebrows, and lashes as long and thick as the bristles of a hand broom. Tolentino dubbed this face that makes women look like sexy tiger cubs the “Instagram Face” because it performed particularly well on the small thumbnail size of social media platforms and had therefore been mimicked thousands of times.

 

The desire to be prettier, smoother, younger comes as no surprise, given that studies continue to show that people who fulfill the common beauty standards experience an advantage in pretty much all areas of life – when looking for a partner, a job, or even at court, where they apparently get milder sentences. Cosmetic surgeries have reached the mainstream and also the opposite sex – in America, male cosmetic procedures have increased by 28% since 2000. You probably know somebody who has had something done (or they probably have even if you don’t know it), if not someone who would like to if they had the money. We see Instagram Face in real life with its long lashes, protruding cheekbones and plump lips everywhere – at the gym, in a restaurant, on the subway. What do these people see when they look in the mirror? A dream come true? An indicator of their social success? A performance of their will?

 

While the Instagram Face may mirror what society considers to be the female beauty norm, it does not come across particularly simpatico. Research has proven that humans must be able to see themselves in their counterpart in order to feel the empathy that is crucial for societal solidarity. A perfectly symmetrical face with a glow to die for may look pretty, but it doesn’t really touch us. Human facial expressions are highly developed compared to most other mammals, and they can be pretty nuanced. They have developed in combination with our social intelligence over the course of evolution. Understanding the underlying emotions behind facial gestures requires empathy. It is therefore crucial for small children to learn to interpret others’ facial expressions because it teaches them, for example, that if they pull somebody’s hair, it hurts the person just like it would hurt them. In 2012, U.S. host Kelly Ripa caused a stir when she explained in an interview that she knew it was time for the next Botox injection whenever her children asked why she was so upset.

 

If there’s no frowning to indicate one’s mood, children will have a hard time assessing social situations. Studies have shown that ‘frozen’ facial expressions after cosmetic procedures can even impair relationships and friendships.

 

Adding to this is another effect: A face injected into immobility like Kim Kardashian’s does not only look weird in case of a rare emotional breakdown, it also gives others a hard time believing the person in question can really experience deep feelings. As a user in one of the Reddit forums dedicated to KUWTK asked: “When you have that much filler on your face and in your lips, can you feel like when someone kisses your cheek? Or can you feel on your lips kissing someone else?”

 

Indeed, it seems like cosmetic surgeries not only affect the perception of emotional veracity by those looking at them, but also the experience of emotions by the persons themselves. Apparently, their own emotional experiences seem to be impaired and they may have more difficulty reading others’ faces. The Facial Feedback Hypothesis explains why: Our facial expression signals to our brain what mood we are in, and the brain then regulates, for example, the release of happiness hormones. That’s why smiling makes you feel good, and you can trick yourself into feeling better by smiling even when you’re not happy.

 

By extension in the opposite direction, suppressing negative facial expressions can yield positive effects. Studies have found that persons displaying fewer negative expressions like anger after a surgery actually felt better – because their brains don’t read the anger as such, which affects their behavior, and their environment consequently also reacts more positively towards them.

Treating clinically depressive patients with Botox showed no less astonishing effects: Two months after injecting their glabellar frown lines, all patients were free of symptoms. Back in 1872, Charles Darwin described a typical facial expression of depressed people as characterized by their eyebrows being drawn together above the nose in his work The Expression of the Emotions in Man and Animals and suggested that this was correlated with their suffering. Just as smiling can enhance people’s feelings of happiness, this facial expression, he thought, could contribute to people’s unhappiness. However, the Botox effect on depressive patients unfortunately only lasted as long as the effect of the neurotoxin itself: After three to four months, their condition started to worsen again considerably.

 

The pandemic experience has put a spotlight on issues of mental care and mental health as isolation and anxiety have taken a toll on our social and emotional wellbeing. Many consumers started to ask themselves if fashion and beauty are really worth all the effort if there is limited physical presentation and interaction. Plus, the body positivity movement has thankfully added new and more diverse beauty ideals to our social media channels, contributing to a shift to broader awareness and appreciation, which is in turn forcing the fashion and beauty industries to change their marketing. In 2021, US pharma company Allegan launched a marketing campaign to advertise Botox treatments with a series of commercials designed as short documentaries. These commercials told stories of suffering and emphasized the therapeutical over cosmetic effects of Botox injections with the tagline “Still you” stamped on the protagonists’ smoothened out foreheads.

 

At the latest, the pandemic has woken us to the reality that we face huge global and local challenges that cannot be solved without empathy and solidarity. We need to realize that we have more in common than what separates us – we need to come together, not move apart. Robust communication comprises at least 70 percent nonverbal communication if not more, making facial expressions evolutionarily connected to our emotions essential to understanding ourselves and one another. Being able to read and experience one’s own and others’ emotions is crucial for human coexistence. In 2021, Kim Kardashian not only said goodbye to Kanye, but also to some of her butt implants. Might this be a harbinger of a slight shift in the beauty industry? We can only hope that 2022 will turn the other cheek on Instagram Face and bring feeling back.

But those tiny hands, button noses and that softest of skin merely distract from the fact that we start out in life as highly emotional, uncivilized creatures, helplessly dependent on others. And yet, even at our most primal, at a time when we’ve yet to acquire reference points and the powers to reflect, we assign meaning. We develop ideas of what it means to love and to be loved. No matter how beastly these concepts may be, they stay with us, often buried under all the emotional rubble we accumulate as adults.

The US-­Palestinian cultural critic Edward Said described psychoanalysis as a process of psychic archeology. A way of uncovering the places within us which exist beyond the limits of rationality and social conventions. In his brilliant lecture “Freud and the Non-European” in 2000 at the Freud Museum in London, he talked about the idea of the counterpoint, a concept from musical theory, as a way to integrate all the different elements of our identities. It’s a lecture about how to live with the plurality within and without. Plurality within oneself and within other people. At a time when large segments of Western societies seem like they’re living in a parallel Harry-Potter-on-meth universe and when Western democracy is experiencing a clear and present danger from the far right and the extreme populists, this seems incredibly relevant.

The concept of the counterpoint, as executed to perfection in the music of JS Bach, refers to how multiple melodies can be independent and yet form a harmonic whole. Voices intertwine, clash and battle, only to find themselves coming back together again. The counterpoint is a technique which can contain tension and dissonance and also provide sweetness and release. Bach’s sacral music is all about transcending the pain and limits of earthly existence while the music he wrote for aristocratic courts is the audio equivalent of a champagne orgy. Whether it’s boredom or despair, Bach’s counterpoint will get you to the other side.

Democratic societies need counterpoint. Indeed, they cannot exist without it. Democracy is the continuous struggle to create harmony out of a multitude of melodies. Our constitutions are our baselines. Our laws set the range for how far the various voices can go.

The plurality of the counterpoint seems obvious – it’s what we pride ourselves in when we compare our democratic societies to autocratic states or dictatorships. And yet, even before the pandemic, we had been finding it increasingly difficult to accommodate other voices along with our own melodies. There’s Us and then there’s The Other, and it feels like only one of the two are allowed to survive. The attention economy of social media, which fosters the drama of the extreme, has promoted an environment where we are increasingly retreating to binary oppositions – woke vs. populist, science vs. esoteric, progressive vs. far right. All of this against the steady growth of class divisions and the gap between rich and poor. Rather than allowing complexity and dissonance, we prefer to bang our drums as loud as we can, to drown out other voices. That’s not music – that’s noise.

In the simplicity of the one-track-environment, we feel supported and understood. It’s the safe haven from the cacophony of the outside world. A retreat from the threatening Other. It seems like we’re all yearning for a place where we can be beasts again. Craving a return to our earliest experience of love. To the kind of love we felt as babies when we melted into the arms of our primary caregivers (often our mothers). When we couldn’t tell the difference between their bodies and ours. When we were one with them. That warm, fuzzy feeling, when there is no separation, no threat, no conflict. When all that is solid melts into milk.

When our little milk parties are disrupted, we react with anger and wrath. Any form of conditionality or relativizing turns us into angry tyrants. We scream and howl, become insufferable, lose ourselves in outrage or righteousness when that someone distinguishes themselves from us and becomes an Other. When that Other is no longer wholly aligned with our values and beliefs.

Indeed, how can we not explode when someone insists on spouting some blatantly ludicrous conspiracy theory which exacerbates racism or sexism? I go into panic-meets-fury hyperdrive when I see anti-vaxxers wearing Star of David placards. It’s not just that they are fashioning themselves as victims of a totalitarian state, they are essentially denying the horrors of the Holocaust. That’s not something I can accept. These are not people I can play with. And yet, what if one of them is a sibling, a parent, a neighbor, a colleague, a friend? Someone we love. What we you do then? Is this the end of music? The end of empathy?

Fascism can be defined as the inability to accept that identities can be complex and even contradictory. Anybody who’s migrated, anybody who’s moved social or cultural class is only too aware: Who we are doesn’t make sense. To be human is to be implausible. Our identities are complicated; conflicting versions of ourselves are always at work: Who we are, who we’d like to be, who we think we should be, who we think others think we are, who we fear we might be… all of these ambiguities are whirling around the unconscious spaces that were formed when we were still cute little beasts.

Fascism works on the premise of eliminating all these ambiguities. It creates homogenous identities that have no room for conflict. The obvious example being Nazi Germany, where you couldn’t be German and Jewish at the same time. Any form of complexity is shouted down, eliminated or – in the language of today’s wellness industry – cleansed and detoxified.

I’m referring to the wellness industry here, because it’s not just the Chick-fil-A-eating, gun-slinging, Fox News-watching, Daily Mail-reading parts of society which have problems accepting complex identities. The industrial yoga-complex – of which I consider myself a participant – with all its talk of love, oneness and mindfulness, is having a hard time living what it preaches. When my idea of love is that there can only be one great sentimental melody and that all “negative energies” (whatever the fuck that may be; really, the word “energy” should be reserved for conversations on physics) are to be purged, the Other can be difficult to integrate. Not just in regards to other people, but also in regards to the parts within me that I don’t particularly like or that I’m ashamed of. The parts within me that don’t make any sense.

It’s hard. Indeed, it often feels impossible to accept the unacceptable. And yet, if we’re ever to get out of our current mess, we’ll have to move beyond our current binary cacophony toward a new counterpoint. In psychoanalysis, it’s the Oedipal stage during which the child learns to integrate new voices and widen its concept of love. When a third person or third element – for example, a father figure – enters the love bubble between child and primary caregiver, the child may feel threatened. Love ceases to be a one-on-one dynamic which offers safety in fusion. Instead, it turns into a complicated triangle. This may cause the child to be angry and reject this third other. Yet, the child has to learn to integrate the other in its mental space, accept an additional melody, see the world from their point of view, empathize. In other words, develop a concept of love beyond that of total fusion. Because that’s how we learn to accept and appreciate not only others, but also The Other within ourselves.

It seems that as a society, we might have to get over our collective Oedipal complex. To let go of our regressive fantasies of love as fusion. Let go of the idea that as individuals we need to be faultless, unfailing and coherent. And that any misstep shall be met with the wrath of Twitter. Let go of the idea that somewhere, there’s a pure version of myself which I’ll reach if I only do enough sun salutations. Instead of engaging in omnipotent fantasies of purging, cleansing or eliminating unwanted elements within myself, it might be more helpful to develop empathy for The Other within me and within others. Empathy is crucial if we want to put an end to “othering.”

To have empathy does not mean to disregard our constitutions and democratic principles or indeed tolerate anybody who does so. The rule of law is still stronger than all the noise on social media. And yes, Holocaust denial is illegal. So I live in hope that those Star of David placards will be deemed unlawful. In the meantime, I’ll have to push myself to find better arguments and continue the dialogue about Germany’s past so we can learn from it. Engage even though I really don’t want to. Accept that this is a moment of extreme dissonance, but that my inner beast must learn to sing along to new, incredibly complex harmonies.

It’s those brief moments when you feel at ease with everything and everyone, which appear out of thin air and fade away just as quickly. You can neither explain nor restore what just happened. A split second beyond description. Frozen in time like a late onset of winter, only that it’s summer and the beads of sweat trickle down your forehead like raindrops chasing one another.

Oh, what a summer you have been – full of memories and muggy air which made every step feel like conquering a mountain. 

You will only know when you try. Don’t just stand on the diving board and look into the vastness of possibilities – take the plunge. As a kid, I always cherished the moment when the body pierces the surface of the water you were about to become one with. Time always felt like an illusion, a concept made up by adults. Wrinkly hands were the one and only indicator for spending way too many hours in the pool.

Thoughts speak louder in free fall, when the background noise lapses into silence. Buzzing words slip away, before making their way back to greet you with childlike innocence. 

Our mind loves to play hide and seek. The rules are simple: Don’t get caught. Let time swallow you up like the cold water on a hot day. You will get spit out into the hustle and bustle sooner or later anyway.

Oh, what chaos you are – random and all over the place. 

Imagine you can make it stop for just a second. A dizzying wonder of movement frozen in time. Everything and everyone turn into spirits of their own. Still here, yet so far away. Caught in the middle. Some kept their focus, others look like they are floating in the air. Light hearts rise when gravity falls.

Once the moment passes, the world keeps spinning as if it’s all just been a dream. The babel of voices picks up again, the body glides effortlessly into the water, leaving behind almost no splash. Some people clap, others are on their way to get ice cream, braving the heat. You watch people continuing with their lives from afar.

The pandemic has swept the world multiple times over, and with endless zoom calls, lockdown productivity trends and improvised home offices or fitness studios – the pervasive feeling of constant pressure and blurred boundaries between public and private can lead to… well, the darkest of places. The third calendar year of the coronavirus is already upon us and just as we think we have overcome the last hurdle, a new variant (or wave) rears its ugly head. While others seem to be handling it, even succeeding, or dare I say thriving, the rest of us are just trying to stay afloat amongst what could be described as everyday chaos. As videos of panic buying and people fighting over staple supplies in supermarkets continue to go viral, while the elite carry on with partying or defying restrictions without ramifications, and those who are deemed essential are subjected to harder conditions, one begins to wonder: Where did compassion for our fellow human beings go?

 

In such polarizing times, ‘shadow work’ – a self-care trend – is taking the social media world by storm. Inspired by Jungian psychology, the trend supposedly helps to unleash our inner child and practice self-empathy. Social media apps, and in particular TikTok, are being flooded with trending videos where users enact conversations with their younger selves and give advice, there are also inner monologues where people give voice to their pain and attempt to calm their mind, and time lapse videos reflecting on past selves. Fueled by the urge to acknowledge and accept our differences, the trend is a combination of nostalgia and self-reflection to help heal trauma and aid in self development.

The term ‘inner child’ originated from renowned psychologist Carl Jung (1875-1961) and is still a concept prevalent in modern psychology today. The concept refers to a person’s internal childlike characteristics that exist within our subconscious mind, with the aim to reawaken childlike wonder and better understand our emotions. Jung believed that people had a predestined ‘primordial’ or archetypal image within their subconscious that in turn drives their behavior. Our earliest experiences – though we may not remember some of them so well – are also our most profound. According to Jung, it is these experiences and the things we learn from a young age that come together to form somewhat of an unconscious or sub-personality – our inner child – which also influences our mind, thought patterns, and emotions. As children, we are the most uninhibited and purest form of ourselves, freed from doubt and full of inspiration, and the influence of this sub-personality can be positive, or negative when our inner child has been hurt or traumatized in the past.

The role this Jungian concept now plays in modern psychology is the aim to heal the trauma of the inner child in order to teach healthier patterns of behavior. However, this process of conscious self-development and emotional repair is usually led by practicing psychotherapists, not TikTokers, where serious subjects are addressed in a safe environment. Since its first conception, Jung’s idea has now been so embraced by various self-help and new-age movements that some consider the ‘inner child’ to be cliché, but through social media, it is now becoming a big hype among younger generations. In a digital world saturated with listicles, quick fixes and how-tos, but yet in a society where the value and practice of mental health is now becoming the norm, not a taboo – at which end of the spectrum does the shadow work trend really lie?

We are at the pinnacle of human connectedness, and yet there are more angry, isolated and lonely people than ever before. The maniacal focus of productivity culture has taken its toll and people have started to quit their jobs in record numbers in search of more fulfilling options. The pressure on individuals to continually and consistently deliver saw its peak amidst the lockdown waves. Reports emerged of staff being forced by their employers to leave their web cameras on the whole day while working from home – an extreme measure of surveillance and mistrust disguised as team building, connection and community. Jung’s theory continues on to the idea of meeting the needs of the child still within us. When we move beyond childhood, our inner child’s voice is often repressed and becomes quieter as we take on adult personas and conform to the expectations of society. While we may chuckle and share our favorite ‘antisocial’ meme, there is a dark undertone to the unity of response to such popular social media accounts reposting supposed therapist or mental health advice for comedic relief – depression and burnout are on the rise, and more people are turning to social media, their source of connection, for answers.

As people try to combat the effects of the slow burning chronic stress that comes from this unprecedented time, it is no wonder tags like #innerchild and #innerchildhealing are now accumulating millions of views online. However, in an attempt to address mental health topics such as abuse, anxiety, depression, fear of abandonment, conflict, or burnout (the list goes on), the shadow work trend instead raises further questions: Does actively participating in a viral self-help trend actually work to increase self-empathy? Or does it rather contribute to perpetuating inaccurate self-diagnoses and unhealthy self-image? More importantly: What is the intention?

 

Shadow work is about the unconscious mind and processing certain things which we have repressed or hidden from ourselves, and our shadow self may show up in stressful or triggering situations. Diving deeper into the trending videos, one is served a wide range of content, both positive and negative – from deep questions about childhood trauma to best journaling practices and tarot card readings with crystals. Some people share serious trauma stories without trigger warnings, some bask in glorious revelations about themselves, while others share a more glorified pop quiz on “What personality type are you?” The spectrum is broad and many attempt to explain how others can start their healing journey, too. And while practicing gratitude, self-reflection and personality analysis are important for all of us, we are supposed to look to our inner child to find inspiration and our inner light. If this is the case, is writing a public apology letter to yourself for millions online to see really the best approach? Or is it just fueling our narcissistic tendencies?

While this trend may help others to recognize that they also have issues they need to address and that they are not alone – the role social media, or TikTok, is now playing in replacing expert medical advice needs to be addressed. True self-empathy and trauma healing is not something that is achieved overnight or through a shared 15-second video online. It takes years of practice and discipline, not to mention professional support. Self-empathy requires great self-awareness and sensitivity to the suffering of others and ourselves. We are all part of a broader experience and we deserve compassion and understanding, but we cannot all be self-appointed therapists. This is especially important for those who have experienced severe trauma – jumping into the deep end of the endless how-tos and 10-step guides on shadow work poses the risk of re-traumatization.

With waiting times for public therapy too long and the cost of private therapy for most too high, it is not surprising that many are turning to alternative methods and practices – and the advertising world is now starting to capitalize. The recent increase in screen time has led to many people taking refuge in online communities. And although the goal of inner child videos is to discover the darkness within ourselves and replace it with a healthier, happier self, self-care has now taken on a life of its own and has become a billion dollar industry. From social media trends to therapy and addiction apps, and from wellness practices to nourishing teas and face masks, in the current volatile societal climate, self-care is marketed as an escape from what feels like the world burning around us.

So, what happens when we look at ourselves in a certain way to teach us more about the world? Does getting better acquainted with ourselves provide us with a more conscious and empathetic way to navigate our new society? How many of us are still hunkered down in the safe bunker of our psyche, hoping that the storm will pass and the world will return to that which we knew? While considering the many aspects and spectrums of the journey to self-development and inner child healing, one can take consolation in the hope: From ashes comes new growth.

The trend attracts the forward thinkers, searching for a new order and a more conscious well-being. If those joining in can manage to see through the consumerist nature of the digital trend and focus on the initial core message, perhaps it will lead to empathy and compassion for ourselves and others, as well as help to navigate the pains of the past and challenges of the future with childlike creativity and wonder.